Ed Gorman - Save The Last Dance For Me

Pam took the opportunity to yank the rifle from his hands.

“Now, get in the house, Bill. And I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now, McCain. And I don’t want to see you back anytime soon. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Because the next time, I’m callin’ Sykes.”

Her husband, in pain and shame, had already reached the back door and was going inside.

The violence had disoriented the collie and I felt sorry for her. She was running around in frantic circles, obviously not comprehending the exact nature of what was going on here but very affected-. mayed, startled-”the air of violence.

A hot, sleepy day on the acreage was not supposed to be like this.

Pam Oates followed me back to the car.

“He’s a good man.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“He’s never wandered off on me.”

I wondered about his wandering and why he’d been at Muldaur’s trailer with Viola so early.

Maybe he wasn’t quite as innocent as Pam thought. He was likely the man who’d fired at Muldaur. Sleeping with a man’s wife can get you in that sort of trouble sometimes. But this wasn’t exactly the time to raise the question.

She touched my car with an almost shocking tenderness. Her touch had a sexual quality to it.

“Boy from Macon used to drive up and see me -th was before I knew John-and he had a nice convertible, too. We had some fun in that car.”

Her face and voice lost twenty years. “We sure did have some fun.”

I ate a late lunch at the Rexall counter. Lunch-dinner, I guess. I probably wouldn’t be eating much more today. Between the heat and my frustration with the case, I was ready to lie on the floor in front of the fan and the Tv and be entertained.

Rexall was pretty busy. Bug spray, suntan lotion, charcoal starter, charcoal briquettes, cigarettes, and beer seemed to be the most popular items at the cash register. The air-conditioning was freezing but that was all right after the baking sun.

I looked over the men’s adventure magazines. I never bought them but I sure had a good time looking at the covers of he-men fighting off Nazis, Nazi alligators, Nazi snakes, Nazi bats (rabid, of course).

The cover quotes were what I enjoyed most of all. And this month’s batch had some honeys.

“Sexual Psychopaths… Oversexed

Women!” “Nympho Outlaw and Her Legion of Outcasts!” “Nazis Dive-Bombed My Body!” “Confessions of a Nazi Call

Girl!” My favorite was “Nude Queen of the Communist Cannibals!” Whoever came up with the commie cannibals deserved a bonus. Now that was real writing.

Kylie was at the checkstand. Looking sweet but nervous, she set a small boxcar load of cosmetics on the counter.

“You don’t wear all this stuff.”

“I thought I’d really get dolled up tonight.”

“You don’t need dolling up, kiddo. You’re a good-looking girl.”

“You’re prejudiced, McCain. You like me.”

“He’s your husband. I’m assuming he likes you, too.”

She bit her lower lip, half-whispered, “You should see what I’m up against, McCain. She looks like a movie starlet.”

I wanted to hold her, protect her. Any man who could throw away a young woman this bright, this decent, this caring-but she had to go through with this, I knew. Same as I’d had to go through it with Pamela Forrest all those years. Being desperately in love is grand, isn’t it?

She nodded to my ham and cheese. “You should eat better.”

“I know. Usually, Mrs. Goldman fixes me meals three or four times a week. But her sister took sick all of a sudden.”

“Where’s her sister?”

“Des Moines.”

I saw how her right hand was twitching.

It made her even more vulnerable.

“I wish I was in Des Moines,

McCain.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I try to be objective about it, you know.”

“One thing you can’t be objective about is being in love with somebody.”

“I mean, I really can’t blame him.”

“I can.”

“I’m what you’d call pretty, I guess.”

“Very pretty.”

“But you should see her, McCain. She makes me want to hide in the basement.”

“Is she as smart as you are? As much fun as you are? As deep as you are?”

“Oh, McCain, I’m not deep.”

“Are you kidding? You know things, Kylie. You understand things. You have insight into people.”

“I don’t fill out a bikini very well.”

“I happen to’ve seen you in a bikini one time. And you filled it out just right.”

“And my nose- You know, back east a lot of Jewish girls get bobs.”

“You don’t need a Bob. Or a Dave.

Or a Rick.”

She smiled.

“You’ve got a very fine nose. It fits your face perfectly.”

We went through this every once in a while. Her insecurities ran pretty wide. But then again, so did mine. I figured that’s why we liked each other.

“You’ll be fine tonight. You just have to relax.”

“It’s like a first date. And look how long we’ve been married.”

I held her hand. “You’ll do fine.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She asked about the case and I told her what I’d learned. She tried to seem interested but her anxiety made that impossible. She said good-bye and fled.

I hate to admit this but that night I drank more than my usual two beers. I drank three beers. Which meant, given my size and my inability to hold alcohol at all well, I was pretty stinko.

I banged my knee going to the bathroom, I banged my head getting a slice of cold pizza from the refrigerator, and I banged my butt when I miscalculated how far the end of the coffee table extended.

My dad and I are about the world’s worst drinkers. It takes most accomplished drinkers a long time to get stupid when they drink. We can do it in about the length of time it takes to guzzle a beer-and-a-half.

Things get all out of proportion for us. Something mildly amusing becomes unbearably hilarious.

Something modestly sad becomes a cause for great theatrical tears.

Tonight, for instance, Art Carney did a routine on “The Honeymooners” that made me laugh so hard I had to dash (well, stumble forward quickly) to the bathroom before I yellowed my Sears underwear; and then on “Gunsmoke” they had this story about a young crippled girl who becomes a gunfighter in order to avenge her brother, and man, tears were dripping off my chin when she got killed in the end.

I had the great good sense to go to bed shortly after that.

Sometime in the sticky murk of sleep-not even the fan cooled things off in any substantial way-the phone rang. Rang several times.

Rang loud enough to stir me but not loud enough to make me pick it up.

I fell back to sleep.

The phone started ringing again and this time, I picked it up.

“Hullo.”

“McCain?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Never.”

“This is Judge Whitney.”

“Yes, I recognized you. You’re sort of hard to confuse with anybody else.”

“Get some coffee in you and then head for the jail.

I’ll meet you there.”

“The jail? What for?”

“Cliffie, Jr., in his infinite wisdom, has just arrested Sara Hall for murdering Muldaur and Courtney.”

You have to wonder how word could spread at three o’clock in the morning. No air-raid sirens had sounded, no words were bellowed from the loudspeakers the city had planted in various places, no Paul Revere had hopped in his car and driven up and down the dark streets announcing that Sara Hall had been arrested for murder.

And yet there they were, maybe as many as fifteen of them, looking like the kind of crowd you always saw in westerns, the low-murmuring crowd that could turn into a lynch mob when the guy in the black hat appeared and stirred them up.