The Day the Music Died (19 page)

“Did Susan ever mention blackmail to you?”

“Blackmail? Are you kidding?”

“No. Apparently somebody was getting money from her for quite a while.”

“God, she never mentioned anything like that.”

“Did Kenny know about the affair she had with Renauld?”

“No. She didn’t tell him.”

“Could he have found out some other way?”

“He could have. But I don’t think he did.”

She started stamping her feet a little to stay warm. “You want to go upstairs?”

“I’m almost done.”

“I’m starting to freeze, McCain.”

“So she didn’t mention any blackmail to you?”

“Nope.”

“When she ended it with Renauld, did he ever threaten her?”

“Several times. She used to joke that he had a lousy bedside manner. He was in med school for a while, you know.”

“Renauld was?”

“At the U of I.”

“I didn’t know that.” I thought of what Doc Novotony had said about the abortionist possibly being a med student who knew just enough to be dangerous. Would that apply to somebody who’d dropped out of med school?

“You ever
hear
him threaten her?”

“No. But she wasn’t the kind to lie. And she was definitely afraid of him.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s not exactly the most stable guy in the world.”

She started slapping her mittened hands together. “Now I’ve got to pee, McCain. C’mon. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Actually, that’s all I needed.”

“Good. Because my bladder can’t hold out for long.”

She was already starting up the steps. “I still think Kenny killed her, McCain. He hated her and he hated himself—the booze had pickled his brains—and that’s what happened the other night.”

“Thanks again, Debbie. And tell Mike it was nice seeing him.”

I was two blocks from Debbie’s when I saw a red police light bloom into bloody brilliance in the gloom behind me. I pulled over to the curb.

Cliffie just about burst out of his squad car. His right hand rode his low-slung gun all the way up to my car.

He peeked in and said, “You happen to catch the news on the boob tube tonight?”

“No. Unlike some people I know, I have to work for a living.”

“And I’m talkin’ CBS news, McCain, not that local shit they put on around here.”

“So what was on the news?”

“The Whitney family was on the news. How shocked the East Coast part of the family is that Kenny went and killed his wife and then killed himself. The CBS news, McCain.” He grinned, his dip-shit mustache as obnoxious as always. “So that kinda makes it official, don’t you think? Kenny killed his wife and then killed himself. Case closed. And the poor judge—boy, I’ll bet she’s never been so embarrassed in all her life. You tell her how sorry I am for her.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along.”

He smiled again. “I’d sure appreciate that, McCain. I sure would.”

He started giggling. And then he walked back to his car. The red light was still on. He was one for drama, our Cliffie was, no doubt about that.

I pulled into the driveway. There were no downstairs lights on. Mrs. Goldman was probably at a movie. Even with her new TV set, she still went to the movies regularly. TV just wasn’t the same. Besides, she sort of had this movie crush on Jimmy Stewart. She said she’d never liked him, or even considered him very manly, until he started making westerns. The Avalon had a double feature showing last year, the lonely night of the anniversary of her husband’s death, so I packed her off to a restaurant for some Chinese food and then we went to the movies,
The Naked Spur
with Stewart and
Seven Men from Now
with Randolph Scott. Great films and she had a grand time.

I went up the back stairs. Frost shone on the steps. I had to hold on to the handrail. I stopped and looked up at the moon and stars again. I thought of Sputnik and the space program that was going on at the University of Iowa. People like me didn’t look quite so foolish anymore, buying science fiction magazines. Except for the ones where green and many-tentacled monsters were ravishing earth girls in bikinis. We probably weren’t going to find a race of horny monsters in outer space, ray gun in one tentacle and a Trojan in the other.

I got the back door opened and reached around to flick on the light. A voice said, “Please don’t turn on the light.”

“Mary?”

“I’m smoking one of your cigarettes. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Since when do you smoke?”

“Since tonight, I guess.”

I closed the door and came into the living room. I could see her now, sitting in the overstuffed chair. She looked small and young. The alley light cast everything in stark patches of wan light and brilliant shadow, like a Humphrey Bogart movie.

