John MacDonald - The Deep Blue Good-Bye

“Then Brell, if still living, is the next man to talk to.”

“I know where you can find him.”

“Really!”

He hesitated. It was the business syndrome. He had something somebody else wanted and he had to stop for a moment to consider what advantage might be gained. This reflex brought him all the way back from the jungly old war in the back alcove of memory, where he was Lieutenant Callowell, agile, quick and very concerned about the ways of hiding and controlling the fear he felt every day.

He fell back into the portly disguise of William M. Callowell, cushioned with money and authority, shrewd builder and bidder, perhaps privately worried about impotence, audits and heart attacks. I could sense he did not often think of the war. There are middle-aged children who spend a part of every day thinking of their college or their war, but the ones who grow up to be men do not have this plaintive need for a flavor of a past importance, and Callowell was one of these.

He relit his pipe, shifted his weight. “Two years ago there was a short article in Newsweek about our operation, in connection with the Interstate program. They used my picture. I got letters from people I hadn’t heard from in years. Brell wrote me from Harlingen, Texas, sounding like a dear old flyboy buddy, which he wasn’t. Letterhead stationery, thick parchment bond, tricky type-face. Srell Enterprises I think it was. One inch of congratulations to me, and a yard of crap about how well he was doing, closing with the hope we could get together and talk over old times. I answered it with a very short cool note, and I’ve heard nothing since.”

“You didn’t like the man.”

“For no reason I can put my finger on, McGee. We had dull, dirty, dangerous duty over there, but, after all, it was Air Transport Command. Brell was the tailored uniform type, with the hundred mission cap, and when we were in Calcutta he’d put on the right hardware and turn himself into a Flying Tiger and cut one hell of a swath through the adoring lassies. And he toted a thirty-eight with pearl grips instead of the regulation forty-five. And he didn’t like to make landings. He would get very sweaty and overcontrol when he made landings.”

“He would have the information on David Berry, then.”

“If he’s willing to talk. If he was in on it, on any cute money on the side, why should he talk to anybody about it?”

“I’ve leveled with you, Mr. Callowell, but I might try something else with Brell.”

“And use my name in vain, McGee?”

“It might occur to me.”

“I would advise against it. We have lawyers without enough to do. They get restless.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“I don’t often do this much talking for so little reason, McGee. You have a nice touch. You’re an eager listener. You smile in the right places. It puts people on. And, of course, you haven’t leveled with me.”

“How can you say such a thing!”

He chuckled and pulled himself to his feet. “End of session, McGee. Good night and good luck.” At the door he turned and said, “I’ll have you checked out, of course. Just for the hell of it. I’m a careful and inquisitive man.”

“Can I make it easier by giving you my address?”

He winked. “Slip F-18. Bahia Mar. Lauderdale.”

“Mr. Callowell, I am impressed.”

“Mr. McGee, any reasonably honest man in the construction industry either sets up his own CIA or he goes broke.” He chuckled again and trudged toward the elevators, trailing fragrant smoke.

IN THE morning I placed a station call to the number listed for George Brell in Harlingen. I got a lazy-toned switchboard operator who put me through to a sharp-voiced secretary who said that Mr. Brell was not in his office yet. As she had no way of knowing it was a long distance call, I side-stepped her request for my name and said I would phone later.

Then I phoned my barge boat. After three rings, I heard her voice, small, tense, cautious. “Hello?”

“This is your night nurse speaking.”

“Trav! Thank God.”

“What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

“Nothing in particular. Just… I don’t know… tension, I guess. I got so used to you being nearby. I hear sounds. And I jump. And I had bad dreams.”

“Cook them out in the sun.”

“I’m going to. On the beach, maybe. When are you coming back?”

“I’m going to Texas today.”

“What?”

“There’s a man there I want to see. I might be back there by Friday, but I’m not certain. Take your pills, honey. Don’t agitate yourself. Eat; sleep and keep busy. You’re smack in the middle of hundreds of boats and thousands of people.”

“Trav, a woman phoned and she’s most anxious to get in touch with you. She said it’s an emergency. It sort of put her off stride to have a woman answer and say you’re away. I said you might phone and she said to tell you to phone her. Miss McCall. With a very strange first name. I don’t know if I have it right?”

“Chookie.”

“That’s it.”

I had her look in my book and give me the number. By the time I hung up, Lois sounded pretty good. I wondered if I had been a damn fool not to lock up the liquor supply or at least to arrange to have somebody stay with her. Hurry home, Mother McGee. People have their acquired armor, made up of gestures and expressions and defensive chatter. Lois’s had all been brutally stripped awy, and I knew her as well as anybody ever had or ever would. I knew her from filled teeth to the childhood apple tree, from appendix scar to wedding night, and it was time for her to start growing her new carapace, with me on the outside. I caught her raw, and did not care to be joined to her by scar tissue when healing began.

Chook’s phone went to nine rings before she answered in the gritty rancor of interrupted sleep. But her voice changed when she recognized mine. “Trav! I phoned you last night. Who is that Mrs. Atkinson?”

“One of your more successful rivals.”

“I mean really. Is she the one that whosis took on when he dropped Cathy?”

“Yes.”

“Trav, I phoned about Cathy. She worked the first show last night. She seemed fine. And then they found her unconscious out on the beach there at the hotel. She’d been terribly beaten. Her face is a mess. Two broken fingers. They don’t know yet if there’s any internal injuries. She regained consciousness before they got her to the hospital. The police questioned her. She told them she went out to walk on the beach and somebody jumped her and beat her up. She couldn’t give them a description. I talked to her next, after they’d given her a sedative. She acted very strange about it. I think it was him, Trav. She won’t be able to work for two weeks anyway, maybe longer. She’s really a mess.”

“Does she want to talk to me?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to amybody. It’s in the paper today. Show girl assaulted on private beach. Mysterious assailant and so on.”

“Are you going to see her today?”

“Of course!”

“I might not get back before Saturday. Look in on Lois Atkinson if you get a chance. Our friend left her in pretty sad shape. She’s a lady.”

“Oh, really?”

“With ragged edges. You’ll like her, I think. Make girl talk. Then I’ll try to phone you tonight at the hotel, for a report on both of them.”

“McGee’s clinic?”

“The Junior Allen discard club. Take care.”

A travel office at the hotel helped me find the best way to get to the Rio Grande Valley. A direct 707 out of Idlewild to Houston, a two hour layover and then a feeder flight down to Harlingen with one stop at Corpus Christi. I had barely missed a better deal, and so I could take my time getting out of Idlewild.