Riders on the Storm Page 8

  “So is he ever going to marry her?”

  “October fifth.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. He finally came to his senses.”

  I took her arms and pulled her to me. Good Mary, bad Pamela. All good uncomplicated Mary and bad complicated Pamela. Reliable Mary and exciting Pamela.

  But just as I was about to kiss this brand-new Mary, she stopped me. “One more thing, Sam. I know you think I kind of hover around you too much and I probably do. But you are sort of needy and that brings it out in me.”

  “I’m needy?” My voice went up an octave.

  “Sorta, sometimes, you know in little ways. But that’s part of why I love you. You’ve helped me so many times, too. I’m just as needy as you are.”

  Anger flushed my face—I could feel it—and then without realizing it I started laughing. “You weren’t a virgin and you lied about it and now I’m ‘needy’? Whatever happened to that perfect little Mary I knew?”

  “I’m right here, the real Mary, Sam. That other one was just in your imagination. And part of that was my fault, with the lie and all. But please, Sam, I don’t want to be ‘good Mary’ anymore. All right?”

  Bad Mary was great.

  If you couldn’t get laid in 1971, you couldn’t get laid at all.

  This was according to just about every magazine, newspaper, and newscast you consulted for information on how the luckier half was living.

  This was the era of free love, though that phrase had faded.

  In the big cities they had sex clubs. You went in and had sex in your choice of many rooms. Sometimes you went alone and sometimes you brought your spouse. You could have sex by twos, threes, fours and just about any other number you wanted. And this was hetero sex or gay sex.

  Swinging was also big. Suburban neighborhoods became the site of serious orgies. Marriages broke up, venereal disease ramped higher, and one prominent bestselling shrink said that if you wanted to have an affair it was none of your spouse’s business. The thing was to please yourself. It took a while before someone pointed out that this was what you might call—if you wanted to hurt the shrink’s feelings, the dear—sociopathic.

  In Black River Falls we had one dance club/singles bar and that was The Retreat. A standard-issue bar had been gutted, a sparkling ball had been mounted on the ceiling, and a dance floor had been built. There was even a long mahogany bar perfect for leaning against if you thought you were cool enough for that particular pose.

  Singles rejoiced and were still filling the place. The hopeless were soon banished by shunning. If you were too old, too nerdy, too unfashionably dressed, too dull by reputation, or too feckless with pickup lines—out.

  What you have to understand here is that most of the popular people at The Retreat had been the popular ones in school. So what you had were the cheerleaders, the sports stars, the rich kids, the prom queens, and the just plain good-lookers of the past ten years from the town’s two high schools.

  In other words, you were back in tenth grade when you didn’t get invited to any of the really groovy parties.

  I never went there often enough to get shunned. I had dates from time to time who insisted we go but I always managed to get us gone early.

  Tonight I was here on assignment.

  The Retreat was crowded. That sparkling, revolving dance ball limned the heads and shoulders of all the dancers while other couples sat in shadow groping each other.

  Cathy Vance sat at the bar sideways, her long, slim legs almost as enticing as that wild mane of dark hair and that vivid theatrical face of hers. She was always number one or two on the who’dya like to fuck list in high school. Tonight she treated us to a silver summer blouse and a skirt that could break your heart.

  I was surprised that there were only two guys putting the moves on her. I stood to her left so eventually she’d have to see me. When she did, she said, “Who let you in, McCain?”

  Her would-be suitors—all unbuttoned shirts and bell-bottomed plaid trousers—glared at me. The yellow-haired one said—actually said—“You want him gone, babe?”

  Even as a little girl her smile had been wan, even sad.

  “No, I’m going to give him a few minutes and if he tries to stay longer then I’ll want him gone.”

  “You got it, babe,” said the dark-haired one.

  They gave me their best TV bad-guy stares, then moved down the bar.

  “Hey, babe,” I said.

  “Go fuck yourself, McCain.”

  “One of them could be husband number three if I’m not mistaken?”

  She waved her empty glass at the bartender. “I’m worried about Will. I still care about him.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m wondering if you care about him so much that you send him threatening letters in the mail.”

  “Does that sound like something I’d do?”

  With a fresh drink in her hand, she said, “He didn’t kill Steve Donovan.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Yes, I did. I asked you if that sounded like me.”

  For all her audacious sexuality the one man she’d loved had deserted and humiliated her. She and Will had gone together through most of college but the summer he met Karen he dropped her with no warning. Two marriages and numerous men later, she’d never recovered.

  “I think you were sleeping with him again.”

  “I don’t do married men.”

  “And you don’t send threatening letters in the mail.”

  Their official relationship had ended many years ago. Will told me over the years that she’d sent birthday cards and Christmas cards to him at his veterinary clinic. Her interest in him had never waned. What if they’d had an affair and then he’d ended it again? What if she saw an opportunity to punish him by killing Donovan and letting Will be blamed?

  “Somebody made it look as if Will killed Donovan. You knew Donovan, didn’t you?”

  “Now and then.” Coy. I hate coy.

