Ed Gorman - Several Deaths Later

"You'd have to prove it."

"Oh, I could prove it, darlin'. I could prove it."

She felt sad suddenly. She liked sitting here in the shadows of the stage, most of the people in evening clothes, a band providing lots of festive noise. She just wished she were with a man she enjoyed. Sanderson was too old for her, too stupid, too crude. The only reason she sat with him now was because he'd seen her the other night when, dressed in snap-brim fedora and trench coat, she left the cabin of Cindy McBain, where the dead Ken Norris lay on the floor.

He'd insisted on her coming back to his cabin. She'd been prepared to give into him, of course, and assumed she knew without asking what he wanted-sex. If she didn't give in he'd go to the captain-and would the captain actually believe her story that she'd dressed up this way only so she could follow Ken Norris in pursuit of her story? And then sneaked into the room only after somebody had knocked her out while she hid on deck, watching the cabin? The only reason she'd sneaked in was because she sensed that something was terribly wrong and she'd been right. Then the bathroom door had opened and Cindy had come out and Iris had panicked and pushed past her and gone out into the night and…

But Sanderson hadn't wanted sex. He'd said, in fact, "Been married to the same woman for forty-one years. Never slept with another one. Had a chance to once, Louisiana-it was right after the Korean War-but I turned her down. Man gives his word it should stay gived."

Then Sanderson had said, "I don't believe you killed that man but I want to know what you were doing in that cabin."

She'd told him she was a reporter. She'd told him for whom. She'd told him she was working on a story. What she didn't tell him was what the story was all about, or whom it involved.

And that's what he was still trying to find out.

Now Sanderson said, "You got two hours left."

"I'm aware of that."

"Two hours and either you give me the name of the person you're following or I go to the captain."

"Who are you, Sanderson? What's your interest in this?"

"Darlin', you're in no position to be askin' me any questions."

"You can only push it so far, Sanderson."

He smiled. He had been handsome once but now there was too much age and malice in his gaze for that. "And just how far would that be, darlin'?"

"Which one is it?" she asked.

"Which one?"

"It's one of them on 'Celebrity Circle,' isn't it?"

He intentionally made his voice naive. "Now, darlin', what would I want with one of them celebrities?"

"You've got something on one of them, don't you? That's why you're on this ship."

"Now why would you think that?"

"Because I followed you yesterday afternoon."

For the first time, his face showed real interest in what she was saying. A sense of caution tightened his voice. "Followed me?"

"Yes."

"In the afternoon?"

"Yes."

"And what was I doin', darlin'?"

"You were sliding a number ten white envelope under the door of each celebrity-with the exception of Tobin."

"And why do you suppose I wouldn't include Tobin?"

"Because he isn't one of them. They've been together a long time and he's just a guest."

"You're a very intelligent woman, darlin'. But I imagine you're a mighty frustrated one too."

She expected a sexual remark. He surprised her. "Because you know deep down that I'm not goin' to tell you bird squat about what I'm doin' on this ship." Then he laughed. It was a merry laugh.

"And you're not going to find out what I'm doing on this ship, either."

Then he startled her.

She sat there with her Harvard degree and her beauty and her daddy's wealth thinking what a crude clod Sanderson was, and then he startled her completely.

He told her exactly what she was doing on this ship. Exactly.

And then he started laughing again. Merrily.

"You bastard," she said. "How did you find out?"

"I've got a lot of surprises in me, darlin'," he said, hoisting his wineglass. "A lot of them.”

Around 9:00 the entertainment got much better. Marty Gerber, the comic, took the large semicircular stage with a baby blue spot and a painting of Eden in the background. He had rarely been this good, his timing flawless, and his material confessional without being self-indulgent (the difference between Robert Klein and Richard Lewis), and the diners responded accordingly.

By now, Tobin and Cindy were bombed, though Cindy kept denying it. "God, Tobin, can't I even have a few drinks and relax?"

"I wasn't criticizing. I merely mentioned that when you got up to go to the bathroom the last time, you sort of wobbled."

"Wobbled? I wobbled? I don't wobble, Tobin. I really don't. I don't weigh enough to wobble, for one thing."

"Now I know you're drunk."

"How?"

"Because wobbling doesn't have anything to do with weight."

"Then what does it have to do with?"

"I'm not sure but it's definitely not weight."

"You're the one who's drunk."

"I am, true enough. But at least I admit it."

"Well, when I get drunk, Tobin, I'll admit it too." At which point she knocked over her drink. "Don't say anything, Tobin."

He didn't, and instead turned his attention back to Marty Gerber. As he watched, he got into one of his generous moods-certain nights riding high he felt positively Old Testament patriarchal, sort of like Pa in a biblical version of "Bonanza"-and started concocting all sorts of plans about how he'd write this column about this great young comedian and how, within twenty-four hours of the column appearing, Marty would be signing for his own HBO special.

Then his good mood waned because he happened to see, far back in the shadows of the restaurant, the makeup girl, Joanna Howard. She sat alone at a tiny table and stared as much at the wall as at the stage. She ate her food quickly, as if she couldn't wait to jump up and leave. She wore a pretty, very formal long-sleeved white blouse and what appeared to be a rather gaudy pink skirt. Her hair was pulled into a severe bun and she wore glasses.

He said, "You mind if I go say hi to somebody?"

"Who?"

"God."

"What?"

"That was just supposed to be a rhetorical question."

"Huh?" She really was plastered. Kansas City was bombed out of her mind.

"I was supposed to say, 'Do you mind if I go see somebody?' and you were supposed to say 'No, of course not.'"

"I don't want you to leave me alone."

"You'll be fine."

"They'll all start looking at me again."

"It's because you're so beautiful."

"I'm not beautiful. I'm volup-" She couldn't say it. "You know what I mean."

"Well, you are voluptuous, but you've also got a great face."

"That isn't why they'll look at me. They'll look at me because the captain keeps telling everybody that I killed Ken Norris."

"You'll be fine. I'll only be gone for a minute."

"I'll count to sixty and you'd better be back."

He rose, kissed her on the forehead, and then made his way through the tables.

A few people gave him the "celebrity stare," one invariably tainted with disappointment. When you first meet someone who's on TV, that person assumes a stature he can't possibly have in reality. Tobin was this five-five guy with red hair-TV hid that fact, or at least made it more interesting than it was.

When he reached her table and she looked up, she seemed almost frightened. He thought of Cindy and her body language theories. It did not take a Ph. D. in the subject to realize that the way Joanna Howard tried to shrink down meant that she did not want visitors.

"Hi."

"Hi," she said.

"I just wondered if you'd like to join us." He waved in the general vicinity of Cindy. "Oh, no. That's all right."

He was drunk enough to say it straight out. "You look so lonely."