Эд Горман - Blood Moon

“Guess I don’t.”

“Him.”

“Him?”

He shook his head as if I were the biggest pea-brain who had ever lived. “Him. The dead guy. You know, Lodge. The guy in your closet.”

“Oh.”

“That’s all you’re gonna say? ‘Oh?’ ”

“What else do you want me to say?”

He shrugged. “You sure don’t act very shook up. Most folks would be goin’ crazy, findin’ a dead guy in their closet.” He looked at me sly, from the corners of his beady eyes. “ ’Less, of course, they happened to have killed the guy themselves.”

I wanted to give him a little grammar lesson, about the parts of speech and how singular has to agree with singular and so on, but I hate people who do stuff like that so I kept quiet.

He was just about to say something else when another auxiliary cop suddenly appeared on the edge of the motel driveway and called, “Chief wants you. Better get up here.”

“Damn,” he said.

“Don’t blame you for hating crime scenes,” I said, figuring I should be friendly, given what I was about to do as soon as he dragged himself away from here.

“Ain’t that. It’s the smokin’.”

“Smoking?”

“Yeah, she won’t let me smoke around her.”

“I see.”

“A man, he’d let you smoke.”

“He would, huh?”

“That’s the trouble with havin’ a woman chief of police. I mean, she’s smart enough and all, but she sure has a lot of rules.”

He pushed away from the car, dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, and then crushed it to tatters with the toe of his cordovan Texas boot.

“You be around in case she’s got some questions for you?”

“I’ll be around.”

“I’ll tell her.”

Before he left, he added an accouterment I hadn’t seen before, one of those Western-style hats I call a junior Stetson. I believe Matt Dillon wore one like this in the old Gunsmoke . Unfortunately for my friend here, the hat dwarfed his small head and only added to the roundness of his cheeks. He looked like the meanest ten-year-old on Maple Street.

He gave me the sort of hard, measuring glance that men about to have a gunfight give each other, and then he strolled off, ready to slap leather.

I pulled out the pair of rubber surgical gloves just about the time he reached the motel drive. I carry the gloves for just such opportunities as this one. Plus you can put them on your fingers and make funny animal shapes. If you know how, that is. Not everybody does.

When he was gone from sight, I tried the back door of the Toyota. It was locked. I tried front door, passenger side. Locked. I tried front door, driver side. Locked. I tried rear door, driver. Unlocked.

I worked quickly, constantly watching front and back windows for sight of any casual strollers. They would certainly remember, later, seeing me going through the dead man’s car.

Nothing, nothing, nothing was what I found until I came to the glove compartment, in which rested several envelopes held together with a wide rubber band.

Being the sort of inquisitive guy I am, and fully planning to give back every single thing I took — having years ago taken the Boy Scout pledge, I mean, and having lived my life accordingly ever since — I then, given my suspicious nature, started groping beneath the front seats. People often hide things there, apparently figuring that most crooks are so stupid they’ll never think to look there. Your standard crook, of course, having graduated from a certified crook school, knows enough to look under the seats right away.

I found nothing.

Soon as I could, I walked around to the rear of the car, glanced up and down, right and left, found the sidewalks momentarily empty and went to work, picking the lock as quickly as I could.

I was in and out in less than a minute, finding absolutely nada, unless you counted a spare tire and a pair of jumper cables.

I closed up the trunk and started walking slowly back to my motel, enjoying the clean, clear cold. May in Iowa usually encompasses several seasons, including winter at least three or four of the thirty-one days. Sweater weather, the locals call it, evoking images of a blazing fireplace, a very hot hot toddy and a beautiful girl whose eyes dance with the reflection of the fire. I hoped my night with the high sheriff of New Hope would offer at least a few of those pleasures.

So Samuel Lodge was the man who’d met McNally at the Brindle farm this afternoon. Presumably, anyway, since it was definitely his blue Toyota I had seen entering and exiting the barn.

And now Samuel Lodge was the man who’d been murdered in my room and stuffed into my closet.

These two thoughts kept me occupied as I walked back to my room.

I was engrossed enough in them that my mind didn’t register the scene in the steak-house window until I was several feet past it. Then I did a sort of double take — a subtle one, of course, nothing that Laurel and Hardy fans would like — and turned around.

I walked back down the street and looked in the window, which had a skin of moisture on it from the cold, and there they were.

The good reverend and two of his flock, namely Kenny Deihl and Mindy Lane.

None of them looked especially happy to see me.

I went inside, told the cashier I was only popping in to say hello to a few good and true friends, and then wended my way through tables of older people sawing steaks and inserting pieces of them into their mouths, all that time gabbing, smiling and turning A-l bottles upside down.

“Mind if I have a cup of coffee?” I said to the reverend.

“Would Jesus deny you a cup of coffee?” he responded.

I wanted to point out that, strictly speaking, I hadn’t been addressing Jesus, I had been addressing the reverend, but I sat down and ordered my cup of coffee anyway.

Mindy looked exceptionally pretty in a low-cut white blouse with an oversized lace collar and her hair pulled up dramatically from her face. This, I assumed, was the Religious Mindy, the fleshy sexuality only hinted at in the somewhat sullen mouth and the dozy but shrewd green eyes.

Kenny Deihl offered everybody at the table a nervous smile, as if hoping to effect some sort of truce between all of us. In his Western shirt and empty handsome face, he was the perennial B actor whose purpose in the movie was to learn some tough lessons in life from a sardonic John Wayne.

Then there was the reverend, funereal in blue suit and blue shirt and muted red tie. There was too much gold in his watch and cuff links for him to ever be a true friend of the Lord’s but he tried to make up for it in the almost-oppressive piety of the gaze and the somnolent platitudes uttered by his TV voice.

The waitress took my order for coffee. But she wasn’t going to give up on me as a customer. “We’ve got some good meat loaf tonight,” she said, and God, how good it sounded — but I didn’t figure that the high sheriff of New Hope would appreciate my chowing down right before our date.

“Sorry,” I said.

I looked around the restaurant briefly at all the husbands and wives of so many years, some of them brides and grooms for sixty years, I imagined, and I sensed such peace and belonging in them that I felt cast out, to suffer in the darkness with these three who seemed, each in his way, profoundly troubled.

“I understand that the body was found in your room,” the good reverend said.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Did you know him?” Mindy asked.

I shook my head. “No, not at all.”

She smiled. “He had a mighty sweet tongue on him, that one.”

The Reverend shot her a look of instant displeasure.

“What I remember about him,” Kenny Deihl said, “was that letter he wrote the Clarion about us not getting a tax exemption.”