Razzamatazz (A Crime Novel) (22 page)

He took his gun out of the holster, rested it on his leg. How many cops had taken their .38s and just left all their troubles behind? One of the first things he'd heard as a rookie were the stories about cops "eating their guns." Mostly big-city cops, but occasionally a country cop would stick the barrel in his mouth and pull the trigger. Hallock shut his eyes. The image was terrible. No matter how bad things got he couldn't imagine doing that. He returned the gun to its holster.

Lifting his butt, he pulled his Sam Browne around his waist and buckled it in front. Technically he wasn't supposed to wear the gun any longer, but he didn't want his mother to know what had happened. More than likely she wouldn't even notice, but sometimes she was surprisingly lucid. He picked up his cap, set it on his head, checked his rearview and caught a good look at his face. Christ almighty, he thought, who the hell is that? Quickly he got out of the car.

As always when he first entered the nursing home, his sense of smell was assaulted, but by the time he left he had become used to it. As nursing homes went this one was pretty good, he was told. Still, there was no way to avoid the institutional feeling of the place, light green walls, tile floors, the hollow sound as you walked to your destination.

"Hi, Chief," June Lynch, the head nurse, called.

He hadn't the heart to tell her he was no longer the chief. "Hey there, June. How you doing?"

From under her cap yellow curls, like dandelions, framed her face. "Okay. You?"

What was she going to think when she heard? That he was a damn liar, that's what. "Doing fine. How's my mom?"

June came out from behind the desk, stuck a skinny arm through his and walked down the hall with him. "Well, Chief, she's in and out today, know what I mean?"

"Uh-huh."

"But she's been a good girl. Ate all her lunch."

"That's good."

Marion Hallock was tied in her wheel chair, staring straight ahead.

June shouted, "Look who's here, Mrs. Hallock!"

Hallock knew his mother wasn't deaf, guessed June was just in the habit of shouting at her patients.

"Your best beau," June added.

The left side of Marion's face drooped. When she spoke she looked like she was sneering. "Not my beau," she said with contempt, "he's my son. My beau's dead."

June knew Marion's husband was very much alive. "Isn't she something?" she said to Hallock, trying to make a joke out of it. "She's our Peck's bad girl sometimes."

Marion looked disgusted and turned away.

"Well, have a nice visit. See you later."

Hallock kissed his mother on the forehead. She looked up at him, pale blue eyes like bleached denim. "Woman's a horse's ass."

Hallock smiled. "Ah, Mom, she's just trying to be friendly."

"What for? Got all the friends I need. Saying you're my beau. Stupid. My beau's dead."

"Why are you saying that, Mom? Dad's not dead." He sat on the edge of the bed.

"Oh, him," she said contemptuously.

"Who else?"

The right side of her face smiled. "Never mind. Just forget it."

Hallock remembered some garbled story about his mother and Ben Davis, the Chrysler dealer in Bay View, about forty years ago. He couldn't recall the details now, the whole thing had been hazy then. "You talking about Ben Davis, Mom?" He took her good hand in his.

"He's dead," she said, not looking at him. "Died in that fire."

"What fire?"

"That damn club."

"Oh, yeah." Hallock remembered that most people had gotten out but ten or twelve had died. He'd forgotten Ben Davis was one of them. Who else? It was twenty, twenty-five years ago, he couldn't remember. "Was Ben Davis your beau?"

Marion Hallock touched a wisp of white hair that had fallen loose from her bun, then tucked it back in place. "Don't go playing chief of police with me, Waldo. I don't go for it."

"I'll never do it again," he said. "I promise." And he never would, not with her, not with anyone. Suddenly the reality of his dismissal was shattering. He wished he were small enough to sit in his mother's lap, have her stroke his hair, kiss his cheeks, tell him not to worry, it would all work out.

Marion broke through his thoughts. "Who are you?" she asked, pulling her hand from his. "Just who the hell are you?"

"Mom," he whispered.

"I'm going to ring for the nurse if you don't get yourself out of here. Policeman or no policeman."

"No policeman," he said.

"What's that?"

He bent to kiss her. She pulled back.

"Get," she commanded.

