Max Collins - No Cure for Death

But he had come out himself, and as yet hadn’t contacted the Port City cops. Which gave me at least some reason to stay a shade wary of his motives.

I yawned. In my head, my eyes were stones. A few minutes crawled by and Brennan drew away from the window and began pacing in front of the couch like an expectant father.

The couch was in a waiting area facing the elevator door, which I was staring at, Brennan’s form cutting my path of vision as he went by. Several minutes more dragged past, and I started nodding off, then got startled awake as the elevator door slid away like an effect in a cheap science-fiction movie. John was standing there with three Pepsi necks in the tortured grasp of one hand and a box of doughnuts in the other. He came over and sat beside me on the couch adjacent mine, and handed me over the box of doughnuts while he put the Pepsis safely down on the floor. Brennan immediately forgot his mad and joined the communal feed.

There were two doughnuts apiece, and I was finishing my first and Brennan was starting his second when he said, through a mouthful, “This Davis.”

John and I looked up at him and I said, “What?”

Brennan repeated, “This Davis,” and swallowed the bite of doughnut.

“Yeah,” I said, “go on.”

“I know him.”

“How do you happen to know him?”

“Know of him’s more like it.”

“Where do you know him from?”

“The Cities. He’s been involved in some things up there.”

“What kind of things?”

“Oh, you know, strong-arm stuff. Putting pressure on people.”

“He goes around putting pressure on people.”

“Yeah.”

“Why does he do that, Brennan?”

“That’s what he does, that’s all. That’s his living. Some people didn’t inherit money, Mallory. Some people got to go out and turn a buck, which is something you wouldn’t know much about.”

“What you’re trying to say is he’s a thug.”

Brennan shrugged.

“A thug for the Normans,” I added.

“I didn’t say that. The stuff I heard about Davis dates back to when he was working for some mob guys in the Cities.”

“What mob guys in the Cities? I never heard about any mob guys in the Cities.”

“There’s gambling up there, isn’t there? Anyway, Davis has been in and out of the frying pan, mostly in, and lost his job with his previous employers for fumbling the ball once too often.”

“When did Davis start working for the Normans?”

“Look, that’s an idea you got, not something either one of us knows for a fact.”

“What was he doing with Stefan Norman yesterday?”

“From what you told me, he was eating turkey.”

“Come on.”

“All I know is if Davis ever did do work for the Normans, it would’ve been back when Richard was running for office-you know, running for Congress.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, they were having some trouble keeping some of the garbage about old Simon from out of the papers. You know the press. Trying to do a smear job on Richard by using the old man’s record against the son. Really dirty tactics.”

“Really dirty tactics. I hope Davis straightened everybody out.”

“Listen, Mallory, this is nothing I’m sure about, this is just something I put together in my head.”

“Why are you being so helpful all of a sudden?”

“No reason.”

“Gee, I almost forgot what a nice guy you are.”

Brennan drained the remaining half of his Pepsi in one monumental series of gulps, then shrugged. He said, “All right, Mallory, I’ll give it to you straight. I mean, you’re my son’s friend and I guess I been a little down on you at times, so I’ll level with you once and for all. You were right the other day, I have been doing some… well… coverin’ up for the Normans.”

John dropped the final quarter of his doughnut and it rolled on the floor. He looked at his stepfather with open disgust.

Brennan’s face twisted, turned away from his stepson. “Hell, don’t everybody go all righteous on me, all of a sudden. Nobody’s making me tell you any of this.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“Nothing to go ahead with. The Normans still got their share of pull in these parts, and that’s the whole story right there. Sure, they haven’t been so active since Richard died, but even now their people control county politics, it’s Norman money behind it all. Norman people got to okay the candidates, before they provide campaign money. Simple as that. How do you think I stayed sheriff as long as I have? Here I am, an elected official, still in office after more than twelve years.”

“But it’s a Republican county,” John said, “always has been. You wouldn’t ever’ve had any trouble getting elected, not when that’s the ticket you run on anyway.”

“First you got to get on the ticket, son. This ain’t Republican or Democrat, it’s politics. And I told you, Norman people control the politics in this county.”

I said, “And in return the Normans expect an occasional favor.”

“That’s right. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” John said, flatly. “Just small stuff, like covering up murders.”

“Aw, can the murder crap. Where do you get that from? All it was, was Stefan Norman said, you know, just look the other way a little on this Janet Taber deal. He explained it to me, how the girl had some kind of blackmail scheme cooked up, only it didn’t pan out, and then she ran herself off Colorado Hill, out of, you know, remorse. Stefan said a lot of noise over the girl’s death might drag in the Norman name and things could get blown out of proportion, so…” He shrugged again; he seemed embarrassed.

“What was Janet Taber blackmailing them over?” I asked.

He pointed a thick finger at me. “I know for a fact that was just a damn hoax. Something she cooked up outta’ whole cloth. I know the details.”

“What are the details?”

“I gave my word I wouldn’t reveal them.”

“You gave your word to Stefan, you mean.”

“Don’t ask me to say more. At least not at this time.”

John said, “Don’t push him on it, Mal. Can’t you see he’s a man of principle?”

Brennan ignored the sarcasm. He said, “I just want you to know, Mallory, John, that I’ll handle this thing from here on out. You were right, Mallory-I was wrong: there probably was foul play of some kind, where the Taber girl was concerned. But now that I’m in, you’re out.”

“And you’ll start,” I said, “with Stefan Norman sending Davis after me?”

“Who says Stefan sent him?”

“Oh, Brennan.”

“Seems to me you assume a hell of a lot, Mallory. That’s why your half-ass investigation hasn’t got too far.”

“See to it yours doesn’t amount to you just looking the other way some more.”

“It won’t,” Brennan said, and he slapped his knees like a department store Santa summoning the next kid. “I see it this way: if the Normans got some secrets they want kept that way, well fine. But when those secrets start including crimes, like breaking and entering into your place, and I’ll grant you that Taber girl’s death is looking fishy in hindsight, well then…” And he paused to flash a big grin. “… then I’ll have to slap on my shit-kicking boots, boys.”

If that was meant to make me feel warm inside, it didn’t. And Brennan hadn’t endeared himself to his stepson, either: John’s face had drained of color and his eyes were cold.

Down the hall the door to Davis’s room opened and the three of us stood up and watched the doctor walk down to us. He was around thirty, of medium height and had sandy, longish hair and wireframe glasses. He carried an aluminum clipboard, carried it like it was heavy, like he’d rather be anywhere at that moment than in a hospital in Port City, Iowa, at three in the morning.