Max Collins - No Cure for Death

“Both.”

“So your family isn’t having a big deal or anything?”

“My folks died a while back.”

“Oh.”

“And, unlike you, I’m an only child.”

She ignored my graceless attempt to get back on the subject and stared at me with big unblinking brown eyes and said, “Thanksgiving isn’t Thanksgiving without a turkey dinner.”

“Let me write that down.”

She threw a pillow at me.

“All right,” she said. “So maybe I do sound childish, maybe it is a cliche, but man, that’s how it is with me. If you’d had a big family, you’d know. Now my old man, no matter how tough things were, and they were plenty tough sometimes, he’d make sure there was a bird on the table Thanksgiving. Always.”

“No family get-together today for you either, Rita?”

“Well, that much we got in common, Mallory. My folks are dead, too. I was the youngest of seven kids, and, well, we kind of drifted apart and we just never get together.”

“How about you and your brother?”

“Listen, if you think I’m not aware of the direction in which you are trying to swing this conversation, you better check out of this hotel now. I’m thinking about talking to you about that, but I’m not sure yet. Let it work itself out, will you?”

“Rita.”

“What?”

“How about I take you out for a turkey dinner? Surely there’s a restaurant around here somewhere serving a Thanksgiving buffet or something. What do you say?”

“That’s a sweet bribe, Mal, but…”

She called me Mal instead of Mallory. A good sign. “Hey, come on, Rita, what do you say? Had any better offers?”

“It’s just that it isn’t necessary, Mal. I can fix us turkey right here.”

“Here?”

“Sure.”

“That’s a lot of trouble, isn’t it? I mean, can you do that?”

She got up and said, “Stay put,” and walked over to the kitchenette-ette. She bent down and opened up the little refrigerator. She took out two packages and held them up for me to see: Turkey TV dinners.

I grinned and nodded my approval.

A few minutes later, after she put the dinners in the oven, she came back and lay down against the pillows, facing me.

“Why’d you ask me up here, Rita?”

She shrugged.

“You still think I’m trying to hustle you out of your clothes?”

“No,” she said, “but you wouldn’t mind it if it happened.”

“ I wouldn’t. How ’bout you?”

“Don’t know yet. Too early.”

“You aren’t hustling me now, are you, Rita? Just a little?”

“Oh sure. I’m hustling you. ”

“It’s possible.”

“I know. I’m hot just lookin’ at you.”

“Come on. How do I know you aren’t covering for your brother? Maybe he’s in trouble up to his butt, and you want to help him by getting me distracted. Maybe any minute now you’re going to start pumping me for information.”

“If that’s what you think,” she said, her voice a little cold now, “try laying one of those white paws on me and see what happens.” She ran a long fingernail gently down my cheek.

“Rita, if we’re neither one of us hustling each other, if we maybe kind of like each other a little, couldn’t we just talk about your brother now and get it out of the way?”

“You know, I’m beginning to wish those guys back at the Filet O’Soul wouldn’t’ve helped you out.”

“Look, this isn’t a game with me. A young woman’s dead and nobody cares.”

“Nobody but you. The white knight.”

“Damnit, are you going to help me or not, Rita?”

“Sure, Mallory, sure. I’ll help you out, a total stranger. I’ll dump on my brother for you, ’cause you seem like a nice guy and I like your looks and you tell a mean story.”

“Rita.”

“What?”

“Why’d you ask me up here?”

“I wish I knew,” she said. And she turned away, the pouty look of her lips growing poutier. Then she slid around and brought her face up to me and pressed her mouth against mine.

The kiss lasted quite a while for a first kiss, but it was soft and tentative, not hot and bothered. Her lips were full and rich and sweet and the sensation was both gentle and heady.

When the kiss was over, I leaned forward to kiss her again, but she moved away and smiled. It wasn’t a bitch smile, either, not a tease: she was saying, let’s not rush this, let’s take our time, please.

She let me take her in my arms and hold her, and we lay like that on the floor, resting against the pillows, Paul Newman and Malcolm X watching us, and we stayed that way, not saying a word, not even kissing again, until somewhere a sharp little bell rang and she bounced up.

“What the hell was that?” I said.

She was over by the stove. “Turkey time,” she said.

A couple minutes later we were sitting like Indians, eating out of the aluminum TV dinner trays and sipping cold beers.

“You’re a great little cook,” I said.

“Aw shut up.”

“No really, it’s good.”

“It’s hot anyway.”

“It’s turkey.”

“It’s Thanksgiving.”

She smiled. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

We toasted beer cans.

We ate in silence for a few moments, then she said, “This, uh, thing ’bout the, uh, dead chick…”

“Yeah?”

“You were trying to tie in a guy named Norman?”

“Several guys named Norman. There’s old man Norman-that’s Simon Harrison Norman-and there’s his son Richard-he’s the dead one who was a senator-and there’s Stefan Norman-he’s the nephew who’s running the Norman Fund, whatever that is. How’s that for confusing?”

“My brother works for the Normans.”

“What? What did you say?”

“My brother Harold works for the Normans. Harold has one eye and he’s very big and for the last ten years or so he’s worked for the Normans. In Port City.”

“The hell you say.”

“One of the guys he works for is this Stefan Norman. He lives across the river in Davenport. You want me to take you to see him?”

I pulled the Rambler into a place between a Lincoln Continental and a Grand Prix, making mine the only car in the whole Nottingham Acres parking lot without a vinyl top. Nottingham Acres was a big fancy U-shaped Tudor building whose grounds probably consisted of a mere acre or less, but why get technical? Besides, with the rent this joint probably charged, how could they get away with calling it Nottingham Acre?

“I’ll wait here in the car,” Rita said.

I said, “You’ll what?”

“I’ll wait here in the car.”

“You’ll wait here in the car.”

“That’s what I said.”

“What happened to ‘I’ll take you to see Stefan Norman’?”

“This is where he lives. Top floor of this wing facing us right here. Number 1207.”

“You’re something else. What is it, you afraid you’ll get your brother in trouble if Norman sees you helping me?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What else is there?”

“You might do better without me. The other time I saw Norman I didn’t get along too well with him.”

“What was that about? He make a pass?”

“Hardly. It was about my brother’s job.”

“Well. I know better than to ask you anything about that.”

“You’re learning.”

“Okay. You’ll wait here in the car.”

She nodded.

The outside of the building was made up of rough, varicolored blocks of stone, but inside everything was lush wood, like a table. There was a single elevator, self-service. It surprised me a little that there was no elevator attendant (nor for that matter, doorman or parking lot attendant), but that could be put down to Thanksgiving or technology or cutting corners. Like the acres Nottingham didn’t have.