The Right Madness

by James Crumley

  Looking for the local news, I stumbled into CNN on-site coverage of a Middle Eastern riot. When Chloe heard the first rattling burst of AK-47 fire, she turned under my hand and clamped on the web of skin between my thumb and forefinger, her teeth going all the way through, then she leaped away. I sucked blood out of my flesh until it stopped, then I finished the coffee and the cigarette, and rose to leave. But Chloe had come from behind the television console with a broken half of a small ceramic frog held delicately in her teeth. She had also picked up a small wad of duct tape that had attached itself to her back leg. A dust bunny had stuck to the tape. Chloe flipped the frog into the air, batted it, then chased after it as if she weren’t trailing an embarrassing load of tape and dust. In spite of my blood that she had spilled, I decided to relieve her of the burden, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be dust, duct tape, and a tangle of clear, heavy fishing line. I didn’t know what it meant, or even think about it, but it was the only thing out of place in the whole house, so I stuffed it in my jeans pocket. Then I cleaned up my tracks, petted the sisters, and walked home in the dawn light.

  About five that afternoon, I dropped off the roll of film at a quick-print place, waited for the photos, then drove about ten miles east of town to Tildon’s Corners Hardrock Bar. I knew the bar would be almost empty at that time of day. Or any other. The new highway had missed Tildon’s Corners, leaving it to die a slow economic death at the dead end of the old road.

  The Meriwether Valley opened up here, and the glacial moraines stretched out into rolling pastures and hay fields sparkling beneath the circling thrust of irrigation sprinklers. Before I went into the bar, I stared at the valley backed by the tree-dark slopes and snow-spotted peaks of the Hardrocks glistening in the late summer sun. Then I called Johnny Raymond on his cell phone and told him where I was and how long I’d be there. He didn’t want to take off from his family on Saturday, so I said fine. He arrived before I’d finished my second cup of coffee.

  “I didn’t know you drank anything with water in it, Sughrue,” he said as he leaned on the bar beside me.

  “If you could spell, copper, you could write a book about what you don’t know about me.”

  “But you look a little fuzzy around the edges,” he said. “Hangover?”

  “I never lie to officers of the law,” I said. I guessed the quick nap, shower, and shave hadn’t smoothed out the edges. “A mild hangover. Gathered in the line of duty.”

  “Well, it’s Saturday afternoon; let’s have a couple of beers,” he said, smiling as if my pain made him feel better. “Two Raindeers, Freddy,” he shouted at the bartender, who stood across the empty barroom in front of a keno machine.

  “Don’t fall off the wagon for my benefit,” I said.

  “I have a beer every now and again,” he said. “I quit for a long time when I came back from Vietnam … well, not exactly when I came back, but eighteen months afterward.”

  “Went crazy, huh?”

  “You better believe it, mister,” he said, almost proudly, as if it made him a better human being to have gone crazy.

  “I thought you were a hero,” I said. “Purple Heart, Navy Cross, that sort of stuff.”

  “Two Purple Hearts,” he corrected me. “But I had a little trouble making the climate change from the Mekong Delta back to Meriwether County.” He paused. “You know, I grew up on a little ranch not a mile from here.”

  “That’s why I thought we’d meet here.”

  “You know, I’ve asked around about you for years,” he said. “Some people said you were good,” he said. “Others said lucky.”

  “Does it make any difference?”

  “Nope. One of the first things you learn in a firefight, right? Good is okay, but lucky is great,” he said as the bartender brought the Rainier bottles.

  “You have to keep relearning it,” I said. We sipped our beers for a moment.

  “You come up with anything on the Ritters?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “But I’d make sure the pathologist makes a careful cut.”

  “No problem there,” he sneered.

  “Oh, and there’s one more thing, Raymond,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Your boys lock up Biddle?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “He lawyered up yet?”

  “Of course, but he’ll be locked up until Monday afternoon,” he said. “The DA’s probably going to go for murder two at the arraignment. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know, exactly” I said. “But I may have some evidence that might clear him. Who’s his lawyer?”

