Sam McCain - 04 - Save the Last Dance for Me (15 page)

I put a hand on her arm. Carefully. “This isn’t any of my business, Mrs. Courtney, but are you sure you’re all right to drive?”

“You’re right, Mr. McCain, it isn’t any of your business.”

She got in her car and let the heavy door slam. She started the engine, then started the radio —classical music—and then started the air-conditioner. She swept away in a great Harvard Divinity moment.

My cousin Slim works at the state-run liquor store. There’s a push on—there’s been a push on for years—ffget liquor by the drink in Iowa and to make bottled liquor available in a variety of retail stores … but you know how it is with conservative legislators. They’re always accusing liberals of wanting to legislate morality—especially with civil rights—but they don’t have any problem telling you when and where you can buy liquor, whom you can have sex with

(technically, adultery is still punishable by jail time), and what you can read (they get to decide what’s objectionable). Excuse the political message here. But I get irritable every time I enter a state-run liquor store. It’s like getting a note from your mom telling you it’s all right to have a highball.

Slim is a Korean War veteran who had one burning-bright dream the whole time he was getting his ass shot at in the snow over there. He wanted to go to work for Uncle Sam once he got done fighting for Uncle Sam. I remember the college year I spent reading most of Chekov’s stories. I just got hooked.

Nobody ever wrote so well about the civil-servant mentality, and God knows, if there’s one country that has that mentality, it’s Mother Russia. Slim Hanrahan also has that mentality. He’s a slender, gray, balding man with yellow teeth and surprisingly lively blue eyes. His favorite size in everything is small. A tiny Nash for a car, a tiny tract house for a home, a tiny woman for a wife. When he’s in his cups, he always pats his flat belly and says, “Yessir, the way I

figure it, I got it made. They say

millionaires got it made. But they don’t.

You got money like that, you’re always worryin’ you’re gonna lose it. The way I see it, the people who got it made got government jobs. You really got to be a screw-up to lose a

civil-service job. And then you got the right to appeal it, anyway. There’ll never be liquor-by-the-drink in this state, so I got a job for life. Reasonable hours, nothing heavy to lift, good insurance plan absolutely free.

And no layoffs. Those factory guys always braggin’ about how much they make an hour … but lookit how often they get laid off. Or go on strike. I’ve got it knocked.”

That’s Slim.

I decided to check with Slim since he works the day shift in our one and only liquor store.

Mrs. Courtney’s state of intoxication had made me curious.

“You ever see her in here?”

Slim fingered the clip-on bow tie he always wore. Another man was running the counter. “I don’t know if I should be talking to you about this stuff, Sammy.”

He always called me Sammy. I hated it.

“This is a murder investigation, Slim.”

“You think she did it?”

“No, but I think she’s acting awfully strange for a woman whose husband has just been killed.”

“Oh, yeah? Funny how?”

“You think Cliffie could solve a murder?”

He shone his yellow teeth at me. “Are you ki.in’? That idiot?”

“Well, she’s leaving it all up to him, she says. She’s too smart for that. Which makes me wonder if there’s maybe something she doesn’t want to come out about her husband.”

“I see what you mean. By the way, you going to the reunion this year?”

“Probably.”

“My old lady and Joanie O’Hara got into it the other night at the bowling alley. So I’m kinda nervous about goin’. You notice how the O’Haras think they’re a big deal since Wayne was made a foreman at the plant?”

“I guess not.”

“The first thing he did was get an extension phone. They have two phones now.”

“Gosh.”

“Their house is even smaller than ours and they got two phones. That’s what I mean, they walk around actin’ like they’re some sort of big deal. The wife said something about that new discount store out on the highway. This was when they got into it at the bowling alley. And you know what Joanie says?”

“What?”

“She says “I wouldn’t be seen goin’ into a place like that.” Like she’s too high and mighty to save a little money on stuff.”

This sounded like a matter for the United Nations if I’d ever heard one.

“Slim, you think we could get back to Mrs.

Courtney?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“So does she come in here and buy liquor?”

“Now she does.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, startin’ about four months ago. It was funny. Never saw her in here before. And then all of a sudden she starts comin’ two, three times a week.”