  “I thought you didn’t do married men.”

  “There are exceptions to every rule.” Still coy but then angry. “I’m sick of talking about this. I don’t appreciate you hounding me when I’m trying to relax. You always were a pain in the ass, McCain.”

  “You going to sic your boyfriends on me?”

  “I will unless you walk out of here right now.”

  “I’m pretty sure you had an affair with him and I’m pretty sure you mailed him those things.”

  “You sound desperate, McCain. Now leave me alone.”

  A single glance from her started the boyfriends walking toward me. Fists at their sides.

  “This isn’t over, Cathy. Believe me.”

  Then I made myself gone.

  12

  “DO YOU THINK COUNT CHOCULA IS REAL?” KATE ASKED ME with professorial seriousness while she was eating some. I’d dropped by for breakfast.

  If there was an Olympic event for eye-rolling, Nicole would win outright.

  “Well, some say he’s real and some say he’s not,” I said.

  “Now, there’s a politician,” Mary laughed.

  “Of course he’s not real.” Nicole would also win the Gold for scoffing.

  “But we saw him in that movie.”

  “That was an actor playing him, sweetie.”

  She eyed her sister with grumpy spite. “Well, I can believe in him if I want.”

  As breakfast went on I had the same conflicted feelings I’d had the night before. Family life was enjoyable and comforting; family life was confining. Mary came as part of a package deal.

  “Can we go to the parade now, Mommy?” Kate said.

  “It’ll be a little while, honey.”

  “I want to be in the band when I’m old enough,” Nicole said. “The uniforms are cool.”

  “Her music teacher said that she’s really got talent,” Mary said. “Right now she plays the piano. This coming school year she’ll be part of a recital.”

 
“I want to play in a band and be a rock star.”

  “Somehow, Kate, that doesn’t surprise me.”

  She blessed me with one of her baby smiles.

  I was just thinking about repairing to the john—the house was nice enough to have three, believe it or not; main floor, second floor, and basement (pot and shower), perfect for a new man of the house—when the phone rang.

  There was a yellow extension phone on the kitchen wall. The table where we ate put me closest to it so I jumped up and got it.

  “We’re trying to reach Mr. Sam McCain.” A serious-sounding woman.

  “This is he.”

  “This is St. Mark’s hospital. A man named Gordon Niven listed you as next of kin.”

  “He did?” The shock in my voice alerted Mary. She’d been interested in somebody calling me here but now she was even more interested because of my tone. “I’m not really his kin.”

  “Well, he listed you, Mr. McCain. You do know him, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. I guess. Slightly, I mean.”

  “I have to admit this is strange. We were going to call his residence in Des Moines—that’s where his driver’s license says he lives—but in his wallet he put a card that reads: In case of emergency call Sam McCain. We tried your home phone and there was no answer. A woman here knows Mary and said to try you at her number.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He was severely beaten sometime last night. He was found this morning in a parking lot adjacent to the Royale Hotel, which is where he was registered. We checked. Whoever beat him jammed him behind a dumpster. He has a concussion, two broken ribs, and a broken jaw. He can’t talk because his jaw is wired shut. Right now he’s sleeping. Do you know anything about the incident?”

  “Not right now. You’re aware that he’s a private investigator? He’s in town because of a case. I’d like to see him as soon as I can.”

  “My guess is that it will be much later in the day and maybe not even then. You’ll just have to call and check on his condition. He’s understandably exhausted and very weak.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I’ll check later today. Thanks for calling.”

  “Thank you for your help, Mr. McCain.”

  The girls had skittered off. Mary had watched and listened to me with the fervor she brought to her soap operas. Even in high school she was known as the soap queen.

  “That sounded ominous,” she said as I sat down.

  “It is.” I explained to her who Niven was. “I suppose Foster has already tried to interview him. I hope he didn’t have any luck. Niven might not be able to talk but maybe he could write things down.”

  “I thought you liked Foster.”

  “Pretty much I do. But I’m not sure he’ll be making the connections I am. I saw a photo of Valerie Donovan in Niven’s back seat with some file folders. I’m assuming he’s been hired to investigate her.”

  “Investigate her for what?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But Foster needs proof that Will didn’t kill her husband. So I have to come up with some believable alternative to what Foster believes happened. I’d planned on visiting Niven’s hotel room when he was out.”

  “That has to be illegal.”

  “It is. But even if he caught me he wouldn’t call Foster because that would get Foster interested in him. And Niven likes glory. He wouldn’t want to share it with a cop.”

  “Do you like Niven?”

  I told her about the image I’d had of him—the legend—and how he turned out to be. “There’s an old Hollywood saying, ‘Never meet your heroes.’ You know, because you’ll be disappointed in some way. And that sure was true about meeting him. But there’s something sort of sad about him, too. He’s just sort of this dumpy guy who obviously has a great brain for this business.”

  She touched her napkin to her perfect lips. “Well, I need to get the girls ready for the parade. It starts at nine thirty. I don’t suppose you’re going.”

