mean anything. All the drugs I was hiding, I was nervous, too.”
“Did you hide them in the front of the barn or in the back?”
“Front. Richard had dug this deep hole, then I had to dig another one. Then we went to my trunk and started loading everything into these army ammunition boxes. You know, metal, and they’d lock real tight. Then we pushed an old refrigerator over the holes we dug.”
Sounded feasible but this was Bobby Randall. I trusted him slightly less than I did Dick Nixon.
“I guess that’ll be it for now, Randall.”
“You happy, you dumb bastard? You just talked your way into prison.”
“She’s a sweetie, Randall. Make sure you keep her.”
He sighed and shrugged. I gazed into the blazing eyes of Dodie Dear, then I did some shrugging myself and started walking toward the alley. I got my last glimpse of his site. My father would have been overwhelmed by the entire arrangement.
I had just about reached the door when I heard Randall shout: “McCain, duck!”
I pitched myself leftward just in time to see a hammer flying toward the point where my head had been a moment ago.
“You better watch out for Ronnie and Donnie,” she screamed. “They’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”
And in this moment of Mountain Beauties slinging hammers at me, Randall shouted out the most preposterous thing of all. “Take a flier with you, McCain. In case you know somebody who needs some carpentry work.”
Right next to the door was a straight-back chair with fliers piled on it. And damned if I didn’t pick one up.
13
I hadn’t asked Bobby Randall about Eve Mainwaring. I was lucky he’d told me as much as he had, especially with Mountain Girl there. I doubted he’d talk about Paul’s wife anyway. If his story was true about working with Donovan to off-load all his dope, then he had a good excuse-as opposed to an alibi-to be out at the commune. And to spend so much time near the barn. Eve Mainwaring was another matter. I wondered-and he had to be wondering, too-what his carpentry customers would think of him if they knew that he was sleeping with the wife of a man who’d hired him as a handyman.
With his flier on my passenger seat I drove the twenty-eight miles to the Sleepy Time Motel, the just-far- enough-away concrete bunker where you went when you were too scared to try it close to home. Given all the sneaking around and close calls, adultery should be an Olympic sport.
On a summer afternoon when the sun bragged on how mean it could be, I wanted my old Ford ragtop back. And I wanted my father to be alive. And I wanted my mother to make a life for herself, not turn into one of the old ladies who spend most of their free time in church, arthritic hands entwined with rosaries, and memories their only comfort. And I wanted to convince Wendy to marry me, to take the chance at least a part of her knew was worth it.
The radio was still filled with responses to the police riot at the Democratic convention. Mayor Daley was denying he’d made any anti-Semitic remarks, and the police commissioner just couldn’t find a single thing his officers had done wrong. It was all the fault of the “anarchists.” Somebody from the police union gave an even stronger defense of the cops. He talked about all the danger they’d faced that night, even though they were the ones with the clubs and guns and punitive rage. Never a mention about how we were feeding an entire generation into the bloody maw of an unnecessary war and how the president and the Pentagon lied every single day to the American people-the president worried about his place in history and the Pentagon not wanting to stop the flow of money to the great war machine Eisenhower had warned about as he left office. The kids weren’t in the streets to have a good time-though some were, I suppose. They were there to protest their lives being wasted on the lies of old men.
The Sleepy Time didn’t resemble a hot-sheet motel. It sat on a hill overlooking a leg of river and a picnic area on the bank. The colors of the office and the room exteriors were two shades of brown-the paint fresh-and the macadam was new. To the left of the office was a swimming pool where a lone young man practiced diving. It was too hot for tanning or sitting around to talk. The middle-aged woman behind the desk was California, tanned, freckled, pretty, her blonde hair streaked even blonder by the sun. Her energy and good nature were just short of aggressive. In her yellow blouse and long silver earrings she was well worth my attention.
“Let me guess.” Alluring smile. “You don’t want a room.”
“You’re a fortune teller.”
“No. After twenty years in this business I’m just observant. The way you looked around on the drive and the way you came through the door over there told me that you weren’t going to be a guest.”
“Any guess why I’m here?”
“A cop or something like that. Which I think is cool. Breaks up the monotony. We’re full up and everybody’s behaving so I don’t have much to do. My husband’s in the hospital with back problems and my son’s getting ready for his next swim meet so I’m all alone in here with my soap operas.” Her teeth were luminous against her tanned face. “If you’re not a cop you’re a private investigator, and if you’re a private investigator somebody hired you to find out about somebody cheating.”
“You’re doing most of my work for me.”
“We run a respectable place. And a nice place. But we’re not above letting our rooms to people who aren’t married to each other. We make them pay full price for the privilege. That way we keep a reasonably suitable clientele. Not always, but most of the time.”
“You ever had any trouble?”
“Oh, sure. But fortunately Frank, my husband, he was a marine in Korea and he’s kept in good shape except for his back. He’s had to handle some angry husbands who’ve followed their wives here. And once there was a homosexual man whose boyfriend followed him here with a gun. Frank handles everything himself. We don’t want any unnecessary bad publicity. I wish he was here now. My husband’s the funniest guy I’ve ever known. It’s never boring when he’s around.”
I slid Bobby Randall’s flier across the desk. She smiled when she saw it. “Oh, yes, Johnny. So his real name’s Bobby?”
“Uh-huh. He’s been here then?”
“I’d have to say no comment. The way politicians do.”
“What if I told you a man’s future depended on what I’m doing. An innocent man.” It wasn’t true but it sure sounded good.
That sun-blessed face wrinkled in suspicion. “Who exactly are you?”
I showed her my ID. “A young woman was murdered in Black River Falls last night.”
“Yeah. That was sure a bummer. But they’ve already said that the guy who killed her committed suicide.”
Time for another somewhat untrue statement. “They’re saying that to trap the real killer. Or anyway the man they think is the real killer. He’s a client of mine. I’m trying to help him. I don’t want to see him railroaded into prison. I have a feeling you can help me and nobody ever needs to know. Not even your husband.”
That sand and ocean smile. “Now you sound like some of our customers.”
“So how about it?”
“Well-” She dragged out the word. “If you promise me you’ll never use my name.”
I used the three-finger pledge. “Scout’s honor.”
A nice surfy laugh. “Well, if you put it that way.”
“So how about Bobby? He’s been here?”
“Many times.” A laugh. “Frank has a short list of men he calls ‘living legends’ and Johnny’s one of them. I like Johnny better than Bobby if you don’t mind. I had a bad experience with a Bobby when I was in high school. I hate people named Bobby.”
