McKain's Dilemma

by Williamson, Chet

  What made it worse was that I couldn't tell a soul about it. I hadn't talked to Ev about anything of consequence for months, and when we talked at all it was out of necessity. I was irritated by everything she said, and she seemed disgusted by my very presence. I was surprised that she hadn't left me long ago.

  Her relationship with Jeff Saunderson had continued, and I still pretended not to know about it. The strange thing was that I thought she still loved me.

  There were times, rare as they were, when she looked at me with a sad, sweet smile that was not one of pity, and though I wanted to react to it, to hold her, kiss her, I did not. Call it pride, call it stupidity, I couldn't bear to be too close to her. I suppose I didn't think it was fair to her. I wasn't bright enough to realize that the only way to be fair was to keep loving her and showing her I loved her until the day I closed my eyes for the last time.

  And because I still loved her, her and Carlie, I decided to keep my mouth shut about Carlton Runnells and his murders. But I also decided something else. I decided to keep on thinking about Runnells, and how I could make him pay for what he'd done to his wife, to Townes, and, most of all, to me. It would give me something to do between jobs, something to do until I died. It was, as Carlton Runnells had said, a dilemma, and, I was sure, not the last I would have.

  Three days later I had not come up with an answer, but another complication had arisen. I got a phone call from Detective Ned Lawrence of New York City's fourteenth precinct. At least that was how he identified himself. At first I thought it might be Runnells disguising his voice for some unknown reason, but after a moment the sound of filing cabinets banging shut and rough voices in the background painted a convincing picture of a squad room.

  "I'm with homicide here, Mr. McKain," he went on. "I have a couple of questions, if you don't mind." I told him I didn't.

  "We had a homicide up here about a year ago . . ."

  Oh, shit, I thought. Townes.

  ". . . victim was Christopher Townes. You at all familiar with that case?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "Yeah, I know you are. Eddie Reilly told me. Finally."

  I didn't say anything. He'd tell me what he wanted. I wondered how the hell he had cracked Eddie, then figured that he had never really bought the story about Eddie's sister, and months later, after everything else had led down blind alleys, he must have asked him point-blank why the interest. I knew Eddie, and Eddie wouldn't lie to another cop. Too, Eddie might have been pissed off at me for never getting back to him one way or the other about the case.

  "Why are you interested in the case, Mr. McKain?"

  "I'm a professional investigator. These things interest me."

  "Professionally?"

  "No. Not this one."

  "A hobby then."

  "Yeah, sort of. I just happened to know who the victim was, and I was in New York on other business, so I asked Eddie to find out what he could. I hope he didn't get in any trouble." I tried to sound a little jaunty—a private eye who got bored with his domestic cases and wanted to play Sherlock Holmes with a nice, juicy murder.

  "He gave out privileged information. He shouldn't have done that."

  "Yeah, well, Eddie and I go back a few years. He knows I'm pretty trustworthy. Hey, he's not gonna get a reprimand or anything, is he?"

  "Reilly's a good officer. He got a warning, that's all."

  "Oh, wow, that's good. I'd hate to think that a little curiosity on my part got him into deep shit, y'know?"

  "Why were you curious, Mr. McKain? You mentioned that you happened to know who the victim was."

  Did he know anything at all about Runnells? I took a guess that he did. It was logical that he'd have found out who Townes's clients were in the months before his death. And if he didn't know who Runnells was, it wouldn't do any harm. I could contact Runnells first, fill him in on whatever I'd had to tell this detective. "Yeah, I did. He worked one time for a client of mine."

  "Carlton Runnells was your client?"

  Oh shit, mother, was I glad I told the truth. "Yeah, I did a job for him about a year ago."

  "What job was that?"

  I pulled it out of my hat. "He had an employee at one of his attractions that the supervisor suspected of embezzlement. It was a straight surveillance job. Guy turned out to be clean. Their bookkeeping was all fucked up, that was all. It was nice to have a happy ending for a change."

