Steven Womack - Dead Folks' blues

Or maybe it was because they were knotted tighter than a dick’s hatband. Whatever the hell a dick’s hatband is; I’ve been hearing that expression for years now and it’s always struck me as just this side of vulgar. In any case, Rachel Fletcher’s face may have been calm and smiling, but her hands were knotted together like a rugby scrum.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee? There’s a soda machine down the hall.”

“No, thanks, Harry. I’m fine.” Her hands continued squirming. She noticed me looking, then self-consciously pulled them apart and uncomfortably put one on each armrest of the chair. It was as if her arms had become two foreign objects hanging off her, and she didn’t know what to do with them.

“It’s good to see you, Harry. How long’s it been now?”

I thought back. “Maybe ten years ago. The benefit for Children’s Hospital.”

“That’s right. What happened to that woman you were seeing then? The tall one, with the dark hair pulled back tight.”

Who was that? I thought. Was that- “Oh, yeah, that was before I got married. Debbie, I think her name was. Long time ago.”

“Right,” she said.

“How about you, Rachel? You and what’s-his-name still-?”

“Conrad,” she said, “and yes, we’re still married. In name, anyway.”

Her focus dropped to the floor. I decided to sit and wait for ter to continue. Finally, she did. “Harry, I know things haven’t always been that easy for us.”

“No worries.” I grinned at her as I spoke. “I’ve always prided myself on being a gracious loser.”

She looked up quickly. “You weren’t a loser, Harry. You’ve never been a loser. I never thought you were.” Her head drifted to the right, her sadness a weight pulling her down. “I’ve just made some mistakes in my life.”

I suddenly felt sorry for her, the first time in years I’d felt anything at all for her. And I was surprised to see it was that. But there was something about her, despite the great looks, the obvious wealth and health, and all the other accoutrements, that was downright pitiable. I wanted to reach across the desk and touch her, but knew that was probably the worst thing I could do.

“What is it, Rachel? Why are you here?”

She opened her bag, a small silver clutch, and withdrew a pack of cigarettes, the long, skinny kind with blue and red flowers intertwined on the paper. Her hand shook as she took out a disposable butane lighter in a gold case and lit the cigarette.

“It’s Connie,” she began, after taking a good long pull on the smoke. “He’s gotten himself into some trouble. I’m terribly worried about him.”

“When’d you start those?” I gathered from her glare that she considered the question inappropriate.

“What kind of trouble?” I asked, trying to extricate myself.

She hesitated, self-consciously lifting her hand to take another drag off the cigarette. “He’s been gambling again. Heavily, I’m afraid. Apparently he’s into somebody for a lot of money. He’s getting threatening phone calls, letters.”

I fought the urge to smile. I remembered Dr. Conrad Fletcher as a smug, conceited, privileged jerk. Somehow, seeing him up to his keister in bookie reptiles was at the very least amusing, at the very most downright pleasurable.

“I tried to call you at the paper,” she continued. “Just to see if you had any advice. They told me you were no longer employed there.”

“Diplomats. Actually, Rachel, I was fired. Booted out on my ass.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“Anyway, someone on the desk gave me your phone number and address. I had no idea you’d become a-”

“Private investigator?” I said, grinning. “Yeah, sounds a little goofy to me, too.”

Rachel smiled back, the first real one she’d cracked since she sat down. “I decided to come see you in a professional capacity, rather than just an old friend asking for advice.”

“What kind of letters and phone calls are we talking about here?”

She opened up the purse again, took out a torn-open envelope. Cheap paper, available at any drugstore, electric typewriter, no return address, mailed from a downtown zip code. The note inside read:

Fletcher:

Your account is seriously overdue. You’re going to settle up within 24 hours or we’re going to turn you over to our collections staff. You won’t find that very pleasant.

Simple, straightforward, to the point. I’d written some articles in my time that had generated unhappy letters, a few of them threatening. The rule around the newspaper office was that the ones that ranted and raved and threatened to cut your gonads off were the ones you could laugh about over a beer. The calm, serious, understated ones were the ones you kept and reread over and over in your dreams, the ones that make you wake up in a cold sweat.

This one was definitely a keeper.

“The letter came in yesterday’s mail. I opened it by accident; Connie gets furious when I open his mail, but I just wasn’t paying attention.”

“Have you shown it to him?”

Her eyes rolled. “Oh, God, no. He’d throw a fit. He’s got a terrible temper, you know.”

“And the phone calls?”

“Just two. One about a week ago. One this morning.”

“What did they say?”

“The first time, a voice asked to speak to Connie, and he wasn’t home. I asked who it was. The man wouldn’t say. He just hung up. The second time was yesterday. Same voice. He asked to speak to Connie, and when I said he wasn’t home, the man asked if Connie had gotten the letter.”

“What’d you do?”

“I panicked, I guess. I asked who it was and he said ‘never mind,’ that Dr. Fletcher would know who he was and he’d goddamn better take the note seriously.”

She looked me directly in the eyes, the clear blue of hers shimmering in my office light. “That’s when I started looking for you.”

I shifted uneasily in the chair. I wasn’t at all sure this was something I wanted to take on. To begin with, I didn’t much care for the s.o.b., and on top of that, I had a feeling that if I started getting involved with Rachel Fletcher again, I might want to get involved with Rachel Fletcher again.

The office suddenly seemed very stuffy. “Have you talked to Conrad about this? Does he know you’re here?”

“Heavens, no. If he did, he’d blow a fuse. Things haven’t been going so well with us these past few years. What with his work and all. We don’t spend much time with each other. And when he’s not working, he’s always off somewhere else. Gambling, apparently.”

“This isn’t an easy question, Rachel, but I’ve got to ask it. Is there another woman in here anywhere?”

She looked as if her face had just gone numb and she was afraid to raise her hand to her cheek, afraid she wouldn’t be able to feel anything, afraid she wouldn’t be there anymore.

“I don’t think so,” she whispered. “I don’t know.”

“So what do you want me to do, Rachel?”

She hesitated, fumbling with her still-lit cigarette butt, wondering what to do with it.

“Just mash it on the floor,” I suggested. “I’m afraid I don’t have an ashtray. Sorry.”

She dropped the cigarette. I watched her right knee swivel back and forth as she ground the butt out.

“Could you find out who he owes the money to? And how much?” There was a pleading tone to her voice, a tone more vulnerable than any I’d heard out of her. “Whatever it is, I’ll see that it’s paid. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

“I may have to talk to Conrad,” I said.

“No, please. At least don’t tell him we’ve spoken. If you have to talk to him, make it look like some other reason. I can’t have him finding out that I know what’s going on with him.”