Max Collins: No Cure for Death

John and I made our way through the door and into my living room, which was cluttered with books and records and plates of half-eaten food.

“As you can see,” I said, “I spruced the joint up for you.”

John didn’t hear me; he was still thinking over the bus station brawl I’d just told him about.

I scooped up some of the plates and dumped them in my sink. John sat on the couch and glanced around at the posters covering my dark walls: a 2001 movie one-sheet; Jane Fonda in her pre-political Barbarella days; and a fantastic panorama called “Disneyland After Dark,” depicting an orgy attended by all the Walt Disney characters. None of this fine fantasy caught John’s notice; he was still mulling over my tall tale.

I grabbed a couple Pabsts out of the icebox and tossed him one, put a record by my favorite rock group of the moment-Deep Purple-on my turntable, sat down next to him, and changed the subject.

“How long you going to be home?”

“Huh?”

“I said, how long you going to be home?”

“Oh. A month.”

“Then you’re going to re-up?”

“Yeah. I mean, no.”

“I thought you were a career soldier, boy.”

“I am. I’m going into Air America.”

“The hell you say! You, a mercenary? You’re kidding.”

“No. I like combat. There’s still action in Asia. I want some.”

“You like combat pay, you mean. Or do you just have a death wish?”

John was stationed at a base called the “Rose Garden” (as in I-never-promised-you-a) and had been running missions along the Thailand and Vietnam border. As far as most Americans knew, our troops were out of the Vietnam conflict; but that just wasn’t really the case. Still, even the Rose Garden would be closing its gates soon, and soldiers like John, who, crazy as it seems, wanted combat, would have to go the mercenary route to stay in the game.

He said, “I don’t want to talk about it, Mal.”

“I know, I know. Your ex-wife racked up debts you got to pay. And combat pay with Air America beats hell out of Uncle Sam’s stateside duty pay. And you don’t want to start civilian life in debt. I know all the reasons, but it’s still crazy.”

“Do me a favor.”

“I won’t. I’m going to bitch about this the whole month you’re home. I don’t have so many friends that I can afford losing one.”

“Do me a favor.”

“Okay. You just got here, I realize that. You want to relax, I know, I know. I’ll back off. For now.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. But going back is crazy, John.”

John ignored me, sipped his beer. “Ever stop to wonder what’s going to happen if you run into that guy again?”

“What guy?”

“That black guy at the station.”

“That’s a possibility better left unthought of.”

“Maybe. Maybe you better talk to Brennan about it.”

“Oh, Christ. That’s all I need. Listen, you give me your word you won’t mention this to him? I mean, he’s going to want to know about that phone call I made to him and I’m going to give him some phony song-and-dance, so don’t go messing me up with the truth.”

“I won’t tell him anything, Mal.”

“Good man.”

“Are you sure this blonde didn’t know the guy?”

“She said not.”

“Well, I don’t know. Anything she said make you think maybe somebody might have cause to sic him on her?”

I hesitated.

What Janet had told me was kind of in confidence, and with John’s stepdad being sheriff…

But John and I had always been open with each other and I wanted to keep him open with me, since I wanted to score some points with him and eventually talk him out of going in with the mercenaries and back to Indochina. So I told him what Janet Taber had told me.

“Jesus,” John said. “Has she talked to the police? If her mother really was beaten….”

“I assume she will,” I said. “She did say that the local people are investigating for possible arson.”

“The mother may have some answers,” John said.

“If the old lady is in as bad a shape as Janet said she was, I got my doubts about her ever answering anything again-in this world, anyway. How about we sit around and swap war atrocities to brighten things up a little?”

From my stereo, Deep Purple said, “Hush… hush…”

John rose and went over to the icebox and got himself a fresh Pabst. “I think she was putting you on,” he said, returning to his spot on the couch. “You told her you were a mystery writer, and she took it from there-the whole thing’s a whopper dreamed up by a seasoned bullshitter.”

“A whopper.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s some imagination she’s got then. Especially dreaming up that one-eyed apparition I clobbered.”

“That was just her excuse to bullshit ya. Her starting point. That’s probably something else, out of her real past, something her own fault, something less sensational. Maybe he’s her boyfriend-or maybe her pimp!”

“Not her,” I said, draining my beer. “Not a chance. She was no hooker. It was the truth-it was all there. In her face.”

“Really got under your skin, didn’t she?”

I ignored that, got up and went over to my turntable and turned the record over. When I came back and got settled on the couch again, I said, “Seems to me we’re due for a change of subject again. So what the hell’s been happening with you in the last couple years?”

The next few hours went fast, and talk of old (and new) times almost pushed Janet and her fantastic story out of my head. But she was there, occupying a small corner of my mind, sitting patiently, silently, just as she had in the bus station.

I was turning on the television so John and I could catch the ten o’clock news when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Janet, I jumped for it.

“Yes?” I said.

“This is Brennan. Where the hell’s my son?”

Brennan. Damn.

“Sorry, Sheriff,” I said. “Been hogging him, haven’t I? We got to drinking beer and talking, you know how it is.”

“Put him on.”

“Okay, okay, keep your badge on.” I looked over at John. “He sounds even more belligerent than usual.”

John took the phone and said hello and listened for a while and said yeah a few times and hung up.

“What’s the deal?”

“Been an accident or something out on Colorado Hill. Says if I want to see him tonight I probably ought to forget it-he’ll be tied up with this.”

“Did he sound pissed off?”

“Yeah. He figures I should’ve stopped in to see him first.”

“You should’ve.”

“Why don’t we drive out there and keep him company?”

“Won’t we be a bother?”

“What? An Army sergeant and an ex-cop?”

“Well, okay,” I said, “it’s your homecoming. You got a right to spend it any crazy damn way you want. Let’s go.”

There are two paved highways leading from Port City to Davenport, and Colorado Hill is on the older, less traveled of the two, a narrow strip of deteriorating concrete winding along the Mississippi. The only advantage of the older road-called by locals the River Road-is its scenery: Colorado Hill, for example. Since the Hill is only ten miles from Port City, most sightseers drive out there, sightsee, and turn back, not even thinking of using the River Road as a route to the nearby Quad Cities, though it remains well-traveled because of various factories and a stone quarry located along it.

“Damn,” John said, working his voice up over the noise the Rambler made as it chugged along. “No moon, wouldn’t you know it?”

“Dark night like this doesn’t do much for the scenery or the driving.” I was hunched forward, clutching the wheel, peeling my eyes for stray chunks of concrete, potholes and any bridges that might be out.