Ross Thomas - No Questions Asked

Actually, it wasn’t too bad a walk. The temperature was pleasantly cool, the sidewalks were broad and unbroken, there were no hills, and I scooted right along at what I estimated to be a steady four miles per hour. Once, a black and white patrol car slowed and its moustachioed occupants gave me a careful appraisal. I waved at them and got a curt nod in return.

Fastnaught’s motel, which was called the Colony Inn, would probably be included in the same general classification that applied to mine: cheap. It was built in a deep U of cinder-block units and there was enough room left over in the middle of the U for a small swimming pool.

I started back toward the base of the U where Fastnaught’s room seemed to be, from the way that the numbers ran. A car door slammed somewhere. Then an engine started and a pair of headlights came on. Somebody was leaving.

The car backed out and started down the same leg of the U that I was on. Its headlights splashed over me and I put my hand up to shield my eyes. I edged over toward the pool to get out of the car’s way.

I knew something had gone wrong when the engine screamed as the driver jammed the accelerator all the way down. Then I heard the tires screech as they laid a thick layer of rubber on the cement drive. The car’s headlights switched on to bright, almost blinding me, but I could still see what was going to happen next. I was going to get flattened. I backed up furiously until my heels hit something and I couldn’t back any farther. There wasn’t anyplace to go or any time to run because two tons of Detroit craftsmanship was about to slam into me and kill me so I did the only thing I could do. I fell into the pool.

I could say I dived or jumped but I didn’t. I just fell. You get just as wet that way. I came up blowing and swearing and found that I had fallen into the deep end. I swam a couple of strokes till I came to the edge and heaved myself up and over the side. I sat there on the edge of the pool and shook and waited for somebody to come up and ask why I had jumped into the pool at midnight with all of my clothes on. But nobody came. That may have been because nobody heard. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

I got up and squeezed at my clothes, but it didn’t do much good. Fastnaught would love this, I decided. It would give him something else to chuckle about. I started walking back toward his room, my wet shoes squishing and squashing. When I got to number twelve, I knocked. When nothing happened, I pounded on the door and yelled, “Wake up, Fastnaught!”

Somebody yelled, “Knock it off, out there!” It wasn’t Fastnaught though, because Fastnaught didn’t have a woman’s voice.

I tried the door on the chance that he had left it unlocked. Drunks do funny things. It turned easily in my hand and I went in. The lights were off and it took me a moment to find the switch. I turned them on.

His tongue bulged out of his mouth and it was beginning to blacken — or at least turn dark. His blue eyes were popped and staring. I kept waiting for them to blink, but they didn’t. They would never blink again. He lay on the floor next to the bed. His legs were twisted up under him. He had on slacks and a shirt and socks. No shoes. It was probably his drinking uniform. On his left temple was a dark bloody wound — half bruise, half cut. I smelled whiskey, a lot of it. A broken whiskey bottle lay on the floor and its contents had soaked into the rug. On the table next to the bed was another bottle of whiskey, unopened, a glass that still had some ice in it, three bottles of soda, and six cigars. I looked down at Fastnaught again. There was a dark red mark around his throat where somebody had wrapped or wound something around it, a rope, a wire, or a cord, and used it to choke the life out of him.

I knelt down beside him. I had a vague idea that I should touch him somewhere to make sure that there was no life left, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, although my hand got almost halfway to the dark mark on his neck.

I rose and looked around the room and wondered whether I was going to be sick. Something sour and nasty kept rising in my throat. I moved over to the writing desk. On it were a set of keys, a billfold, some change, and a clean handkerchief. I picked up the billfold and looked inside and counted the money. There was seventy-six dollars. There was also a slip of paper that looked as if it had been torn from a spiral notebook. There was a name written on the paper and a telephone number. I wrote them both down on an envelope. The name was Carl Vardaman. It didn’t mean anything to me and I wondered what it had meant to Fastnaught.

I suppose the panic set in then. It must have been panic, although the wet clothes were part of it. I started shaking, almost uncontrollably. My teeth chattered. I started for the door, but stumbled, and almost fell. I caught myself on a chair. Next to the chair and the bed lay Fastnaught. For a moment I thought that he had turned to watch me, but he hadn’t, of course, because he was dead and there was nothing that I could do about it except say, “Goddamn it, Fastnaught, I’m sorry,” although it was a couple of moments before I realized that I had said it aloud.

I called the police from a phone booth three blocks away. Then I somehow made it back to my motel, stripped off my wet clothes, turned on a hot shower and stood under it until the shaking went away and the sense of panic subsided.

After that I sat in the chair that was covered in lime green plastic and drank whiskey and got very, very drunk.

The dentist kept drilling the wrong tooth. I told him that it was the wrong tooth, but he only smiled and after he was through drilling it he pulled it out with a huge pair of pliers and held it up for me to see. It made my head hurt and it hurt even worse when he reinserted the tooth into my mouth and tried to pound it back into place with a big hammer.

I woke up then and the dentist was gone but the pounding was still there, although it was someone pounding on my door. It didn’t help the pain in my head, which was centered just back of my eyes. It felt as if someone were stabbing at them with a piece of rusty metal.

I opened my eyes then and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I had made it to bed, I saw, but not under the covers. I was wearing only a pair of shorts. A black wave of guilt washed over me and I shuddered. Then the nausea hit and someone pounded on the door again.

I got up and opened it. It was Guerriero. He stood there in the bright sunshine all dressed up in his glowing youth and his white smile and his nice, healthy tan. For a moment I thought of killing him, but instead I told him to come in and then asked him to excuse me because I had to go into the bathroom and throw up.

It all came up, of course. The ribs and the whiskey and the memory of the night before. I didn’t look at it. I kept my eyes closed. I sat there on the bathroom floor, wrapped around the toilet, and vomited until there was nothing left. After that I got up, my eyes still tightly shut, flushed the toilet, brushed my teeth, and splashed my face with cold water.

I went back into the bedroom then and Guerriero was sitting in the lime green chair looking as though he might be thinking of whistling because he felt so well and it was such a splendid day.

I sat down on the bed and held my head in my hands. “I don’t want you to say anything,” I said. “I just want you to do something for me. It just possibly might save my life because I’m really quite near death.”

“You look it, too,” he said.

“In that pile of clothes over there is my billfold. In it is some money. I would like you to go over there and take out a generous sum. It would help if you tiptoed.”

Guerriero went over and took out the billfold. “Hey,” he said, “the money’s all wet.”