Ed Gorman - Save The Last Dance For Me

She laughed. “Thanks for being such a good friend.”

“My pleasure.”

Pause. “I really did want to sleep with you last night.”

“Same here.”

“Chad’s the only guy I’ve ever slept with, though. So it would’ve been a really big step.”

“I understand. I’m running for pope, remember?”

Mrs. Courtney was just leaving the two-story, redbrick Colonial-style rectory when I pulled up. She wore a black suit on this boiling day. She had the look and air of a millionaire’s wife, a somewhat lacquered and severe middle-aged blonde who did not belong out here in the sticks. Attractive but not appealing.

As if money-or in her case, the prestige of Harvard Divinity-had bled all the juices out of her. I reached her just before she got into her dark-blue Chrysler.

“Mrs. Courtney, my name is-”

“I know who you are, Mr. McCain. I hope you’ll excuse me but I’m in a hurry.

I need to be at the mortuary in five minutes.” Her voice was cool if not quite cold.

No reading on her eyes. Shades.

“I’d really appreciate ten minutes of your time.”

“For what, Mr. McCain?” The words weren’t slurred. But they were slightly indistinct. Or was I imagining it? It had now been a few hours since the snake cage but every few moments snake images filled my mind, daymares, skewing my hold on present reality.

“I need to talk to you about your husband.”

“I repeat, Mr. McCain, for what?”

Only then did I realize that she swayed slightly as she stood there, and only then did I catch the first wisps of gin aroma. Nothing else smells like gin. Praise the Lord.

“I’m trying to find out who killed him.”

“So is Mr. Sykes. And he told me about half an hour ago that he’s got some very promising leads.”

I had to be careful here. I owed her the deference one normally gives a widow. But she was way too bright to believe that Cliffie could find a murderer. Or his ass with both hands and a compass.

“Every once in a while, he arrests the wrong person.”

“He assures me that the person he has in mind is indeed the guilty party.”

“Did he say who that person is?”

She put a slender hand on the door handle.

Her knees gave a little, the way a drunk’s do when he’s been standing erect too long in one place. “Good day to you, Mr. McCain.”

“Do you really want your husband’s killer found, Mrs. Courtney?”

“What a ridiculous thing to say.”

“If you’re serious about finding his killer, you’re not going to leave it up to Cliffie.”

“Should I share your sentiments with him?”

“He knows my sentiments.”

“You’re being stupid, Mr. McCain. Why wouldn’t I want my husband’s killer found? I loved my husband.”

“Loved him enough to protect him even after he’s dead? Maybe there’s something you’re hiding, Mrs.

Courtney.”

She said, “There’s a wake tonight in his honor.

I need to get ready for that. And I’ve spent enough time with you.”

I put a hand on her arm. Carefully. “This isn’t any of my business, Mrs. Courtney, but are you sure you’re all right to drive?”

“You’re right, Mr. McCain, it isn’t any of your business.”

She got in her car and let the heavy door slam. She started the engine, then started the radio -classical music-and then started the air-conditioner. She swept away in a great Harvard Divinity moment.

My cousin Slim works at the state-run liquor store. There’s a push on-there’s been a push on for years-ffget liquor by the drink in Iowa and to make bottled liquor available in a variety of retail stores… but you know how it is with conservative legislators. They’re always accusing liberals of wanting to legislate morality-especially with civil rights-but they don’t have any problem telling you when and where you can buy liquor, whom you can have sex with

(technically, adultery is still punishable by jail time), and what you can read (they get to decide what’s objectionable). Excuse the political message here. But I get irritable every time I enter a state-run liquor store. It’s like getting a note from your mom telling you it’s all right to have a highball.

Slim is a Korean War veteran who had one burning-bright dream the whole time he was getting his ass shot at in the snow over there. He wanted to go to work for Uncle Sam once he got done fighting for Uncle Sam. I remember the college year I spent reading most of Chekov’s stories. I just got hooked.

Nobody ever wrote so well about the civil-servant mentality, and God knows, if there’s one country that has that mentality, it’s Mother Russia. Slim Hanrahan also has that mentality. He’s a slender, gray, balding man with yellow teeth and surprisingly lively blue eyes. His favorite size in everything is small. A tiny Nash for a car, a tiny tract house for a home, a tiny woman for a wife. When he’s in his cups, he always pats his flat belly and says, “Yessir, the way I figure it, I got it made. They say millionaires got it made. But they don’t.

You got money like that, you’re always worryin’ you’re gonna lose it. The way I see it, the people who got it made got government jobs. You really got to be a screw-up to lose a civil-service job. And then you got the right to appeal it, anyway. There’ll never be liquor-by-the-drink in this state, so I got a job for life. Reasonable hours, nothing heavy to lift, good insurance plan absolutely free.

And no layoffs. Those factory guys always braggin’ about how much they make an hour… but lookit how often they get laid off. Or go on strike. I’ve got it knocked.”

That’s Slim.

I decided to check with Slim since he works the day shift in our one and only liquor store.

Mrs. Courtney’s state of intoxication had made me curious.

“You ever see her in here?”

Slim fingered the clip-on bow tie he always wore. Another man was running the counter. “I don’t know if I should be talking to you about this stuff, Sammy.”

He always called me Sammy. I hated it.

“This is a murder investigation, Slim.”

“You think she did it?”

“No, but I think she’s acting awfully strange for a woman whose husband has just been killed.”

“Oh, yeah? Funny how?”

“You think Cliffie could solve a murder?”

He shone his yellow teeth at me. “Are you ki. in’? That idiot?”

“Well, she’s leaving it all up to him, she says. She’s too smart for that. Which makes me wonder if there’s maybe something she doesn’t want to come out about her husband.”

“I see what you mean. By the way, you going to the reunion this year?”

“Probably.”

“My old lady and Joanie O’Hara got into it the other night at the bowling alley. So I’m kinda nervous about goin’. You notice how the O’Haras think they’re a big deal since Wayne was made a foreman at the plant?”

“I guess not.”

“The first thing he did was get an extension phone. They have two phones now.”

“Gosh.”

“Their house is even smaller than ours and they got two phones. That’s what I mean, they walk around actin’ like they’re some sort of big deal. The wife said something about that new discount store out on the highway. This was when they got into it at the bowling alley. And you know what Joanie says?”

“What?”

“She says “I wouldn’t be seen goin’ into a place like that.” Like she’s too high and mighty to save a little money on stuff.”

This sounded like a matter for the United Nations if I’d ever heard one.

“Slim, you think we could get back to Mrs.

Courtney?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

“So does she come in here and buy liquor?”

“Now she does.”