  “Just your style,” he said. “Smathers.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “That’s all you’re going to give me, right?” Raymond said. “Just a bunch of crap.”

  “Honest and straightforward exchange of information,” I said. “Within the limits of the law.”

  “You sure like to play with words, don’t you?” he said. “Keep in mind that an obstruction bust might be hard to beat. This is my hometown, mister,” he added. “In my book, twenty years or so still makes you a newcomer.” Our season of good feelings seemed to have been swept away on his irritation and my hangover.

  “Hey, man, when I get through with this, you can run for fucking governor,” I said.

  “Or just run,” he said, then stomped out.

  I turned to the bartender, who was back at the machine. “Hey, Freddy, you know that guy?”

  “He’s my cousin,” he answered without looking up from the beeping squares.

  “Fucker’s as sensitive as a girl when he drinks,” I said.

  “Meaner than your worst ex-wife,” he commented, like a man who knew what he was talking about.

  Lorne Smathers, known as Butch to family, friend, and foe alike, would not be happy at my weekend call. He wouldn’t be happy anytime I called. Some years before, when I had been working another case entirely, I found a Kansas City runaway cleaning house for Butch’s client, and I stumbled on a cache of overwhelming evidence in a basement in Big Fork, where the kid was staying, that proved without a doubt that Butch’s rich client had butchered his wife. So instead of a long trial and years of appeals, the rich guy blew his head off, and his family stiffed Butch. They even stopped payment on his retainer. But I called him at home anyway.

  He wasn’t there. But his long-suffering wife knew exactly where he was.

  Butch; one of his law partners, a hawk-faced Italian woman from Butte, whose name I always tried to forget; and Biddle père, who looked nothing like his dreadlocked son, sat around one of the small tables in a private dining room on the third floor of the Mansion, a remodeled Victorian on a finger ridge south of town.

  I arrived just before sundown, in time for their cognac and cigar moment. Even the woman had a cigar stub between her bright red lips. I flipped the chair around, straddled it, lit a cigarette, and set my Scotch on the table before Butch could protest. By then it was too late.

  The hawk-faced woman, Claudia Lucchesi, streaks of silver winging through her coal-black hair, dark blue eyes glittering, smiled as if I had a hunk of raw flesh on my forehead. Butch wanted to break into screams, but not in front of his client’s father.

  “Who’s your cowboy friend, Mr. Smathers?” Biddle said. I didn’t know anything about him except that he reeked of money. His suit probably cost more than my first car, his tie more than my boots, and his smooth gray haircut more than a bottle of good single malt Scotch. “Maybe he needs a drink.”

  “I’ve got one, Mr. Biddle, thank you,” I said.

  “You’ve got me at a disadvantage,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. Sometimes the very rich can afford to be polite. “Norman Biddle,” he said.

  “CW Sughrue,” I said, shaking his hand. He was built like his son, but took better care of himself. “And I’ve got a deal for you.”

  “A deal?”

  “I’m a private investigator, sir,” I
said, “and I may have evidence that your son didn’t shove his girlfriend off the balcony.”

  “Goddamn it,” Butch said. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Who is this man?” Biddle wanted to know.

  Butch and Claudia both started talking at the same time.

  “Shut the fuck up, Butch,” I said. Biddle glanced at Claudia, then shook his head. “Did you hear what I said, sir?”

  “You’re some kind of private detective, right? And willing to let me have this supposed evidence for a price, right? What is this? Some kind of shakedown?”

  “I am a private investigator, sir; I leave the blackmail to the lawyers,” I said. “Even Butch, who hates me, will verify that.” Butch nodded blankly, his eyes following the winged dollar bills flying into the darkness. “This can be yours,” I said, then slid the photograph over to him.

  Biddle glanced at the photo. In the background, his son’s face was clearly visible over his shoulder as he held the screen door open. Fifteen feet away from Carrie Fraizer, who had just begun her fatal fall.

  “How did you get this?”

  “Pure accident,” I said, then reached over to take it out of his hand.

