Kiss Them Goodbye

by Joseph Eastburn

  The doctor seemed discouraged. “Did you have to—?”

  “What?”

  “Can’t you be yourself?”

  “This is me.”

  Dr. Clarence’s face was solemn. “All right, fine.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “Yes, yes—of course, but—I’ve been waiting so long, frankly, I won’t believe it until it happens.”

  The schoolboy excitedly touched the doctor’s wrist. “I’ve found a way to keep my relationship with her.”

  The doctor sighed impatiently. “She’s dead, don’t you understand? We’ve been over this.”

  “She’s not dead, she’s coming back.”

  “You killed her.”

  “You’re going to bring her back for me.”

  “Look.” The doctor inhaled, trying to calm himself. “Killing your ex-wife made you feel a primal loneliness, as if you’d killed your own mother—or wished you had—I don’t know.”

  “She was good to me.”

  “You’re being maudlin. Ms. Coates hurt you.”

  The schoolboy’s lips were curled down, then just as quickly, his face seemed hopeful. He lifted the suitcase onto the bed. He snapped open the clasp, drew out a wig of curls, high heels, a makeup bag, and a woman’s dress. He held the dress up in the light. There was an adolescent eagerness in his movements. “Would you be her?”

  Dr. Clarence stared at the boy as if he’d asked a preposterous question. “No.”

  The boy looked sad. “Why not?”

  Dr. Clarence was clearly at wit’s end. “You work that out in session, don’t you understand? This is something else. This is fun.”

  The boy stared at him, achingly, the white face twisted with regret. “Fun?”

  The doctor was suddenly touched. “What about that woman you were involved with before, the boy’s mother.”

  The clown face looked even sadder. “That was a long time ago.”

  The doctor knew he could influence the boy. “She could dress up for you, I’m sure she could. You liked her. Reach out to her.”

  The boy was no longer miming a pitiful face; instead, his eyes were contemplating something, envisioning possibilities. The same eyes ascended slowly through the congested air of the motel room to behold the doctor, who was smiling with his usual contempt.

  The clown didn’t have anything else to say.

  OUTSIDE THE THIRSTY Moose, Fowler stood at the pay phone, dialing, looking up at the sky. In the back of his mind, he tried to make connections: the files, the tar, the poem about Ms. Coates. He wondered if Maureen, who had sped off to write the story for the morning edition, might be finished yet. The sky was dark and hazy. The air was close. Mr. Pullen’s phone was ringing. A high-pitched voice came on the line.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Pullen, it’s Nick Fowler.”

  “Oh.” A chill in his tone.

  “Look, under the circumstances, I’m sure you’re not in the mood to comment.”

  “Oh for God’s sake—yes—that’s correct.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  “I have never been so disgusted in my life.”

  Fowler didn’t know what to say. “It’s terribly sad.”

  “What a travesty. I can’t believe I’m involved in this.”

  “Mr. Pullen, they think Ms. Coates had been killed long before the dance.”

  “Well, I don’t have much to say. Aside from the pros they brought in, Mr. Toby certainly was the best dancer there.”

  “I could see that myself, Mr. Pullen.”

  “The headmaster wasn’t bad himself; I remember at the Jubilee he was quite nimble. Now he’s a little stiff. What a ghastly business.”

  “Anything unusual you noticed, Mr. Pullen, anything at all?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well.” Nick paused, looking again at the sky. “Thank you for your help.” He started to hang up.

  The high voice stuttered. “Th—th—the only thing that puzzled me was one man, I can’t remember his name. He just seemed so unsure of himself.”

  “A lot of the men were.”

  “But this man was the most naturally talented, most adept, most graceful dancer I had ever coached. Now he has two left feet.”

  Fowler’s breath quickened in his chest. “Could you describe him for me?”

  NICK PULLED THE car up to the Grotto. He felt strangely nervous. He turned off the car and just sat there, letting the quiet soak into his racing thoughts. He could hear cars going by in the dark. He weighed what Mr. Pullen had just told him. It fit with what he had found in the files.

