Chapter 10

Paul Moran walked down the sidewalk at 12:45 with his hands in his pockets. It was a little late for lunch, but he still had the hangover; he had hoped it would go away before lunchtime. He never liked to eat with a hangover.

He saw Clinton B. Bowers and King Virdon under the awning of the variety store. Bowers was pointing his finger against King's tight shirt and was talking loudly, although not shouting. Paul forgot his hangover and moved on down the sidewalk so he could hear what Thornton's most successful politican was saying.

"Conduct unfitting a police officer," Bowers rumbled.

Paul stopped in front of the stationery store next door and pretended to look at the display of paper party goods in the window. A papier-mache bride and groom leered up at him, and he thought of his engagement and future marriage to Margaret Carlson.

"You don't understand, sir," King said.

"Don't understand, my foot. I'm disappointed in you, King; terribly disappointed."

"It was what she said, sir. It didn't have anything to do with the punk kid."

"Don't talk that way about the boy. I think he's Emmett Wilson's son. Look, Wilson's no big shot, but for God's sake's, he's an accountant for Charnley Farms, he belongs to the gun club, and he's a registered Republican to boot. Sometimes I think you're a thick son of a bitch, King,"

"She was teasing me," King said.

"For the love of God, there's a first-class whorehouse across the county line in Ronson City. Why don't you go over there and get your ashes hauled, boy, and forget about the local girls?"

"I've never been in a whorehouse in my life and I never intend going," King said in a flat Puritan voice.

"Well, don't go around trying to climb the local girls."

"You don't understand, sir."

"I understand one thing," Bowers roared in a louder voice, "I'll fire your ass tomorrow if you get involved in anything else around here. Now either get married or go over to Ronson City, but don't play around here."

King saw Paul suddenly and his back stiffened against the building; he clamped his lips together. Paul watched him out of the corner of his eye and it looked pretty funny, hangover or not. King Virdon was a big muscle-bound blowhard, a guy who wandered through life half-scared. There had been plenty of them when he was in the veterans' hospital, Paul thought; then he wished he hadn't remembered that. But one thing he did allow himself to think about now; he'd like to bust King Virdon and see what would happen. Maybe he'd always had the desire to belt a muscle-man in the mouth. Was that good mental health? He didn't know. But one thing he did know-it would be sort of like taking a good physic.

"What's the matter with you now?" Clinton B. Bowers said.

"The guy from the newspaper," King hissed.

Bowers turned quickly and stared at Paul, who was still looking into the stationery-store window at the papier-mache bride and groom and hoping that marriage had more to offer than a stupid painted-on smile worn by paper dummies.

"Hello there, Paul," Bowers said. He walked down the few steps of sidewalk to where the reporter stood and held his big right hand out.

Paul took the hand. It was always fun to shake hands with Clinton B. Bowers. He was the finest hand shaker he had ever encountered, far better even than the Brigadier General in Japan, who had had political ambition and who knew every G.I. got to vote when he went home ... as long as the system stayed the same. Maybe after the Brigadier got in things might be different, but that would be a while yet. "Look fellas, keep the brown shirts in the trunks until later," he might say.

But this was a little cruel. Probably the Brigadier had only wanted a cushy job like Vice President in charge of P.R. with a big corporation when he retired; he didn't have the swinging stroke of an ex-housepainter to go the dictator route. He had been close to the top of his class at West Point and had only made Brigadier. The poor bastard had been disappointed in life, and he had known he wouldn't even have made Brigadier if it hadn't been for Korea.

Clinton B. Bowers had a much heartier shake than the Brigadier. He was only sheriff of Thornton county, but he was a man you kept your eye on because he wasn't thinking about a cushy corporation job where he could deliver a few government contracts. Bowers would always be a man backed by the people, even when he became president. And that possibility always hung in Paul's mind.

"Hello, Mr. Bowers," Paul said. "That's big-city talk. I'm Clint to everybody."

"Tight-pants over there called you sir."

"Well, now, really." Bowers slapped Paul across the shoulders; he had a very strong hand and it was as big as a full-grown gorilla's. "The men in the sheriff's office always address the first officer as sir. That's protocol, Paul."

"Yeah."

"Well it is, son. Didn't you call your officers in the Army sir?"

"I called them a lot of things."

Clinton B. Bowers laughed heartily. "That beats everything. You're always joking about something, Paul."

"I'm not joking. I just thought they were a bunch of bastards."

Clinton Bowers laughed again. "You patriots all try to talk tough just so people won't think you're a bunch of sentimental softies. You-"

"I was drafted, Mr. Bowers."

"According to a book I read, the draftees were the strongest part of the Marine Corps in-"

"I was in the Army."

"I know you were in the Army, Paul. I was just talking about something else."

"Don't wave flags in my face, Mr. Bowers."

"What are you talking about, son?"

"I went. I had to go. Don't shove it down my throat and don't call me a patriot. I work for a newspaper, that's all; I work for a salary now and I don't say sir to anybody who doesn't rate it. Your deputy just called you sir. That's what we're talking about, isn't it?"

"Well, not exactly," Clinton B. Bowers said. "What King and I were talking about was confidential and I don't want a news story about it. I don't think Mr. Carlson would either."

"Mr. Carlson doesn't work for the paper. He owns it, but he doesn't work it. And I didn't hear anything you were saying because I didn't care what you were saying." Which wasn't exactly true, but Paul enjoyed saying it.

Bowers smiled. "You understand. I see you understand."