  "Not so nice for the bookkeeper, I imagine."

  "Well no, I guess not."

  "I talked to Carlton Runnells several months ago."

  Big surprise. "Oh, you did?"

  "Yes. I got in contact with most of Townes's clients to see if they could provide us with any leads. And when Eddie said that you were from Lancaster too, I just thought I'd check and see if there was any connection between you and Runnells. It seems there is."

  "Yeah, I guess a little. 'Course I haven't worked for him since."

  "How did it happen that he told you about Townes?"

  "Pardon?" I knew what he was getting at, but I hadn't decided how to handle it.

  "You mentioned that you were interested in Townes because you knew he'd worked for Runnells. How did you know that?"

  "Mr. Runnells told me so."

  "Did this just come up in conversation or what? I mean, was your relationship with Runnells such that he would tell you about his parties in the course of conversation?"

  "Apparently. He's a very talkative guy."

  "Did he say anything else to you that might have shed any light on his relationship with Townes?"

  "No . . . not really. He just said he threw him a great party, that's all."

  "Mr. McKain, can you give an account of your whereabouts on April 19th of last year?"

  Holy shit, there it was. The bastard not only suspected some kind of connection between me and Runnells and Townes, it seemed he actually suspected me of being the trigger man.

  "Sure," I told Lawrence. "I was home all day, and in the evening my wife and I went out to dinner."

  He didn't say anything for a moment. "Do you remember which restaurant?"

  "Kegel's. A seafood place. I have a signed MasterCard receipt for the date, I'm sure."

  "Mind if I ask you one more question, Mr. McKain?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Mind telling me how you can remember where you had dinner over a year ago?"

  Then I realized I'd completely blown it. A totally innocent man doesn't know things like that, but a man who needs an alibi does. If I'd used my head, I would have been cool and told him that no, I didn't know off-hand, but I could check my records and get back to him. But he'd taken me by surprise, and my initial reaction had been to blurt out the true alibi that I had unwittingly but fortunately established for myself, and when I thought it might eventually be necessary, had been able to confirm with the evidence of the receipt.

  But as stupid as my first response had been, my answer to his most recent question more than made up for it. "I always make it a point," I told Lawrence, "to remember that date and that restaurant. I took my wife there the night I asked her to marry me, which was April 19th, 1972. And we've eaten there every anniversary of that night ever since."

  It was a lie, but there was no way he could check up on it except to ask Ev, and I doubted he'd do that.

  "I see," he said grudgingly. I wasn't sure if he believed me, but it didn't matter. I had the receipt, signed and dated, and it would have been impossible for me to get to New York to kill Townes by the probable time of death. "Just curiosity, huh?"

  "That's it," I said. "Things get pretty dull down here. Fun to play homicide detective once in a while. I'm sorry if I caused you and Eddie any hassle. Ever find out who killed the guy?"

  "No. Not yet."

  "But you're still investigating, huh?"

  "Still investigating."

  "Well, good luck to you. Anything else I can tell you?"

  "No thanks, Mr. McKain. You told me enough. Good-bye." And he hung up without giving me a chance
to say anything else, though I don't know what I would've said. You told me enough. Cryptic goddamned comment, and I wondered what the hell he meant by it. I didn't know that I'd told him a thing, though I should have. Things like Runnells and Eshleman being the killers. Things like that.

  For a long time I sat at my desk, alone in the house, thinking about what Ned Lawrence's call had meant. It meant he was still on the case, that was for damn sure. It also meant that he suspected Runnells, and he suspected me of being in some sort of collusion with him. All in all, it was an unenviable situation I was in, dying in several ways, and now having another added to the list. With all my heart I wanted Runnells and his stupid right arm to get what they deserved, but if they did, it meant the end of my career.

  My career. What the hell was left of it anyway, except maybe a few more months of frenzied activity that would only partially take my mind off my fears of the future? Still, it was all I had, and I had determined that it would be only Death with the capital D that would take it from me, and not that foul, walking death named Carlton Runnells.

