Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 2. Whole No. 834, February 2011

“I put up with that old fool for thirty-nine years,” she said. “Thirty-nine years. I was just a kid when we got married. He was nineteen years older than me. Can you believe that?” She sniffled and took another sip of the martini.

I was thinking that I should apologize for finding her, but I was just doing what I was hired to do. Wasn’t I?

“I don’t think he ever did love me.” She looked off at the Gulf; I don’t believe she was actually seeing that gray-green expanse of water. “I was just part of the plan. All he ever loved was that damned company.” She got quiet again, crossed her legs, and sipped at her drink.

I remembered seeing her back when we played baseball. She was the knockout mom that every teenage boy had a crush on. She was still beautiful. The laugh lines were a little more pronounced, but there was no evidence of adulteration with cosmetic injections or surgery.

“Hell,” she said, “he doesn’t want me; it’s the damn book.”

“What is this book that I keep hearing about?” I asked.

She smiled a little then and said, “I took his little black book — as insurance — a way to defend myself.”

I just looked at her. Was she talking about infidelity? “You mean he cheated on you?”

“Oh, he did that all right, but, no, that’s not what’s in the book.”

“So what is in the book?”

“Parker kept track of everyone who owed him favors.” I guess I had a stupid look on my face. She continued, “That’s what is in the book. The name of every congressman, senator, judge, and whomever else he bribed or blackmailed, and how much they cost and what they did for him. It was an ego thing with Parker. And it’s all in his own handwriting. He doesn’t give a damn about me. He just wants his book back.”

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“You might as well.”

“Are you going to divorce your husband?”

She looked at me and gave a frustrated laugh. “Do you know how hard that would be? He’s not just going to let me go.”

“What choice does he have?”

“Not much as long as I’ve got that book.” She sat there for a moment with her eyes closed. The breeze off the water ruffled her hair. She opened her eyes and said, “Did you ever play golf with Parker?”

“Well, yes. Once or twice.”

“Did he beat you?”

“Well, yeah, but...”

“He cheats.” She looked off at the ocean again, took another sip of her drink.

“I’d say he shaved a few strokes off, yes.”

“But nobody said anything.”

I saw her point. Parker Goodman was a big man in Arkansas. He was famous for getting what he wanted. He didn’t play by the rules, but he expected everyone else to. In fact, he counted on it.

“I have never shaved strokes in my life,” she went on. “I knew about all those little bimbos he carried on with at those conventions. Do you know how humiliating that was? He had two little boys at home. ‘It’s just part of doing business,’ he’d say. How can a person be like that? And he’s ruined Marcus. He’s got him thinking and acting just like the old boar himself. And oh — my God! Roger! That precious, precious little boy.” She was tearing up again. “He was so tenderhearted; definitely not cut out of the same cloth as his daddy. He got into drugs and booze.” Her voice broke. “How do you live up to someone like that? How is it that you can’t earn your own father’s love and respect?” She was crying now. I moved over and put an arm around her. She didn’t push me away. “If God worked that way,” she said, “there would be no hope for any of us.” I turned her around, and she put her face into my shoulder. My chest was tight as I thought about my own father. My daddy loved me. There was never any doubt in my mind that he loved me. I didn’t have to earn it. I couldn’t earn it. Lorna Goodman’s tears soaked through my shirt.

She finally pulled away and looked up at me. “What are you going to do?” she said.

“Me? I’m not going to do anything.” My voice was raspy because my throat had a big lump in it. “I stopped working for Parker Goodman about half an hour ago.” I hugged her close, so that she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

“Thank you,” she said, working hard at her composure. “Oh, thank you! I can’t tell you any more right now, but everyone will be so much happier this way. You’ll see. That little book is just an insurance policy... to make sure he lets me go.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I have to meet someone.” She got up to leave.

“You okay to drive? I can take you wherever you need to go.”

“Oh, no. No. I’ll be fine.” She leaned over and hugged me again. “Thank you so much.” She started for the parking lot, and then she turned and looked back at me. “You tell Parker... you tell him that, after all these years, I’m finally taking a mulligan.”

A mulligan, I thought, a do-over. It is an exceptional person who doesn’t take a mulligan once in a while. I walked out to my rental car and pondered whether or not to try to find a guide and go fishing. I decided that I wasn’t in the mood. I wanted to end my employment with Parker Goodman as soon as possible. It seemed like a good idea to just head on back to the airport at Fort Myers and light a shuck for Arkansas. I was flying standby and figured maybe I could catch the evening flight out. It had crossed my mind to give Parker back his shoebox, but, right now, I wasn’t feeling that charitable.

I got a boarding pass and had some time to kill. A Delta flight had just arrived from Atlanta, and I was watching the people coming off. A good-looking older man with a sun-block shirt and a fly-rod tube came bounding down the gangway. I didn’t have to see his face to recognize that carefree walk.

“Hey, Bradley,” my daddy said in his warm southern drawl. “What in the world are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” I said.

“I’m gonna catch me some bonefish,” he said. “And I gotta get my clubs off the carousel. We’re gonna do a little golfing, too.”

I looked around. “Who came down with you?” I asked. “Jerome? Case?”

“No. No,” he said. “I’m meeting a friend — some friends — down here.” He suddenly sounded like me when I was a teenager, trying to explain where I’d been all night. It was out of character for him not to invite me to go with him, but I suddenly knew all too well why he couldn’t.

“Well, you be careful,” I said. “I’m on a case, so I gotta get on this plane.” I could feel myself blushing.

“Maybe next time you can stay and go fishin’,” he said, looking relieved.

“Yeah, for sure,” I said. “Next time, for sure.”

“I love you, son,” he said, giving me a big bear hug.

“I love you too, Daddy.” I hugged him back.

“Well, I don’t want you to miss your plane,” he said.

“Go on and get your clubs,” I said, “before somebody else does.”

He said goodbye again and headed off down the concourse. I started to get in line, but then I ducked back out. I could see his bright yellow shirt quite a ways down the concourse. “Daddy!” I yelled. Lots of heads turned, but he heard me and turned around. “Tell her I said she only gets one mulligan!” The stunned look on his face was priceless. I waved again and got on my plane.

Copyright © 2010 by Jim Davis

Shane Nelson’s last short story for EQMM , “That One Small Thing” (February 2009) was selected as a Distinguished Story of 2009 by Best American Mystery Stories 2010 . Since then, the Canadian author and sometime teacher has had several more stories published, including one given an honorable mention in Best Horror of the Year, Volume 2, edited by Ellen Datlow. He is currently managing to find time to write while also working as a stay-at-home dad of twins, “the hardest job I’ve ever had,” he says!