I TRIED TO DISENTANGLE myself, but Mrs. Sturtevant hadn’t seen the newcomer and it was like wrestling a nest of pythons. The nurse paused in mid-step, then continued past briskly and picked up the police novel from the arm of the easy chair. She didn’t look at us on her way back to the bedroom.
I got loose, seized my glass, and emptied it in one installment. That was a shame, because it was good Scotch. “I’ll have a typewritten report in the mail tomorrow,” I said, standing. “As of now I’m a free agent.”
She remained as I had left her, looking up at me from the cushions on the end of the sofa and breathing like a marathon loser. “If you’re worried about Nadine, forget her. She’s the soul of discretion.”
“It’s not her I’m worried about. There are a lot of things I’d do for your husband, because I owe him. Assuming his matrimonial duties isn’t one of them.”
“St. Amos the Incorruptible,” she said acidly. “I wasn’t exactly alone on this couch.”
“I didn’t say you were, Mrs. Sturtevant. But when a man’s on the wagon it’s not a good idea to hang around liquor stores. I know a couple of good local P.I.s who might be persuaded to take an interest in this case; I’ll include their names in the report.” I started out.
“Wait! Please.”
I waited. She struggled into a sitting position, grabbed her purse off the coffee table, and clawed a cigarette out of a fresh pack. I was right there with a match, but she set fire to it herself with a table lighter. I’m not fast enough for today’s woman. She drew the smoke deep, then lifted a hand and swept back a lock of blond hair with that gesture no one ever has to teach them.
“I don’t want you going away thinking what a whore I am,” she said. “In six years of marriage that’s the closest I’ve come to cheating on Van—not that there weren’t plenty of opportunities in our crowd. And it isn’t even that, really. You can’t cheat a man out of something he can’t have anymore. You don’t know what it’s been like this past—how long has it been since the shooting?”
“A little over two weeks.”
“My God, it seems like two years. I’m not trying to excuse my behavior, just explaining my position. For a few moments there I wasn’t an invalid cop’s wife. It felt damn good.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations, Mrs. Sturtevant.”
“I owe myself one. Oh hell, this is beginning to sound like Ryan’s Hope.” She mashed out the smoke after only a couple of drags. Then she looked at me. “Don’t abandon the investigation. You can report by telephone if you like. I’ll put it on a paying basis.”
“How much?”
Her mouth fell open a little. Then she drew it shut, and there were hard lines at the corners. “How much will it take?” Her voice was cold.
“You tell me,” I said. “What’s a little girl’s life worth? What’s the sticker on a private agent’s relationship with the police that he’s worked years to build? How much will you bid on each bone that gets broken before this thing is wrapped up?”
She was staring at me. “I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t expect you to. I’m not making a lot of sense tonight. That’s how much I owe Van. When I have something I’ll call.”
“Just call?” She sounded smug.
“I said I was on the wagon.”
I hopped a cab to my Hamtramck abode, which looked the way I felt. The air inside was hot and stale and little curls of dust twitched and danced on the living room rug when I opened the windows. I got out the sweeper and did what I could with it, then emptied the contraption into the kitchen wastebasket and dragged into the bathroom for a hot and then a cold shower. The icy water pricked at my various cuts and bruises like dentists’ needles. The thick tape around my abdomen felt like a suit of armor.
I toweled off carefully and stepped into a fresh pair of shorts. If I had a wife, she might have had a drink waiting for me when I emerged from the bathroom, but I didn’t anymore, and the one I’d had never had been home anyway. Three years married to her had put me in fine shape for bachelorhood. I mined out a bottle of Haig & Haig I’d given myself for Christmas, poured some of its contents over ice in a glass, and went into the living room carrying the glass and the bottle.
The TV listing had Robert Mitchum starring in Thunder Road at ten o’clock. I made a note to see it again, but nothing came of that. I passed out in my chair halfway through a rerun of a situation comedy, which considering the program was just as well. But I hated missing Thunder Road.
I woke up with my head doubled under me and a stiff back to go with my neck. I felt chilled. Daylight bled feeble gray through the windows, but the wall clock my grandfather had bought for my great-grandmother when he was nine years old said it was already 7:45. I stood and stretched, my bones cracking. The carpet was damp where I stood barefoot looking out one of the open windows. According to the thermometer on the back porch, the temperature had dropped eighteen degrees since last night. I sneezed. That figured.
There was nothing to eat in the house, but I didn’t cry over it. My head was echoing from all that Scotch, and half the Third World had tramped through my mouth overnight without anyone pausing to wipe his feet. I fixed up the coffeemaker and left it gurgling while I shaved and dressed. Studying my reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink, I decided that the swelling had gone down some. Then I decided it hadn’t. But I didn’t feel as sore as I had the day before.
