Deadline (35 page)

“May I tell him what this is about?” she asked politely.

“It's a long story,” I said. “But it is important.”

I called Roxanne's apartment and she didn't answer. Working late? Out for a drink? Out with someone else? Someone who didn't work in a town like this, this damn vicious place. I slammed the receiver down and went to find something to eat. There wasn't anything. Wobbly
celery. Bread and cheese. Beer. I considered the beer and changed my mind. There would be no time for that now.

On the way back to the office, I stopped at a store downtown and bought some plastic and duct tape. Standing in the parking lot, I sealed the broken window. I didn't need frostbite on top of everything else.

Paul and Marion were gone, but Cindy and Vern were still at the paper. Vern would be there most of the night, and Cindy said she had to finish her accounts for the week and dummy a couple of display ads she'd taken over the counter.

She looked at me closer.

“What happened to you?” she said. “My God, Jack. Have you been in another fight?”

Vern looked up.

“Not really,” I said vaguely. “I just got bumped up a little.”

It wasn't much of an answer and Cindy knew it.

“Is it the same people with the, you know, the picture?” she whispered.

I shrugged and walked to my desk.

The St. Amand / Quinn-Hillson file was right where I had left it. I moved it aside and slid the typewriter out from under my desk. I plugged it in and grabbed a stack of copy paper. Vern came over and stood over me.

“What's up?” he said solemnly.

“Same old crap,” I said.

“You need some help?”

“Not right now. What you can do is give me an hour and then read something for me. It's important.”

Vern nodded and walked slowly back to his desk. I put the date on the top of the first page and started typing.

It took five single-spaced pages, but I got it all down, or at least most of it. I started at the beginning, with Arthur's drowning. I listed all the things I'd found at the studio, the threats and photos Roxanne and I had received. Cormier's tips went in, without his name. So did Pauline's visit and subsequent visit, the bar fight, the abduction and Arthur's notebook. I ended with the fight outside Cormier's. I named Jimmy Libby and LeMaire, J. and Vigue. I didn't name Joy the waitress, but I would if I was asked.

A week in the life of a country editor.

When it was done, I went to the copier and made three copies. I put one in a folder and put one on Vern's desk. He picked it up and started reading. I heard him whistle softly.

“Quite a little story when you see it in writing.”

The phone rang. Cindy said it was for me.

“Jack McMorrow,” I said.

“It's me,” Roxanne said weakly.

“What's happened?”

She hesitated. My stomach did a roll.

“Another picture,” she said.

“A picture in the mail. To my home.”

I took a deep breath. “What is it? The same?”

“No. Not the same.”

It was her turn to breathe.

“Take it easy,” I said. “Just take it easy.”

“Oh, Jack. It's me. Walking down the street in Androscoggin. I look like I'm going to get something at the store.”

She paused and I waited for the punch line.

“Jack,” she cried. “They cut my hair off and stuck holes in me with scissors. It says … It says ‘Too late' in big letters. That's all it says.”

“The bastards,” I muttered.

25

C
indy left at six, teetering down the sidewalk in her tight jeans and high-heeled boots. I stood in the office window and watched her. When she'd driven away in her father's pickup, I watched the street. It had started to snow again and everything looked serene, even idyllic.
Main Street Scene
by Norman Rockwell. Don't mind the psychos and crazies waiting in the dark.

Vern banged out and banged back in. He got on the phone and said “Hey, big guy” to somebody and started talking basketball. I went back to my desk and sat. Put another piece of paper in the typewriter. Typed an addendum to my notes.

Roxanne. Clothed but defaced. More obscene than the first.

I looked at my watch. Call Roxanne. No, don't. Let her get settled. Let her have a glass of wine. Calm down.

The minutes passed. I didn't want to go home. I couldn't work. Vern was taking notes, grunting into his phone. I grabbed my parka and left to get the
Globe
. The street was deserted and the store was closed. God forbid that you would want to buy a paper in this burg after six o'clock.

I decided I'd given Roxanne enough time and turned back, snow like flies against my face. Vern was still there. Just sitting at his desk, holding the phone.

“For you,” he said. “Guy says he has information.”

I took it at my desk. A man's voice. Raspy like a smoker.

“You don't need my name,” the caller said. “I used to drive cab and this might be nothin', but I don't know, I thought I'd just call over there in case you might be interested in finding out more about Arthur Bertin, the guy who died.”

I had a pad out. I wrote down every word, his and mine. Every sound.

“Sure, I'm interested.”

“Hey, I mean, this might be nothin'.”

“Try me anyway.”

“You could check it. That's what I thought. You can check stuff. And it might not check out to be anything. But I just thought—”

“I'll check it out. Don't worry.”

“Well, hey, it's not that big a deal. I don't know. It's just that I knew the guy 'cause he took the cab quite a lot. You get to know people driving them, you know? You talk. They talk. They tell you lots of things. All the old ladies. Hey, I know their life stories.”

“So what'd Arthur talk about?”

“Like I said, I don't know if this is that big a deal, you know? But a month ago, maybe more, maybe less. No, it was a month anyway.”

“Yeah.”

“He's in the cab and he rides in the front—he used to ride in the front. Regulars like to sit up where they can talk, and I don't mind, 'cause it keeps you from stretching your neck around, you know? So
whatever, he's sitting up front and he's got something eatin' him. I don't know. Not saying much, not that he chewed your ear or anything.”

“But he's quiet.”

“Right. Something's not right.”

“Yeah.”

