Ed Gorman - Save The Last Dance For Me

“Now?”

“Yeah, startin’ about four months ago. It was funny. Never saw her in here before. And then all of a sudden she starts comin’ two, three times a week.”

“Two or three times a week.

Isn’t that a lot?”

“It’s a lot for what she was buyin’.

Half-gallon of gin at a time.”

“Was she ever drunk when she came in?”

“Not drunk but drinkin’. Slurring her words, stuff like that.”

“Hey, Slim,” the man running the first register said, “I could use some help over here.”

The place had filled up suddenly.

“I appreciate it, Slim. Thanks.”

“I’ll bet at the reunion Joanie goes around tellin’ everybody about their new extension phone. Whaddaya bet?”

He went over and greeted his customer.

I drove out to the Judge’s place, something I don’t often do. The house is a huge Tudor set upon three acres of perfectly kempt grounds that are safe behind a black iron fence. When her Eastern friends visit-I met Henry Cabot Lodge, Jr. there one day; Nelson Rockefeller and Jacob Javits another-the west lawn is covered with a vast tent, a six-piece classical ensemble, and enough booze to get Moscow drunk on a Saturday night.

The props were just now being set up as I aimed my ragtop up the curving drive to the manse.

I saw Lettie and Max and Maria, the regular staff, carrying armloads of serving bowls, glasses, cups from the house to the tent.

The florist was there, as was the caterer, as were the musicians. Jay Gatsby would envy what was being set in motion here.

The Judge herself was in her study, Gauloise and brandy in hand. You rarely saw her in jeans, but jeans she wore and a white silk blouse. She was a little bit Rosalind Russell and a little bit Barbara Stanwyck. She was also a little bit drunk.

“So nice of you to keep me informed, McCain.”

The study had one of those floor-mounted globes that was about half the size of the actual planet and walls and walls of paintings and photos of her Whitney forebears, all of whom looked constipated and skunk-mean. There was also a lot of leather furniture that smelled of a recent oiling.

She also smelled, as usual, of a recent oiling.

I wasn’t up for her sarcasm. “You want to hear about how I almost got my head shoved into a cage of rattlesnakes or not?”

That shut her up. Who could resist hearing a story like that? She was giddy as a girl listening to my tale of bravery and grace under pressure and which, I have to admit, I did embellish a tad here and there, especially the part about how I tied two rattlers together.

“You tied them together?”

“You bet I did. Otherwise they would’ve jumped on me.”

“No offense, McCain, but I’ve just never thought of you as being that smart.”

“Thank you.”

“Or that brave, for that matter.”

“Thank you again.”

“Let me toast you.”

She toasted me. You’ll notice she didn’t offer me a drink so that I could toast me.

“Ah,” she said, downing the brandy. “And you learned what, exactly, for all your travail with those damnable snakes?”

“I learned that I’m much smarter and braver than you thought I was.”

“You shouldn’t brag, McCain. It’s unbecoming.”

“And I learned that Bill Oates seems to be on exceptionally good terms with Viola Muldaur.” I told her about how early he’d been there this morning.

She said, delicately, “Dierdre keeps telling me that Sara isn’t home and will call me back.”

“Avoiding you?”

“What else?”

“I thought you were friends.”

“Best of,” she said.

“And she won’t talk to you?”

“Afraid not.”

“So she knows something.”

“Afraid so,” she said.

“And could be in trouble?”

“Maybe.”

I told her about the mother-daughter visit to my office and about how they went home on friendly terms. And then I said, “Dierdre’s pregnant. I promised her I wouldn’t tell you and I probably shouldn’t have. But you need to know.”

“She’s pregnant? But she’s just a little girl.”

She nearly choked inhaling the smoke from her Gauloise.

“Knocked up.”

“Please, McCain. You’re vulgar enough just standing there. You don’t need to enhance it.”

“With child. In a maternal way. Preggers, as our British friends say.” She was something of an Anglophile. I thought maybe she’d go for it.

“Poor Sara,” she said.

“Poor Dierdre.”

“And no idea who the father is?”

“Not so far.”

“Probably some greasy-haired high-school boy who drives around with his car radio turned all the way up. Like you, in fact, McCain.”

“Thank you for the third time today.”

“No wonder she doesn’t want to talk to me.” Then: “Are you any closer to figuring this thing out than you were before?”

“Not so’s you’d notice.”

“Then what do I pay you for, McCain?

You’re my investigator-investigate, for God’s sake. Don’t sit here soaking up my brandy and wasting my time.”

“You haven’t offered me any brandy.”

“Oh.”

“And as far as wasting your time goes, I thought you’d appreciate being brought up to date.”

She went to the window and swept a graceful arm toward the grounds.

“You maybe have noticed all the activity out there.”

“I did indeed.”

“Dick will be here very soon.”

“I’m trying to hide my enthusiasm so as not to embarrass myself.”

“I want him to be comfortable here and to think well of us. I don’t want him to think that we’re a bunch of hill people who throw snakes around in our religious ceremonies. And murder each other.”

“You’ll have your killer.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

A knock at the door.

“Yes?”

Max, the butler. “There seems to be some trouble with the lilies, Judge.”

“The lilies?”

“They’re lagging.”

“The lilies are lagging?”

“That’s what the floral man says, Your Honor.”

“Florist, not floral man, Max.”

“The florist says the lilies are lagging, Judge. He’d like you to join him in the tent.”

After Max was gone, the Judge, obviously unhappy, said, “Did you hear that, McCain?”

“I certainly did. Your lilies are lagging.”

“I pay this kind of money and they lag.”

“I don’t want to live in a world like this anymore.”

“You’re more sarcastic than usual today, McCain. And since you don’t seem to have any sensitivity toward my lilies, I may as well be honest with you.”

“Honest? About what?”

“That ridiculous story you made up about tying two rattlesnakes together.”

“You didn’t believe it?”

“Not for a second.”

“Well,” I said as I left, “it’s a hell of a lot more interesting than lagging lilies, I’ll tell you that much.”

On Main Street, sitting primly on a bench in front of the Dairy Queen, I saw Kylie Burke and I almost pulled in and talked to her. But she looked so happy just then and I imagined her head was filled with all sorts of hopes and blissful fantasies about her life ahead with Chad. It’s funny how love can do that to you like nothing else. You put your hand on fire just once and you know enough never to do it again. But you listen to the same person make the same empty promises again and again, and you still come back. And back. And back. And there’s always the friend who knows the couple (they always live in Des Moines or Cleveland or somewhere like that) that went through exactly the same thing you’re going through-all the bunco and pain and humiliation and degradation-and you know what?