Ed Gorman - Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

To the Jackson family

Steve, Phil, Ellen

And in memory of Peg and Jack

“It’s impossible to make people today understand what the Cuban Missile Crisis was like for the average American, Russian and Cuban. Nuclear holocaust was very much a real possibility. And it could have happened at any moment.”

—Sloane Winthrop

Contents

October 24, 1962

One

Two

Twenty

For the tenacious first editor who Keeps me honest and keeps me laughing—Mindy Jarusek

He didn’t call ahead for an appointment. He didn’t knock. He just eased himself through my partially opened office door and said, “I’ve got a little business for you, Mr. McCain. I mean, if you’re interested.”

He scared me. When I describe him you’ll wonder what I’m talking about. How somebody his size and his manner could scare me. I’m no tough guy but I was surely tougher than he was. And yet I got spooked because he was so odd, so wrong somehow.

There was something unclean about him, dusty, that pale complexion, those dead grey eyes, the heavy black topcoat that fit him hobo-like. And yet it wasn’t frayed or dirty. And the voice that wasn’t much more than a whisper. I’d heard that a lot after both wars. Men who’d had their throats and larynxes damaged. He was a black-and-white photo in an old, old book come mysteriously to life.

And in case you think this spectral appearance took place during a window-rattling midnight thunderstorm—it was eight-thirty a.m. on a sunny October day.

He held up a small package the size of a cigar box. It had been wrapped with manila paper and sealed with Scotch tape.

“It’s an easy two hundred and fifty dollars, Mr. McCain. I just want you to deliver this to somebody.”

“Gee, I’m really not a courier service.”

“I know what you are, Mr. McCain. I checked you out.”

“I’m not sure I like that.”

“You check out people all the time.”

“It’s my job.”

“Maybe it’s my job, too.”

I nodded to the package. “What’s in the box?”

“That’s irrelevant. It’s nothing that can hurt anybody. Not physically, anyway.”

“And why can’t you deliver this package yourself?”

“I have my personal reasons.” He hesitated. He was a hesitant man.

He pushed his rimless glasses up his small freckled nose and smiled. “It involves a woman. She—” He paused. He sat in front of the desk in my dusty little law office; maybe five foot five and 125 pounds and a sort of squint half the time. He glanced at the framed degrees of law on the wall. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a lawyer who was also a private investigator.”

I’d gotten to the office early because I had to be at the courthouse at ten this morning and wanted to clear my desk of paperwork that was piling up. They warn you about a lot of things in law school but somehow they never get around to paperwork.

He sat. He squinted. He sniffled. He said, “Allergies.”

“Ah.”

He’d brought in a briefcase, which he now lifted and sat on his lap. He opened it, delved inside and pulled out what appeared to be an 8 x 11 black-and-white glossy photograph like those that celebrities hand out. Somewhere in a box I have several glossies like that of Gene Autry and Roy Rogers. They’re autographed. I have a glossy of Lassie, too. She didn’t autograph hers.

He handed me the photograph. I looked at it and said, “You ever see the movie Laura?”

“Many times. And I know just what you’re going to say.”

“You do?”

“Of course. You looked at her just now for the first time and you’re intrigued. Just the way Dana Andrews was intrigued.”

I smiled. “A movie fan.”

“Very much so.”

“Who is she?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Then why show me the photo?”

“I wanted you to see who you’d be delivering the package to.”

“I haven’t agreed to deliver anything yet. What’s in the package doesn’t matter and she doesn’t matter.”

“I’d have to know more than that.”

His eyes scanned my office again. “No offense, Mr. McCain, but you don’t look awfully successful.”

“I pay my bills every month.”

“You can use the money. And for the money I’m offering, you’d be foolish to turn it down. And in checking you out, I didn’t get the impression you’re foolish.”

I was thinking of what I could do with the money. It represented about a third of my monthly income. I didn’t care for him or the reason he wanted to hire me but delivering a package probably couldn’t get me in a whole lot of trouble.

“You couldn’t deliver it yourself, huh?”

“It’d be more dramatic if somebody else delivered it.”

“Western Union’d be a lot cheaper than two hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Western Union—anybody can use Western Union. This has to be special, Mr. McCain. You’re a movie fan. I don’t have to tell you how a dramatic gesture can get to a woman.”

“She break your heart, did she?”

He laughed. It was an unpleasant sound somehow. “Something like that.” He tapped the box. “She goes out during the day but you can catch her at home tonight.”

“She works?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure where. That’s why night is safer.”

I stood up. “What’s your name?”

“Hastings.”

“You have a first name?”

“You know you need the money, Mr. McCain.”

I snapped my finger. “Peter Lorre.”

“I used to consider that an insult. The older I get, I don’t mind so much. Better I remind you of a movie star than just some nobody.” Then: “I’m in a hurry, Mr. McCain.” He stood up, closed his briefcase. Extracted from his overcoat a white number 10 envelope. No writing on the front. “Twelve twenties and two fives.” He shoved the envelope over to me.

I stared at it and then picked it up.

He said, “I need it delivered tonight, Mr. McCain.” He pulled his briefcase from the desk. Walked to the door. “You’ve made me want to see Laura again. Too bad it’s not showing somewhere around here.”

Then he was gone. I picked up the envelope and counted the money, way too much money for so little work. Way too much.

“ALL WE CAN DO is plead guilty and hope for the best, Lumir.”

“Tell ’er I was framed.”

“That’s crazy, Lumir,” I said. “You were driving drunk. And you were alone. How could I say you were framed?”

“Maybe somebody slipped somethin’ in my drink.”

“C’mon, Lumir. We don’t want to screw around. This is your second drunken driving charge.”

“I seen this here show on the TV.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Where they claimed this guy went bat-shit for a while and couldn’t be held responsible. What’s that called?”

“I think you had it right, Lumir. I think that’s the technical term for it. Going bat-shit.”

Lumir of the sleeveless catsup-and-mustard-stained T-shirt said, “It is?”

“‘Temporary insanity’ is what it’s called, Lumir. And we don’t have a chance. Now shut up and let’s go inside.”

“You tell me t’shut up one more time, McCain, and I’m gonna throw you through a window.”

“And here I was going to invite you to my birthday party, Lumir. My mom said I could invite all my extra-special friends.” When you’re the least successful lawyer in town, you usually get the dregs for clients. Lumir hadn’t worked up to the dreg level yet. He still had miles to go before he slept.