  The irony of it was that to avoid the accusation of collusion with Runnells, I now had to become his partner in deception. I couldn't take the chance that he would give Lawrence a different story than I had, so I picked up the phone and called Ravenwood.

  Michael Eshleman answered, and I was as delighted as my mental state allowed me to be when I heard his slurred and wooden, "Hello." It was the hello of a wired jaw if I'd ever heard one.

  "This is McKain," I said.

  "You fuck," was the reply. I had a hunch that neither Eshleman nor Runnells was feeling too kindly toward me.

  "Hello, Michael."

  "Someday you won't have a gun on you, fuckface, and that's the day that I'll . . ."

  "Enunciate."

  ". . . Huh?"

  "Speak clearly, Michael. You sound like you've got a mouthful of mush. Besides, you sang that song before. Let me talk to your boss."

  "You prick, I . . ." He probably would've gone on at excruciatingly boring length about what he'd do to me when he found me without a gun, and then I would have told him that I had no intention of his ever finding me without a gun. But that inevitably futile conversation was interrupted by a voice in the background that I took to be Runnells's. Michael's words were further muffled for a moment by a hand over the mouthpiece, and then Runnells came on the line.

  "What is it, McKain?" He didn't sound angry. But then he didn't sound happy to hear my voice, either.

  "How's your nose?"

  "Broken. Thanks to you."

  "You're welcome."

  "That wasn't necessary, McKain. It wasn't necessary to hit Michael either."

  "I figure anything that makes him get some dental work is only on the plus side."

  "I was hoping we could handle all this in a civilized manner."

  "I never knew murder was civilized."

  "It can be. When it's profitable."

  "Profitable? For whom?"

  "For me, and for you."

  This was one for the books. I'd broken the man's nose, and here he was trying to bribe me. Supposedly. "You're offering me money?"

  "Jesus Christ, Carlton!" I heard Michael say in the background. "You don't need to . . ."

  "Be quiet, Michael. I didn't say that, McKain. And I didn't say I'm not either. It's not something I care to discuss on the phone. But if you'd want to come out here and talk it over . . ."

  "And give you a good shot at me?"

  "Bring a gun if you like."

  "Why the hell," I asked, "do you find it necessary to pay me off now? You didn't say anything about it the last time I was there. What's the deal?"

  "I've just been rearranging my priorities, that's all. And I don't think it's valuable to me—or to you—for us to have an adversarial relationship."

  I could see where his head was. He was afraid of me, afraid that I'd say fuck my reputation and take the chance of going to the police with the story. So now he wanted to make sure I was his by buying me. I could say yes, or I could say no. But either way would close a door behind me, and I felt I'd been having better luck by keeping doors open.

  "That's not something I want to talk about now. I called you for another reason."

  "What?"

  I told Runnells about Detective Lawrence and his curiosity over my curiosity. "That's not good," Runnells said. "I didn't like the way he sounded when he called me last year. He had the voice of a man who suspected everyone."

  "How much did you tell him?" I asked.

  "Just what he told you I did. That Townes had done a party for me, that's all."

  "Well, if he gets in touch with you again, and he might, you'll be okay if you just give him the embezzlement story. You have someone like that on your payroll?"

  "McKain, I don't know who the fuck I have on my payroll, but it's big enough that there are probably one or two people there with arrest records. Don't worry. I've had a lot of experience with mendacity. I'll tell a good story."

  "Just make sure it's consistent. When you come up with a suspect, call me back and give me his name, just in case Lawrence should double-check, all right?"

  "All right, McKain. You realize that you're getting into this deeper and deeper. I don't think anyone's going to be able to pull you out now."

  "Your concern is heartwarming, Runnells. Don't worry about me."

  "I'm not. The deeper you get into it, the less I worry. The deeper you get into it, like it or not, the more you become my man."

  I thought of The Maltese Falcon then, and told Runnells what Sam Spade told the fat guy that Sidney Greenstreet played. "Don't count too much on my dishonesty." I wasn't sure I got it exactly right, but it was the thought that counted.