"So long, Mom. See you tomorrow."

"Don't come back here, I'll get the real police." Hallock said, "Yeah, you do that." He hurried down the hall, ducked past the front desk and got outside before anyone could see the tears streaking his face.

----

Colin stared at the hill of fried rice on his plate, the moo shu pork, its pancake slowly unwrapping. He'd been stunned by Babe's parting shot, and dutifully followed her to the Peking Palace.

"You're not eating," Babe said.

"I told you I wasn't hungry. What do you want, Babe?" He pushed the plate to one side, lit a cigarette.

"Are you going to smoke while I eat?"

"Yes."

"That's rude, Colin."

"Tough. What do you want?" She'd been playing a game, refusing to talk until the food came. Now it was here, and she still wasn't talking. "Either you tell me what you have up your sleeve or I'm leaving."

"I don't think so," she said, a piece of rice stuck on her lower lip.

She was right, of course, she had him by the short hairs. Colin stared at the grain of rice clinging to her mouth. "I came to this goddamn place with you, so what are you waiting for? Tell me what you want, for Christ's sake."

She picked up her roll of moo shu pork. Colin grabbed her wrist, squeezed. "You're hurting me," she said.

"That's the idea." He tightened his grip and her hand opened, the filling dropping from the unfurled pancake.

"Stop it," she hissed, looking frantically around the room, fearful they'd be seen.

"Then tell me what you want."

"All right, let go."

He did. The pancake clung to her palm for a moment, then dropped with a splat onto the plate.

"You're a bastard," she said, rubbing her wrist. "You could have broken it."

"I'm waiting," he said.

"It's simple. I know about your wife and children."

"Know what?"

"I know they were murdered."

"So?"

"I know you were a suspect."

"So?"

"I know they never found the killer."

"So?"

"It's an unsolved case."

"I'm not getting your drift, Babe."

"No? That's funny, I thought you were kind of bright. I guess you can't ever tell by appearances, can you?" She sat back in her chair, continuing to rub her wrist.

"You're not telling me anything I don't know."

"Well, how about this then: Other people in this town who don't know about it might find it very interesting, like your boss maybe?"

Colin smiled, blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "He already knows."

Her face fell like a bad soufflé. "I don't believe it."

"Ask him."

She leaned toward him, her hands clutching the edge of the table. "Do the police know, too?"

"No, the police don't know. I take it you mean Schufeldt."

"Any police."

"So what's your point, Babe? Are you blackmailing me?"

She laughed like the sound of squealing tires. "Oh, I love it. I just love it. Blackmail!" she snorted.

"What then?"

She lit a cigarette, let the smoke curl out from her mouth and drift upwards while she looked at Colin from under heavy lids. And then she began to blink, eyes watering.

Colin laughed. "You don't make a good Mata Hari, Babe."

"Fuck you," she said.

"Oh, is that what this is about?"

She dropped the cigarette in the metal ashtray and wiped her eyes with her napkin. A trail of mascara streaked one cheek. "What this is all about," she snarled, "is that for the first time in its history, the North Fork has had a rash of unexplained killings and among its citizens is a man who, in his past, was involved in three murders. Coincidence? Maybe."

Rage worked its way up from Colin's gut to his chest. "Are you implying that I not only killed my family but I've killed the four people here as well?"

She picked up the chopsticks, caught some moo shu pork between them, popped it into her mouth, and began to chew, a slight smile playing around her lips.

"Babe, answer my question," he demanded.

"Let's put it this way, Colin: it makes a damn good story."

He was grateful that they were in a public place. He'd never felt this kind of rage before. The anger he'd experienced over his family being murdered was different. That was laced with abandonment, helplessness, the fury free-floating. But this anger was clear and pointed. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that, Babe."

"Really? Why?"

Colin breathed deeply, trying to ward off the beginning of a panic attack. "A good story for whom?" he asked softly.

"Well, I was thinking about the
Seaville Gazette
, but since Mark knows who he's got working for him I guess that's out. But I'd bet
Newsline
wouldn't be above using it."

Under the table he could feel his legs shaking. "So why have you told me, if that's what you plan to do?"

