“And in a small town, I like the idea of having a friend who knows who Edward Hopper is. But—” She folded her hands on the table and looked at me directly. This particular gray-eyed gaze had to be a killer in court. “But whatever your feelings about any of the Sykeses, including Clifford, I want you to keep them to yourself. I’m well aware of his shortcomings, and one of my first priorities is to straighten out the police department. But he’s my flesh and blood and I know a side of him you don’t. So, no Cliff jokes, no Cliff jibes. If he does something that conflicts with the law, let me know and I’ll take care of it. Otherwise, the subject of Clifford is off-limits. All right?”
“Breathtaking. God, I’m afraid to go up against you in court.”
“I’m serious about it, Sam.”
“I know you are. But that didn’t take anything away from the presentation.”
She sat back in the booth. Yawned. Covered her mouth with that long, graceful hand. “Sorry. I guess I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“Ancient.”
“Thirty-one next month.” Thank God the smile came back. “That’s almost five years older than you.”
“How’d you know that?”
“You think I didn’t research every attorney in the county when I came out here?”
“Do I get to research you?”
“Be my guest. You know how old I am. My husband divorced me four years ago because of all the hours I put in and because I didn’t want children. Now I think maybe I would like to have a child, but the problem is I haven’t met anybody I’d like to get serious with, let alone get married to. As for my time in the DA’s office, I held the highest position ever held by a woman in the Cook County legal establishment. I’m slim but it’s becoming a battle to stay that way. And of all the lawyers in town, you’re the one most interesting to me.”
She tapped the finger where a wedding ring had once resided. “You’re single. That means you can show me the town.”
“Such as it is.”
“Such as it is.”
Then, without warning, she was gathering up her materials and sweeping herself out of the booth. “Want to walk me to my hotel? I haven’t found a place yet.”
“Sure.”
I hadn’t walked a woman home in some time. And I liked it.
“This must be quite a change from Chicago.”
“It is. But I’m enjoying it. I’ll like it even better when I’m moved in somewhere.”
As we walked I felt connected again. Girl-connected with all its rich erotic promise.
And then we were standing in front of the hotel, three wide steps up to a pair of revolving doors and a surprisingly comely interior.
She extended her hand and we shook. “Thanks, Sam. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you.”
And then she was gone. I tumbled down into the womanless darkness that had been my home since Mary had found out that she couldn’t marry me. Her husband Wes, who’d left her for another woman, had gotten Mary pregnant with their third child, unbeknownst to both of them. Since Wes had gotten dumped by his new girlfriend, he saw the wisdom of returning to Mary. She didn’t believe in abortion. She would have the baby — had already had the baby girl, in fact — and Mary and Wes would try again to save their marriage.
I went for a long, melancholy ride in my ragtop, and then I went home to feed the cats.
10
“I play a pickle, Sam,” Samantha said on the other end of the phone. “A network commercial, too. The residuals should be really good.”
Samantha, a very appealing copper-haired young woman from right here in Black River Falls, had been in Los Angeles. Couple of years older than me, a small legal infraction known as shoplifting being the way we’d met, she finally decided that maybe “everybody” was right, she should try Hollywood before it was too late. She did the impossible. She got me to keep her three cats for her, Tasha, Crystal, and Tess. I was previously a catdisliker. Not hater. But disliker.
Until I got her cats. And they became my cats by default.
She checks in three or four times a year, usually when she has news of a commercial or a bit part in a movie or a TV show or a stage play. I’ve never summoned the nerve to recommend to her one of my three or four favorite novels, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? by Horace McCoy. It’s the most scathing of all the Hollywood novels about people who trek out there filled with Cinemascope dreams about the gilded life that will be theirs.
To date, according to her count, she’s had more than a dozen jobs, slept with three bona fide movie stars, endured two failed marriages, one miscarriage and two abortions, and has spent a good deal of her modest income seeing a shrink who has convinced her that the sex they have is a vital part of the therapeutic process, something she admitted while stoned on marijuana and wine.
She checks in on her cats the way a really bad parent would check in on children she never sees, all effusive stagecraft about how much she misses them, thinks about them, even dreams about them. I’m sort of the adoptive cat parent now. Or the cat nanny.
After Samantha and I said our good-byes, I took off my clothes, grabbed a beer from the fridge, turned on the TV just for noise, and then saw the piece of paper by the door. I went over and picked it up and brought it back to the couch.
The cats read it with me, Tasha in my lap, Crystal and Tess on the back of the couch, reading over my shoulder.
Sam—
I saw something last night that might have something to do with those murders. I’m actually kind of scared about it. That’s why I stopped by. I’m staying at a girlfriend’s trailer tonight. Her number is 407-5411. I’d appreciate a call. Don’t worry how late it is.
A client of mine in a spooky divorce. A husband so abusive he’d once chased her through the woods with a fire ax. For which he is still serving some well-deserved time.
A Knolls kid, like me, Rachael had dropped out of school in tenth grade and taken up with the Road Devils, some local bikers who fashioned themselves after the Hell’s Angels. At first they’d been poor imitations. But by now they were serious criminals: car theft (the cars driven to Chicago where they were repainted and their registration numbers filed off, sold at auction to used-car lots), arson-for-hire, and numerous charges of assault and battery. Judge Whitney had sent a few of them up, in fact.
Rachael wasn’t especially attractive physically except for her enormous breasts. I’d always felt sorry for her. Nobody’d ever paid her any attention until her breasts sprouted, and then she was reduced to something of a joke by boys and girls alike. I suppose hanging out with the bikers gave her the sense of belonging she’d never found at school.
I’d lost touch with her since the divorce decree two years ago, though I wondered about her occasionally. She’d always be one of those sad-eyed kids nobody at school had ever bothered to bestow humanity on.
I dialed the number. One thing she wasn’t was a hysteric. If she thought she’d seen something, she’d seen something.
No answer.
I dialed and redialed right up to when the yawning finally overcame me and I turned off the TV and went to bed.
It was just before 6:30 the next morning when the clock radio next to my bed came on with the news that a body identified as that of Rachael Todd had been found on the highway, the victim of an apparent hit-and-run.
Part Two
11
Whenever I want to find out what I really think about something, I go to the barbershop, the same barbershop I’ve been going to since my mom quit cutting my hair when I turned three. The two men who ran the shop since the 1920s have retired now, but the other characters are pretty much the same.