Ed Gorman - Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

I smiled. “Thanks for the plug. I can use the business.”

“Could you meet me at Murdoch’s office tomorrow morning at nine? I always like to review things. You can meet my guy from Chicago.”

“See you then.”

Then Deirdre came through the front door and said, “Sam, could you come inside a minute, please?”

Spellman winked at me. “I’d come inside that gal any time she asked.”

I went up the steps. She stood aside for me and I went inside to the light and warmth and splendor of her home.

We stood in the vestibule. She flipped off the light. “My dad wants my mom to go into the hospital again.”

“When did he say this?”

“Earlier tonight. He called and made the arrangement himself. He has a pilot and plane standing by in Cedar Rapids to take her.”

“You don’t want her to go?”

“I’m just wondering what his thinking is.”

I didn’t say anything. I wanted her to say it herself.

Outside, Cliffie was still talking. He allowed as how this was a scandal that would probably be picked up everywhere in the country. And because of that, he said, he wanted to bring swift justice to the murderer so that the fine Midwestern folk who lived here could get on with their lives. Never mind that the poor, sensitive folk were enjoying the hell out of this; and never mind that the town would enjoy an economic boost when the trial was in session. There’d be more reporters than citizens. And never mind that the man Cliffie had already convicted was likely the wrong man.

“I think he thinks she did it.”

“Your father thinks your mom did it?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why he’s sending her away.”

She pressed herself against me. Her hair smelled sweet and clean from a recent shampoo and she was a marvel of soft flesh and gentle curves. She clung to me the way a child would. But her grip wasn’t strong. Weariness had set in. She was fatigued both physically and mentally. She could probably use a hospital stay herself, just to recover from her anxiety and exhaustion.

“I still can’t believe this is happening,” she said.

“You need some rest.”

She leaned away from me. “What if she really did it?”

“There’s no answer to that. It’s hypothetical. You’re reading things into a situation that may be just what it seems to be. I mean, your dad loves your mom and wants her to be healthy. The strain you’re all under and her past psychiatric record—this is the best thing, I’m sure.”

“You really think it could be that simple?”

“I really do.”

She clung to me once more. Cliffie was speaking in an especially loud voice now. He was going into his “morality” speech about how the US of A was such a decadent country these days, the commies wouldn’t have a hard time taking us over at all. Hell, we might even want them to take over, all of us dancing naked around a huge statue of Khrushchev, as the pagan fires burned higher and higher.

The assembled reporters groaned, tittered and a few of the braver ones laughed out loud. Cliffie never sounded dumber than when he tried to save the national soul.

She stepped back from me. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m so tired I’m just making things up. Getting really paranoid.”

“For now anyway, I’d just let your mother go. Make sure she packs everything she needs and say goodbye. You could always drive her to the airport yourself.”

“I’d thought of that, Sam. But what if I’m needed here?”

I took her hand. “I’m going back to work. Your dad’s going to jail for a couple of hours, just till Spellman bails him out, and your mother needs a ride. There isn’t anything for you to do but sit here and worry. And your mom would appreciate you for taking her rather than one of your dad’s staffers.”

“No staffers left,” she said. “He gave them all very big checks and said goodbye. To the ones who worked here in town, anyway. The other paid staffers will get their checks tomorrow or the next day. Dad feels guilty about letting them down. They worked very hard for him. And then it ended like this. But that’s dad’s style. He has this sense of guilt and when that takes over, he’ll give you anything he owns.”

“Take your mom, Deirdre. She’ll appreciate it and it’ll get you out of this house.”

“It still seems unreal, Sam.”

“That’s how these things go. Most people never experience this side of the law. And it’s scary when you realize that even if you’re a powerful man—like your father—that an incompetent like Cliffie can completely take your life over and make you jump through any kind of hoops he puts up for you. Then think of what it’d be like if you didn’t have any money or power at all. No bail. If you’ve got an honest cop, an honest judge and a fair-minded jury pool—and you’re innocent—you’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of going free.” I took her by the shoulders. “Your father’s going to go free, Deirdre. The charges’ll be dropped.”

“You really believe that, Sam.”

I really wanted to believe it, anyway.

“Yeah, I really do. Now why don’t you go help your mother?”

She gave me another one of those exotic erotic fleeting kisses of hers and then hurried toward the grand staircase.

SIXTEEN

THINK WE FOUND A PLACE.

THANKS FOR EVERYTHING.

THERE WAS QUITE A party going on at my place. The cats were sitting up on the couch with their legs crossed watching that new Johnny Carson late night show. They were drinking bourbon and smoking cigars. Tess was wearing a party hat I had left over from last New Year’s Eve. I’d begun to suspect that they had lives very much like ours. But they tried to keep them secret for fear of my inhibiting them. In my fantasy, the cigars and the bourbon had to do with Pamela and Stu moving out. Far out. They knew, as I knew, that that long malaise known as Heartsick About Pamela In Black River Falls, Iowa had ended. I was over her. I hadn’t liked her for many years but I’d loved her. Now I didn’t like her or love her. No wonder the cats were whooping it up. The intruders were gone and they wouldn’t have to listen to any more love-sick mooning on my part.

Law enforcement people say that they’re trained to spot things other people don’t notice. I must’ve been out sick the days they were conducting these courses at the police academy in Des Moines, because I miss things even the blind can see.

Not until I’d gone to the john, checked my service for phone messages, turned up the heat, pulled on a ragged U of Iowa sweatshirt, and sat myself down in my recliner did I notice the imposing round foil-wrapped plate in the center of the table.

I went over and inspected it. Tess was there to help me. She knew, as I did, that it was a plate covered with food. Tess has gone to drama school the past two years. She knows how to look up at you with those large intelligent eyes and make you want to cry. And share. “I’ll tell you what. You can have it all if it’s anything like liver and broccoli. How’s that?” I was thinking that if cats knew how to give you the finger, that’s what she would have been doing just then. Cats are smart. They know all about stuff like liver and broccoli.

It was a white meat chicken sandwich with lettuce, tomato and mayo, a small chilled tin of V-8, several carrot sticks and a good hunk of chocolate cake. There was a tiny card that read From a secret admirer who thinks you’re getting too skinny. Mary. Mrs. Goldman would have let her in. She was one of the many people who thought that Mary and I should’ve gotten married a long time ago.

I had to keep pushing Tess away. “You can have half the carrot sticks.” Oh, yeah; she definitely would’ve given me the finger if she could.