“No.”
“How many times did they talk to you?”
“Three times. Always with that moron Sykes. He yelled at me so much, I was surprised he had a voice left.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, man. You kidding? I’m a smart guy.”
“Yeah, Yale, wasn’t it?” Then: “Sorry.” Then: “Harrison Doran probably isn’t your real name, is it?”
“No. It’s Elmer Dodd.”
“You’re kidding me. Elmer Fudd?”
“Gee, I never heard that one before.”
He exhaled smoke in a long wavering stream. “I grew up on a farm in Ohio and ran away and joined the Navy when I was sixteen. When I got out, I tried working in a grocery store, but I couldn’t cut it. I just saw my whole life in front of me, you know? I couldn’t deal with it.” He still snuffled up tears once in a while. “So this chick I knew got me interested in this theater group-this was in New York-and I really got caught up in acting. I mean I’m good looking. That helped. But I also had a little talent.” A quick smile. “That didn’t help. Hundreds of people have a little acting talent. So I started inventing roles for myself to play in real life.”
“Like Harrison Doran, political activist?”
“Yeah, it’s like a drug. Pretending you’re somebody else. You don’t have to be you, you know what I mean? People give you places to live and feed you and you can pretty much have any girl you want. But I never had this happen before.”
“There’s a warrant out for your arrest in the East. What’s that about?”
“I got a gig as a disk jockey in this real small station. I started banging the owner’s mistress. He tried to hit me with a whiskey bottle one night. I beat the shit out of him. But he was a big man in town, so the cops put it all on me. And I ran.”
A knock on the door. “Five minutes, McCain. The chief talked to the DA, and the DA said he didn’t say anything about you having a half hour.”
Elmer Dodd smiled. “So you like to make up stuff, too?”
Winslow went away, footsteps slapping down the hallway.
“What were you doing at Bennett’s at three in the morning?”
He shook his head. “Molly’d gone home. I don’t remember much; I mean I was really shit-faced, man. I took her car. I’d seen Bennett’s place before. I remember being so mad I wanted to tell him off. That’s another thing I have a problem with. My temper. I’ve got a bad one. But then I always get depressed, too. I guess I might as well tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“There was this girl I was in love with, and she left me after she found out I was just making up my past. And I went kind of crazy. They put me in a mental hospital for three weeks. I still have a lot of trouble with depression, I guess.”
I tried not to think about how the DA would characterize Elmer Fudd here: a bunco artist with a bad temper who’d spent time in a mental hospital and was seen at the murder victim’s home at three in the morning. Not to mention two violent confrontations with Bennett. A lawyer’s dream.
“Do you remember seeing Bennett?”
“I didn’t make it that far. I remember tripping over something when I was walking up the driveway. That’s how I got this gash on my arm. I must have passed out. It was about four o’clock when I woke up. I was in the same place. I obviously didn’t make it up to the house.”
“So you’re saying you didn’t kill him?”
He took a deep breath. “I’m really in trouble, aren’t I?”
This time I heard Winslow before he got to the door. The knock was louder this time. “Your five minutes is up.”
“I timed it. I’ve got two minutes left.”
“Not according to my watch.” He opened the door. “C’mon, McCain. You’re lucky you got to see him at all.”
Elmer Dodd rose up out of his seat and reached out for me, his handcuffs clacking. “You’re not going to leave me like this, are you, man?”
“I’ll be back.” There wasn’t anything more to say. I saw the kid in him now. Scared and desperate. The tears were back.
“Get out of here, McCain.” Winslow put his hand on my shoulder and I brushed it away.
“I’ll bet you don’t wash your hands after you go to the bathroom, do you?”
Believe it or not, some people don’t find me amusing.
11
Sue had strung a clothesline from Kenny’s trailer to a utility shed he’d bought prefab at Monkey Ward’s. There was something timeless about her hanging clothes in the Midwestern sunlight, her fine figure in a simple blue housedress, a wooden clothespin between her teeth and their small Border collie running around and around the hanging sheets and shirts. Trixie Easley had recently collected photographs from the last century and put them in a display in the library to show the eternal work of women. She also created a section of books that disabused the John Wayne myth-seekers about who put in the most hours on the frontier. It was women, not men. When men’s work was done for the day, the women worked long into the night, this after getting up earlier than the menfolk to get breakfast ready and start the day. The book I read was about women on the plains of Kansas. There were a lot of suicides.
When she heard me coming down the dirt road that led to the big shade trees and the trailer, she stopped her work and waved at me. Pepper came out to run around my car and lead me the rest of the way. Sue and Pepper and the clothes on the line… how much Kenny’s life had changed for the better.
Sue always had a hug for me. “Shush, Pepper,” as the dog raced around and around me. Pepper was in bad need of more visitors, it seemed. All her attention focused on a single person was pretty much overwhelming. “He’s inside working. He got up at dawn and started in. Fortunately I’ve learned how to sleep through the typing. Any special plans for Labor Day?”
The smell of the fresh wet wash was sweet on the dusty heat of the early afternoon. “Nothing planned. I’m working for Harrison Doran.”
She nodded, her pretty Italian face breaking into a smile. “All last night Kenny was telling me how much you hated Doran. He called your office a while ago and talked to Jamie. She said you’d agreed to help him. Molly must have changed your mind.”
“Yeah, Molly did-and Cliffie. He’s already convicted Doran. And there’s no other lawyer in town who’ll help him.”
“I have to say Doran’s pretty hard to take. I sat in Burger-Quik one afternoon and listened to him tell anybody who’d listen what a cool guy he was.”
“Yeah, but still-”
She kissed me on the cheek. “But you’re doing the right thing. Go in and tell Kenny to rest for a while. He needs a break.”
Sue had turned the small silver trailer into a home. The floor was carpeted, the furniture was new, as was the gas range and washerdryer. And gone from the walls were the framed covers of a few of the soft-core novels Kenny had written. All that remained was the framed photograph of Jack Kerouac. Most people had Jesus on their walls, Kenny had Jack.
Kenny worked at a small oak desk pushed against the west wall. Sometimes he worked with music in the background. His taste ran to Miles Davis and John Coltrane and Hank Williams. He could type ninety words a minute perfectly. I never mentioned that to Jamie.
He usually worked nonstop. He wasn’t aware of me until I was two feet from his desk and said, “I don’t think there’s enough sex in that scene.”
He looked up, smiling. “Hey, I hear you’re working for Doran. Good, because the radio makes it sound like he’s already convicted. He’s an asshole, but he deserves somebody helping him.”
I pointed to the paper in his typewriter. “What’s this one?”
“‘Twisted Twilight.’”
“Lesbians?”
“You can’t go wrong with lesbians.”
“Guy comes along and rescues one of them from decadence?”
“Rance Haggarty’s his name. Pro football player and world-class lover. Got a schlong that spoils women for life.” He laughed. “There’s some very cold Pepsi in the fridge. Why don’t you get both of us one?”
“Rance as in ‘rancid’?”