  “No accident is ever pure,” he said.

  “But this was an accident,” I said, “and has nothing to do with your son.”

  “What do you want?” he asked, a businessman to the core.

  “I want to talk to him tomorrow morning before he knows about the picture,” I said. “Nothing more. Afterward, Butch gets the picture and a deposition.”

  “You know, Mr. Whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is,” Biddle said, “I can have that picture taken away from you.”

  “You may want to think hard about that, sir; maybe even consult with your lawyer here before you think about something like that,” I said as I set fire to the photograph.

  “He’s a lot tougher than he looks,” Claudia crooned.

  “This is a copy,” I said. “My lawyer has the original and the negative. Chain of evidence is solid.”

  Biddle laughed loudly, throwing his head back. His dental work looked as if it had cost more than my second car. “I love you tough-guy cowboys and your bullshit,” he said, smiling. “You’ve got a deal. Maybe a jolt of jail time will make Arnold think about his life,” he said, but he really didn’t believe it. Then to Butch, he barked, “Make it happen, son.”

  “Yes, sir,” Butch said.

  “And give me a ride back to the hotel,” Biddle said. “Now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Butch said, then turned to Claudia, “Get the check,” he said.

  Biddle stood up quickly and stepped over to me. I shook his hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “Butch would have gotten your son off,” I said. “I’m sure.”

  Biddle raised his eyebrows in wonder, then led the fawning lawyer past the just desserts tray.

  “You want another drink, Sonny?” Claudia said from across the table. “I’ve got the firm’s gold card.” She was chuckling gently as she waved at the waiter. “Lorne’s going to try to kill you,” she said.

  “I’m laughing so hard I’m wetting my britches,” I said. “Sure, I’ll have another drink,” I added. “Wife’s out of town, so another cocktail to drive away the loneliness sounds fine.” Claudia and I had always almost been friends.

  “You’re a shit, CW,” Claudia said. “But a nice shit. I need a ride. My boss seems to have abandoned me in the search for foul Mammon,” she added, then smiled. When she smiled, she was lovely in a predatory sort of way.

  “Sure,” I said. “But you have to promise not to attack me this time.”

  She promised. But it was a promise from an Italian lady lawyer from Butte.

  It started with a simple refusal to follow her into her house for a cup of coffee or a drink. Then she wanted a hug, then a good-night kiss. Moments later I was defending not just my virtue, but also my life. She was as agile as a monkey and as strong as a great ape.

  “Thanks for the lift,” Claudia said suddenly, moving back to her side of the Taurus. “And the wrestling match, too. You’re not in bad shape for a guy your age.”

  “Thanks,” I said, sighing.

  “I just wanted you to know what you’re missing,” she said. “Good luck,” she added, then climbed out and walked slowly toward her porch light, giving me the full effect of her high heels, long legs, and swinging hips. I watched in spite of myself. She’d wrestled the whiskey right out of me.

  When I walked down into the Goat, the Saturday night dining crowd had finished their after-dinner drinks, and the usual clutch of kids who worked at the place had migrated to a folk-rock Irish band playing down at the Deuce, so except for a pair of guys who looked like Bible salesmen and a sullen Johnny Raymond, who gave me his best long hard look, the bar was almost empty.

  “You get mugged, Sughrue?” he sneered.

  “What?”

  “You’re bleeding at the mouth,” Raymond said.

  I picked up a bar napkin, scrubbed my mouth, then said, “Nope, mud wrestling with a lady lawyer from Butte.” I tossed the lipstick-stained napkin on the bar down toward Johnny Raymond, then walked to the other end as Steve came out of the cooler.

  Behind me, I heard a muttered curse, then the clack of an empty bottle on the oak slates. When I turned, Raymond tossed a twenty on the bar, then stormed out, the smeared bar napkin crumpled in his hand.

  “What the fuck was that about?” Steve said.

  “Who the hell knows,” I said.

