Two of the young women were stewardesses who flew out of Cedar Rapids. Joan Cawlings was the one I talked to. Her roommate was in the shower the whole time I was there.
Joan was a slight blonde with enormous blue eyes. She wore a U of Illinois T-shirt. She had very merry, happy little breasts that looked as though they’d be a lot of fun to play with. She wore a pair of jeans that fit her wonderfully as only jeans can. Her small feet—pert as baby rabbits—were bare.
“I think I talked to her once in the seven months I’ve been living here. Everybody said that she was almost hostile. A lot of people thought she was a prostitute. Different men were always coming here.”
I described them.
She nodded. “Yes. Those men and one other.”
“Could you describe him?”
“He looked like a boxer. Not mean or a crook or anything like that. But his nose was sort of flattened and just the way he carried himself—he was probably in his forties but one of the guys I was seeing said ‘That’s somebody to walk wide of.’ I remember his exact words because they sounded like something from a cowboy movie. Walking wide of somebody, I mean.”
“How often did you see him?”
“Well, when I first moved in, I didn’t see him that much. With my schedule, it’s hard to say. Maybe he came a lot when I was working. But the last couple months, I’ve seen him a lot more often.”
“Anything different you notice about him?”
“His Corvette.”
I wrote that down in my notebook. “What about it?”
“He had one of those little things you put on your license plate. It says ‘MD.’ You know, medical doctor. That’s why he always struck me as interesting. He sort of looked like a boxer but he was always dressed in very good suits. And he drove this black Corvette. And you could tell he took very good care of it.”
“How’s that?”
“You never saw a speck of dust on it. And it always looked like he’d just gotten done shining it.” Then: “God, when I heard her name on the radio this morning—and heard how those four men had set her up here—I’m from Cleveland so I guess I always thought of this area as kind of hicky if you know what I mean. And no offense if you grew up here or anything. But I’ve never heard of anything like this even in Cleveland. You know, you wouldn’t be surprised if it happened in Paris or Hollywood or some place like that. But here—”
“This is great.”
“It is?”
“Finding a doctor who drives a black Corvette shouldn’t be too tough.”
“I actually thought he was the coolest guy of all of them. The ones who called on her, I mean. He’s kinda sexy, actually.”
I thanked her and walked to the door.
“Say,” she said, “anything new with the missiles?”
“Nothing that I’ve heard of.”
“The company is warning us what to do if a missile hits a city we’re supposed to land in. It’s really scary.”
That detail made the whole crisis even more real. You never think of things like that. You’re in a plane thirty thousand feet up and the city below you becomes a mushroom cloud. Then what?
“Thanks again,” I said.
TWELVE
I HAD A BEER AT a tavern with animal heads on the wall. The way I feel about hunting is I’d rather see the hunters’ heads on the wall. But I don’t suppose I’ll ever get to be president of the United States saying things like that now, will I? Or didn’t I tell you that I have this diabolical plan to take over the United States?
I called a friend of mine on the Cedar Rapids police force and asked him to run a check on the black Corvette driven by a doctor.
Then I dawdled over a second beer, not wanting to go back to my apartment, which was turning into a crime scene, the crime being French farce. The woman I’d loved most of my life sleeping with the man I’d hated most of my life under my roof? God either has a great sense of humor or none at all. When I figure out which it is, I’ll get back to you.
On the third and final beer—I am not a great drinker—I decided, and I think truthfully, that I didn’t love Pamela any more. I know you’re not supposed to trust beery revelations but there was something dead inside me now where she was concerned—I started thinking of all the F. Scott Fitzgerald short stories I’d read in college where the protagonist ends with something dead inside where his woman is concerned—but when I thought of her now I just felt a sadness. Even though she’d never loved me, she’d been the center of my life all those years. But she wasn’t now and never would be again and I felt alone in a way I’d never felt before.
Screw it, I thought. They could have my apartment. I’d stay at a motel. I’d only go over there in the morning to shower and change clothes. Hell, I’d get a new bed out of it for my trouble and a good motel room would be eight, nine bucks was all. I’d come out ahead.
Stu answered when I called and I told him what I had in mind.
“But I’m making steaks.”
“More for you.”
“Jeez, McCain, this doesn’t seem right. Kicking you out of your own apartment.”
“You’re not kicking me out. I am. And by the way, the bed you’re going to buy me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I want a one hundred dollar bed.”
“That’s no problem.”
“Great. Then I’ll see you in the morning. Oh—did I get any calls?”
“Hang on a sec.” Though he cupped the phone, I heard him say, “Did he get any calls?”
“Kenny Thibodeau. That dirty book writer.” She’d never much approved of Kenny.
“That dirty book writer. You know, Kenny.”
“Fine. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
There wasn’t any answer at Kenny’s place so I walked down the street to an Italian restaurant, the only ethnic restaurant in town except the one where they serve buffalo burgers. I’m not sure which ethnicity that is. Eskimo?
I ate a plate full of damned good spaghetti and started pouring down coffee. I don’t like the feeling of being drunk. The coffee and a bunch of Luckies helped me sober up. My dad has the same problem. When you’re as small as we are, you don’t hold your booze well. It’s a shameful thing for a Celt to admit.
One table away, a working class family of five were discussing the missile crisis. The littlest girl was so scared she started to cry. She crawled up in her daddy’s lap and he kissed her on top of her blonde curly head and then he sort of rocked her as he probably had when she was a baby. It broke my heart. And made me angry. Some guy somewhere in this place called Russia gets pissed off because some guy somewhere in this place called America was stupid enough to listen to the CIA and invade Cuba. Or try to. It sure as hell wasn’t much of an invasion. And so this guy in Russia, in a snit because of it, decides to play poker with nuclear warheads as chips. And maybe destroy or at least alter life on this planet for the next 50,000 years. Awfully damned hard to explain that to a little girl in Black River Falls, Iowa who’s too young to understand where Russia is or why the CIA was run by zealots who didn’t much care about lives, American or otherwise, or why her mom suddenly started crying last night when they all got down on their knees and said the rosary for world peace.
I got up and went for a walk. The cold night air felt good. The Johnny Cash song wailing out of the tavern sounded mighty lonely.
After my walk, I went to a corner grocery store and bought two Pepsis, a package of smokes and a paperback by a new guy named Dan J. Marlowe, who was one mighty fine writer. Fifteen minutes later, I was in my motel room in my underwear and under the blankets, reading my book.
After fifty excellent pages, I tried Kenny again. This time he answered.