Max Collins - Kill Your Darlings

Only, Mae’s clipped words were more like ice.

“What’s that bitch doing here?” she said.

She and Evelyn spoke the same language, too.

“Be fair, Mae. She was Roscoe’s wife, once upon a time. She has a right to show her concern.”

“Then she can come to the services Monday in Milwaukee; there’s nothing for her here.”

“You may be right. Tell me, had she and Roscoe gotten together in recent months?”

There was a wariness in her voice as she said, “What do you mean?”

I was obviously getting into an awkward area. “Oh, you know,” I stumbled, trying to make it sound light. “Got together for old times. Mended some fences. Buried the hatchet. Bygones be bygones. That sort of thing.”

“Well.” She paused again, and the hate was gone, or anyway in check; she was composing herself. “I do think he saw her a few times. He ran into her once, at a grocery store or something. And they apparently were civil. They met for drinks once or twice after that. The marriage… ended pretty bitterly, as you may recall. Maybe… maybe they felt that after all these years, they should at least be civil.”

“And that’s as far as it went?”

“Of course. Where else could it go?”

“Evelyn claimed… look, I don’t know if I should get into this. This isn’t really any of my business….”

Mae laughed and there was a tinge of sarcasm in it. “When did that ever stop you?” There was a tinge of gin in it, too; room service here was her best friend.

“You’ve got me there. What she said was-she said she and Roscoe were having an affair.”

Silence.

“Mae?”

Silence.

And then an outburst of uproarious laughter.

“Mae?” I said, into the receiver, talking over the continuing laughter.

Finally she managed to contain her glee long enough to say, “That’s rich. Oh, that’s really rich.”

“Can I take your hysteria as a ‘no’?”

“Mal, you’ve seen us, Evelyn and me. Who would you rather…?” She hadn’t had enough gin yet to complete that sentence. But she picked right up: “You knew Roscoe pretty well. What do you think? Do you think he was cheating on me to climb in bed with Madame LaFarge?”

“Mae, he was married to her once. He probably loved her, once. Love’s blind.”

“Maybe, but it’s not retarded. Mal, she’s a crazy, vicious bitch. What’s next, a will leaving our bungalow to her, written in Crayola? She’s a lunatic. Roscoe was nice to her because she was down on her luck; he felt sorry for her. Maybe-maybe he even felt a little guilty for having dumped her. Roscoe had his deep dark depressions, you know. He carried guilt around over both Evelyn and Winnie.”

Winnie was Winifred, Roscoe’s first wife, dead for many, many years.

“So,” I said, “renewing his relationship with Evelyn was an act of charity on his part.”

“Mal, he had drinks with her a few times. A relationship it wasn’t.”

“Mae. This is hard to ask.”

“Somehow I think you’ll find a way…”

“You indicated you and Roscoe weren’t, well-sexually active, of late.”

“He was impotent, Mal.”

“Couldn’t that have been the pose of a man carrying on an affair with another woman?”

“Mal! Jesus. He had prostate trouble, which is a matter of medical record, all right? Do I really have to go into this further?”

“No,” I said, wishing there was a rock around to crawl under.

“Besides, if Roscoe wanted to leave me, all he had to do was do it. Roscoe and I have-had-a few thousand dollars in savings and own our little home. There wasn’t enough there to bother fighting over. Mal, Evelyn Kane is a crazy woman. Why listen to her?”

“Mae. You agreed it would be a good idea for me to ask around about Roscoe’s death. And Evelyn is here.”

“True. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“That’s okay. I deserved it, a little.”

“When did she get here, Mal?”

“Pardon?”

“Evelyn. When did she arrive?”

“Today. She said.”

“Where do you suppose she was last night?”

“That I don’t know. That’s a good question. Of course I don’t know where she is now, either.”

“Why?”

I explained that Evelyn hadn’t checked in at the Americana-Congress, at least not as of an hour or so ago.

“She might be at another hotel, though,” I said. “With the convention, here, the hotel itself may be full.”

“She’s probably sleeping in her car,” Mae said, humorously. “She’s one classy broad.”

“You said before that you could tell me where I could get hold of Roscoe’s son,” I reminded her.

“Jerome?” She laughed; almost a giggle. “Why, I’m sure you could get hold of him any place you pleased. No problem.”

“Mae, take it easy on that gin, okay?”

“That was nasty, wasn’t it? Jerome is staying with a Troy something. I’ve got it written down….”

She found the name and number and gave it to me, then asked, “Have you called that assistant coroner yet?”

“Actually, no. I’m going to do that after we hang up.”

“Good. How about dinner tonight?”

“No, Mae, thank you. I already have a, uh…”

“Previous engagement? Anyone I know?”

“I don’t think so. A young lady.”

“I’m jealous,” she said, pretending not to be. “You could’ve had room service with me.” She said that flatly, without stressing the innuendo-but the “nuendo” was in there, all right.

“That would’ve been nice,” I managed.

“Maybe you can stop up later.”

“I’ll try.” No way!

“Particularly if you get anywhere, with your inquiries.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Thanks, Mal. I know I can count on you.”

“I’ll call you later, that I promise you.”

“Please do, Mal.”

We hung up.

I called the Chicago coroner’s office and managed to get Myers, the heavyset assistant coroner from last night. I reminded him who I was and he grunted, and I told him about the maid and the wet towels, and he said, That’s very interesting, thank you, and hung up.

Which is how I knew he’d react, but I’d promised Mae I’d pass my wet-towel information along, and I had.

I called the front desk and asked if Evelyn Kane had checked in; she hadn’t. I asked if she had a reservation; she hadn’t. I asked if the hotel was full up, what with the convention and all; it was.

That certainly explained Evelyn’s absence. Or did it? If she was planning ahead to come down from Milwaukee to see Roscoe, why didn’t she have a reservation at the hotel?

I tried calling the number of Jerome Kane’s friend, Troy. I got an answering machine, a very masculine voice saying, “This is Troy, I’m not able to respond at the moment, but please leave a message at the tone.” Behind the voice, an instrumental version of the theme from the movie Arthur was playing; I didn’t leave a message-I hung up when I was between the moon and New York City, actually.

I needed to talk to Gorman. I had blown it, sort of, down in the dealers’ room; I should’ve played like all was forgiven between ol’ Gregg and me, so I could sneak up on him with some hard questions, not the least of which was, Where the hell were you last night when Roscoe died, Gorman?

Now I had to wait for a better time and place, ideally somewhere I could get Gorman alone.

What I wanted to do now was talk to Roscoe’s son, Jerome, but he and Troy were out.

So I slept for a while; not long.

Because less than ten minutes later someone started knocking on my door, and when I went to answer it, I found on my doorstep a tall, thin, tanly handsome man in his forties, his hair stark white in a short, stylish cut, wearing a beige suit with a light blue open-collar shirt and one slender, elegant gold chain looping gently down across a hairless chest.