Max Collins - No Cure for Death

He didn’t react right away. He just stayed right on his back looking up at the ceiling, the only sound coming from him being the sucking in on the cigarette.

I shut the door and went over to a bureau opposite the bed where a cassette tape player’s twin speakers were putting out the music. I turned it down.

All at once he came off the bed at me, like a threshing machine made out of skinny arms and legs and hair, and my back was to the wall and his bony fists were crashing again and again into my ribs. I pushed his head away with the heel of my hand and sent him down with ease, like I’d batted a weighted punching dummy, but he came back the same way, bounced right up and a sharp, hard little mallet of a fist jacked my eye, and then another jarred my stomach, and then my eye again, and the “V” point of an elbow shot pain through my balls and from there, in increasing waves, throughout my body, and suddenly I was on the floor and Janet Taber’s common-law mate, a hideous scarecrow come to life, was raising a bare foot to stomp me, yelling, “Don’t mess with my karma, man!”

Simultaneously I caught my senses and his foot, and I heaved him in the air. He thudded softly on the bed and I ran over and held him down on it with a straight-arm and said, “Easy man, I didn’t mean to bring you down, come on man, let’s cool it now.”

I cooed at him like that for a while, and finally he settled down. He didn’t come down-that smack weed or whatever the hell he was on was too potent for that-but I was happy to have him just floating in one spot.

“Phil Taber?”

He looked at the left corner of the room and concentrated on something-a mote of dust, maybe, or a piece of lint-and his smile flickered. I took that to mean yes.

“Janet was your wife?”

He nodded, and as he did, a convulsion took hold of him and made his whole body nod with him.

“What are you doing in Port City?”

His voice was soft, almost inaudible, but I heard him say: “Hey, man, I ain’t that fuckin’ high.” And a cackle ripped out of him with the abruptness of an ambulance siren.

Damn. That was bad. He was a laugher-somebody for whom getting high was an intensification of life’s absurdities. Which meant he would let out a peal of laughter at just about anything, everything.

“Listen,” I said. “Listen to me. Are you so high you don’t care whether or not you get busted? You best talk things over with me or I’ll have the sheriff on your butt so fast you’ll think you’re hallucinating.”

The cackle turned into a more or less normal laugh, which kept going as he said, “Call him… go ahead, ya stupid jerk, go ahead and call the Man.”

That stopped me.

“You talked to him already?” I said.

His smile flickered yes.

“Gave him permission for the autopsy?”

His smile again said yes and he laughed some more.

I didn’t know how much of this to buy, so I asked him, “What’s the sheriff’s name, since you know him so well?”

He then did a very bad impression of Walter Brennan that was just good enough to make his point.

I said, “Brennan knows you’re a user?”

“‘Just be out of town by sunrise,’ is all he says. ‘Yessir, Mister Dillon,’ I says.”

“What about Janet? Doesn’t it mean anything to you she’s dead?”

He stopped cold for a moment, no laughter, no smile, but his eyes still fixed on some remote fleck of dust. He said, “Man, you and me we’re dyin’ right now. You’re born and then you start dyin’. Big fuckin’ deal.”

“What about your son? Any feelings about him?”

He shifted his focus of attention to the right corner of the room. He smiled again, this time not at me. It was neither yes or no.

“What about your son?” I repeated.

“What son? I don’t have a son… son… sunrise… out of town… ‘Yessir, Mister Dillon,’ I says. Get outta’ my karma, man.”

I released my hold on him but he stayed put anyway. I got up and roamed restlessly around the room. I looked in his suitcase: one newly purchased, now-wrinkled dark dress suit; some soiled underwear; no heavy dope, other than a lid or so of that admittedly strong grass; a rental slip for the Javelin outside; and the last half of a round trip ticket in a Pan Am envelope. On the outside of the latter was his time of arrival: eleven that morning; he’d come in from Chicago. That pretty well ruled out any thoughts I might’ve had, after his spirited attack on me, about him being a possible suspect in the beating of Janet’s mother and the burning of the house. The only other item in the suitcase was a recently bought shiny black leather billfold. The only identification in it was a crinkled-up, dirty driver’s license-Illinois, expired-and there was some cash in it. Five crisp, new bills.

Five thousand dollars.

I rushed over and grabbed one of his skinny arms and said, “Where the hell did you get money like this?”

He grinned at the ceiling.

“Answer me!”

He kept grinning. “One of my paintings, man.”

“Yeah, I heard you were an artist.” I shook him. “What did you do for this kind of cash? Who’d you rip off?”

He said, “Turn on th’ music.”

A thought came to me from out of left field.

“Norman,” I said.

Somewhere in the glazed, dilated eyes a small light seemed to go on.

I grabbed a thin arm. “Norman-what’s that name mean to you? Norman? Norman!”

He started back in on a laughing jag and I got in the way of the stale warmth of his musky breath. Another whiff and I’d get a contact high. He said, “Turn on th’ music. Get outta’ my karma.”

I let go of him. Got out of his karma. Threw the billfold on the nightstand, by the stick of melting incense.

On my way out I turned his cassette player back up; Deep Purple was playing an instrumental called “Hard Road.”

Taber and I liked the same music. For some reason that made me feel a little sick.

Or maybe I just wasn’t used to the smell of pot smoke anymore.

I knew where the Filet O’Soul Club was, but I’d never been inside. In my mind there still lingered, from impressionable high school days, the nasty stories that filtered down from the Quad Cities, stories that collectively formed the legend of the Filet O’Soul.

The club was in Moline (which is on the Illinois side of the Quad Cities), up on the Fifteenth Street hill where it starts to level out, just at the point where you can’t see the cars coming up over, and crossing the street becomes a jaywalker’s Russian Roulette. A lot of people drove top-speed through that little two block section, where the Filet O’Soul was just one of a cluster of small businesses that shared little in common outside of a general lack of respectability. Nice folks resented the fact that this accumulative eyesore was on a main drag like it was, but there wasn’t much a person could do about it except roar up over the hill now and then and scare hell out of pedestrians.

But the Filet O’Soul, unlike some pedestrians, was anything but run-down. The outside was shiny black pseudo-marble-a smooth glassy dark front with no windows, with a big shiny steel door recessed in its center and a little neon sign above the door spelling out the club’s name in red against black. The Filet O’Soul was said to be an extremely clean bar, with excellent food, beautiful, efficient waitresses, the best bartenders around, solid entertainment and reasonably low prices. The only dent in a reputation otherwise as solid as the club’s steel door was its legend: nobody white who went in ever came out in one piece.