  "I don't have to," Runnells replied. "It doesn't matter if flies are honest or dishonest, good or bad. When they get tangled in the spider's web, they're finished."

  "Maybe I'm not as tangled as you think."

  "Maybe not. At any rate, we should talk again. Why don't you come out here?"

  "Why don't you come in here? I'm not too sure I trust you. I've heard you tend to kill people you don't like."

  "Leave a note then. Tell someone where you're going like you did the last time. You did do that the last time, didn't you? Put everything down in writing if you like, to be opened in the event of your untimely death. I'd think that would insure your good health should you decide to pay us a visit. We could even go shooting in safety then."

  "We're out of season."

  "My land, my season. What do you say?"

  "I say I called you today because it was necessary, not to hear the sound of your voice. I don't want to socialize with you, Runnells. I don't even like plotting with you."

  He didn't say anything for a moment. "Can I take that as a no?"

  "You can take it up your ass." And with that bon mot, I hung up.

  I busied myself with paperwork for several hours, waiting for the phone to ring and for it to be Ned Lawrence with more questions, but it didn't. Carlie got home from school at four o'clock, and Ev arrived soon after. Most days she was later, whether because of teachers' meetings or spending time with Saunderson I was never quite sure. But this afternoon I tried to erase Saunderson from my mind. This afternoon I needed Ev. I was waiting for her at the garage door when she pulled in, and I smiled at her as she got out of the car. She looked at me with a puzzled, almost humorous expression, as if to ask who this silly stranger was in her driveway.

  "Let's go out tonight," I said to her before she could say a word. "Let's go out to eat, you and me and Carlie. Kegel's. Some good fish for a change. I'll even buy you a lobster if you want one." She still looked puzzled. "What's wrong?"

  Christ, I knew what was wrong. Her husband, who had become a total stranger to her over the past year, who had made no suggestions of the eating-out persuasion or the plain old fun persuasion in all that time, was now making her an offer that she very well may have forgotten how not to refuse. And she
, poor, confused woman, was wondering why. "Nothing's wrong," she said. "I'd like to eat out, sure."

  We changed our clothes, hopped in the car, and drove over to Kegel's. I asked her about her day, and she told me, but it was as if she were talking to a new acquaintance. Her diction was stilted, her smiles and chuckles forced. Over dinner the old, familiar silence settled in once more, and the three of us sat there, eating our dinners, drinking coffee and milk, waiting for the check. And I wondered why I had wanted to take my family out, to reestablish our relationship. Because of Runnells, certainly, and the involuntary partnership of deceit between us. But why that should draw me closer to my family was something I found difficult to understand. I only knew that I wanted their love again, and their concern, and their assurance that they would stand by me.

  But now, as I sat across from Ev's flat, expressionless eyes, I wondered if I had not thrown these things too far away, wrenched them irreparably from our lives with my depressed indifference. Still, I now wanted back what I had valued so lightly before.

  Part of it may have been the fact that the therapy seemed to be working. I went faithfully twice a week, took what they gave me, and prayed for it to work and keep working. So far it had, and I felt good in spite of myself. Every time I went in, they took my blood and said the previous sample had looked good, very good. And so it went.

  Of course I still thought I was going to die, that the good health was only a respite. But nevertheless there was this voice inside me that said all will be well, you will recover, your problems will be solved, you will be with your family again and life will go on as before. No matter how my conscious mind tried to be realistic, it could not efface hope.

  We drove home in near silence, and I read the newspaper while Ev got Carlie ready for bed. I had offered to, knowing that Ev was tired from the week, but she said no, that Carlie was used to her doing it. After I kissed Carlie good night, Ev joined me in the living room, and, for the first time in months, sat on the couch next to me.

  "Were you at the hospital today?" she asked me. I shook my head no, and she looked surprised. "Oh. I thought maybe . . ." She let it hang.

  "What?"