something for me.”
He smiled. “Cliffie was in. He’s already got it figured out, he says.”
“Really? This should be good.”
“Friday night Egan kills the girl,
see, and Saturday night he’s so guilty he gets all gooned up and then runs his car right off the road. Case closed.”
“Man, that Cliffie. When he puts that brain of his to use, stand back and watch the sparks fly.”
He laughed. “I suppose it could’ve
happened that way.”
“He didn’t kill her.”
I was just walking back to my car when Donny Hughes pulled up. His heavily chromed black leather jacket was just as inevitable as his waterfall blond ducktail. “Holy shit. No wonder he died.” His entire face tightened as he looked at the remains of Egan’s Merc.
“That’s right. You keep on drinking and drag racing, that could be you.”
He stayed in his street rod, an elbow on the open window of the driver’s side. “Wonder how Rita’s doin’?”
“I wouldn’t bother her right now.”
“Things may change, McCain. With Egan dead, maybe she’ll see how much I dig her.
I buy her gifts all the time. Just bought her a pair of desert boots and a new green sweater.
You should see that sweater on her.”
“I wouldn’t move in on her just yet, Donny. I think the mandatory grieving time is something like an hour and a half in this state.”
“Hey, McCain, I didn’t mean—”
I waved him off and went to my car. It never takes long for the “good friends” to move in on the spoils.
Scrambled eggs, blueberry muffins, three strips of perfectly cooked bacon, orange juice—th was the breakfast Emma and Amy Kelly had fixed for me.
Theirs was an immigrant Irish house, a tiny white clapboard box on a tiny lot with a tiny garage on its back edge. A
well-scrubbed living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms packed with doilies, small statues of the Virgin and assorted saints, an eleven-inch Tv screen, and framed paintings of Christ that managed to be sad and somehow lurid at the same time.
We ate in the dining room on a table that smelled of its new oilcloth covering with a decades-old record player scratching out Irish jigs from the living room.
Emma looked as composed, even cold, as she had on the highway last night. Amy’s eyes were red and ruined and her flesh was gray.
Emma said, “I suppose you’ve heard what that stupid ass Cliffie is saying.”
“That it was suicide?”
Emma nodded. “He isn’t Catholic. He doesn’t understand. For a Catholic to take his own life—”
his—eternal damnation,” Amy said.
“He got drunk and wrecked his car. That’s all that happened. And he didn’t kill that Sara Griffin girl, either. He loved her.”
“That’s exactly what he said? That he loved her?”
“He told both of us that,” Emma said. “And she was the only girl he’d ever said that about.”
“When did he say that?”
She looked at Amy. “Tuesday?”
“Monday, I think,” Amy said. “It was right after “The Lucy Show.””
“You and your “Lucy Show”,” Emma said.
She reached over and patted her sister’s hand.
“We each have our favorite shows and argue about which of them is best. I like Jackie Gleason.”
“He’s not a very good Catholic is what I read in the papers,” Amy said. “He’s married but he runs around on his wife all the time.”
“They’re separated,” Emma said.
“That doesn’t matter in the eyes of the church,”
Amy said. “He still shouldn’t be running around on her.”
I wondered if Jackie Gleason’s ears were burning. His sex life was being discussed with some force by two elderly Catholic ladies in rural Iowa.
“David wanted to marry Sara,” Amy said.
“He treated her differently from the others.”
“How so?”
“For one thing,” Amy said, “he had to chase her rather than the other way around.”
“And she was troubled, too, the poor thing,”
Emma said. “Her father putting her in that mental place. And
He smiled. “Cliffie was in. He’s already got it figured out, he says.”
“Really? This should be good.”
“Friday night Egan kills the girl,
see, and Saturday night he’s so guilty he gets all gooned up and then runs his car right off the road. Case closed.”
“Man, that Cliffie. When he puts that brain of his to use, stand back and watch the sparks fly.”
He laughed. “I suppose it could’ve
happened that way.”
“He didn’t kill her.”
I was just walking back to my car when Donny Hughes pulled up. His heavily chromed black leather jacket was just as inevitable as his waterfall blond ducktail. “Holy shit. No wonder he died.” His entire face tightened as he looked at the remains of Egan’s Merc.
“That’s right. You keep on drinking and drag racing, that could be you.”
He stayed in his street rod, an elbow on the open window of the driver’s side. “Wonder how Rita’s doin’?”
“I wouldn’t bother her right now.”
“Things may change, McCain. With Egan dead, maybe she’ll see how much I dig her.
I buy her gifts all the time. Just bought her a pair of desert boots and a new green sweater.
You should see that sweater on her.”
“I wouldn’t move in on her just yet, Donny. I think the mandatory grieving time is something like an hour and a half in this state.”
“Hey, McCain, I didn’t mean—”
I waved him off and went to my car. It never takes long for the “good friends” to move in on the spoils.
Scrambled eggs, blueberry muffins, three strips of perfectly cooked bacon, orange juice—th was the breakfast Emma and Amy Kelly had fixed for me.
Theirs was an immigrant Irish house, a tiny white clapboard box on a tiny lot with a tiny garage on its back edge. A
well-scrubbed living room, dining room, kitchen, bathroom, and two bedrooms packed with doilies, small statues of the Virgin and assorted saints, an eleven-inch Tv screen, and framed paintings of Christ that managed to be sad and somehow lurid at the same time.
We ate in the dining room on a table that smelled of its new oilcloth covering with a decades-old record player scratching out Irish jigs from the living room.
Emma looked as composed, even cold, as she had on the highway last night. Amy’s eyes were red and ruined and her flesh was gray.
Emma said, “I suppose you’ve heard what that stupid ass Cliffie is saying.”
“That it was suicide?”
Emma nodded. “He isn’t Catholic. He doesn’t understand. For a Catholic to take his own life—”
his—eternal damnation,” Amy said.
“He got drunk and wrecked his car. That’s all that happened. And he didn’t kill that Sara Griffin girl, either. He loved her.”
“That’s exactly what he said? That he loved her?”
“He told both of us that,” Emma said. “And she was the only girl he’d ever said that about.”
“When did he say that?”
She looked at Amy. “Tuesday?”
“Monday, I think,” Amy said. “It was right after “The Lucy Show.””
“You and your “Lucy Show”,” Emma said.
She reached over and patted her sister’s hand.
“We each have our favorite shows and argue about which of them is best. I like Jackie Gleason.”
“He’s not a very good Catholic is what I read in the papers,” Amy said. “He’s married but he runs around on his wife all the time.”
“They’re separated,” Emma said.
“That doesn’t matter in the eyes of the church,”
Amy said. “He still shouldn’t be running around on her.”
I wondered if Jackie Gleason’s ears were burning. His sex life was being discussed with some force by two elderly Catholic ladies in rural Iowa.
“David wanted to marry Sara,” Amy said.
“He treated her differently from the others.”
“How so?”
“For one thing,” Amy said, “he had to chase her rather than the other way around.”
“And she was troubled, too, the poor thing,”
Emma said. “Her father putting her in that mental place. And
Similar Books