An hour later, coffeed up and sporting a comparatively fresh suit, I finished putting another hack’s son through college and presented myself at police headquarters, where a glowering Lieutenant Alderdyce gave me a voucher for my car. In pinstripe shirtsleeves with the cuffs turned back and his tie at half-mast, he still looked sportier than I had at my wedding.
“Pry anything out of Bassett?” I asked.
“He was born without handles.” He yawned, not bothering to cover it. The memory of acid coffee and stale tobacco clung to the elevator-car-size office. That, and a shower and a change of clothes in the locker room, seemed to be as close as he’d come to a night’s rest. “He hung on to that story about finding the commune deserted till it bled. We couldn’t keep him, but I’ve got a man on him while his background is being checked.” He snorted. “That ought to read like The Life and Legend of Wyatt Earp.”
“He’ll shake your man like tissue off his shoe.” I made my voice casual. “Any ID yet on the girl?”
“The papers, radio, and TV are running a description of her later this morning. She’s Jane Doe until someone comes forward. Forget the neighbors; we barely got out of there yesterday without busting heads. We tracked down the gymnasium’s owner up in St. Clair Shores, but he doesn’t know anything about the girl. Says he rented the place a year ago to a black dude who gave his name as Woods. Always pays on time and in cash by special messenger. We’re looking into that, but I’ll lay odds Woods is this year’s John Smith.”
“Speaking of Smiths,” I said.
His face shut down with a bang. “You’ve got your car back. Roll.”
I took his advice. On my way through the squad room I met Sergeant Hornet and his maroon jacket. He held up short, leaning backward slightly to counter the forward pull of his paunch.
“That’s some new development in the Smith case,” I observed.
His dishwasher-colored eyes drifted past my shoulder to Alderdyce’s door, then back to me. He smiled a fat man’s smile, tugging the corners of his mouth out a fraction of an inch. “Tough titty, shamus,” he said. “Ain’t no fishing allowed up here.”
We parted company. Hornet wasn’t that cagey. If there’d been any new developments he’d have tumbled.
At the impound I went around with the attendant about some scratches the lab crew had left on my rear fenders, with results predictable and profane. They hadn’t even put gas in the tank. I filled up at a station down the street and continued on to Barry Stackpole’s new place on Lafayette, three blocks away from his cubicle at the News, after a stop at a liquor store for two fifths of McMaster’s.
“Park ’em anywhere,” said the columnist from behind his portable typewriter as I entered the apartment on his invitation. The fingers of his left hand flew over the keys. He seldom used its mate, two fingers of which had gone the way of his right leg and part of his skull when his car blew up in his face a few years back. There was also a steel plate under his reconstructed features that gave him fearsome migraines in cold weather. A big Luger lay close-at-hand atop a stack of pages next to the machine, but it wasn’t a paperweight. The kind of enemies Barry made didn’t forget.
I swept some crumpled sheets off a glass-topped secretary and set down the paper sack containing the two bottles. He was using a folding card table for his work because there wasn’t room under the secretary to straighten out his artificial leg. A large suitcase stood next to the door, positioned for swift collection on the way out. “Still on the move, I see.”
“Ten minutes later and you’d have missed me entirely.” He struck the final key with a flourish and tore the sheet out of the typewriter.
“Another telephone call? Who from this time, blacks or Sicilians?”
“Would you believe the Columbians?” After scooping the Luger into his hip pocket, he got up and shuffled the pages.
“The cocaine connection,” I said.
He impaled me with his crystal-blues. We were about the same age, but unlike mine his sandy hair was untouched by gray and he never seemed to tire. “That’s the title of my column. Who talked?”
“Nobody had to. Next to Ted Getner at the Freep you’re the fastest man with a cliché I know.”
“Screw Ted Getner and screw the Free Press, and while you’re at it, screw you.” He closed the typewriter case with the finished pages inside and tossed me a leather folder taken from his breast pocket. “Try not to lose that. I had to eat a carload of Crackerjacks for it.”
I looked at his picture on the police pass. “It’s a lousy likeness,” I said. “I might get away with it at Rouge, except for the eye color.”
“Slip the security man a twenty and watch him go colorblind. This isn’t World War Two. Sorry I can’t offer you a snort, but I’ve got the rest of my span to try and fill.” He juggled the bag with the bottles under one arm and picked up the suitcase with his free hand. Even with that and the typewriter in the other, he didn’t limp any more than a man with one tight shoe. “Get the door, will you?”
I got it. “How’ll I get the pass back to you?”
“I’ll call with my new address. Make an effort not to sell it to anyone.”
“Your address—or the pass?”
“My address, jerk. I know of eighty places in town where you can get a card like that printed while you wait. And don’t forget, you promised me an exclusive.”
“I’ll deliver.” I accompanied him down a flight to the street and saw him off in a cab he’d had waiting. He told the driver to go where he directed. Barry had a melodramatic streak that was borne out by three attempts on his life. I had him beat numerically, but I still had all the parts I’d come with, give or take a molar and a couple of hundred thousand brain cells. I was young yet, however.