Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady

I found May on the veranda, working on another glass of beer and reading some sort of textbook. I told her I'd taken a swim, asked about the land surrounding the bay: It all belonged to Matt, as I thought. She also told me the police had spent hours photographing and examining the rowboat. I thanked her for her time and Matt's beer. The mutt was stretching out on the floor, watching me with bored eyes, wagging his stubby tail slightly. May walked me to my car and as I drove off she called out, “Mr. Connor, don't forget, when you see Mr. Anthony's lawyer, ask what I'm supposed to do... about the house and money.”

I waved, said I wouldn't forget. It was a few minutes before six as I beaded for Moatauk. In the rear view mirror I saw my T-shirt where I'd flung it on the back seat, or had Wilma tossed it there? I winked at it like a jerk and finally stopped the car, was about to throw it away, then in a moment of thrift, I stuffed it into the glove compartment I took a room at a motel high over the ocean, drove on to have a good lobster supper, and like a hick, mailed cards to Frank and Liz, and one to Bill Long.

The lobster was a small mistake. Michele was crazy for lobster, and for a dreadful moment I wondered what the hell I was doing way out here by myself. About this time on Saturday night I'd be helping her with the dishes. Then we'd listen to the news on TV and try to decide if we should stay home, or maybe see a foreign movie—with Michele whispering the fine points the English titles missed—or we might be playing bridge, or sitting around with some UN friends and arguing.

But that was only a lonely moment. The rest of the meal was okay. I still had a little of that now-I'm-a-man feeling left from being with Wilma; and Michele's card made me feel it was just a temporary split—as Wilma said, she ran home to mama... who unfortunately happened to be thousands of miles away. As I smoked my pipe I even felt a bit smug. I had a clear idea for the ads buzzing in the back of my head. If I carried it off, with any luck in a year or three I could afford to give Michele (and myself) a place like Matt's.

After driving around aimlessly I returned to the motel, showered and stretched out on the bed. I felt quite nicely tired, sort of a good-day's-work-well-done stuff. I read through the book condensations Miss Park had sent me. Each synopsis ran about two pages. I like to play a game with them, stopping about half way through and trying to figure out the ending, see if I can outsmart the writer. Since in the synopsis form the plot is bare, it isn't too hard a game and very good for my ego.

I read through the batch, batting about .500 on the endings, made notes for possible ad ideas to send on to Marty Kelly. Turning off the light I fell into a light, lazy sleep. And suddenly I was sitting up wide awake, fear tightening and turning my stomach. I had this hunch... and even though I kept telling myself it was silly, illogical, it was such a hard, strong hunch I knew it had to come true. I don't know whether I had a dream, or what, but it seemed as if I'd looked at a synopsis of my immediate life and had guessed the ending... I'd impregnated Wilma Hunter! And that would be an ending, all right!

I sat on the edge of the bed, sweating in the cool night, positive it would turn out that way, that it had to. Perhaps it was a secret sense of guilt, but whatever the reason, I simply knew it would work out like this: I hadn't taken any precautions with Wilma. Michele and I had split about wanting a kid—how better could fate goose me than by having Wilma pregnant? And what would I do?

Would she agree to an abortion? Or would she raise hell and insist upon having the baby? Or want me to marry her? Wilma didn't look like the kind you could argue with— about anything. How could I ever possibly explain it to Michele? What was there to say? Some men cat around every night and never get caught. Wasn't it almost a cliche that once-in-a-lifetimers make that one time count? The new poker players always win the first jackpot.

I walked the room, telling myself I was being stupid. I tried to be rational, even calm. I told myself I was believing in 'fate' and dreams and hunches like an illiterate. Why, the odds were 100 to I against it, maybe greater. For all I knew, perhaps Wilma couldn't have children. Or I couldn't. My God, I'd be hanging around Gypsy tea rooms next.

I tried to be sensible, logical. But no matter what I told myself there wasn't any doubt in my whirling mind: Under everything I had this terribly definite feeling it had happened —that I had oh so damn correctly guessed another ending. I couldn't shake the feeling of doom, and after a while I didn't even try any longer.

It had to be so.

Detective Walter Kolcicki

I spent a restless night, having nightmares when I did sleep. In the morning I was up early, bought swim trunks and went out to The Hither Hills State Park beach. It was a clear warm day and the beach was fairly crowded with campers and soldiers, but nothing like the way Jones Beach gets crowded.

I stayed on the beach all day, full of crazy thoughts. I could deny the kid was mine. I considered running away, going to Michele in Paris and staying there—and God knows how we'd eat. Between times I told myself I was acting like an ass, there wasn't any kid. Yet when I went in for a swim I wondered if drowning was painful.

Hell, for all I knew Wilma would be glad to see a doctor. Or maybe she wanted the kid, pass it off as Joel's. But it was my kid and I wasn't sure I wanted that. I wasn't sure of a damn thing, except I was in a mess. The thought of losing Michele, of being married to Wilma—if it ever came to that— was sickening. I argued and pleaded with myself like a loon, but I couldn't shake this hunch I had made Wilma pregnant I even had such silly ideas that if I could make big money I could keep Wilma and the kid on a back street basis... although being a big apple on Madison Avenue seemed the very least of my ambitions now.

