Edward Gorman - The Autumn Dead

"That's the trouble."

"What?"

"I don't know."

We had been in bed for close to an hour now. My shoes were off but that was it. Donna was in her blue thigh-length football jersey with the big 00 on the front. She looked attractively mussed and I wondered what she saw in me anyway.

"You want a back rub?" she said.

"No, thanks."

"You want some underwear inspection?"

"I wish I did."

"You want some herbal tea?"

"Sorry."

"You going to let me help you?"

"I guess not."

"Is it okay if I turn on the tube then?"

"Sure."

"Will you at least take off your clothes?"

So I got out of my clothes and got under the fancy blue-andwhite grid work comforter and tried to watch David Letterman.

"He's such an ass," Donna said.

"I know. So why are we watching him?"

"Nothing else on."

"You pay fifty-one dollars a month so you can have thirtyeight cable channels and you say there's nothing else on?"

"You want to argue? Will that make you feel better?"

"Apparently."

"All right," she said. She picked up the remote dial and clicked off Letterman and then sat up Indian-legged with her container of Dannon banana yogurt in one hand and her handful of raisins in the other. A white plastic Dairy Queen spoon stuck out of the Dannon. She always kept her Dairy Queen spoons and she went to the Dairy Queen a lot. "All right," she said.

"All right what?"

"All right your face is sort of messed up from somebody hitting you. And all right your high-school girlfriend is dead, presumably murdered. And all right a crazy, sad woman named Evelyn got blown over her motorcycle by somebody probably equally crazy. So, all right, start talking"

"About what?"

"About how you're feeling."

"I'm feeling like shit."

"So tell me about feeling like shit, Dwyer. Tell me all about it because I can't stand it when you get quiet like this. You just sit there and suffer and it's terrible. For both of us."

"I feel like shit is all. Doesn't that sort of say it?"

"Are you feeling like shit because maybe you sort of got a crush on Karen Lane again?"

"I knew that's what you were thinking. And the answer is no."

"Are you feeling like shit because you don't know what's in the suitcase?"

"Partly."

"What are you guessing is in the suitcase?"

"Something that will explain what really happened to Sonny Howard and will also explain why Forester and Price and Haskins are willing to pay so much for it."

"And who are you guessing has the suitcase?"

"That I don't know yet. That's why I'm going to the park-"' I glanced at my Timex. It was well after midnight. "Tonight."

She dropped some raisins into her yogurt and said, "You're kind of menopausal, you know that? I mean the way you deal with things."

"Gee, thanks."

"No. You really are. You kind of go through these hot flashes and do irrational things."

"Such as what?"

"Such as going to the park."

"That's irrational?"

"Of course it is. That's the kind of thing you should call Edelman about. If there's going to be an exchange of the suitcase for money, then the police should be there, not you."

"This is different."

"No, it's not. It's menopausal."

She clicked David Letterman back on. He was being coy as usual because the topic was sex, a subject he seemed to find disgusting.

I lost it then. It all came down on me and I lost it and I grabbed the remote bar and thumbed through several other channels and as the channels flipped by-pro wrestling, an Alan Ladd movie, William Bendix, a severely hair-sprayed man discussing Wall Street-as the channels flipped by, she moved over to her side of the bed and put her face in the pillow.

It took me two or three long minutes to say it. "I'm sorry."

"'Right." She started to cry softly.

I leaned over and kind of kissed her arm. "I don't mean to take it out on you."

She kept facing the wall. "I get so damn discouraged about us when you push me away like that. You've been doing it since you walked through the door."

"I want to ask you something."

"What?" Sniffling now.

"I want to know if you'll let me inspect your underwear."

"You bastard," she said.

But she laughed. Or at least she sort of did.

Several times the next morning I thought of calling Edelman. Once I even got into a phone booth. Dialed. Waited while they put me on hold. Ready to tell him what I knew. But then I hung up and got back in my car.

In the afternoon I went into the American Security offices to pick up my paycheck.

Bobby Lee gave me some fudge that she'd made for Donna, and Diaz, the kid who'd put the choke hold on the Nam vet, gave me some grief.

In the back room, Diaz said, "You ever seen these?"

His smirk said it all. He was going to pull something out of his windbreaker pocket that was going to irritate the hell out me and he was going to love it.

"Diaz, I'm really not up to it today. All right?"

"Here," he said.

He brought his hand out. Over his knuckles were the metal ridges of brass knuckles.

"No more choke holds, man." He looked proud of himself. "Just these babies."

I put my hand out, palm up.

"Give them to me."

"What?"

"I want them, Diaz, and right now."

"Bullshit. They're mine. I paid for them with my own money."

I didn't say anything more. Just went over to the intercom phone and picked it up.

"Hey, what're you doing?"

"I’m going to fire you, Diaz."

"Hey asshole."

"Don't call me asshole, Diaz. You understand?" I punched a button. "Bobby Lee. Is he in?"

Diaz grabbed my shoulder. "Jesus, all right, here they are."

"Never mind, Bobby Lee," I said.

Diaz threw the knucks down on the table. They clanged.

"Enough people are getting hurt and dying these days, Diaz. We don't need to help it along."

I heard it in my voice and so did he. The same tone I'd heard in Evelyn Dain's voice. A kind of keening madness.

Diaz surprised me. He said, "You okay, man?"

"Why don't you just get out of here?" I sensed tears in my voice.

But Diaz, bully-proud in his bus driver's uniform, just stood there and said, "Man, listen, we have our arguments, but they don't mean jack shit. I mean, you're a decent guy. You know?"

I sighed. "Thanks, Diaz. For saying that."

"You let shit get to you all the time. You shouldn't. I worry about you. Everybody here does, man. The way it gets to you."

He came over and patted me on the back. "Can I tell you something?"

"All right."

"You look wasted. You got the flu or something?"

''No."

"Bad night?"

"I'll be all right, Diaz. I appreciate your concern."

But it hadn't been concern at all because as he pushed between me and the table, I saw his right hand go behind his back and lift the knucks and start to slip them into his back pocket.

I brought my fingers up and got him hard by the throat, hard enough that he couldn't talk.

"You got ten seconds to get out of here, Diaz, you understand?"

He nodded.

"And if I find you're using any weapons, including knucks or choke holds on the job, you're out. You understand?" He nodded again.

When I let go, he said, "You need some nooky, man. Or something. You need something, man, and you need it fast."

He said this in a raspy voice. I'd dug into his throat pretty hard.

When he got to the door, he said, "Some night, Dwyer, you and me are going to face it off. You know that?"

But I didn't say anything to Diaz. He was young and hot and worried about his honor. I was thinking of Karen Lane and Dr. Evans and Gary Roberts and wondering if there was any honor left that was even worth worrying about.