Ed Gorman: Bad Moon Rising

“Kenny was a so-called beatnik when we were juniors in high school. I never was. And neither of us are hippies. I mean, if you want to get your facts straight for once.”

“Yeah, well, he still writes dirty books.”

“He writes other things, too.” I was counting on Cliffie’s lack of interest in everything literary. He didn’t ask me to tell him exactly what those “other things” were. In addition to paperbacks such as Satan’s Love Slaves and Lesbo Lodge, Kenny had now started writing for men’s adventure magazines. You know the ones I mean. The guys never have shirts on and they’re usually under attack by Nazis or killer dogs. Well, for that matter, the women don’t have shirts on, either, and they’re frequently attacked by Nazis and killer dogs. But the women don’t have scars all over their mostly naked bodies and they aren’t holding machine guns. “Nazi Terror Orgies” was one of Kenny’s latest. This was not to be confused with “Nazi Lust Prisons.” Kenny had a very good novel in him somewhere; he still wrote seriously good short stories for himself. I had faith in him; his wife, Sue, had faith in him. All we had to do was convince Kenny to have some faith in himself.

“I had my way, we’d put all those pornographers in jail. And that goes for the Smothers Brothers.”

Why correct him? The Smothers Brothers’ politics offended him-offended more than half the nation-so their TV show had become a focal point for all the people who thought that the Vietnam War was just a dandy idea.

But this was just sparring and we both knew it. The main bout would start with something else, something he just couldn’t wait to spring on me.

“I stopped by the Blue Moon Tap and told ’em what happened to you.”

“Had a good laugh, I’ll bet.”

“Couple of ’em were laughin’ so hard I thought they’d puke.”

“Well, thanks for telling me, Chief.”

“One guy had beer runnin’ out of his nose he was laughin’ so hard.”

“I’ll bet that was you, wasn’t it?”

He glared at me. I’d found him out. Glare became glower and he said: “So a girl knocks out Sam McCain and the prisoner escapes.”

He was saying that real men don’t get knocked out by women. “I guess you could tell it that way if you wanted to.”

“Oh, I want to, McCain. I really want to. All the crap I’ve had to take from you over the years. You and that g.d. judge of yours. All the b.s. about how you solved my cases before I did. And you with your law degree and the private investigator’s license your judge made sure you got so you could snoop around. You damn right that’s the way I want to tell it. And that’s the way just about everybody in this town’s gonna tell it. Hotshot Sam McCain tries to collar a killer and gets knocked out by a girl so the killer gets away. That’ll look real nice in the state paper.”

Before he’d mentioned the state paper his words hadn’t had their desired effect on me. I knew that the people in Black River Falls who didn’t like me (and the number seemed to grow every year) would have their fun. I’d be embarrassed and sometimes I’d get mad and sometimes maybe I wouldn’t want to leave my office. But Wendy would help me through it and if I got lucky enough to look good on a few more cases, the story about Sarah smacking me with a steel rod would fade in time. Never disappear, nothing ever does; but fade. But now I imagined what the story would look like under a bold headline in the state paper. They had a photo of me a few years back following a trial I’d won. The trouble was I’d just gotten done tripping on a step in front of the county courthouse so my expression was that of shock and dismay when the photographer snapped his pic. Hapless was what I looked like-hapless.

Cliffie was taking such pleasure in my embarrassment I couldn’t help myself. If he could be petty so could I. I realize that the thought of Sam McCain being petty-unthinkable. But-

I nodded to his framed melodramatic photo of big John Wayne in his Green Beret getup. “You do know John Wayne was a draft dodger, don’t you?”

“What the hell’re you talkin’ about? Some lefty crap you thought up?”

“Not crap, Chief. Facts. It’s in several books. He decided against serving because he was afraid he wouldn’t have a career when he came back-even though most other stars enlisted. So they trumped up some health problem and the draft board went along with it because they’re part of Hollywood, too. So now you have big brave Duke calling war protestors draft dodgers. Kind of a hypocrite, wouldn’t you say?”

“Just because it’s in a book doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“No, but people who knew him at the time agreed that it was true.”

“Lefty crap.”

“Which is the reason you always give for sending your officers out to harass the people who live on that farm. Because they’re all ‘lefties.’ I thought we had an agreement you were going to lay off.”

“I’ll lay off when they start wearin’ shoes and having some respect for this country and cuttin’ their hair so you can tell the boys from the girls.”

“Yeah, that’s a real problem, all right. I get confused all the time.”

“You think it’s funny. But it sure as hell isn’t. A lot of people want to run ’em out on a rail. Reverend Cartwright says he can’t sleep at night thinkin’ of all the fornicatin’ that’s goin’ on out there.”

I couldn’t help myself. I smiled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just thinking of Reverend Cartwright and all that fornicating. Must be driving him crazy.” I stood up. “I take it we’re through here.”

“I don’t believe a word you said about John Wayne.”

“Up to you, Chief. But it’s true. He was a draft dodger.”

He waved me off. Then grinned. “You be careful walkin’ around town, McCain. There might be a teenage girl lookin’ for a fight. And you know how mean they can be.”

There wasn’t much point getting mad. I was going to be hearing a lot more of it in the days to come.

Harry Renwick, a guy my father had bowled with, led me past several prisoners. Two of them were former clients of mine. One waved and one smirked. The smirker still owed me money.

I’d used the two interrogation rooms many times. Harry opened the first door. I went in and sat down at a bare table with four chairs around it. I didn’t need to light up. There was about a carton of smoke still on the air from the last few interrogations.

“How’s your mom doing, Sam?”

“Still trying to believe Dad’s really gone.”

He smiled. “Those World War Two guys, they always told us we had it easy in Korea.”

It seemed more and more that the American Dream had turned into a war for every generation.

“Yeah, my dad could really get going sometimes.”

“He was a great guy, Sam. One of my best friends. And he sure was proud of you.” I’d wondered what was wrong with me after my father passed on. I never cried. I knew in the abstract I wanted to but somehow the tears never came. Now sometimes at odd moments I just wanted to let go. This was one of those moments, sitting here in an interrogation room where people were dragged to confess the terrible things they’d done-I just wanted to put my head down and wail for the father I loved so much. And who I’d never see again.

A knock on the half-opened door. Sarah Powers stood there in the two-piece maroon jail uniform. She looked heavy, pasty, and angry. The only fashion accessory she’d been allowed were the handcuffs. A police matron nudged her inside.

Harry pulled a chair back for her. She sat down. Only when she was seated for a time did I see how fatigue had drawn crevices in her face.