Max Collins - No Cure for Death

“What the hell’s the Norman Fund, anyway?”

“I don’t know, but I got a feeling if you could find out, the two of us could blackmail old man Norman and God knows who else and live comfortably for the rest of our lives off the proceeds. I suppose it’s a clearing house for the different under-the-table ties Norman has with the various industries in town. It plays at being a charitable organization. But all I can speak of for certain is the physical reality of a three-office suite here in town, in the Maxwell Building.”

“I wish I’d known about this this afternoon….”

“I forget that some of this stuff that’s common knowledge to me, from the business types I come in contact with, is news to you. I should’ve mentioned it. Sorry.”

“That’s okay. But I’ve got to see this Stefan Norman. He sounds like the man who could once and for all fill me in on how much-or how little-Janet Taber had to do with the Normans. The Maxwell Building, you said? Think anyone would be in the office now?”

“No way. It’s after five.”

“Damn. Stefan Norman live in Port City?”

“No. Davenport, I believe. Commutes down every day, I assume.”

“Well, sooner or later I’ll have to take a little drive up to the Quad Cities and see these people.”

“Make it later. I’ll handle this Washington thing for you tonight, and by myself. The first round of it, anyway.”

He hung up and so did I. I leaned back on the couch.

Next thing I knew, John was bursting in the door.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Why not give me a goddamn heart attack while you’re at it?”

“Never mind that,” he said. He threw his coat off and sat down near me on the couch. I glanced at my watch: I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I sure had, because it was almost nine P.M., now.

He said, “I went over to the jail for a few minutes and pumped Brennan, like you said, and I got some choice items for you. First off, they had the autopsy. Janet’s neck was broken, all right, and there was some discussion involving the fact that it could have been caused by a pair of strong hands, ’cause of the bruises and all, but in light of the crash’s impact, that’s hard to say. The final judgment was that she died in the crash, but get this… there was no alcohol in her bloodstream!”

I felt a smile work its way across my face.

“I asked him who okayed the autopsy,” he said, “and he told me no immediate member of the family was available, so with the court’s permission the hospital boys went ahead with it. But that’s bullshit.” He dug in his pocket for a moment, came up with a scrap of paper. “You think you’ve been playing detective? Dig this. You ever see in the movies or on TV where if somebody writes on a notepad, you can rub a pencil edge across the under-sheet and make out what was written on the sheet torn off?”

I nodded.

“Well, upstairs by the phone there’s a notepad. And I decided to check up on Brennan, make sure he’s being straight with us.”

“So?”

“Here’s what I found,” he said, and he handed me the scrap of paper.

It was a small square sheet, almost completely covered by the black shading of a lead pencil, but in white letters plainly on the page some words stood out: PHILLIP TABER, ROOM 7, PORT CITY COURT.

The Port City Court, a single, long, brown-shingled motel, stared directly at the highway that crossed its line of vision. Parked cars had their noses all but pressed against the room doors, tails inches away from fast-moving traffic. Every stall was filled, due largely to the steady flow of salesmen and college kids. Across the street was the Sandy’s where John and I’d dined that noon; down from it was a shopping mall, as well as gas stations, a U-Haul place, a Dodge dealership, and more chain restaurants-that same stretch of businesses that seems to trail on out to every town’s city limits, where a sign gives the population and says what that town’s middle name is. In Port City it was Prosperity. But what the sign didn’t say was that Prosperity’s middle name was Norman.

Sitting behind the desk in the manager’s office, reading a confession magazine, was a young woman with a big nose that minimized otherwise pleasant features, and with platinum hair that was worn in the same style (sprayed beehive) she’d used some half a dozen years before to trap her high school steady. Half a dozen years was also about how long it’d been since I’d seen this woman, her name long since escaping my memory.

“Oh,” she said, raising dulled eyes which momentarily lighted up, “well, if it isn’t…” And she touched her cheek and nodded quickly in pretense of remembering more than she did, not realizing she had just established for me that we had something in common.

“Long time no see,” I said.

“Long time,” she said. “Long time. Good to see you again, after so long.”

“Good to see you.”

“Say,” she said, “whatever happened to, uh…” She touched her cheek again. “That girl you…”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Kind of lose track, you know. Did you and, uh, ever get married?”

“Yes,” she said, “but we split up. I got the boy, though. Real cute kid. He’s in the fourth grade this year.”

“What’s his name?”

“He was named after his father.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Ain’t seen you since high school.”

“I lived out of town for a while.”

“Those was fun days.”

“Yeah, they were fun, all right.”

“You didn’t want a room, did you?”

“No, no. I’m living here in town again. I’ve come to see a guest you have here. Friend of mine. Phillip Taber?”

She looked down her register, sliding her finger down the page as she did. “Yeah, here he is. Taber. Room seven. Checked in ’bout noon. I wasn’t on duty then.”

I smiled at her; suddenly I flashed on sitting across from her in a study hall. I said, “He called me this afternoon and said he was in town, staying out here. I’d sure like to surprise ol’ Phil. Kind of… pop in on him, you know?”

“Oh sure. Well, hey, why don’t you take his spare key here and do that?”

“Could I?”

“Boss might frown, but what the heck? Ain’t as if I don’t know you.” She reached behind her on the wall of keys and plucked one off. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure,” she said, returning to her magazine.

Just as I was going out the door, her voice behind me said, “Nice seeing you again, and talking.”

“Yeah, nice talking to you, too.”

There was music, hard loud rock music, behind the door to room seven. Tiny fingers of gentle smoke were crawling out around the door’s edges, bearing the fragrance of burning incense. I put my ear to the door and heard no one speaking, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was safe to assume Taber was alone. I looked around a couple times, catching sight of a shining new green Javelin in the stall adjacent to the room, and then went ahead and worked the key in the lock.

The lights were out, so as I went in I hit the switch.

He was on the bed, on his back, shirt off, wearing nothing but faded bell-bottom jeans. His chest was pale and hairless, but his face was fully bearded and the hair on his head, while showing signs of thinning, was frizzily long. A joint was tight in his lips, and he was caressing it easily with the fingers of one hand; he drew a long toke on it. On the nightstand next to the bed was the stick of burning incense, but even with that hanging in the air the pervasive smell of the joint’s smoke couldn’t hide. From past experience I made it as more than simple pot-more like hashish. Maybe it was some of that smack weed that was going around, pot cured in heroin.