"I don't understand a goddam thing. I just didn't hear all of what you were talking about, and your internal problems don't matter to anybody, I don't think."

"You think right," Bowers said.

"Okay," Paul said, "so what are you worried about?"

"I'm not worried about anything, son," he said, patting Paul across the shoulder blade again. "Then don't panic."

Paul turned away from them and walked on down the street to Amsterdam's. He wasn't in the market for a drink right now, but it was still the best place in town to eat when you could afford it, and he could about once a week.

Paul walked into Amsterdam's and came face to face with the bar in the darkened interior. When he saw it, he thought about his hangover and realized it had passed on, like all sorrows and griefs.

He laughed to himself and went to a booth. He opened a menu and checked over the food listed there. It had been printed for middle-aged widows who wanted to have a time for themselves at lunch. The waitress came and he ordered a deluxe cheeseburger, something a widow would never have ordered, and which wasn't on the menu.

"Would you like a cocktail, sir?" she said.

"No," he said.

She left with his order.

He tried to remember what Bowers and King Virdon had been arguing about. He had overheard some of it but not enough to make any sense of it. It had been something about girls or a girl, and Virdon had said piously that he hadn't ever been in a whorehouse in his life and didn't intend going. What girls? What girl?

Paul wondered if it had anything to do with Evette Warwick. Virdon had slapped Stan Hopkins last night here in Amsterdam's, at the bar, over something Stan had said about Evette.

Was King Virdon hot for her?

Why in hell wouldn't he be? Practically every man and boy in Thornton had been at one time or another. Was local gangbuster falling for town tramp? That would make a good headline. That would....

Then Paul thought about Roy Warwick. No, it wasn't something to joke about, Evette and her hot tail. It was damned serious and damned tragic to one man, anyway. She was breaking her father in half, the way she acted. She shouldn't be doing that to poor old Roy; he deserved better because he was honest and decent. You couldn't say that about many men.

Paul wanted to break her goddam neck.

The waitress brought him a beer and he sipped some of it as he waited for his lunch. Memories of Evette's good lush body came back to him-her large heavy breasts with the big nipples and her strong, good legs that had wrapped around his body.

"I'd like to knock her brains out for what she's doing to Roy," he cried to himself.

Then he remembered something else. He and Margaret were supposed to go to the movies if he didn't have to work late tonight. And he didn't have to work late because nothing new had come up; all his copy was up to date, hangover or not. And if something happened at the last minute, Gerry Pierce would make the kid, only a few months out of Cal, take care of it. That was the newspaper business; when you were new you got all the jobs at all the bad hours.

Paul got up from his table and went to the public telephone in the corner. He dialed Margaret's number.

After three rings she answered.

"Hi," he said. "I'm free tonight."

"That's wonderful," she said enthusiastically. Margaret was a tall, slim, attractive brunette who had the outward appearance of being cold, aloof and detached. But actually she was warm, personal, and had the ability to pump excitement into mundane things. Most people regarded her as a cold potato because they didn't know her. But this had always made Paul happy as long as he had known her. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to share the wealth. Perhaps he enjoyed a woman who could carry off a subtle deception. Perhaps one day he would be completely in love with Margaret Carlson because she was so very much like himself.

"'Love After Five' is playing," she said.

"Oh my God."

"It will be fine. Reinhardt Mason is the star and he's always tremendous. Admit it now; you said the other night that Reinhardt Mason had never made a bad picture in his life and that he never would."

"I must have been drinking," Paul said. "I hadn't heard about 'Love After Five.' "

"Don't be a stuffy intellectual about this, sweet. I want to see good old Reinhardt. I'm secretly in love with him."

"I thought I was the love of your life."

"I'm just going to have your babies," she said brightly. "Reinhardt brings out the real me in me."

"Why don't we rent a motel and forget about good old Reinhardt?"

"Liberal intellectuals aren't supposed to think about practical things like motels and sex. They're supposed to sit around with half-empty wine bottles and talk about Reinhardt Mason and great movie art."

"Crap," Paul said.

"That's more like the intellectual I know," she said. "Can you pick me up in time to make the eight-forty-five break?"

"I'll be at your place at eight-fifteen."

"I'll go to the motel with you and forget about dear old Reinhardt if you really want me to."

"Sure," Paul said, knowing she didn't mean it. She might do it, but she would never mean it. "I'll be there at eight-fifteen."

"'Bye," she said.

Paul walked back to his table and found his deluxe cheeseburger waiting for him. At Amsterdam's it was really deluxe, a whole meal with salad and all sorts of goodies. It would cost him a dollar and a half plus tip, but it was worth it once in a while.

He dug into his sandwich.

Then he thought once again of King Virdon and Evette. Why hadn't he been able to keep them buried somewhere and not have to think about them?

But it was interesting, the hassle Bowers and Virdon had been going through on the sidewalk. "But she was teasing me," Virdon had said. That sounded like Evette, but it could have applied to a dozen little bitches who ran around Thornton. But it was probably Evette.

Teasing was Evette's art. She even liked to tease former lovers. She never thought about how much she could hurt her father, even if he was the town's ace drunk. She just liked to tease.

He bit into his sandwich and tried to enjoy it, but he couldn't forget about Clinton B. Bowers and Virdon and Evette. There was something there. Something had happened.

If Evette wasn't careful....

He threw that aside, pushed it back, and tried to enjoy his sandwich.

What he wouldn't allow himself to think about was:

Someone was going to kill Evette Warwick.