Эд Горман - Fools Rush In

The Hannity house was one of the new ranch styles that sat in scornful superiority above all the little Levittown-like boxes in the valley below.

The boxes had been built back in ’49 and ’50 when the American Dream everybody had fought for in the war seemed to be coming true.

But in a decade, the boxes had begun to show the perils of houses built so hastily and so ineptly. The pastel exteriors that had shone like dewy flowers in morning light had faded. Windows had dislodged from cheap frames and sliding tracks. And the yards the developers had promised never quite came to look like yards, just thin stretches of grass on dirt.

But moon shadow was merciful. As my ragtop climbed the winding hill leading to the imposing homes at the top, I was able to remember how much I’d always wanted to live in one of those boxes when I was in my early teens. We’d moved from the Knolls, where the poorest of working families lived, to the glamour of a housing development. I could still remember a kid telling me that many of the homes there had actual extension telephones. That’s right, more than one phone in the house so you could talk to your friends — and hopefully that someday girlfriend — in the privacy of your own room. For some stupid reason the extension phone had struck me as an invention much superior to that of the airplane or medical advances.

I’d never dreamed big enough to think that I’d someday live up on the hill above the boxes. The boxes, with a real laundry room for Mom, a basement shop for all of Dad’s tools, and a sunny room for my often sad little sister — who could want more than a housing development house?

A yellow Lincoln was parked in the driveway of the Hannity house. From inside, fairly loud, came Sinatra singing Jerome Kern — as much as I loved rock, I was beginning to learn my American popular composers — and tinny martini laughter.

I pulled up, killed the lights, and then watched as the double garage door ground its way upward, revealing two cars parked inside, one a black Lincoln and one a 1962 buff-blue Chevrolet.

My ragtop sat directly behind the Chevrolet. Nick Hannity was just about to climb into the Chevrolet when he turned and saw my car.

In the grainy garage light, almost in silhouette, he looked bigger than ever. Football hero, tormentor of Lucy Williams and David Leeds, and now insolent swaggerer making his way to my car.

No way was I going to let him trap me inside. I opened the door and got out.

As he approached, he said, “You’re trespassing, asshole.”

“Wrong-o, Hannity. I’m a licensed investigator and I’m investigating. Legally.”

“Yeah? Well, then I’m gonna illegally throw your ass off of my property.”

When I was growing up, even though I was small, I always figured for some balmy reason that I was just naturally stronger and tougher than kids younger than me. And most of them seemed to go along with it. I wasn’t a bully, but in the way of the playground and the backyard, I usually got younger kids to do what I told them to.

Then one sixth-grade autumn day when I was walking home with my friend Carl Sears, generally known as a puncher, some stupid kid in fifth grade started mouthing off behind us. His prey seemed to be Carl. I wondered if the stupid kid knew who Carl was.

Couple more blocks, Carl just sort of laughing at it. And then Carl turning without warning and hooking a right hand into the kid’s face with enough force to knock the stupid kid back a good three or four feet.

An easy, clean victory for Carl.

Except it wasn’t. Because the kid picked himself up and proceeded to beat the holy hell out of Carl, thus ending my personal myth of age mattering in a fight.

Now here was Hannity, a college senior probably four years younger, just about ready to take me apart. Age didn’t matter, my badge didn’t matter, whatever status I had as an associate of Judge Whitney’s didn’t matter.

He was closing in on me and he had every right to think — to know — that I was afraid of him.

He was tough, but he wasn’t subtle. He spent too much time bringing his left hand up. In those seconds I was able to plant the tip of my shoe right in his crotch.

I had the extreme pleasure of watching him fall to the ground, clutch his crotch, and cry out in pain.

“You son of a bitch,” he said. “I’m gonna tell my dad.”

But Dad was already running toward us. He obviously had a keen paternal ear. He’d heard his son’s cry.

As soon as he saw his son on the ground, he let out a yelp that combined fear and rage in equal parts.

But as he leaned down to help his son to his feet, Hannity started the painful climb on his own. “I don’t need any help.”

“What’s going on here, Nick?” Bill Hannity said.

“Ask that asshole over there.”

He looked over at me. He was a beefier version of his beefy son, a financial consultant in Cedar Rapids who tended to dress in California casual as often as possible: sport shirt, custom-fit slacks, and a tan collected from visits to three or four sunny climes a year.

He was also much smoother than his son. “Are you beating up children now, McCain?”

There were two warring groups at the town’s lone country club. One was run by the judge, the other by him.

“Yeah, I usually kick the shit out of ten-year-olds a couple times a week.”

Now that Junior was on his feet, Bill said, “Are you all right, Nick?”

“He really hurt me, Dad.”

Back to me: “What the hell do you think you’re doing, McCain?”

I shrugged: “It was either that or let him take me apart. He started coming at me. I didn’t have a lot of choices.”

“He’s just a college kid.”

“Yeah, and he’s got forty pounds on me and is one of the biggest bullies in town. As you might have guessed, since he’s been in court four or five times on assault charges.”

Nick, even though he was still wincing from time to time, started toward me. But my words had cooled Bill off at least temporarily.

“What are you doing on my property?”

“Investigating. I’m licensed, you’ll remember.”

“Damned Esme.” He shook his sleek gray head. “Investigating what, may I ask?”

“Trying to find out if your son was involved in the murders of the two men last night.”

“That colored boy? My God, McCain, what the hell would my son have to do with that?”

“He has a history of harassing Leeds.”

“You’re a liar. And besides, I was with my girlfriend Nancy Adams last night.” Nick started at me again. Bill put a formidable restraining arm across his son’s chest.

“Be quiet, Nick. What’re you talking about, McCain?”

I told him what Lucy had told me, about how his son and Rob Anderson had treated Leeds on several occasions.

“He’s lying, Dad.”

“There’s a witness,” I said.

“Nick wouldn’t do anything like that. He’s got a temper but—”

“Tell that to Lucy Williams. She knows better.”

“That bitch,” Nick said.

Bill Hannity’s expression changed. He seemed to consider the possibility, for the first time, that maybe something was going on here.

“Go in the house, Nick.”

“Dad, this little jerk kicked me in the crotch.”

“In the house, Nick. Now.”

His quiet authority impressed me. He’d handled himself pretty well, considering that he’d found his son writhing on the driveway.

Nick gave me the big bad glare and muttered all the usual curses just loudly enough that I could hear them. But then he turned and hobbled his way back to the house. I hadn’t meant to kick him that hard but I probably wasn’t going to cry myself to sleep about it.

Bill Hannity took a cigarette from the pack of Camels in his blue sport shirt, flamed it with a golden shaft of expensive lighter, and said, “Is he really in trouble?”