Эд Горман - Fools Rush In

“Not so far. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

With my usual grace I quickly changed the subject.

“What’s the word from the hospital on James Neville?”

“No change. Still unconscious.” Then: “Are those cats in the background?”

“Yes, and cruelly mistreated cats. They haven’t been fed for upwards of twenty minutes.”

I could hear the smile in her voice. “My little kitten died when she was only six months old. I’m afraid to get another one. I don’t want to go through that heartbreak again. You should’ve seen her. Gray fur and these sweet little white paws.”

“For a DA, you really have a sentimental side.”

“Whatever you do, don’t tell anybody about it.” Then: “Well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. ’Night, Sam.”

“’Night.”

After we hung up, I stood in the light of the refrigerator eating what remained of that large chunk of cake. I also finished off the beer I’d started as soon as I’d gotten in. I’m not sure you’ll find that particular combination — cake and beer, in your average cookbook, but it’s not as bad as you’d think.

The phone again.

No doubt it was Jane asking me to spend the night with her. Or Mary saying that she’d made a very bad mistake and was coming back to me. Or Janet Leigh asking me if I’d mind taking a shower with her because she was still scared after Psycho.

The voice was male and tainted with whiskey.

“This phone may be tapped, so listen to me. I’ll be sitting on a bench by the wading pool at six a.m. tomorrow morning. I expect to see you there, too.”

A teasing familiarity, that voice. But he hadn’t spoken long enough for me to identify it.

A restless night. Not just because of the late call but also because I was beginning to think that Richie Neville hadn’t been alone in his blackmail operation. His brother James probably hadn’t come to town just to say hello. With his record for extortion, he had most likely played a part in the whole scheme.

And there was another reason for my restlessness. The bank statement indicated that four months ago Richie Neville had paid a year in advance for a safe-deposit box. I was eager to get in there and see. I’d need the permission of either Judge Whitney or Jane Sykes, but I was sure that one of them would grant it.

The one aspect of the murders I’d yet to piece together was the relationship of Richie Neville and David Leeds. Why had Leeds been at the cabin? What had he wanted with Neville? Given what I could reasonably surmise, Richie possessed far more salacious photos of Lucy and David than had been sent to the party office. The senator would have no choice but to pay a good deal of money for them.

The final thought was one I didn’t want to have in my head, but I had to consider it at least. Were Richie and David working together? Was David helping Richie get some especially good photos for the camera?

I hoped not. I just kept seeing Marie Leeds’s face as we talked and sat in the booth at Woolworth’s. Grief enough that her brother had been murdered, intolerable that he’d been part of the scheme that had likely caused all the violence.

The cats, sprawled across various points of my bed, got a lot more sleep than I did.

He wasn’t there.

I’d taken a cold shower, gunned three cups of steaming coffee, and chain-smoked half a dozen cigarettes just so I could be awake when I met him.

And he wasn’t there.

The summer morning almost made up for it. The birds sounded happy as drunks at a party and the clouds were as white as they’d been in those great old Technicolor pirate movies. The dew-gleaming grass had a sweet, almost narcotic aroma and the breeze reminded me of my brother Robert, long dead now, and how we’d always flown kites on such mornings as this.

I could almost forget how much our town was changing. Chain stores and chain burger joints and chain supermarkets starting to push our own merchants out. And the bedroom commuters a community unto themselves, separate and superior.

And then, behind the bench where I was sitting, a voice said: “Back here, McCain.”

He was hiding behind the god-awful pink concession stand that in summer bloomed with moms and kids and the smell of hot dogs.

His head was all I could see, and even that I didn’t see much of, given how low the brim was snapped on his fedora and the large sunglasses that made identification even tougher.

“Back here.”

I walked back.

When I was within ten feet of him, I knew who he was. And given who he was, I guessed he was probably right holding a meeting the way spies did in the James Bond novels.

“I’m sorry for all this,” Senator Lloyd Williams said.

He made no move to take off the hat or the shades.

We were screened by a dense run of pine trees behind us. Safe.

“My opponent hires operatives to follow me around.”

“Of course you’d never do anything like that.”

“I do it only because the other side does it.”

“Of course.”

“You always were a sarcastic bastard.”

“Are we here to run each other down, Senator, because if we are, I want to remind you what a chickenshit you were in sticking up for Senator McCarthy. Not to mention all the bullshit laws you’ve introduced to hurt poor people.”

I’d forgotten what a cranky bastard I could be in the morning when somebody irritated me.

“I can see I’ve made a mistake.”

He turned to go, the long body buried in a long tan trench coat whose collar ran all the way up under the back of his hat.

“Look, Senator, you got me out of bed this early, so I deserve at least the courtesy of an explanation.”

He turned back toward me. “You don’t like me and I don’t like you. That’s hardly the basis for a good working relationship.”

I’m rarely shocked these days. I was shocked. “You want to hire me?”

He was silent for a time. Those big, dark plastic bug eyes staring at me. “I wanted to hire you because I believe you’re as good as your word.”

“I like to think I am. I try to be. Sometimes things go wrong, of course. Beyond my control.”

“But you wouldn’t blackmail me. You’d do the job I hired you to do and that would be that.”

“You’re talking about Richie Neville.”

“Yes.”

“And him having photos of David Leeds and your daughter.”

“No.”

This time I think I actually flinched when he answered me.

No? Not his white daughter going out with a black man? What else would he hire me for?

“We need to make a deal right now. Before you say anything more.”

He nodded. “All right. I do want to hire you, then. But given your situation with the judge, can I be assured that you won’t share any information you gather with anybody else?”

“I’ll give you my word as long as the information I gather doesn’t cover up a crime.”

“Not a crime — a stupid—” He touched long fingers to his cheek. “I’m so exhausted from worrying about this that I can’t even think clearly.” Then: “Indiscretion. A stupid indiscretion.” Then: “A local woman. A prominent woman. Her brother has a fishing cabin. A very nice one. He’s been in Europe for the past few years. That’s where we — she and I — got together. And that’s where Richie Neville took photographs of us.”

“Marsha Lane.”

“My God, how did you know?”

“Prominent woman. Brother in Europe. Nice fishing cabin. You forget I work downtown. Had to be Marsha Lane.” Then: “I can see what you’re up against. First Lucy and David Leeds. And now Marsha Lane. Your campaign’s going to be a nightmare.”

He leaned back against the concession stand. He took out a pack of Chesterfields and lighted one with a Zippo. He hadn’t relaxed; he’d damned near collapsed. Even his voice was weaker. “I’ve thought of announcing that I wasn’t going to run again. But my family — if I announced that, the press would be all over. They’d know I was hiding something.” Then: “Ironically, I think I can weather Lucy and her young gentleman. But with Marsha added to it—” He threw his cigarette away. “It’s funny you’re the only one I can trust. But who knows what you’re getting when you hire one of those Chicago agencies. They could be just as mercenary as Neville.” Then: “What a great fix this is, huh? Somebody like you is my only hope.”