I took my coat off and sat on the couch. She took another drag on the cigarette and then started hacking. “I guess I don’t know how to smoke.”

“Good. It’s not good for you.”

“You smoke.”

“I know. But you’re a lot smarter than I am.”

“Oh, shit, McCain.”

“What?”

“It was awful.”

“What was?”

“Tonight. With Wes. At the pharmacy.”

“What happened?”

“People told him about you and me. You know, last night. Out in the woods and everything.”

“Oh.”

“I know you think he’s a jerk, McCain. But the way he was raised—his father’s a real Bible-thumper and beat him all the time. You should see him in a swimming suit. You can see these old scars and old welts all over his back. He’s got some of that Bible-thumper stuff in him. That’s the part I hate. But the other part—”

We sat there and didn’t say anything for a while.

“You want anything to drink?” I said.

“No, thanks.”

We went silent again. I heard cars passing out on the street. A couple of times, light trucks went by and the windows vibrated. The cats came out and looked us over and apparently didn’t find us particularly exciting. They went back into the bedroom.

She said, “He cried.”

“Tonight, you mean?”

“Yes. After I got done working, he was waiting for me out in back. He was in his car. He told me to get in. Usually, when I make him mad, he kind of shouts at me. But tonight he was quiet. Real quiet. He kind of scared me a little bit, in fact. The way he just kept looking at me. So I got in the car. I was afraid not to. And then he took me for a ride. I don’t think he knew where he was going. He was just driving, you know how you just drive around sometimes. And then when we were out in the park and driving by the duck pond, he started crying. Just sobbing. I didn’t know what to do.”

She frowned. “Then we got out of the car and walked on the hill above the swimming pool. It looks real strange in winter, like ancient ruins or something. Then he finally talked. He told me how much he loved me and that he knew I loved you and knew that you loved Pamela and that he didn’t know what to do about it. And then he said that even if I didn’t love him now, he was sure I’d love him someday, and that we should still go through with the marriage and pick out a house and plan to have a kid and everything.”

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“You’ve succeeded in doing the impossible.”

“What?”

“He’s one of the most pompous, arrogant bastards in the valley and now you’ve got me feeling sorry for him. His dad beats him, you and I damned near crushed him and now he’s willing to marry you even if you don’t love him.”

“I feel terrible.”

“So do I.”

“Maybe I love him, McCain, and don’t even realize it.”

“Maybe.”

“God, McCain, what should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“I feel like a whore.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“I don’t even know if I love you anymore, McCain.”

“It’d be easier if you didn’t.”

“Easier for who?”

I paused. “For all three of us. You and him and me.”

“I guess you’re right.” Then, “I really do feel like a whore, McCain.”

I thought of Ruthie saying that. Ruthie and Mary were about as far from being whores as you could get. And yet they didn’t seem to believe that.

The phone rang. In the shadows, the rings were loud, ominous. I didn’t get it until the fourth ring. The phone was on the cigarette-scarred coffee table along with the new issues of
Playboy
and
Manhunt.

A voice said, “He wants to talk to you, McCain.” No amenities. Lurlene Greene.

“Where is he?”

“Here. Home.”

“Why didn’t Darin call me himself?”

“I had to talk him into it.”

“I see.”

“He’s waiting for you.”

“He sober?”

Mary was on her feet, pushing her arms into her coat. She gave me a wan little wave and went to the back door. I waved her off, pointing to the chair, indicating she should sit down. I didn’t want her to leave in the mood she was in. I felt a surge of affection for her. I wanted to hold her, smell her hair, feel her mouth on mine. Sometimes, I felt just as confused as she did.

“Are you coming out?” Lurlene asked.

Mary left quietly. I went back to the phone conversation.

“As soon as I can. Half an hour, say.”

“I don’t know how long I can hold him, Mr. McCain. You best hurry.” She hung up.

I
WAS HALFWAY DOWN
the stairs before I realized there was a car in the alley. I recognized the new Buick. It belonged to Wes, the pharmacist. Mary’s Wes. The engine was running, the parking lights were on. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I could see two people sitting in the front seat, Wes and Mary.