  He could make the arrest tonight.

  He got out of the car. He stepped over to his motel door, unlocked it, and when he pushed on the doorknob, again he smelled the strange aromatic perfume. He turned on the light, and there on the floor, in front of him, was a purple envelope.

  He opened it.

  Dear F,

  Well, how did you like my girl? Wasn’t she stunning?

  Bet you think yours is nicer.

  Too bad we always hurt the ones we love.

  Fondly,

  Arthur Murray

  P.S. Meet me tonight. I’m in room two-oh-one, down at the end.

  Nick shone his light in the window of room 201. The curtain was drawn. He listened for a long time. He pulled his gun, tried the doorknob. It turned. The door clicked open, a fetid smell drifting out. He swung the door open, the gun pointing into the room. The streetlight from the parking lot was dim at this end of the building. The room appeared to be empty. Nick shone his light in the room. Nothing. He stepped inside. Dead silence.

  The door slammed behind him.

  At the same moment a hand whacked the gun to the floor at his feet. A fist knocked the flashlight out of his hand, driving it against the wall, the light blinking out. He felt strong hands behind him clutch his neck, fingers crushing his windpipe. He couldn’t get his hands under in time, was blacking out, legs buckling—he threw his head backward and banged it against another skull, saw stars—but the hands fell away. He threw himself to the carpet, waiting. He heard nothing, no breaths. He found the gun in the dark.

  Then the door flew open, a shape coming at him from behind the door, a white thing, its arms raised. Fowler fired, emptying the gun. The body fell on top of him, knocking him to the floor of the room. He could smell blood and gunpowder, felt a slight residue on his hands. It had happened so fast. He saw another figure burst through the doorway, heard footsteps retreating.

  He slid himself from under the body, located the flashlight, but the bulb was broken. He reached in his pocket, found Rodney’s matches. He struck one.

  He rolled the body over—saw pink glasses, a nearly shaved head. The match closer. Dr. Clarence with six bullet wounds in his face and chest.

  54

  CAPTAIN WEATHERS WAS bustling down a thin hallway, a small entourage of uniformed policemen at his heels, one gaunt plainclothes tech in stride with him, sidestepping, talking rapidly in his ear.

  “We turned the room upside down, Cap, not a single goddamned print, except from the corpse. But we did recover some threads from clothing, a few hairs down at the lab already—back in a day—yielding blood type, other factors, who knows? . . . Fragments of tar on the rug: We’re checking the composition, what else . . . uh . . .”

  Weathers stopped outside a door, staring at the tech. “I want that room locked up tighter than a ram’s ass.”

  “Oh yeah, some different carpet fibers we’re checking out . . . and makeup.”

  “Makeup?”

  “Yeah, that white face stuff circus clowns use . . . the real article too—it’s kind of cream-based—”

  “All right, all right. Put the report on my desk.” He opened the door and stepped out of the hallway into an interrogation room, slammed the door.

  Fowler was seated in a straight-back chair in the middle of the small room. There was a strong wooden table, concrete walls, reinforced
doors, a square hole cut into the wall with black Plexiglas set into it.

  Robby Cole was leaning over him. “I didn’t hear you.”

  Silence. Nick didn’t respond.

  “I said, did you kill him?”

  “I fired my gun, yes.”

  “So, you did kill him.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  Cole hit him hard across the head with the heel of his hand. Fowler slumped forward, his face coming up with furious eyes.

  “You lay another hand on me, I’ll take that arm off.”

  “You gonna kill me? You’re good at that.”

  Weathers restrained a smile. “All right, come on, Sergeant, relax.” There was a pause in the room. “So let me get this straight,” he said, facing Fowler. “You broke into this motel room . . . how’d you break in?”

  “The door was open, Allen. Come on, the killer is out there right now while you’re—”

  “Shut up,” said Weathers.

  “Sure, I’ll shut up.”

  “Yes you will,” said Cole. “Believe me, you will.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Cole’s blood was up. “Think you’re smart, don’t you?”

