Макс Коллинз - A Shroud for Aquarius

“You didn’t want... Mal to be part of Ginnie’s life... in what way, J.T.? The gambling? The crazy trips to Vegas and Tahoe?”

“No. I didn’t like that much, but she was her own person, she could do as she liked.”

“What bothered you about Ginnie’s lifestyle, then? What was it that a free spirit like you couldn’t handle in a free spirit like her?”

“I don’t think I care to talk about it.”

“What if I told you Ginnie may have been murdered.”

He flinched, then smiled — not a convincing smile, but a smile. “Life isn’t a mystery novel.”

“I disagree.”

“A mystery, yes. A mystery novel, no.” The smile curled into a sneer, emphasized by the mustache of his beard. “I don’t remember liking you much, Mallory. Your cynicism always rubbed me the wrong way. Out of respect to Ginnie’s love for you, I won’t throw you out bodily, but will just ask you to go.”

This guy could not throw a puppy out of this place bodily. Putting on my best cynical smart-ass smile, I leaned on the counter with one hand, with the other giving him the peace sign; he gave me half of the peace sign in return.

I ignored that. Said, “Was Ginnie involved with drugs? Is that why you didn’t want your little girl around her?”

“Just go, Mallory.”

“Talk to me, J.T. Help me find out why Ginnie is dead.”

He slammed a fist down on the counter; the Denver Quarterly jumped. So did I. I didn’t expect this power from such a frail-looking man, or this rage from so laid back a source.

“She’s dead,” he said, spitting words like seeds, “because that time is dead, because those days are over.”

I laughed at that, though without much humor. “She isn’t dead just because the sixties are dead. She’s not an image in one of your poems, or a symbol in one of my novels, either. She’s a person who was murdered, shot in the goddamn head, J.T.! And I want to find out who did that so the state can serve up some old-fashioned justice, poetic or otherwise.”

He swallowed. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Sure.”

“What kind?”

“The kind you don’t smoke.”

He smiled at that, just a little, and put a kettle of water on the hotplate that rested on the chugging air conditioner. He dropped in a tea bag. He turned and looked at me; his gray eyes seemed very, very old.

“She was involved in drugs, all right,” he said. “But not in using them. Not to any excessive extent, anyway.”

“Dealing, then?”

“No. Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

He paused. Thought. Then, as if against his better judgment, said, “She was working for a guy named Sturms. You know him?”

“I know him.”

“She was his mule. One of them.”

“Mule.”

“You know. She’d go to Mexico, ostensibly on buying trips for her shop, picking up furniture and knickknacks for ETC.’s...”

“Among which were hidden quantities of coke and other illegal goodies?”

He sighed. Nodded.

“Yeah. I figured that’s what Caroline Westin wanted to put a stop to.”

“What?”

“Her partner in ETC.’s, Caroline Westin, recently squeezed her out of the business — you knew that, didn’t you, J.T.?”

He shrugged again; he didn’t seem so frail to me now. Bony, yes — frail, no. “I knew Ginnie got bought out of ETC.’s,” he said, “but assumed it happened because she wanted it to. I didn’t know Caroline forced her out, to put a stop to the shop being involved in drug trafficking. But it makes sense. Caroline was pretty bitter about Ginnie getting back together with me. You see — and I hope this doesn’t bruise your sensibilities, Mallory, since like most cynics you’re naive at heart, but...”

“Caroline and Ginnie were lovers,” I cut in. “Yeah. And Ginnie broke off with her to marry you.”

“Yes. Well. To get together with me.”

“I thought you were married.”

Another shrug. He was pouring us some tea now, in unmatching, chipped china cups. “Sort of. We never had a ceremony. We were together long enough to rate common law, I suppose.”

I took the cup of tea and sipped; orange. “So that’s why she didn’t take your last name.”

“She probably wouldn’t have even if we had married. She was just... well, she was using me, in a way,” he said.

“Ginnie did do that with people from time to time. How did she use you ?”

He spooned some honey into his tea cup; stirred. “She wanted a child. It was something she wanted to experience.” He laughed; in that laughter was the first trace of bitterness in him about Ginnie. “Then once she’d had the little girl, she lost interest.” He looked at me sharply. “I’m not saying she didn’t love Malinda. I’m not saying she was a bad mother, either.”

“It’s just that she dropped the baby off at a day-care center on the way home from the hospital, right?”

“No! Not at all. She was a very good mother, those early months. She breast-fed Malinda, for one thing. Would a bad mother breast-feed her child?”

“I guess not. What happened after the early months?”

He didn’t look at me; he looked into his tea, stirring it absently. “She went back to work, back to ETC.’s. I stayed home. That was fine — she was bringing the money in. I’ve been publishing my poetry right along, but half the time I get paid off in contributor’s copies. When I do get money, it isn’t much. Twenty-five bucks from the Iowa Review twice a year doesn’t buy many groceries.”

“Hey,” I said. “I’m a free-lancer myself. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m not apologizing! I was a house husband. I’m proud of it. I did a good job. Why should I apologize? John Lennon didn’t!” He set his cup down and splashed some tea on the Denver Quarterly.

“Settle down, J.T. I’m on your side, on this one.”

He studied me, saw that I was. Said, “Ginnie loved our little girl. She just wasn’t much of a traditional mother. And, to her credit, when I told her I was leaving, that I wouldn’t be party to the drug traffic, that I wouldn’t have my daughter raised around it, she didn’t fight me over Malinda. She let me take her with me.”

“Maybe she knew who the better parent was.”

“Maybe,” he said, not disputing it. “But she did love Mal. Malinda. She’d take her for the weekend once every month or so. Show her a wonderful time. They used to go to Adventure-land Park at Des Moines, for example.”

“Ginnie was nothing if not adventurous.”

“Unfortunately,” he agreed.

“Who’s taking care of Malinda now?”

He pointed upstairs. “I’m living with a wonderful woman, who is also a poet. She helps me run this place, and we take turns spending time with Malinda.”

“You’re doing a nice job here.”

“Thanks. The movie and comic book stuff helps. There are more Three Stooges buffs around here than Robert Frost fans.”

“If you ask me, Shemp was a major poet.”

He smiled again, a smile so faint it almost got lost in the nest of his beard. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Looking into Ginnie’s death. If she was murdered, you’re treading dangerous water. That guy Sturms is connected.”

By “connected,” he meant organized-crime connected.

“Nobody who deals coke on a major level isn’t connected,” I said.

The subject seemed one he wanted to change. “Would you like to meet Malinda?” he asked.

“I sure would,” I said, smiling.

He picked up the phone and dialed, sipping his tea for the first time. “Hi, babe. Old friend of mine dropped by... bring Mal down. I’d like her to meet him.”