I felt sick. I wasn’t afraid of him, but I was embarrassed for him. I’d followed Pamela to all kinds of unlikely places over the years. Sometimes, when I needed to see her, it was like a fever coming over me. I wasn’t quite aware of what I was doing. I was all raw need. And then I’d see her and it would be all right. Just seeing her was enough.

There’s a kind of symmetry to love affairs ending in cars. That’s where most of them start and have since the days of the Model-T. You start out necking and then it gets more serious and then pretty soon you’re going all the way. You read a lot of magazine articles about how men are always walking out on women, but I know an awful lot of men who’ve been walked out on, too. Whenever I hear one sex or the other trying to stake a claim on virtue, I generally leave the room.

They sat there in the alley light, the Buick handsome and imposing, sleek as all hell. You could faintly hear words spoken. Gentle words. And those hurt more than the harsh ones. A lot of times, you don’t mean the harsh ones. You just kind of blurt them out unthinkingly. But the gentle ones, man, those are the killers; the considered words; the I-don’t-want-to-hurt-your-feelings words; the final words.

Then the driver’s door opened and Wes awkwardly got out of the car and shouted over the rooftop. “C’mon, you son of a bitch, let’s get this over with!”

I don’t know which surprised me more, that he wanted to fight or that he was sloppy drunk.

He came around the back of the car, slipping and sliding in stumbling drunken anger, throwing his fists up like old John L. Sullivan in the days of bare-knuckle fighting.

“You son of a bitch!” he said.

Mary burst out of the passenger door.

“Wes! Wes! Stop it! Stop it!”

“You son of a bitch!” he yelled at me again. I’d have to teach this boy some new swear words.

I stood next to the garbage cans and watched Mary try to stop him from coming at me. At first, she seemed to do a pretty good job. He put his gloved fists down, anyway. He looked lost and frantic, the way drunks get when the booze is turning ugly in them.

Then he went around her. She grabbed for him but slipped and went down on one knee on the ice.

And then he was there in front of me. His fists came back up and he started swinging. He caught me a square one right on the temple, surprising me. There was some ego involved, too. He was a stuffy man and stuffy men shouldn’t be able to throw punches like that.

Mary was screaming at him again and then it was all frenzy because he leaped on me and started choking me. You know how it gets in fights—all kinds of things going on at the same time, little explosions of anger and fear and confusion, the neighborhood dogs suddenly starting to yowl, sweat and blood and snot covering my face. That was when I kicked him in the balls. I know that’s something that heroes never do, take those dirty little shortcuts that frequently mean victory, but he was too big and I was not exactly a great fighter. I got him good, real good. He screamed and then he started to flail backward. Mary grabbed him to keep him from falling and then he lunged to the right of her and started throwing up. You never see this in movies, the vomiting, but a lot of parking lot puking goes on after two drunks have at each other. Then he went facedown in the snow and Mary screamed and sank down beside him and started rolling him over so she could see his face. When she got him on his back, he started crying and it was so miserable, that sound—those tears went all the way back to his childhood—and I felt like shit for so many reasons all I could do was walk away, around the side of the house to my car and drive away and head out for Darin Greene’s place.

I
N THE SNOW AND
moonlight, the trailer court looked snug and cozy. Window lights seemed inviting and the silver flash of TV screens promised fun and excitement. Friday nights like this,
77 Sunset Strip
was on, one of those entertainingly improbable private-eye shows where the hero drives a new T-bird and even nuns throw themselves at him.

Passing the trailers leading to Darin Greene’s, I heard babies cry, Fats Domino sing, a couple argue and a car being jump-started.

When I pulled up to Greene’s trailer, I saw Lurlene Greene stashing two small children into Darin’s battered Olds convertible. I started to pull into a parking spot but Darin slammed out of the trailer and waved me away.

“You don’t have no business here, man,” he said. “Now get your ass out of here.”

“Your wife asked me to come out.”