Max Collins - Kill Your Darlings

He snorted. “You read too many Gat Garson books, Mallory. Speaking of which… you oughta be grateful I’m bringing your idol’s books out, instead of givin’ me a bad time over it.”

So that was what this was about.

“Oh,” I said, “you didn’t like my comment about how Roscoe’s books’ll be more valuable to you, with him dead.”

“That’s a lousy thing to say. And not necessarily true. The few thousand extra copies we’ll sell, of each of ’em, is hardly grounds for…” He searched for the word in his beer; he didn’t find it.

So I gave it to him: “Murder?”

He looked up sharply. “Is that what you think, Mallory?”

“Is what what I think?”

“That Roscoe was… killed, or something.”

“What if it is?”

“I heard you… were up there, when…” He drank a little beer. Then: “I heard you found the body.”

It was getting around, finally.

“Maybe,” I said.

“So, uh… what do you think? Was it murder?”

“Why do you care? What’s your interest in Roscoe?”

“He was a friend. He was a buddy! I liked him.”

“You like money.”

“I like money, and I like people, too. Like Roscoe, I liked. Hell, I even like you, Mallory.”

“And you’re heartsick about Roscoe’s death.”

He shook his head sadly, side to side. “Tragic loss to the mystery community.”

“Jesus, Gorman, you ought to volunteer to do his eulogy. You’d have to wear a clean sweater, though.”

“Just don’t… don’t go implying what you implied before, in public, or maybe… maybe I will sue you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Implying I… that’s stupid. I loved Roscoe.”

“You used to just like him. Do you love me now, or is it still just ‘like’?”

“Screw you.”

“Must be love. Tell you what. I won’t accuse you publicly of murdering Roscoe; I won’t even imply it. Unless, of course, I find out you did it.”

He got huffily self-righteous. “Don’t be stupid. What motive would I have for that? To make the books of his I’m publishing sell a little better? Nobody’d kill anybody over that.”

“Where were you?”

“Where… where was I when?”

“When Roscoe was murdered.”

He swallowed. The red nose seemed to throb in the near-darkness. “You really do think it was murder.”

“I really do.”

“Have you told the cops?”

“I’ve tried.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And they don’t seem to be paying much attention. Yet.”

He smirked and waved for the waitress. “You don’t know that it was murder,” he said. “It could’ve been accidental.”

“Could’ve been,” I granted. “Like when Nixon’s secretary accidentally erased the tape.”

“I think you should leave this alone.”

“I think you should answer my question.”

“What question?”

“Where were you last night? When Roscoe was dying in the tub?”

The beers came, but he didn’t dig in; he sat looking at them and summoned a look of confidence up and tried it out on me. I didn’t think much of it. It accompanied the following declaration: “I was with my angels.”

Gorman being with anybody’s angels, let alone his own, was a little hard to picture.

“Your angels,” I said.

“Yeah, you know. My angels. My backers. The guys that invest in me. The guys that sign the checks.”

It was coming back to me now; I’d heard about this, from somebody-Sardini, I thought. Seemed Gorman’s financial backing, his working capital-that is to say, the working capital he didn’t generate himself, swindling innocents like me and old-timers like Raoul Wheeler-came from a pair of Chicago-area longtime mystery fans, guys in their forties who were partners in a chain of bookstores. Those bookstores were the kind with the windows painted out and lots of Xs on the front.

Pornographers is what Gorman’s angels were.

Or at least, pornography merchants. In bed with the mob, so rumor said; which made Gorman vaguely mob-dirty, too.

“You were with your angels,” I said.

“Yeah, having dinner at the Berghoff.”

The Berghoff was a popular German restaurant in downtown Chicago, and had been since the late Mayor Daley was in diapers.

“So a lot of people saw you,” I said.

He smiled. “A lot of people saw us.”

“Conveniently saw you.”

“No, damnit, just saw us! Leave it alone, Mallory. Leave it alone.”

“Or?”

“Did I say ‘or’? I don’t remember saying ‘or.’ Just friendly advice from your favorite publisher: leave it alone.”

“I’d like to talk to your angels.”

“Stay away from them, for your own good. They’re nice guys, but they’re not as nice as me. And come to think of it, stay away from me. Quit smart-mouthing me. And stay away from Kathy Wickman, too, while you’re at it.”

“Or?”

He nodded, a yellow smile peeking out of the brush of his goatee. “Yeah. Or .”

“Tell me something, Gorman. Your little company’s been doing pretty good; you’ve won an Edgar, you’re making good dough, you’re getting some of your titles into the major bookstore chains. This unpublished Hammett novel you discovered, tell me. Why aren’t you publishing it yourself? Why’d you lay it off on a major publisher, when you could’ve made the big score yourself?”

His face, with the exception of the goatee and the reddish nose, went white.

And he got up and waddled out without another word, leaving his two beers behind.

I stepped out into the chilly afternoon, zipping my light jacket. Rain spit in my face. It was a lousy afternoon to go sightseeing. Nevertheless, I got on the old bus-a former Greyhound with the words “Crime Tour” in the destination slot over the front windows-and joined a couple dozen other hearty souls, among them (halfway back) Kathy Wickman, who smiled with surprise when she saw me, patting the seat next to her. I sat down.

“Thought you said you weren’t going to take this particular ride,” Kathy said, with yet another wry smile.

“Maybe I couldn’t wait till supper to see you again.”

“I’m flattered. But why so intense?”

“Huh?”

“You have a furrow in your brow deep enough to hide a dime in.”

“Hey-that’s a Roscoe Kane line.”

She nodded. “I know. I bought myself a copy of The Dame Dealt Death in the dealers’ room, from a woman dealer, appropriately enough. Read the first couple of chapters when I was relaxing before coming down to catch this bus.”

“And?”

“Kind of liked what I read. Fun, in a dated way.”

“Chandler seems dated, too, you know.”

“I wouldn’t agree, but I do admit seeing more merit in Kane than I would ever have guessed. I’ll have fun reading it.”

“Glad to see you have an open mind.”

Up at the front of the bus, Cynthia Crystal was getting on. She nodded and smiled at the tall, lanky, Zappa-bearded driver/guide. She still wore the gray slacks outfit; despite a long day of dealing with fans and such, she looked bandbox fresh. Tim Culver was not with her.

“I do have an open mind,” Kathy said, “but not so open that I don’t find it less than flattering when your attention shifts to some other female.”

“Well, Cynthia’s an old friend.”

“Your brow’s furrowed again.”

“Kathy, Cynthia’s why I’m here. I need to talk to her. I called her room and was told she was going to take the Crime Tour.”

Told in rather clipped words by Tim Culver, actually.

“Mal,” Kathy said, wry as ever, “I’m hurt, naturally-but I’ll be over it by supper.”