Ed Gorman - Short Stories, Volume 1

“The lab report you wanted on the Henderson case.”

He snatched it from her. “Tell them they can kiss my ass. I wanted this early this morning.”

The woman cowered again, and then quickly left.

Lenihan probably wasn’t going to win any Boss of the Year awards. He was scanning the lab report when Favor said, “So what do you think? Those three things I told you about fit together?”

When Lenihan looked up, his eyes were glassy. Whatever information the lab report held, it must be damned engrossing. “Huh?” he said.

“The male nurse and the syringe and the insulin.”

“God,” Dr. Bruce Lenihan, MD, said, shooting his cuff and glaring at his wristwatch. “I’m so fucking late I can’t believe it.” Then he said, “I figure a smarty-pants like you woulda been able to figure it out all by your lonesome, Favor.”

“Figure what out?”

“The insulin bit. Very old trick. Thing is, it still works eight out of ten times. Last convention I went to, that was one of the big topics on the docket. It’s still a problem. I mean, it doesn’t happen that often, but it’s still a bitch to spot.”

On the way down in the elevator, Lenihan gave the lowdown on how exactly you killed a guy the way the male nurse had. Lenihan’s last words, just as Favor was saying goodbye, “But a really good medical examiner would be able to spot it.” He smiled. “A good one like me.”

Lenihan had done the autopsy in question, of course, and he hadn’t spotted it at all.

Favor had kept some of the old burglary pics he’d taken from various thieves back during his city detective days. He got into Sam Evans’ condo with no problem. He went out into the kitchen and found some Jack Daniels black label and fixed himself a drink. Then he went into the living room and parked himself in the recliner. He used the channel zapper and found the Cubs game. During a long commercial break, Favor picked up the phone and called Princess Jane.

“I think I figured it out. What your husband was up to.”

“Oh, God, Favor, I’m almost afraid to hear.”

He told her and she started crying almost immediately.

All the time she cried, he thought, the cops’re going to nail David’s ass, and she’s going to be free. Maybe seventh-grade dreams really do come true You just have to wait a while. Say twenty or thirty years.

She kept on sobbing. “I’m sorry, Favor. I’d better go.”

“Don’t mention any of this to your husband. I’ve got a little plan in mind.”

He could imagine how she’d feel in his arms right now, the tender slender body against his, the warmth of the tears on her cheeks.

“Just remember,” Favor said, “you need anything, any time night or day, you’ve got my number.”

“Oh, Favor, I just feel so terrible right now.”

“You lie down and try to nap. That’s the best thing.”

He could feel the gratitude coming from the other end of the phone. It was almost tangible.

Four innings later — the Cubs losing another close one, 9–0 — Favor heard somebody in the hall. Evans.

Favor took out his .38 — he saw no reason to carry one of the monsters cops seemed to favor these days — and then just sat there with his drink in one hand and his .38 in the other.

When Evans came through the door, the .38 was pointing directly at his chest. He was all flashy sports clothes — yellow summer sweater, white ducks, $150 white Reeboks, and enough Raw Vanilla cologne to peel off wallpaper. Being bald and dumpy and squint-eyed kind of spoiled the effect, though.

“Hey,” he said, “what the hell’s going on?”

“Close the door and sit down and shut up.”

“That my booze you’re drinking?”

Guy’s holding a gun on him and all Evans worries about is his booze.

“You heard what I said.”

“You’re obviously not the cops.”

“No shit.”

Then Evans finally went over and sat down on the couch. What he didn’t do was shut up.

“You’re in deep shit, my friend,” he said.

“First of all,” Favor said. “You’re the one in deep shit. And second of all, I ain’t your friend.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I want you to get David Carson over here.”

“I don’t know any David Carson.”

“Yeah, right. Now pick up that phone and call him and tell him he needs to get over here right away, that somebody’s figured out what you two did.”

“You’re crazy, you know that? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Pick up the phone.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Damn right, no. This is my condo, not yours.”

Favor got up and went over to where Evans was perched anxiously on the edge of the couch. He brought the barrel of his gun down hard across the side of Evans’ head.

“You sonofabitch,” Evans said, and then kind of rolled around on the couch, holding the right side of his head, and wrinkling his pretty yellow sweater. After the pain had subsided somewhat, Evans said, “I still don’t know any David Carson.”

“Pick up the phone.”

Evans started to protest again. This time, all Favor did was give him a good swift kick in the shin. An old playground technique.

“Ow! Aw shit! Ow!” This hurt a lot more, surprisingly, than the gun barrel along the side of the head. Evans bitched and cursed for four, five minutes and then Favor handed him the receiver.

“You sonofabitch,” Evans said. He dialed the number, asked for Carson. “You need to get over to my place right away,” he said as soon as Carson came on the line. “We got a problem. A big one.” He looked up at Favor. “Right away.” He hung up.

Favor sat down in the recliner again. “How much he pay you?”

“None of your business.”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough, was it? You’ve still been shaking him down.”

“Yeah? Is that right?”

“One thing about people you blackmail. They wake up one day and decide they’re really sick of living under your thumb. And then they get violent.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You’re gonna get life, you know that, don’t you?” Evans didn’t say anything. Just stared out the window at the spring blue sky. “Unless, of course, you turn state’s evidence against him. His idea, you say. He came to me with the whole plan. The County Attorney’ll cut you some slack if you go that route.”

Evans said, “I wouldn’t get life?”

“Not if you cooperate.”

“Carson’s a lot bigger fish to fry. Socially, I mean.”

“He sure is. The County Attorney’d rather have his scalp than yours any day.”

Evans put his face in his hands. When he took them away, his eyes were moist. “God, I don’t know why I ever agreed to do this.”

“How’d you meet Carson?”

“He had an employee, this guy named Mandlebaum, and he had cancer and I took care of him the last couple weeks of his life. At home, I mean. So then Carson looked me up about ten, eleven months ago.”

“So he offered you the deal?”

“He kept hinting at it, talking about how the only thing that could save the business was the old man’s insurance policy. They had one of those key-man deals, where if one of the partners dies the business gets a lot of money. Almost three million, in this case. Enough to pay off some of the bills and keep things going.”

“How much he pay you?”

“Hundred grand.”

“How much more you been getting out of him?”

“Not that much.”

“How much?” Favor said.

“Thirty, around there. I’m not sure exactly.”

“You think it’d last forever?”

“Yeah, I guess I kinda started thinking that way. Kinda dumb, huh?”

Favor nodded. “Someday he’d either run out of money or run out of patience.”