“So I said to him, ‘You sick or something?' These are not exact words, but it was something like this. He looks over and says, ‘I got a question for you.' I said, ‘Yeah?' He says, ‘You ever hear of a guy named Reggie Lockman?' Lockman. I said, ‘Nope, why should I?' Arthur says, I think it was something like this, ‘Yeah, well I wish I never heard of him either. 'Cause this is the worst mess I ever got myself into.' Maybe it wasn't
mess
. Maybe it was
problem
. But something like that, you know?”

“Reggie Lockman?”

“Yeah. Just like that. I look at him, we're pulling up to his place, and I say, like, ‘Anything I can do to help you?' Hey, I liked the guy. If some punk was giving him a hard time, I'd straighten the guy out for him. Some dink bothering the guy or something. He was kind of a wimpy little guy, but he'd do anything for you.”

“Is that what it was?”

“I don't know. It's like, I told you it might not be anything. That's all he said. Reggie Lockman. Like the guy had him by the short hairs. He didn't say that, but that's the way it sounded. You just get a feeling, you know? I do, anyway. So when I hear he's dead, drownded down there, I say, ‘Hey. Maybe this Lockman did it.' I don't know that but, hey, it could be, right? I don't know.”

“Did you tell the police this?”

“Oh, yeah. I told Vigue down there. He knows me. They all know me.”

“What'd he say?”

“I don't know. Not much. Said he'd check it out. I figured, hey, I've done my civic duty or whatever. It might not be anything, like I said. Could amount to nothing.”

“But you never know. Maybe it's something. What'd you say your name was?”

“Hey, I didn't. I just thought you might want to check this out. If you're doing a write-up on this.”

“You have a number where I can reach you?”

He gave me a number. Androscoggin exchange.

“Ask for Earl,” he said.

I said I would and hung up. I took a paper clip and fastened the sheaf of yellow pages together.

“So?” Vern said.

He looked at me as I went through the notes, filling in gaps, correcting the scrawled shorthand.

“Anything?”

“Could be,” I said. “Ever hear of somebody named Reggie Lockman? Guy says he might have been bothering Arthur.”

Vern shook his head.

“This guy, Earl something. A cab driver. He said Arthur told him this Reggie Lockman had him in the worst mess he'd ever been in. Or something like that.”

Vern thought.

“Doesn't ring a bell. There was a Barry Lockman, used to play for Androscoggin. Must be six years ago now. Quick little guard. He moved to Massachusetts before graduation. I don't know. I can't think of any others.”

I looked at my scribbled notes.

“Another piece for the AG. If I can't get ahold of somebody tonight, I'll get them first thing in the morning. What I should do is go down there to Augusta. Walk right in and drop all this stuff on somebody's desk. ‘Listen. Do something, and do it now.' ”

“Could save you a few hours on hold,” Vern said, heading for the coffee machine.

“I don't know, though,” he said, his back to me. “AG's office. State cops. These cops. These guys are so tight. It's like they don't want to touch something if another department has dropped it.”

“Or never picked it up.”

“Right. It's like some guy gets booted from baseball for bad attitude. Guy's blackballed. You know what I mean. These guys stick together.”

“Screw them,” I said. “I'll go to the goddamn governor. Hey, this is enough. Who the hell is Reggie Lockman? Jesus, that guy didn't make that up. All they have to do is punch it into the computer. No DOB, but it's a start. I can show them the pictures of Roxanne. Say, ‘Look at this and tell me nothing is going on in this goddamn town.' ”

Vern looked at me.

“Anything I can do to help …”

“I know that. Thanks.”

I was hungry. Vern said he wasn't. He'd have his coffee and a few cookies from the bag in his file cabinet. Ginger snaps.

It was snowing a little harder, wetter flakes that packed like mud on your boots. I kicked thick cakes off on the side of the car and drove a block to the store. The guy behind the counter was reading
Midnight Star
. A story about a movie star's wife who was sex-crazed. I read the story upside down.

I sat in the parking lot and ate the sandwich and drank a carton of orange juice that should have been a beer. Every few bites I flipped the wipers on and cut a new swath through the snow. I switched the radio on and off, once and then twice. The sandwich wrapper went on the floor in the backseat. I felt worse, and knew there would be no real relief until it was over.

The AG. Tomorrow.

When I pulled up in front of the office, Vern was standing in the window. He saw the car and came out and when I got to the sidewalk, the snow had made dark spots on his light-blue shirt.

“Jack, some guy just called and said he wants to meet you down at St. Amand, where—”

“The canal?”

‘“Yeah. He said he had to talk to you about Arthur. ‘Mc-Morrow,' he said. ‘Where's McMorrow?' I said you went out to get something to eat and he said, ‘You tell him I've got to talk to him about this. I've got something to show him, and he'll want to see it if he wants somebody to go down for drowning the photographer.' I took notes, Jack. I'm pretty sure that's exactly what he said.”

We moved inside. Vern went to his desk and picked up a notebook.

“Was it this cab driver guy? Earl, or whatever the hell his name was?”

“I don't know. He wouldn't give me his name. I don't know. Voices are hard.”

Vern showed me the notes. I couldn't read his handwriting, but I saw the number eight.

“Eight?”

“He said eight o'clock.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“I said I'd give you the message as soon as I found you. You going down there?”

I thought for a minute. “I can't not go.”

“We're both going then.”

We left at 7:30. Vern asked me to swing by his car, around the corner on Mill Street. He got out and opened the trunk and I could hear things banging and clanking. The lid slammed down and he came back, flakes of fake-looking snow on his hair. He opened the passenger door of the Volvo and tipped the seat back to throw in a long rusty lug wrench and a silver-colored aluminum baseball bat.