my judgment. Most of what I was relying on was
Back at the office, the answering machine was as empty of messages as I was of answers. I was certainly going to rejoice when the new Yellow Pages appeared; at least my small display ad might result in an occasional call. I wasn’t sure which would ruin me first, the poverty or die loneliness.
I leaned back in the chair, loosened my tie, and kicked my feet up on the desk. There wasn’t much to do besides think. Down the hall, Ray, Slim, and company were already tuning up guitars for the Friday afternoon songfest. I could hear the metallic spewing of beer can pop tops as they were pulled. Outside, rush hour had already begun. Office workers were bailing out everywhere possible to start the weekend early.
Everybody, it seemed, was either having a good time or looking forward to one. Everybody except me. I wasn’t even going to see Rachel until Sunday night. The weekend stretched out before me like fourth down and hopeless. I felt like breaking into a chorus of “Oh, Lonesome Me.”
I left the office quietly, not wanting to be noticed by the developing party down the hall. It was hot as blazes outside, but I decided to walk to the bank anyway. Too much trouble to get the car out of the lot. I cashed a check for fifty dollars, which left me with less than five hundred in my account and no prospects. Rachel was going to get her way after all. You can’t play detective when you’re standing behind a stainless steel counter wearing a paper hat and going: “Hey, was that eat-in or take-out?”
I spent the rest of the afternoon back in the office waiting for the traffic to thin out. I drew diagrams on paper, outlining everybody I thought could be involved in the murder. There had to be something I wasn’t seeing, some other pattern, some other possibility. I hadn’t gone to detective school, but I’d read my share of crime novels. That had to be worth something.
Okay, what was it Sherlock Holmes said? “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” Or something like that. Maybe it was Miss Marple. Hell, I don’t know. I sat there, staring at the wall, going over every possibility. He owed Bubba money, and a lot of it. But if he killed Conrad, that money was gone forever. Like it is now. No, it made more sense to squeeze him, not kill him. Maybe there was some other person at the hospital who hated him for some other reason, but with five thousand people wandering that hospital in any given twenty-four-hour period, how was I going to find the one who hated Conrad Fletcher enough to do him in?
Damn it, I thought, I’m going around in circles. It was time to clear the brain. I needed something to take my mind off. What I wanted to do was call Rachel. But being pushy wasn’t going to get me anywhere with her. Besides, dating the murdered victim’s widow is no way to forget the murder.
Marsha Helms-that’s it. She wanted to see me again. I wanted to see her, but given how things stood with Rachel, that almost felt like cheating. Besides, truth be told, I really wasn’t in the mood to see anyone. At least not anyone I had to share any involvement with. What I needed was an old-fashioned dose of emotionally detached male bonding.
Walter-yeah. Split a pizza, coupla beers, maybe take in a movie. My leg was still too bunged up to play racquetball, but I wouldn’t mind shooting some stick if we could find a pool hall that didn’t have a bunch of bikers hanging around looking to crush some skulls.
I thumbed through the Rolodex and stopped at Walter Quintan’s card. I punched the number up and listened through five rings before the secretary answered.
“Potter and Bell. May I help you?”
“Walter Quinlan, please. Harry James Denton calling.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Quintan’s in a meeting. I expect him out within the hour. Can he call you?”
I gave her my number.
“May I say what this is in reference to?”
“I’m his racquetball partner.”
“Oh,” she said, pausing for a second. “Sorry to hear about your leg.”
I winced. “He told you, huh?”
“Yeah, from what I hear, Walt’s a real killer on the racquetball court.”
Great, I thought, now even women I’ve never met think I’m a wimp. “He’s not so tough,” I said. “I’ve taken him once or twice.”
Another hour passed before he called. By then I’d forgotten I’d left him a message. I was so surprised to hear the phone ring, in fact, I nearly fell out of my chair going for it.
“Denton Agency,” I said, “Private Investigations.”
“Hey, dude. What’s happening?”
“Nothing much, man. Just waiting for you to call so I can close down the office.”
“Rough week, huh?”
“I’ve had better. Listen, I thought we’d go split a pitcher, get a pizza, maybe catch a movie or shoot some pool. What do you say?”
There was this protracted silence, as if he didn’t want to accept my invitation, but didn’t want to come out and say he didn’t want to spend Friday night hanging around with another bachelor. I knew it was a lost cause by the third second. “Hey, man,” I said, “you got plans, it’s okay.”
“In fact, I’m going to be tied up most of the weekend.”
“Hey, great, who is she? Anybody I know?”
“Just somebody I’ve been seeing.”
“Anything serious? She the one you were talking about before?”
“Yeah on both counts. I think it’s serious. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“For a guy who’s just found true love, you don’t sound too happy.”
“Oh, no, man, I don’t mean to sound that way. It’s just that, well … Damn, man, I don’t know. Life’s just complicated sometimes.”
“Ride with it. Enjoy it while it laste. Life’s too short.”
“I know that, Harry. Believe me. After this week, I know. Listen, man, I got to go.”
“Yeah, I understand. Have a good weekend.”
“You, too. Got any plans?”
“I’m hoping my landlady will invite me down for Cream of Wheat, maybe show off her new dentures.”
“Funny, Harry.
I hung up, disappointed. I was getting more sour and grumpy by the minute, and the four walls of my office were closing in fast. I set the answering machine up, on the long shot that somebody might actually want to communicate with me. Then I flipped off my light and eased out into the hall.
Sounds of laughter and music came full tilt from Ray and Slim’s office. I knew from past Fridays that the party would go on for another couple of hours, then they’d head over to Second Avenue to a restaurant. Later, they’d wind up at a songwriter’s bar swilling beers and picking tunes until they got too drunk to hold their guitars steady. I’d hung with them a night or two, but not tonight.
I left the building quietly, crossed the street, and walked four floors up the parking garage to retrieve the Ford.
I drove out Main Street until it swerved and became Gallatin Road. I didn’t even feel like Mrs. Lee’s Szechuan chicken tonight, so I pulled into a grocery store parking lot, picked up a six-pack of beer, a couple of frozen nukeable dinners, and headed for my apartment. Catch a movie on the tube, drink a few beers, get to bed early.
After all, Mrs. Hawkins wanted her grass mowed tomorrow.
Nashville sits nestled deep within a natural bowl, surrounded by high ground on all sides. This has the effect of making the entire city a natural garbage dump for stale air, automobile exhaust, heat inversions, and organic pollution of every kind imaginable. We’ve got more pollen, mold, dust, and varieties of airborne fungi than any place ever chronicled in
