Max Collins - No Cure for Death

I laughed. “Sounds like a term of endearment to me.”

He shook his head, smiled. Slapped his desk. “Well, what can I do for you, Mallory? You don’t need counseling, for Christ’s sake.”

“I need some information. And it’s nothing to do with school.”

“What is it, then?”

It was something like the hundredth time I’d gone through the story, but if it seemed stale to me, it didn’t to Jack: he leaned forward, intense interest on his walnut-stained face.

When I finished, Jack leaned back and said, “So what now? What’re you going to do? Investigate? You’re no detective.”

“I know that. But all I’m going to do is ask some questions, do a little research. If I can come up with anything really concrete, I’ll turn it over to Brennan.”

“Why not leave it to him now? ”

“I didn’t think you thought much of Brennan, Jack.”

“I don’t. But in the context of this town, he’s a pretty good man. Port City’s sheriff has to be a little lazy and a little corrupt if he’s going to be an accurate reflection of his town. But when the need arises, Brennan pulls himself up to it.”

I nodded. “Well, then, you can see why I’m going to have to come up with something solid, something Brennan can’t ignore, if I’m to possibly get him up off his can.”

Jack shrugged. “All well and good, but I still can’t give you my approval of what you’re up to.”

“I don’t want your approval. Just some help. And I think you know in what way you can help me.”

“Sure. The big black guy with one eye you tangled with.”

“Do you know him?”

“Maybe. I’ll go even so far as to say probably. After all, there can’t be too many six-four, one-eyed blacks around these parts. But it surprises me to hear of this, for two reasons. First, I haven’t seen him around in maybe a year. And second, he was an okay guy, I’d almost say he was a gentleman.”

“Take my word for it, he wasn’t gentle. How do you know him? You know his name?”

“His name is Washington. I don’t know if it’s his first or last. I’ve heard him called Eyewash, by his close friends. I used to run into him up in the Quad Cities, Davenport mostly, in any of three or four bars, bars catering to blacks, or to blacks and whites who wish to mix.”

“You still hit those clubs?”

“Once in a while. Since they moved me up from Sociology prof to desk jockey, I’ve had more responsibility on my hands than free time. I still make the rounds of the bars once a month or so, and I haven’t run into Washington in a year at least.”

“In spite of that, it does sound like the same guy.”

“Probably is. But if he’s moved from the Cities to somewhere else, it isn’t Port City, or we’d both know about it. He isn’t the kind of guy you don’t notice.”

“Anything else you can think of about him?”

“Yeah, he’s got a sister. I’m not talking soul sister, either, an honest-to-God blood sister. Rita, her name is. Very nice.”

“That so?”

“Pretty thing. Younger than her brother. ’Round twenty-five or so. I’ve seen her around some.”

“Lately?”

“Yeah, last time I was up there. She’s still around.”

“Maybe I can track her down and find Washington through her.”

“Could be.”

“How’d he lose the eye? He ever mention it?”

“I hear he lost it in a gang fight, when he was a kid. He came from Chicago originally. South Side.”

“Thought you said he was gentle.”

“Far as I know, he is. Always nice to the ladies. Saw him back down from a few fights, too. Big guy like him always has challengers, you know, and he’d just ignore any flack.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“I got no idea. He dressed well, but most of the brothers-all but me, anyway-dress to the teeth.” He got out a piece of paper and scribbled down several lines. “Here’s the names and addresses of a couple clubs you can try, to run down his sister. But Mallory…”

“Yes, Jack?”

“Watch your lily-white ass.”

I grinned. “At all times.”

He leaned back again, stabbing out his cigarette in a tray. “You know, though… if I were you I’d try a safer approach.”

“Such as?”

“Explore that Norman character. Both the old man and the son. Check it out before you go any further and see if it’s just a coincidence, this Colorado Hill thing.”

“I might just do that.”

“It ought to be fun, researching the old man. Simon Harrison Norman. Hell of a character.”

“Oh?”

“Sure, hell, didn’t you ever hear about how he raised his fortune?”

“Something to do with patent medicine, wasn’t it?”

“I’ll say! It’s one of Port City’s few lasting claims to fame. Sy Norman, back in the thirties, was the country’s leading cancer quack. Sold mineral water in a bottle as a cancer cure. Made a pile. Rumor has it he’s a silent partner back of the five major industries in this town. Look it all up. It’ll be good reading, if nothing else.”

I was hunched over, staring into the microfilm viewer at the city library, turning the crank that caused day after day of Port City Journal s to glide across my vision. I’d started with January three years past, had gone through the first roll, which took me to April, and was now on the second, just into May. I was half-hypnotized by the filmed pages as they swam across my path of sight, but was shaken awake by a screaming headline: SENATOR NORMAN DIES IN CRASH. A smaller, unintentionally ambiguous headline above said WIFE AND CHILD CRITICAL.

A studio photograph of Norman, his wife and daughter, taken only a month before, was on one side of the single column story that ran down the center of the page. On the other side was a long shot of the precipice at Colorado Hill where the Norman car had gone over. The picture showed Sheriff Brennan standing at the edge, looking down over the drop-off, much as he’d been last night when John and I approached him.

According to the Journal account, the Norman family had been on the way home after spending an evening with friends in Davenport. The night had been a particularly dark one, no moon, and the senator apparently had “simply misjudged” the curve at the Hill. The account said the senator had not been speeding, and that the senator had not been drinking. This denial raised the questions it sought to suppress.

I spun the manual control on the machine and eased the next day’s front page into view. Reported there was the death of Norman’s wife, and both Mr. and Mrs. Norman’s obituaries; printing an obituary on the front page is (speaking as an ex-newspaperman) the highest honor a paper can pay a corpse. From Norman’s obit I learned nothing John’s sister Lori hadn’t already told me. I kept turning. Two Journal s later I read of the young daughter’s death. Her obit was shortest and saddest.

I got up from the machine and went over to the desk where Brenda Halwin was working. Brenda is a nicely built, pretty blonde, a year ahead of me at the college, four years behind me in age. The sight and company of her could cheer me up after almost anything, and I hoped this would be no exception.

“Finished?” Brenda asked.

“I’m not sure. For right now, maybe. How far back do these microfilmed Journal s go?” I’d never gone back past the early forties.

“Very far. Seventy years, I think.”

I thought about asking Brenda what she was doing tonight. I thought about the night two weeks ago when Brenda had been with me at my trailer. I thought about another blonde, almost as pretty, but with roots, and dead.

I said, “I guess you better pull out the thirties drawer for me, Brenda.”