Moonchasers and Other Stories
- Автор: Горман Эд
- Год: 1996
- Язык: английский
- Год: Forge
- ISBN: 978-0-312-86010-3
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Moonchasers and Other Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
“They’re going!” she said.
“Maybe they’re just having a cigarette.”
“You know better, Dwyer. You know better.”
Her car was in the lot on the opposite side of the gym.
“Well, it’s worth the drive even if they don’t show up. Pierce Point should be nice tonight.”
She squeezed against me and said, “Thanks, Dwyer. Really.”
So we went and got her Volvo and went out to Pierce Point where twenty-five years ago a shy kid named Michael Brandon had fallen or been pushed to his death.
Apparently we were about to find out which.
The river road wound along a high wall of clay cliffs on the left and a wide expanse of water on the right. The spring night was impossibly beautiful, one of those moments so rich with sweet odor and even sweeter sight you wanted to take your clothes off and run around in some kind of crazed animal circles out of sheer joy.
“You still like jazz,” she said, nodding to the radio.
“I hope you didn’t mind my turning the station.”
“I’m kind of into country.”
“I didn’t get the impression you were listening.”
She looked over at me. “Actually, I wasn’t. I was thinking about you sending me all of those AA pamphlets.”
“It was arrogant and presumptuous and I apologize.”
“No, it wasn’t. It was sweet and I appreciate it.”
The rest of the ride, I leaned my head back and smelled flowers and grass and river water and watched moon glow through the elms and oaks and birches of this new spring. There was a Dakota Staton song, “Street of Dreams,” and I wondered as always where she was and what she was doing, she’d been so fine, maybe the most unappreciated jazz singer of the entire fifties.
Then we were going up a long, twisting gravel road. We pulled up next to a big park pavilion and got out and stood in the wet grass, and she came over and slid her arm around my waist and sort of hugged me in a half-serious way. “This is probably crazy, isn’t it?”
I sort of hugged her back in a half-serious way. “Yeah, but it’s a nice night for a walk so what the hell.”
“You ready?”
“Yep.”
“Let’s go then.”
So we went up the hill to the Point itself, and first we looked out at the far side of the river where white birches glowed in the gloom and where beyond you could see the horseshoe shape of the city lights. Then we looked down, straight down the drop of two hundred feet, to the road where Michael Brandon had died.
When I heard the car starting up the road to the east, I said, “Let’s get in those bushes over there.”
A thick line of shrubs and second-growth timber would give us a place to hide, to watch them.
By the time we were in place, ducked down behind a wide elm and a mulberry bush, a new yellow Mercedes sedan swung into sight and stopped several yards from the edge of the Point.
A car radio played loud in the night. A Top 40 song. Three men got out. Dignified Forester, matinee-idol Price, anxiety-tight Haskins.
Forester leaned back into the car and snapped the radio off. But he left the headlights on. Forester and Price each had cans of beer. Haskins bit his nails.
They looked around in the gloom. The headlights made the darkness beyond seem much darker and the grass in its illumination much greener. Price said harshly, “I told you this was just some kind of goddamn prank. Nobody knows squat.”
“He’s right. He’s probably right,” Haskins said to Forester. Obviously he was hoping that was the case.
Forester said, “If somebody didn’t know something, we would never have gotten those letters.”
She moved then and I hadn’t expected her to move at all. I’d been under the impression we would just sit there and listen and let them ramble and maybe in so doing reveal something useful.
But she had other ideas.
She pushed through the undergrowth and stumbled a little and got to her feet again and then walked right up to them.
“Karen!” Haskins said.
“So you did kill Michael,” she said.
Price moved toward her abruptly, his hand raised. He was drunk and apparently hitting women was something he did without much trouble.
Then I stepped out from our hiding place and said, “Put your hand down, Price.”
Forester said, “Dwyer.”
“So,” Price said, lowering his hand, “I was right, wasn’t I?” He was speaking to Forester.
Forester shook his silver head. He seemed genuinely saddened. “Yes, Price, for once your cynicism is justified.”
Price said, “Well, you two aren’t getting a goddamned penny, do you know that?”
He lunged toward me, still a bully. But I was ready for him, wanted it. I also had the advantage of being sober. When he was two steps away, I hit him just once and very hard in the solar plexus. He backed away, eyes startled, and then he turned abruptly away.
We all stood looking at one another, pretending not to hear the sounds of violent vomiting on the other side of the splendid new Mercedes.
Forester said, “When I saw you there, Karen, I wondered if you could do it alone.”
“Do what?”
“What?” Forester said. “What? Let’s at least stop the games. You two want money.”
“Christ,” I said to Karen, who looked perplexed, “they think we’re trying to shake them down.”
“Shake them down?”
“Blackmail them.”
“Exactly,” Forester said.
Price had come back around. He was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. In his other hand he carried a silver-plated .45, the sort of weapon professional gamblers favor.
Haskins said, “Larry, Jesus, what is that?”
“What does it look like?”
“Larry, that’s how people get killed.” Haskins sounded like Price’s mother.
Price’s eyes were on me. “Yeah, it would be terrible if Dwyer here got killed, wouldn’t it?” He waved the gun at me. I didn’t really think he’d shoot, but I sure was afraid he’d trip and the damn thing would go off accidentally. “You’ve been waiting since senior year to do that to me, haven’t you, Dwyer?”
I shrugged. “I guess so, yeah.”
“Well, why don’t I give Forester here the gun and then you and I can try it again.”
“Fine with me.”
He handed Forester the .45. Forester took it all right, but what he did was toss it somewhere into the gloom surrounding the car. “Larry, if you don’t straighten up here, I’ll fight you myself. Do you understand me?” Forester had a certain dignity and when he spoke, his voice carried an easy authority. “There will be no more fighting, do you both understand that?”
“I agree with Ted,” Karen said.
Forester, like a teacher tired of naughty children, decided to get on with the real business. “You wrote those letters, Dwyer?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Karen wrote them.”
A curious glance was exchanged by Forester and Karen. “I guess I should have known that,” Forester said.
“Jesus, Ted,” Karen said, “I’m not trying to blackmail you, no matter what you think.”
“Then just exactly what are you trying to do?”
She shook her lovely little head. I sensed she regretted ever writing the letters, stirring it all up again. “I just want the truth to come out about what really happened to Michael Brandon that night.”
“The truth,” Price said. “Isn’t that goddamn touching?”
“Shut up, Larry,” Haskins said.
Forester said, “You know what happened to Michael Brandon?”
“I’ve got a good idea,” Karen said. “I overheard you three talking at a party one night.”
“What did we say?”
“What?”