“Two or three times a week.

Isn’t that a lot?”

“It’s a lot for what she was buyin’.

Half-gallon of gin at a time.”

“Was she ever drunk when she came in?”

“Not drunk but drinkin’. Slurring her words, stuff like that.”

“Hey, Slim,” the man running the first register said, “I could use some help over here.”

The place had filled up suddenly.

“I appreciate it, Slim. Thanks.”

“I’ll bet at the reunion Joanie goes around tellin’ everybody about their new extension phone. Whaddaya bet?”

He went over and greeted his customer.

I drove out to the Judge’s place, something I don’t often do. The house is a huge Tudor set upon three acres of perfectly kempt grounds that are safe behind a black iron fence. When her Eastern friends visit—I met Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr. there one day; Nelson Rockefeller and Jacob Javits another—the west lawn is covered with a vast tent, a six-piece classical ensemble, and enough booze to get Moscow drunk on a Saturday night.

The props were just now being set up as I aimed my ragtop up the curving drive to the manse.

I saw Lettie and Max and Maria, the regular staff, carrying armloads of serving bowls, glasses, cups from the house to the tent.

The florist was there, as was the caterer, as were the musicians. Jay Gatsby would envy what was being set in motion here.

The Judge herself was in her study, Gauloise and brandy in hand. You rarely saw her in jeans, but jeans she wore and a white silk blouse. She was a little bit Rosalind Russell and a little bit Barbara Stanwyck. She was also a little bit drunk.

“So nice of you to keep me informed, McCain.”

The study had one of those floor-mounted globes that was about half the size of the actual planet and walls and walls of paintings and photos of her Whitney forebears, all of whom looked constipated and skunk-mean. There was also a lot of leather furniture that smelled of a recent oiling.

She also smelled, as usual, of a recent oiling.

I wasn’t up for her sarcasm. “You want to hear about how I almost got my head

shoved into a cage of rattlesnakes or not?”

That shut her up. Who could resist hearing a story like that? She was giddy as a girl listening to my tale of bravery and grace under pressure and which, I have to admit, I did embellish a tad here and there, especially the part about how I tied two rattlers together.

“You tied them together?”

“You bet I did. Otherwise they would’ve jumped on me.”

“No offense, McCain, but I’ve just never thought of you as being that smart.”

“Thank you.”

“Or that brave, for that matter.”

“Thank you again.”

“Let me toast you.”

She toasted me. You’ll notice she didn’t offer me a drink so that I could toast me.

“Ah,” she said, downing the brandy. “And you learned what, exactly, for all your travail with those damnable snakes?”

“I learned that I’m much smarter and braver than you thought I was.”

“You shouldn’t brag, McCain. It’s

unbecoming.”

“And I learned that Bill Oates seems to be on exceptionally good terms with Viola Muldaur.” I told her about how early he’d been there this morning.

She said, delicately, “Dierdre keeps telling me that Sara isn’t home and will call me back.”

“Avoiding you?”

“What else?”

“I thought you were friends.”

“Best of,” she said.

“And she won’t talk to you?”

“Afraid not.”

“So she knows something.”

“Afraid so,” she said.

“And could be in trouble?”

“Maybe.”

I told her about the mother-daughter visit to my office and about how they went home on friendly terms. And then I said, “Dierdre’s

pregnant. I promised her I wouldn’t tell you and I probably shouldn’t have. But you need to know.”

“She’s pregnant? But she’s just a little girl.”

She nearly choked inhaling the smoke from her Gauloise.

“Knocked up.”

“Please, McCain. You’re vulgar enough just standing there. You don’t need to enhance it.”

“With child. In a maternal way. Preggers, as our British friends say.” She was something of an Anglophile. I thought maybe she’d go for it.

“Poor Sara,” she said.

“Poor Dierdre.”

“And no idea who the father is?”

“Not so far.”

“Probably some greasy-haired high-school boy who drives around with his car radio turned all the way up. Like you, in fact, McCain.”

“Thank you for the third time today.”

“No wonder she doesn’t want to talk to me.” Then: “Are you any closer to figuring this thing out than you were before?”