The horrible thing was, how could I ever possibly explain this to Michele? Oh, there was the SOP explanation: you left me and I got drunk and took a romp in the hay. But that was slop. If I told her the truth, that I'd been happy with her, delightfully happy in bed with her, but for some unknown reason I'd wanted an affair... it would sound like I was ready for the couch. Maybe I was.

But all that didn't change the one factor banging at my skull like a club: What was I going to do about the kid? It would be my kid and I couldn't give him the short end—I was even sure it would be a him. Nor could I bear to think of losing Michele.

By noon I had a splitting headache and drove over to a bar, had a couple of hardboiled eggs and a few hookers for lunch. I returned to the beach and stretched out on the hot sand. I dozed off for an hour and awoke feeling deathly sick and very drunk. I walked way down the beach where a few people were surf casting, gave up and felt a little better. A swim helped my head and I watched a man catch a couple of sea robins and feel pretty excited about it.

Now all I could think of was how happy and simple life had been a few days ago, before Michele and I had our night. One thing I knew I was going to do in the morning—buy that damn house in Connecticut, send her the deed. I decided no matter what came up, I wasn't going to lose Michele—if I could help it.

In the middle of the afternoon I went back to the motel, feeling completely knocked out. I climbed into bed and slept until six in the morning. A cold shower and a big breakfast made me feel pretty good. I was now on a Fate-kick: What was going to happen was going to happen and there wasn't a thing for me to do but wait and see how the cake baked or if there was one in the oven.

It was the start of another hot day. I washed the car and took a swim. At nine I drove to Riverside, bought a fresh shirt and underwear, tried to see the District Attorney. After being politely bucked from one busy and/or bored official to another—and getting the impression Riverside was looking forward to the Matt Anthony trial as if it were the county fair, both with a sense of excitement and an eye on the business the crowds would bring—I was finally told A) the D.A. wasn't in Riverside that day, and, B) even if he was, he couldn't see reporters or discuss the trial. I explained once or twice about not being a reporter, but the moment I said I was from a publishing house... evidently I had to be a reporter.

However, I had no trouble seeing Detective Walter Kolcicki, an experience which took my mind off my own troubles. He was a caricature of a detective, about 45, everything about him short and tubby. His round, emotionless pig face held hard, beady eyes, and his 250 or more pounds didn't add up to a few inches over five feet A sweat stained brown polo shirt showed off fat arms, clusters of long hair on a barrel chest. The bull neck sat on ridges of thick skin and his teats would have made a stripper proud. There was sparse, dirty-gray hair on a perfectly round skull highly salted with dandruff. He was the comic picture of a lump. Sitting behind his desk, chewing on a cold cigar stub, I wasn't sure if he'd stood up or not.

Kolcicki wasn't used to talking but it was obvious he had recently acquired a sort of pat glibness. I merely said I was from Longson, publishers, didn't bother to explain I wasn't a reporter.

He was proud and pleased with himself as he assured me in a dull, flat voice the case would be the biggest thing to hit Riverside. When I asked how he had obtained Matt's confession, he worked the cigar around his fat mouth for a moment until I thought he might spit in my face. He asked coldly, “Mister, you saying I third degreed him?”

“No.” Matt Anthony could have torn this tub of lard apart with one hand. “What I mean is, the D.A. is asking for murder, yet Mr. Anthony's confession could easily be called manslaughter. I want your views on that.”

“Hell, mister,” Kolcicki grunted, “My job is to make an investigation, to interrogate a guy. I get the facts. The D.A. uses them the way he wants. Hardly expect a guy to sign himself into the chair. Trouble with reporters is you don't see being a dick is a business, operated about the same as you'd run a grocery store. Of course, some lousy bastards like Anthony think they can get away with anything because they're loaded. Maybe they can with some cops, but with me it's business.”

“You mean he offered to bribe you?”

“Naw. I never gave him a chance to. I pinned him one-two-three. Bastards like him operate like amateurs, think they can fool a professional investigator.”

“What does that mean?” he mouthed 'investigator' as if it was a piece of cake he was tasting.

All that fat settled back in the chair. “What I was telling you about it being a business. The guy that's been doing it for years knows the ropes; the newcomer don't know his ass from his elbow. See, I been a cop for a lot of years, most of them a big city cop. Sonofabitch like Anthony, all this police crap he's been writing, guess he figured himself for a sharp cop. But it boils down to being a business. Like this: you got a store and the store across the street runs a sale on coffee. Well, what the hell, it's like a rule, then you got to run a sale, too. Ain't no doubt about it. They got rules in my business, too. When a guy threatens to kill somebody, in this case his wife, and a couple hours later she's dead—and I don't care if they say a friggin flying saucer dropped out of the sky on her —I know damn well this guy killed his wife! That's what I told Anthony, told him this wasn't no crappy book, that I knew he'd done it and was there to bag 'im. Maybe in detective stories it ain't so, but in this business 99% of the time a suspect is guilty. Or he wouldn't be a suspect. Follow me?”