Frederick Zackel - Dead Wrong About the Guy

"You wouldn't say that if you had grandchildren."

"You take drugs? How about your wife?"

Corky was annoyed. "No!"

"That takes care of overdoses. How strong is she? She is going to be an unwilling victim."

"She's a strong woman. She'll put up a pretty good fight."

"By the way, do you want her raped?"

"Are you serious?"

I shrugged. "It costs extra."

Corky guillotined twenty-five years of memories. "I'll leave it up to you." His conscience winced, but he rode over it. "The only thing that's important is my alibi is fool-proof. As long as I'm in the clear--"

"Where do you want her whacked? At home, maybe?"

"Maybe. It's private enough. The neighbors aren't very close. And she does spend a lot of time there alone."

"D'you mind if there's a lot of blood?"

"I don't care about the carpets!"

I stopped Corky from venting his anger. "Where do you want the body? Should I leave her where I kill her?"

Corky wrinkled his brow. "Oh god!"

I was fussy. "Do you want her buried, or do you want her coming in with the tide?"

"Leave her where you kill her. I'd like to have the body found as soon as possible and everything resolved as soon as possible."

Flea and I stood alongside a white plank fence looking over Corky's ranch. From the look of things, the Hawaiian had enough money to afford me killing his wife.

"Seen enough?" Flea asked.

I woke up. "Yeah."

We hiked back to the Mustang.

"How come you're doing this?" Flea asked.

"They call it fuck-you money," I said absently. "Once you got enough of it, you can walk away from anything."

We cruised down the Hana Highway. A pickup truck came up from behind, cut in front of us, barely missed us and shot off down the highway, then disappeared around the next curve.

I shook my head. "That asshole's got a lead foot. Brains to match, too."

Flea stared after the pickup. "That was Corky Collins. That's his truck that passed us."

I hit the gas pedal.

The pickup truck drove along the Hana Highway. We stayed a quarter mile behind him.

Corky's truck turned off the highway onto a red dirt road that led inland. He took the red dirt road deep into the rainforest. The sunlight disappeared in a canopy of leaves and branches. Then his truck disappeared around a series of curves.

I took the curves slowly, came around the last curve, and I found myself overlooking a church camp deep in a canyon. The church camp was mostly summer cottages and cabins for children. Tires on swings and outdoor barbecue grills. A softball diamond was beyond an empty swimming pool.

I stared out the windshield at the church camp.

"How come it's deserted?"

"They don't come until later in the summer."

I backed up, then hid the Mustang behind some large bushes. I grabbed a pair of binoculars from the travel bag in the back seat. Flea and I left the Mustang and disappeared into the rainforest. We found Corky had parked his pickup truck behind the last cabin.

A minute later we reached the cabin. A minute later we were watching Corky through the back window of the cabin. He was pacing up and down and chain-smoking. A pile of mattresses was stacked in one corner of the cabin. The rest of the cabin was empty.

Another car came down the red dirt road to the cabin where Corky waited. A woman--the attractive woman with the dead as a doornail eyes I had seen behind the cash register at the bowling alley--left her car, slamming the door behind her, and entered the cabin where Corky was waiting. There, she embraced and kissed Corky.

He pulled away, irritated with her.

Corky was angry. "Damn you, Debra!"

Debra got panicky. "What's wrong?

"I hate this! Damn you for coming up with this place!"

Debra tried consoling him. "Corky--"

"And damn me for going along with you!" he said half-heartily.

I was surprised, but Flea wasn't. "That's Mrs. Debra Lawson."

I asked, "Any relation to Ivy Lawson?"

"That's her stepmother."

Inside the cabin Corky set up a sleeping bag atop that stack of mattresses, while Debra Lawson shucked her clothes. She climbed inside the bag, while he stripped off his clothes. Then they were both naked, massaging each other.

I was amused and in no hurry to leave, but Flea was paranoid and wanted only to be gone. I told him to wait.

Corky Collins said, "I don't care any more how it's done. I don't want to know all the details. Why can't you just take care of everything?"

She kissed him tenderly. "Corky honey, all these details help cover for us. They make it easier and safer for us. And that's better protection for both of us." She kissed him again and massaged him under the covers. "Do you still like me doing this?"

Corky gave up. "Aw, honey ... "

They clutched together, and their body heat was enough for combustion. They started making brutally passionate love.

Flea turned away from the window, started to sip at a pint bottle of Irish whiskey. "She owns the bowling alley. She's the one's got me between a rock and a hard place with those checks."

I had some choice words for Flea.

I ended, "I thought it was Corky alone."

Flea shook his head. "She's his main squeeze. And almost nobody but me knows about it."

I was outraged. "You knew she was his main squeeze, and you didn't tell me?"

"I knew you'd find out," Flea said defensively.

I was spitting the words: "What bullshit are you giving me now!"

Flea started scrambling. "You don't do any deal unless you know the whole set-up, and knowing who Corky's been fucking is something you'd have to find out before you'd agree to any deal with him."

I gave up. "How'd you find them out?"

"They were smooching in the back booth in this bar I went into in Waikiki."

The outdoor marquee read: "CONGRATS, CORKY & SAUNDRA TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY." When I saw the sign, I just had to stop.

The Club Ilima was a cocktail lounge for locals, not tourists. Neon beer lights flashed on and off, on and off. The parking lot was large enough for thirty cars. Many loud drinkers were in the main lounge. There was much cigarette smoke and barroom noise.

The Club Ilima lobby looked like Davey Jones' locker. Female ship figureheads, life preservers and fishing nets, stuffed marlin from long-forgotten charter trips, a glass case with model clipper ships. There were yacht pennants around the gilt bar mirror.

I walked through and spotted Corky. He looked like he was looking for someone. Then, just two hours after his rendezvous with his mistress, Corky Collins spotted a middle-aged blonde chitchatting with friends at the end of the bar. He walked up behind her, embraced her, pecked a kiss on her cheek.

I pegged her for his wife and ankled closer to hear what I could.

I heard Corky as he spoke to his wife.

He said, "Saundra honey, how you doing? Can I get you another drink? Do you want another?"

Saundra looked at her husband as if he had too much to drink already.

At first I was amused by Corky's public demonstration of affection and by his wife's obvious reluctance. Then I got annoyed.

Corky moved through the crowd past me, his back to me. Feeling mischievous, I followed him across the lounge, then came up behind Corky, tapped the man on the shoulder, then let fly with a playful sucker punch to Corky's kidneys. Corky turned, found a sucker punch headed for his midriff. Caught off guard, he panicked and flinched.

I stayed my punch. "Corky, how ya doing?"

Corky was shaken. "God, don't do that ever again!"

I was smiling. "Is that the old lady? Helluva charmer you are. Just like Judas himself."

"Back off!" Corky growled. "What are you doing here?" he hissed.

"I saw your name in lights."

Corky got depressed. "I told them next month, and they thought I said next week."