  “I doubt I’ll have time. I’m going to Niven’s hotel. I want to check on some things.”

  She came over to me and tilted my head up and kissed me with erotic tenderness on my mouth. “Needless to say, I had a great time last night.”

  “Needless to say, I did, too.”

  “The girls really like you. Especially Kate.”

  “She’s better than any show on the tube.”

  Then I pulled her to me and pushed the side of my head into her breasts. She laid her hand on the side of my head and embraced me even tighter.

  We stayed exactly like that until Kate ran in and said, “Mommy, can I wear my red socks? Nicole says my yellow ones’d look better.”

  Home life; home life.

  The Royale boasts that such presidents as Herbert Hoover, FDR, Harry Truman, and Dwight Eisenhower all stayed there when they came here to campaign. True enough, but there was no alternative. The somewhat artistic but talentless son of a hotel magnate thought he’d show the old man how he could duplicate a New York or Chicago hotel right here in Iowa. He had impregnated a freshman girl at the university and wanted to be near her.

  You want splendor, he gave you splendor, right down to the giant sculpture of a giant male archangel swooping up a female archangel right in the lobby. Neither happened to be clothed. You want classical music, he gave you classical music by busing in musicians from Iowa City four nights a week. You want gourmet dining, he gave you chefs from the major American cities and one from Paris. Their cuisine was fine but I always wondered how the locals took to it.

  In 1952, after being spurned by his third wife, the somewhat artistic son of the magnate hurled himself off the sixth-floor veranda of his hotel apartment. The magnate took over the hotel, stripped it of its too, too finery and ran it, for the first time, at a profit.

  This morning I walked into the lobby with two tens and two twenties in my pocket. I went immediately to the head bellboy. He had a very bald head, a rangy body, and eyes that appeared to have knowledge of every sin ever committed by mankind. His nametag, hanging on the breast pocket of his blue-and-white uniform, read: CHARLES.

  “Help you, sir?”

  “You didn’t happen to work last night, by any chance?”

  We stood to one side of the main desk. Two female clerks in blazers were saying how much they’d wanted to watch the parade, which was starting in less than an hour.

  Charles said, “Yesterday was my long day. I worked until about eleven last night.”

  “You see anything odd going on? Maybe somebody who looked like he might be trouble?”

  “Well, I saw the guy who had some drinks with Mr. Niven in the bar. If that’s what you’re wondering about.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Later on. Nine thirtyish. He didn’t look right to me.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “The way he looked. A lot of our traffic is salespeople. We have a nice-sized ballroom for small conventions. You know the kind of people I’m talking about. Suits, ties, suitcases, briefcases. Business guys. This guy—six-two, maybe up to six-four. Tan suede suit coat which is two hundred a pop easy. Brown sports shirt under it. Brown slacks. West Coast kinda look, if you know what I mean. And he walks in and the look he gives me. I’m a piece of shit. You ever get a look like that?”

  “Maybe once or twice.” Or three or four hundred times.

  “He walks like he’s gonna attack somebody.”

  “Lot of black curly hair?”

  “How’dya guess?”

  “Lucky, I guess. So then what happened?”

  “He goes in the bar and maybe an hour later he comes out with Niven. They walk over to the elevator and that’s the last I see of them.”

  “You remember Niven’s room number?”

  “Three twenty-six.”

  I gave him one of the tens.

  I rode to the third floor with a pair of older salesmen who were blaming the decline in their business on hippies. From what I could tell they sol
d shoes wholesale.

  “They don’t even take baths that often. Why are they going to give a shit about shoes that really support their feet?”

  “I just wish I was getting as much sex as those bastards get.”

  “I just wish they were wearing out shoes when they were getting it.”

  When the doors opened to the third floor a man smiled at me and I smiled at him. It was Chief You-Can-Call-Me-Paul Foster.

  As soon as the doors closed behind me, he said, “Let me see if my psychic powers are working today. You’re here to check out the room of a man named Niven. I believe the first name is Gordon.”

  “A legend in my business.”

  “Would that business be lawyer or investigator?”

  “I’m sure you already know the answer to that.”

  “The hospital tells me that he’d suffered a stroke a while back. This sure as hell couldn’t be any good for him.”

  “He’s a nice guy. And I wasn’t exaggerating about him being a legend.”

  “I see. I’m told that Mr. Niven has been in town for two days. I assume you ran into him?”

  “Excuse me.” A man approached, checking his watch, his sweaty face suggesting that he’d overslept. He moved us aside and then practically dove onto the elevator when it opened up.

  After the doors closed again, I said, “Yeah, I did run into him.”

  “A prominent private investigator comes to our little community at the same time one of our most prominent citizens is murdered. Am I wrong in seeing a possible connection?”

  “He was here before Donovan was murdered.”

  Then he struck. “You really piss me off.” The anger came on like summer heat lightning; a flare in the eyes and now pure hot fury in the voice. “You should have called me and told me about Niven. I’ve given you some leeway here because I expect you to keep me informed.”