“But you and the judge always prove that Cliffie’s wrong.”
“There’s always a first time, Molly.”
“But you know he’s innocent.”
“I’ll do what I can, Molly. The best thing you can do is visit him as often as Cliffie will let you and bring him cigarettes and any food you can.”
“He wants to be a painter and actor and symphony composer, McCain. And I know if I just support him for a few years, he’ll be able to be all those things. That way he won’t have to, you know, steal stuff any more. We’ve already talked about it.”
Jamie had a bullshit artist who’d started a surfing band in Iowa, and now Molly had a bullshit artist who was going to rival Leonard Bernstein while also giving Brando and Gauguin a run for their money.
“I’ll get back to you, Molly.”
“I really appreciate this, McCain. I’m sure he’ll give you one of his paintings and it’ll be worth millions some day.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can tell you’re sneering. But I’m serious. People will be falling all over themselves to buy his paintings.”
“That’s because they’ll be drunk. Blind drunk.”
“You’re so smug, McCain. That was probably one of the reasons I didn’t fall in love with you.”
“Because I’m smug?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I was afraid it was because I didn’t know Joan Baez.”
“God, you’re so childish. You don’t recognize a great artist even when you see one.”
“Molly-” But what was the use? I was just bitter because I looked on guys like Elmer Fudd and Turk as masterminds of a sort. Not only did they get women to give them sex and shelter; they got them to support them in their fantasy lives.
“Molly, I’m sorry about being such a jerk. You believe in him, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Are you setting me up for a joke?”
“Nope. I like you. We’re friends. So I want to help you.”
“Jeez, that’s really nice of you, thanks. And I shouldn’t have said that about you being smug. I mean for the reason I didn’t fall in love with you.”
“That’s all right.”
“I mean, technically I didn’t fall in love with you for other reasons. But there’s no point going into them now, is there? We’re friends and that’s all that matters. Thanks again, McCain.”
I had another Hamm’s and sat with my bare feet on the coffee table while cats Tasha and Crystal slept on my outstretched legs. I tried not to think about the “other reasons” Molly hadn’t fallen in love with me. But of course I did. Not fall in love with me? How was that possible?
Around seven thirty, the phone rang again. I reached behind the couch to the small table where I’d dragged it.
“I had dinner out tonight, Sam, or I would’ve told you earlier.”
It was my landlady, Mrs. Goldman, the one who looks like Lauren Bacall will at sixty. If Bacall is lucky.
“You got six or seven calls this afternoon. I was hanging laundry in the back yard. Somebody really wanted to get hold of you.”
Not Molly: she said she’d just worked up the courage to call earlier. I thought of my father. Six or seven calls. Had my mother been trying to find me?
“Well, whoever it was hasn’t called back. But I appreciate you telling me.”
“I’m sorry I had to be in Iowa City last night, Sam. Otherwise I would’ve been with you at that rally.”
“How’d it go for your night out?”
“I met a man at the synagogue. A very nice man.” The warmth of her voice told me that she was smiling. She was a sixtyish widow, bright, beautiful, and great company. Many eligible widowers had courted her, but as yet none had won her. She was worth the effort.
“Remember, I get to sing at your wedding.”
She laughed. “I’ve heard you sing. How much would you need to not sing at my wedding?”
As soon as we finished, I dialed home. I heard a TV Western going strong in the background. My mother, after I asked if she’d tried to get in touch with me, said, “No, everything’s fine, honey. There are three Westerns on tonight and your dad’s enjoying every one of them.”
By eight thirty, I was in bed with the cats sleeping all around me. I dreamed of sleeping with Wendy Bennett. I’m not sure what the cats dreamed about.
14
Twelve hours later, following another shower and wearing a fresh short-sleeved white shirt and blue trousers, I pushed into the chambers of Her Most Sacred Excellency Esme Anne Whitney and stared in disbelief as she raised a glass of whiskey to her lips. All her struggles with sobriety, lost.
My impulse was to race across the long office, dive at her desk, and wrench the drink from her slender hand.
She had the newspaper spread out and was so taken with whatever she was reading, she apparently didn’t hear me come in.
“Morning, Judge.”
Her head came up slowly. She offered me her usual reluctant smile-be nice to the slaves, but not too nice- and then said, “What the hell are you gaping at, McCain?”
“Oh, nothing, I guess.”
“You’re giving me the creeps.”
“I’m giving you the creeps?”
“Will you please tell me what the hell you’re staring at?”
“What the hell am I staring at? Your drink. Your-whiskey.”
“Whiskey?” She raised her glass as if toasting me and then began laughing in a way that was almost bawdy and very much out of character for the pride of rich snobs everywhere. “My God, McCain. Are you really that stupid? This is ginger ale. I’m tired of Coke.”
I guess my skepticism was obvious.
“Here, you idiot. Come over here and smell it.”
“It’s really ginger ale?”
“No, McCain, it’s really bourbon and I’m about to jump up on my desk and start dancing. Would you be happy if I did that?”
“It just looked-”
“Oh, God, how did you get through law school?”
“I mowed the professor’s lawn every other Saturday.”
“I don’t doubt that. Now get over here and tell me more about this fool Cliffie’s got in jail.”
I had called her about seven thirty to make sure she’d be in. I had given her a few sketchy details about Doran. I told her I’d tell her the rest when we met in her chambers.
“He really thinks he won’t be prosecuted and convicted?” she asked as I sat down.
The linen suit today was mauve with a silk bone-colored blouse. She was a damned good-looking woman, as she well knew. She was even better-looking now that she’d given up alcohol.
“His girlfriend thinks I’ll solve the case and by then he’ll have enough material for his book.”
“I want to solve the case-God, imagine if Cliffie actually beats us, what that would do to my family honor, a Whitney being bested by a Sykes-but there’s always a first time.”
“That’s what I told her.”
“He hasn’t confessed, I hope?”
