Edward Gorman - The Autumn Dead

"I see."

"So if my name could be left out-"

"Of course."

"My wife and I have a much better marriage now." I made careful note of the fact that he didn't say "good marriage." Only "much better." His sadness got to me and I wanted to say the right soothing thing, but I didn't know what that would be.

"It was very good of you to call."

"I felt I owed it to Karen."

"Thank you, Doctor."

As I was hanging up, Donna appeared, leaning model-fashion against the doorjamb, imposing in a dark blue cashmere sweater, designer jeans, and short leather boots, her red hair wild as mountain water down her shoulders.

"Well, I guess I'm ready." She sounded like a little girl who was being sent off, much against her will, to a summer camp run by bona fide ogres.

"You ready?"

"I guess," ' she said. "But you're not." Then she smiled. "God, Dwyer, I really think we should start sort of a kitty so you can get yourself some new underwear and socks."

"Thanks."

"You're nearly forty-five."

"Gee, don't I like being reminded of that."

"And all your underwear and socks have holes in them. Like a kid."

"They're clean, though."

"That's true. They are clean. But-"

So I went over and grabbed her and yanked her back to the bed and she said, "I just got dressed."

And I said, "I think we should have some general underwear inspection here. I just want to make sure that you're not being hypocritical. How do I know your underwear isn't in rags?"

"Dwyer, you really are nuts, you know that?"

But she relented and let me inspect her underwear anyway.

"The name Sonny mean anything to you?"

"It's the name of a song."

"Yeah," I said.

"There was Sonny Liston."

"Right."

"And Sonny and Cher."

"Uh-huh."

"And Sonny James."

"Who?"

"Country-Western singer."

"Oh."

"Don't give me your crap about country-Western singers."

"All right."

It was one-thirty in the afternoon in Malley's Tavern on the Eighth Avenue side of the Highlands. The place smelled of beer, disinfectant, and peanuts. Strong warm sunlight brightened the aged wooden floor. Bob Malley, paunchy, bearded, wrapped around with the spotless white apron that is his pride, stood behind the bar he owned and idly flipped a quarter, checking heads or tails every time it came down. I imagine he does this as often as five hundred times a day. Some people find this the kind of minor social irritation that can turn nuns into psychopaths. But I'm used to it. Though he was a grade ahead of me, Malley and I have been friends since, respectively, first and second grade. I've seen him flip quarters probably twenty million times by now.

Ordinarily I come in three afternoons a week. Today I had two reasons to be there. To say hello and to ask for information. Malley remembers our school days with the reverence of Thornton Wilder recalling an autumn afternoon in New England.

"Sonny Tufts," I said.

"Oh. Yeah. Sonny Tufts. You want another shell?"

"Nah.

He grinned. "Donna's a good influence on you, Dwyer. You've cut your drinking in half since you met her. So when's the date?"

"We fornicate without benefit of clergy, Malley. We have no plans to get married. We're not ashamed. She's not even Catholic."

"That's my only reservation about her."

"Right."

"So what's with this Sonny jazz?"

I told him about the woman in the black leather and how she'd mentioned Sonny.

"And you were in Larry Price's house?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Then she probably meant Sonny Howard."

"Who?"

"Sonny Howard. Summer of our senior year. Remember we went to summer school so we could take a lighter load during the regular year?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he went to summer school, too. Except he hung around with Price and Forester and Haskins. Then he killed himself."

He tossed it away so casually it almost went right by me, like doing a bad double-take shtick. Then, "What?"

"He killed himself. Don't you remember? He jumped off Pierce Point."

"Give me another shell."

"I thought you didn't want one." He smiled and got me another shell.

"Tell me some more about him."

"Don't know much more about him," Malley said, setting down my beer.

"Why don't I remember him?"

"Probably tried to forget him."

"Why?"

"He sort of hung around Karen Lane. That's when you were chasing rich chicks and trying to forget all about her."

"He knew Karen Lane?"

"I don't think they were getting it on or anything-I mean, I don't think she put out very much when you came right down to it-but I remember toward the end of the summer they were together a lot."

"Why were people so sure he killed himself? I mean, Pierce Point, you could fall off real easy.

"There was a witness."

"Who?"

"You're being a cop again. Ease off, okay? I'm not especially fond of cops."

"So you've told me."

"Witness, I don't know, seems it was David Haskins."

"You're kidding?"

"You asked me. Why would I kid you?"

"David Haskins was the witness?"

"David Haskins was the witness."

I drained half my shell and set it down and watched white foam slide down into the yellow beer. I liked taverns, hearing the crack of cards as men played pinochle, and the clatter of pool and the sound of workingmen loud at the end of a workday. At four I used to sit in union taverns and eat salted hard-boiled eggs and sip my old man's beer and learn all the reasons why you should never trust Republicans.

"Killed himself," I said. "Killed himself."

"I take it you don't believe that."

I looked right at him and said, "No, Malley, I don't. Not in the least damn bit at all."

Mrs. Haskins was reluctant to tell me where her husband was employed. "If you're a friend of his, then you should know where he works," she said on the other end of the phone.

"I didn't say I was a friend, exactly, Mrs. Haskins. I said I was a classmate."

"Oh. I see. At the university?"

"No. High school."

"Oh."

"I really would like to speak with him."

"It's urgent or something?"

Years of police work had taught me that politeness is almost always more effective than belligerence. "I'm trying to locate someone, Mrs. Haskins. It's not a big deal, but I believe David could help me. "

"You don't know him very well, do you?"

"Ma'am?"

"He's 'Dave.' He hates David. That's what his father always called him, and to be honest, he never cared much for his father."

"I see."

She sighed. "I suppose I sound terribly unfriendly, don't

I?"

"Not at all. You're protective of your husband. That's an admirable trait."

"Yes, I suppose so, especially with the divorce rate these days." She paused and then said, as if with some effort, "He works at Smythe and Brothers. It's a brokerage downtown."

"Thank you, Mrs. Haskins."

"I just hope I've done the right thing."

"Thanks again."

Icalled Smythe and Brothers. An icy female voice told me that Mr. Haskins was out and would not be back until three-thirty. I thanked her, then phoned the tavern where Chuck Lane worked. He was out, too, I was informed, and wasn't expected back until probably six or so, when he started working. From him I'd wanted some more discussion on the subject of Karen's senior summer. Then I phoned Dr. Glendon Evans' office and was told he was with a patient and would I mind sharing with her (that's what she said, the verbal equivalent of earth tones, sharing with her), but I just said no, I'd call back. I'd do my sharing alone.

I sat in the Toyota flush with the pull-up phone listening to a radio report live from the Cubs training camp. Oh, it could be one hell of a year, the third-base coach allowed, that is, if the X-rays on their leading pitcher's arm came out okay, and if their best base stealer didn't take advantage of his free-agent potential and go play for the Dodgers, and if those unfortunate drug charges against their leading hitter got dropped. Oh, it could be one hell of a year.