  Fowler looked up. “He’s planning his next murder while you two are dicking around.”

  “We’re dicking around? Is that what we’re doing?” Cole was righteously indignant, strutting around the table now, the hands on his hips shaking with emotion. He reached over and struck Fowler hard on the side of the head.

  Fowler sprang to his feet, grabbed Cole by the shirt collar, swung him around, slamming him down on the table. “Don’t ever do that, do you hear me!”

  “At ease!” Weathers separated the two men with his burly arms. “Another outburst from either of you shitheads and I’ll book you both!”

  Fowler sat back down, his face altered by the fury coursing through him. Cole leaned against the wall—still the tough act—but shaken.

  Weathers sat on the side of the table reading Fowler’s statement. “Okay . . . there was a struggle in the room . . . someone choked you . . . and you claim pushed this doctor at you . . . you fired . . . and whoever it was got away—are you kidding me?”

  “Yeah, I’m kidding you, Allen. I killed this doctor, then drove his body over here so you could charge me with murder.”

  Cole leaned into his face. “Don’t get smart, fuckface!”

  Weathers stared at Fowler. “I heard there was some unpleasantness between you and the doctor.”

  “Nothing major.”

  “The county prosecutor has stated the doctor wouldn’t testify because you threatened him.”

  “That’s common practice, Allen. It’s happening right now.”

  “A motel room is sure a nice place to stash a body.”

  Fowler was looking up at the two men. “I didn’t stash any body. Use your heads. The killer checked into my motel. He either kills the doctor, or knocks him unconscious, leaves me a note, waits for me to show up, then throws the body at me when I walk in. He set me up.”

  “This killer is pretty smart. He sets you up—he sets up the kid . . .”

  Fowler became very still. “He’s not pretty smart. He’s very smart.”

  “Too bad you weren’t smart enough to stay away.”

  “Allen, you underestimate him—that’s how you’re being set up.”

  “What else aren’t you telling us, Fowler?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I told you to get off this case, didn’t I? Well, now you’re going to learn.”

  “I don’t have to do what you tell me. I don’t work for you, remember?”

  Weathers swallowed. “First you withhold evidence on a suspect, now you kill the one person who could have proved in court that the kid is violent.”

  Fowler stood up. “I change my opinion of you, Allen. You’re going soft between the ears.”

  Cole was in his face again. “Sit down!”

  Fowler glanced at Cole then back to Weathers. “He’s a thug, but, you’ve sold out to the D.A. If you had any guts, you’d admit you have no idea who this killer is, you just want a conviction. Allen . . . you’ve become a bureaucrat.”

  Weathers was scrutinizing him, clearly stung, the jaw lowered, breaths drawn in, eyes watery. “Outside, Cole.”

  Cole eyed Fowler resentfully, then walked to the door. “My fucking pleasure.” Weathers followed him into the hallway.

  Outside the closed door, Weathers turned to him quietly. “Get some help, I don’t care how you do it, if you have to beat it out of him—I want a confession.”

  Cole had a grin now forming on his lips.

  55

  THERE SHE IS. Out of the car. Have to follow her. How many years? Don’t let her see me. Mustn’t see me. Won’t recognize me—down the sidewalk, oh, she’s turning . . . looking . . . but people don’t know me, never know who I am, the way I look. But she knew me when.

  Out across the highway, trotting in high heels, now where? Funny how people can’t hear the voices . . . whispers descending down through my brain, almost to my chest, heart in a free-fall, the whole sensation to my toes, then back up.

  Into the state police station . . . perfect . . . follow her right into the station, right up to the booking desk, wouldn’t that be fun? Walk right up and file a complaint, hurry, run, after her, now she’s jogging up the steps, oh, have the years changed us, you there, me just a step behind you, yet light-years away. Maybe I could change you. Cut the laundry tag off that cotton dress.

  She’s in the revolving door . . . step in, two doors behind, yes, I’m in, now here we go, round and round the mulberry, she’s almost halfway around, now STOP!