“Not so’s you’d notice.”

“Then what do I pay you for, McCain?

You’re my investigator—investigate, for God’s sake. Don’t sit here soaking up my brandy and wasting my time.”

“You haven’t offered me any brandy.”

“Oh.”

“And as far as wasting your time goes, I thought you’d appreciate being brought up to date.”

She went to the window and swept a graceful arm toward the grounds.

“You maybe have noticed all the activity out there.”

“I did indeed.”

“Dick will be here very soon.”

“I’m trying to hide my enthusiasm so as not to embarrass myself.”

“I want him to be comfortable here and to think well of us. I don’t want him to think that we’re a bunch of hill people who throw snakes around in our religious ceremonies. And murder each other.”

“You’ll have your killer.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

A knock at the door.

“Yes?”

Max, the butler. “There seems to be some trouble with the lilies, Judge.”

“The lilies?”

“They’re lagging.”

“The lilies are lagging?”

“That’s what the floral man says, Your Honor.”

“Florist, not floral man, Max.”

“The florist says the lilies are lagging, Judge. He’d like you to join him in the tent.”

After Max was gone, the Judge, obviously unhappy, said, “Did you hear that, McCain?”

“I certainly did. Your lilies are

lagging.”

“I pay this kind of money and they lag.”

“I don’t want to live in a world like this anymore.”

“You’re more sarcastic than usual today, McCain. And since you don’t seem to have any sensitivity toward my lilies, I may as well be honest with you.”

“Honest? About what?”

“That ridiculous story you made up about tying two rattlesnakes together.”

“You didn’t believe it?”

“Not for a second.”

“Well,” I said as I left, “it’s a

hell of a lot more interesting than lagging lilies, I’ll tell you that much.”

On Main Street, sitting primly on a bench in front of the Dairy Queen, I saw Kylie Burke and I almost pulled in and talked to her. But she looked so happy just then and I imagined her head was filled with all sorts of hopes and blissful fantasies about her life ahead with Chad. It’s funny how love can do that to you like nothing else. You put your hand on fire just once and you know enough never to do it again. But you listen to the same person make the same empty promises again and again, and you still come back. And back. And back. And there’s always the friend who knows the couple (they always live in Des Moines or Cleveland or somewhere like that) that went through exactly the same thing you’re going through—all the bunco and pain and humiliation and degradation—and you know what?

It was worth it because today these two are The Happiest Couple In The World. They have seventy-three children and eighteen dogs and eleven cats and they live on love. They don’t need groceries, they don’t need cars, they don’t need baths. Who needs that stuff when you’ve got Love, and we’re talking capital-letter

Love here, of course. So maybe if you can just hang in there just a little longer you’ll be exactly like this couple—maybe just like Debbie Reynolds and Eddie Fisher who look, I have to say, as if they’re living on Love for sure—and then all this suffering and shame and emotional sucker-punching will be well worth it. She was probably thinking stuff like that. Because that’s the sort of thing I used to think about the beautiful Pamela Forrest when she’d give me just enough hope to hang on for another couple weeks. But in the end it’s us, isn’t it?

We could walk away anytime if we had the pride or common sense we should have. And yet we cling and hope. And have those happy-scared moments like the one Kylie was probably having now when the object of our affection throws us another sunny bit of hoke and hope.

A visitor waited for me in my client’s chair.

When he turned around, I said, “Lesbo Lummoxes. About really lazy lesbians.”

“Not bad,” he said.

“I was kidding.”

“Gee, McCain, so was I. I suggest a title like Lesbo Lummoxes, the editor probably wouldn’t ever give me any more work.”

As I walked around the desk to my chair, I said, “How about Lesbo Laundromat?”

“Lesbo Laundromat?”

“It’s where all these lesbians go to wash their clothes.”

“See, McCain,” Kenny Thibodeau said patiently, “this stuff isn’t as easy as it looks.”

“I guess not.”

“Are you by any chance a frustrated writer, McCain?”

“Yeah. Sort of, anyway.”

“I thought so.” Then, quickly: “Not to change the subject but I have some info for you.”