"I thought maybe we could make a deal?"

"Like what?"

"I want your job, Colin. And I deserve your job. I've worked for Mark since the beginning. We had a tacit agreement that I'd be the next managing editor, at least I thought we had. Then you got the job. It wasn't fair."

"What is?" he interjected.

"So how about it?"

Colin's breathing was accelerating; he was beginning to feel lightheaded. "How about what?"

"Your job. Aren't you listening?"

"You expect me to hand over my job to you? Don't be stupid. Even if I were to leave, what makes you think Mark would give my job to you?"

"He would. He'd have to."

Colin laughed. "You have stuff on Mark, too?"

Her eyes were cold. "The reason Mark gave you my job was because he was an old friend, and you were having some kind of breakdown in New Jersey. He thought a job on a country paper might help you. That wasn't hard to find out. But if you left there's no doubt the job would be mine."

The shakes were beginning to crawl up his body into his arms. He had to get out of there. "And if I don't leave?"

She shrugged. "I guess I'll have to give out the story."

Colin pushed back his chair, got unsteadily to his feet. "You know what you are, Babe?"

"Before you tell me, let me say one more thing. I don't think Annie Winters would really like going out with a murder suspect, do you?"

He wanted to throttle her, instead he clutched the back of the chair.

"Steady there, big guy."

There was no use trying to hang on so he could tell her what a shit she was. He forced himself to walk through the restaurant and out. When he got to his car he grabbed the handle, wrenched open the door, and fell inside.

Leaning back, head against the seat, he tried to regulate his breathing. But the roof began to crumble and crack, the doors closing in on him. He shut his eyes. Immediately Nancy's cut and bleeding face swam round in the blackness, the sounds of his children calling for help surrounding him. He opened his eyes. Black and yellow spots danced in his line of vision. Dizziness overcame him and he gripped the wheel for support, his knuckles growing white.

A knock made him jump. He turned to see Babe bent down, her face separated from his by the window. "I'm not fooling around," she said. "If you don't quit I'm giving this story to
Newsline
. You have until noon tomorrow." She left.

Slowly Colin's breathing became regular, the car interior returning to its original shape. He felt exhausted. He had no doubts that Babe would carry out her threat and that once the story appeared he'd have to leave Seaville. Despite the murders he'd grown fond of the town and wanted to stay. Most of all he wanted to get to know Annie better. If ever he needed Mark to be there for him, he needed him now, he thought. And then he wondered why that made him uneasy.

LOOKING BACK
—75 YEARS AGO

Elisha Congdon of Seaville, who claims to have great power from the Almighty, is in the public eye again. He returned recently from Atlanta, Ga., where he went to the federal authorities in a vain attempt to secure the release of Mr. M. Silver, who is in the federal prison there, serving a term for his religious acts. Elisha says Mr. Silver is all right except for a dent in his forehead.

TWENTY-FOUR

Fran said, "What're you doing, Waldo?" She was watching him throw socks and underwear into his beat-up old suitcase.

"I'm packing," he answered. He was wearing a green polo shirt she'd given him for his birthday, worn jeans, and high-topped Keds. His gun was on the bed next to the suitcase.

"Packing for what?"

"I'm leaving." He opened a drawer and pulled out some shirts.

"I went down to the station looking for you when you didn't come home. I wanted to be with you. I was driving around looking for you, hon'."

He slapped the shirts into the case. "We've had it, Fran."

"Meaning?" She put a hand on the suitcase lid.

Hallock glanced at her hand, went back to the bureau, grabbed a bunch of T-shirts. "It means just what it says." He wouldn't look at her.

"I don't understand. Explain."

"Ha!"

"Ha?"

"Yeah, ha! I should explain? That's a good one."

She slammed the suitcase shut and sat on it. "Waldo, what the hell is this? Are you leaving because of what happened today at the meeting?"

"Now you're getting smart. Get off the goddamn suitcase." For the first time he looked at her, the grooves under her slanting, sad eyes deeper.

"Oh, Waldo, that didn't have anything to do with me."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Then what the hell were you doing there with those gals, right in the row with Julia Dorman and the rest?"