  She bumps into the glass door, looks down, thinks something’s jammed, oh, beautiful, looking up and . . . now, here we are . . . she turns, eyes through the glass, a thousand shattered memories, she is gaping, her mouth falling open . . . she sees I’m the man who stopped the door—doesn’t know what to make of it yet . . . now getting irate . . . still doesn’t recognize me . . . just now, a flicker, a glint in the eye, a faint recalling . . . now dawning on her, or just scared . . . yes, that’s it . . . transfixed.

  You don’t remember me.

  56

  SHADOWS OF BARS divided the grit on the wall. Loud voices could be heard in the distance. A rusted cot. A grimy floor where a pair of shoes were being pulled onto a man’s feet, the shoelaces tied, the hands withdrawn. The feet took Fowler’s weight as he stood up, turned around, put on his jacket.

  A black, stocky guard was standing outside the cell, swinging keys. He peered in. “They haven’t asked you to address Congress—it’s just a visitor.”

  The sound of locks clicked through chambers. The door swung open. The guard stepped in next to Fowler, a dangerous edginess in his arms. Nick buttoned his suit jacket, looking at the guard, and for a moment paused, glancing solemnly around the tiny room.

  The guard stared at him. “Miss the place already, huh?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be back.”

  Fowler walked through the door. Up the stairs.

  Muriel Ballard was seated in the waiting room at a cafeteria table. The guard let Nick in, surveyed the other tables—two with visitors. He backed out, locked the door.

  As Fowler walked toward her, he saw her stand up. “What happened?” she asked. “They told me you’d been arrested.”

  He sat down at the table. “Yes.”

  “For what?”

  “Murder.”

  “God’s sake.”

  “I just hope they don’t make it stick.”

  She looked shaken. “This is crazy.”

  “They claim I killed your son’s shrink.”

  She sat down, was silent for a long time. “I’m sorry . . . One thing after another.”

  Nick was looking at her. “What?”

  She looked to her side, as if trying to prevent some thought from recurring. “A man just now . . .”

&
nbsp; “What?”

  “Just some man . . . he stopped the revolving doors at the police station, looked at me kind of . . . like he knew something about me . . . he looked so familiar . . . I know I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

  Nick was studying her. “Who was he?”

  “Just a stranger.” She shrugged.

  They both fell silent.

  “Have you thought about what I asked you?” Nick said finally.

  She turned and looked at him sharply. “Of course I thought about it, what do you think?”

  “Have you made a list?”

  “No, I haven’t made a ‘list.’ You think I counted my lovers on both hands? It was very rare that I saw anybody in those years. God’s sake.”

  “I don’t mean to suggest—”

  “If I did see a man when Cary’s father was away, it was on a friendly basis. I didn’t sleep around.”

  “I understand.”

  “Once or twice, maybe.”

  Fowler was feeling uncomfortable under her frowning gaze. He didn’t know what to say exactly, how to phrase it. He paused for a moment. “Were you ever in love?”

  This question staggered Muriel Ballard completely. She turned to him again, clearly horrified. “Of course. With his father, the louse. He didn’t deserve it.”

  “But was there ever anyone else? Someone special?”

  An irritable tone. “Everyone has one of those.”

  “Who was it? Do you mind if I ask?”

  “Yes, I mind very much, Mr. Fowler.” She paused as she tugged the russet skirt down over her knees. She adjusted herself on the edge of the bench. “Of all the nerve,” she muttered to herself. Fowler sat patiently watching her bristle, glare at him, then turn away.

  “If it’s going to cause you that much anxiety, Mrs. Ballard . . .”

  She snapped at him. “What anxiety? I don’t have anxiety.”

  “I just thought if it could help your son.”

  “It’s because of him that . . .” She stopped.

  “What?”

  She was still edgy, readjusting her clothes obsessively. “I was in love once. Don’t look so surprised. I was a pretty slick chick in those days.”

  “I wasn’t saying you weren’t.”

  “When I was a hostess at the Algonquin, they ran a piece on me in the society column. ‘Who’s the gal with the electrifying legs?’ they asked. That was me.”