  “He’s been a prick all night,” he said. “I think his new job is gettin’ to him.” I sat at the end of the bar. At least I could have a cigarette. Fuck, I was smoking again. Hard-core. I promised myself that when this idiot case was over, I would make Mac find a drug to make me quit again. Steve went back into the cooler, where he had been stocking and packing a bowl of weed before he cleaned up the bar and closed.

  “Hey, boss, want a hit?” he said, holding the door to the cooler open.

  “Can I bum a doobie?” I said.

  “I thought you’d quit,” he said, then glanced at the cigarette smoking in the ashtray and the half-empty pack in front of me.

  “Some stranger left it here,” I said.

  But he just smiled, shucked the cellophane off the pack, and disappeared behind the bar for a moment. He came back with a thumb-sized bomber in the wrapper, stuck it in my windbreaker pocket, then poured me a large Macallan’s. Living in small places had its benefits.

  “Can I have one of the stranger’s smokes?” he said as he picked up the pack of American Spirits. Steve cleaned and carried trash while I smoked and drank. He came back from his last trip to the Dumpster and asked, “It’s still early. You want another one while I finish stocking?” It was his bar, so he could stay as long as he wanted.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve got some unfinished chores.”

  “Be cool,” he said.

  “Hey, man,” I said before he walked away. “You catch any part of the conversation that Charlie Marshall, George Paul, and Ken Cole had last night?”

  “They were talking about taxes, I think,” he said. “But, if I remember correctly, we were being slammed that night, so I couldn’t really tell.”

  “Taxes?” I said.

  “Death and taxes,” he said. “Be cool,” he added.

  “If only I knew how, man,” I said, then grabbed a six-pack and went to feed the cats.

  SIX

  AFTER CAT CHORES, I opened one of the beers, fired up the joint, then sat on the small couch in the Ritters’ television nook while the white Persians settled into their usual places as I surfed the channels with the Mute on until I found a black-and-white movie. Now Voyager. That seemed safe. I didn’t remember any gunfire or howling. Bette Davis seemed to smoke a lot, though. And deeply, as if it were a sexual experience. It made me want a cigarette, but Chloe didn’t seem to want to give me my hand back. She had my thumb in her mouth, gently, and shook it for a second, then settl
ed in for the movie, gnawing on my thumbnail as if it were a Gummi Bear. Charmaine decided my neck was clean and started on my ear. In spite of the residual angry vibes that seemed to fill the huge house, and in spite of my own awful memories of that first moment when I’d stepped into the house, I was oddly peaceful on the couch with the cats.

  When I dug into my pocket for my cell phone, I felt the tangle of leader, duct tape, and dust, but left it in the pocket. I called Whitney’s cell, but she didn’t answer, so I left a message. Bette Davis had nearly convinced me that nicotine was the gateway drug to heaven when the cell phone chirped in my pocket. The cats disappeared so quickly and quietly that I realized they must have been trained to flee when the telephone rang. By Charity Ritter, I assumed, the sort of fat woman whose social life took place mainly over the telephone.

  “What are you doing?” Whit asked when I answered the call.

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “With you, I’d believe almost anything,” she said tiredly.

  “I’m sitting on the Ritters’ couch with their cats, watching Bette Davis chew the scenery, then roll it up and smoke it.”

  “On the job again, huh?” she said. “You’re hard to get hold of, CW. How are you? I heard what happened.”

  “I’m hanging in there,” I said. “Sort of.”

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  “I found another dead body,” I said.

  “Oh, hell, honey. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not …?” she asked. Going crazy again? was what she didn’t say. After I’d been shot, I spent a long time filled with paranoid depression, terrified. In that state, I had food, water, and weapons cached all the way across West Texas to the Mexican border, ready to pick up my family and flee on foot if the contrabandistas came after me again. Until I went after them. “You’re not stoned, are you?”

  Wrong question. “I’m fine,” I repeated.

  “You haven’t dealt with it yet, right?” she said. “Maybe you can talk to Mac.”

  “That’s how I got in this shit,” I said. “But I promise to deal with it.” Then I added, “I hate to tell you this, but the new body belonged to Carrie Fraizer.”