Noir by Robert Coover Page B

night, signaling his bouncers to toss him. Joe the bartender dismissed him as a fucked-up dude, winging it on his own, noting that real hoods, like cops, tend to partner up when on the job. And they go careful on the sauce. This guy had been in here before and didn’t know when to stop. You could feel for that. You know when to stop but knowing doesn’t help.
    The next day you launched the search in earnest, starting with a return to Big Mame’s ice cream parlor. Fingers sent you here and you asked Big Mame why. She just shook her jowls and went about her business. She had one of those classic mudbucket faces, sullen and rumpled and full of sorrow, the kind that was very expressive but said nothing.
    Fingers is dead, Mame.
    No blame on me, Mister Bad Luck.
    There’s a dame who’s dead, too. A widow. Why are people trying to stop me from looking for her remains?
    Can’t say. What’s it to you anyhow? You do the dirty with this lady?
    I don’t even know what she looks like.
    So how you gonna know it’s her if you find her?
    I’ll know.
    But it was true. How would you know? By her legs? Legs aren’t faces with eyes and noses. Good thing, too. It would be a mess to have faces down there. No, what you were in love with was something less visible: a voice, a manner, poise. Style. A counter to your cluttered and seedy life. Would that be recognizable in a dead body? Mame only folded her arms over her big breasts and stared dully at you when you asked her questions, but you figured, even on the run, Rats would have to stop by sooner or later for a hot butterscotch sundae, he couldn’t stay away, so you let her know you wanted to see him. Your favorite is a five-layer parfait she makes, topped with cherry sauce, whipped cream, and rum raisins, and you had one of those before hitting the streets again.

    YOU PAID FOR IT OUT OF THE ALLOWANCE BLANCHE HAD handed you earlier in the day on your way out the door, given only after you’d agreed to change your socks. Blanche seemed to be turning up at the office more regularly now that the widow was dead. Mostly to try to dissuade you from the unprofitable pursuit of a client who no longer existed. She had peered reproachfully at you over her horn-rimmed spectacles, plucking red hairs from your pants and jacket and unshaved lip, and pointed out that the important thing was not where the body was, but why did it go missing? In whose interest was that?
    I don’t know. Mister Big wanted it as a souvenir?
    You are a silly man, Mr. Noir. As we know, the deceased’s husband willed the estate to the two of them with the stipulation that the estate remain intact, so before it can be finally probated, one of the two beneficiaries must relinquish their share or die. The last thing the second beneficiary would want would be to lose the corpus delicti.
    So I’m doing him a favor if I find it.
    You might as well ask for a commission. Unless there is something wrong with the body.
    What could be wrong with it?
    She’d shrugged her little dismissive shrug, pushing her glasses further up her nose. Shall I cancel the ad for the miniature soldiers? Nothing’s come of it. It’s a waste of money.
    No, constable, we have not yet abandoned the field, you’d replied, taking back your trenchcoat which she had threatened to send to the cleaners. Let’s add that we can also offer a set of miniature camp followers. Action figures. Hold down the fort, sweetheart. I’m off to the hunt.

    SO, SQUEEZING THE WEBBY BLACK VEIL IN YOUR pocket as though to wring knowing itself from it, you pushed off from Big Mame’s, your chin sticky with cherry sauce, to see what you could turn up. For awhile, you were literally looking everywhere, as though the corpse might be hidden under a carpet or behind the door. In flophouses, movie theaters, beer halls, public toilets, penny arcades, massage parlors, gambling dens, hock shops, gyms, and boxing arenas. You checked in with your contacts among the city’s dealers,