A Far Gone Night (4 page)

“Another thing,” he said, taking a rag and wiping condensation off the bar. “You’re involved.”

“And that alone should make it a crime scene.”

“There is a history with you, this town, and crime scenes. Not a criticism. We’re all better off since you came our way.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean to intrude on your feelings, but you must be keeping something back about the girl in the river,” Lunatic said. “You don’t trust me?”

He had a point. After all, he saved my life once when he shot a professional killer closing in on me. I leaned over the bar toward the big guy and motioned him closer. He inclined his head toward me after looking around the bar and grill, which was doing a decent business for mid-afternoon on a Wednesday.

“In confidence, Lunatic, I can tell you that the girl was young and unclothed.” I sampled my Three Philosophers.
Every bit as good as the first one.
And the second.

He was silent, looking thoughtful. Then he said, “Sounds like a ritualistic suicide. There was one just like it in
LeMars
a few months back. Girl left a Shakespearean sonnet in iambic pentameter as a suicide note, shed her clothes, and walked into the river.”

“That’s what
Doltch
said.
A good-bye poem.
Sad.”

I had no intention of telling Lunatic about the two bullet holes in the back of the head, a fact that ruled out suicide unless she was a highly-motivated self-destructive type. Information would leak out, but I wasn’t going to contribute anything about the murder. I wanted to see how the coroner and Sheriff’s Department handled the case. I’m conservative when it comes to trusting people. The three people I trusted with my life are all dead, so there you go.

“Probably, yeah, could be a ritualistic suicide,” I said, enjoying being non-committal for a change. Lunatic gave me a look that indicated he suspected I was up to something, but I let it pass, and so did he.

I was beginning to acquire a soothing buzz. Two ales on a mostly-empty stomach, my breakfast notwithstanding, were working their magic. I felt good, and began humming the James Brown hit by the same name. I began grooving a little as I bit into the burger, swaying my shoulders.

“Another white man’s burden,” Lunatic said.

“What?”

“Inability to dance.”

Stung, I finished chewing, and said, “You need to know that I was voted ‘Honorary Soul Brother’ for my dancing skills. My African-American buddies in the Ultimate Special Forces Annihilation Unit granted me that honor when we were partying after freeing three major nations of dictatorships one weekend. So there.” I returned to my food. And quit barstool dancing. “Everyone’s a critic,” I muttered, feigning hurt feelings.

“Not a criticism. A
critique
,” he said.

“And by the way, my critique of red men’s dancing goes something like this—toe, heel, alternate feet, toe, heel, repeat. All the while chanting, ‘Hey-
ya
, hey-
ya
.’
Stunning.”

“You mentioned the news media a few moments ago,” Lunatic said, ignoring my racist remarks, “as one of my anemic sources of information.”

“Yes, I did. I suspect that’s where you get all your inside stuff, like most of us, after someone else has done the legwork.”

“Well,” he said, looking over my left shoulder, “speaking of the media,
and
legwork, guess
who
just walked in the door?”

I was enjoying the smoothing-out benefits of the Three Philosophers, which began to quickly erode when I understood to whom
Mooning
was referring.

So I took another swallow of my ale and turned around, rotating my barstool, and there she was, ubiquitous and nosy and frequently hyperbolic ace reporter of
The Des Moines Chronicle
, the talented and lovely Suzanne
Highsmith
.

She looked my way, waved with great vigor and apparent delight in seeing me, hung up her fur jacket on a coat tree, and started my way. I turned back around to face Lunatic, whose face was a combination of controlled merriment and faux sympathy.

“How did she find out about the body in the river? That happened only twelve hours ago!”

“Only The Great Spirit knows. But you can ask her yourself. Here she is, Thomas.” And with that, Lunatic Mooning turned away.

S
uzanne
Highsmith
is a beautiful woman. And she knows it. She can also be a monumental pain in the ass, a too-frequent character weakness of beautiful women. Nevertheless, I decided to slide off my barstool and greet her.

I looked around. There wasn’t a client in The Grain who wasn’t looking. Suzanne is the kind of woman who turns heads. Women turn their heads out of envy and jealousy; men out of lust and admiration. But while lust can only get you so far, admiration can go on for a lifetime. I admired Karen until the day she died. Still do.

So far, I am not an admirer of this woman.

She said, “Hello, Thomas, and, oh, may I call you Thomas, given our history?”

“Feel free,” I said. “May I buy you something to drink? Or eat?”

She smiled that smile and flipped her trademark braid, long and thick and dark, a singular rope of style and sexiness of which she is well aware. She turned to Lunatic and said, “Nice to see you again, Mr. Mooning. May I have a Diet Coke, and maybe an antipasto salad, please, bleu cheese dressing on the side?”

Lunatic nodded after saying, “Nice to see you, too, Suzanne.”

“Diet Coke and a salad?” I asked.

“One has to watch one’s body,” she said, “because it goes south in a hurry, although it doesn’t seem to apply to you, Thomas. You look better than ever.
Steroids from Mexico?
Lance Armstrong Specials?”
She leaned back and gave me the once-over.

“Actually, it’s
beeroids
and hard work. But let’s get to the point,” I said, already knowing, “why are you here in beautiful downtown
Rockbluff
, Iowa?” Suzanne lives in West Des Moines.

She took my arm and began steering me toward a booth. I grabbed my pint in one hand and plate in the other, abandoned my place at the bar, and allowed her to be the designated driver. She started to sit us down in Horace’s booth, but I cut her off and angled for the next one.

“What’s with that? That booth looks perfectly fine.”

“No one sits there anymore,” I said. She didn’t know. She’d think it was stupid and illogical.
Another reason not to cooperate with her.
No heart. I maneuvered her into the next booth, then scooched in the seat across the Formica tabletop separating us.

Almost immediately Lunatic was there with her Diet Coke and salad. He winked at me and strode back across the middle of the room that served as a dance floor on weekend nights. I hadn’t tried it out yet, but there’s always hope, I thought. But Lunatic would critique, so there you go.

After taking a birdlike sip of her drink and picking at her salad, she said, “You go ahead. Eat. I think it’s cool to watch a big man eat.”

“What are you doing in
Rockbluff
, Suzanne?” I asked in a loud whisper, leaning toward her and securing eye contact despite a desire to take in the front of her purple cardigan, open quite a ways down, revealing stunning cleavage and the edges of a snow-white, lacy camisole. I didn’t fool her.

“There are some wonderful views around here,” she said, an impish smile on her face.

I said nothing.
Looked up.
She went on.

“For instance, gazing downstream from that beautiful centerpiece bridge, one might see all kinds of interesting objects. Like a dead woman,” she whispered. She picked up her fork and diddled around with her salad, then selected one small piece of lettuce and placed it delicately in her mouth. She was not wearing lipstick. No need.

“Who told you that?”

“You don’t have to raise your voice, Thomas. But it’s interesting,” she said, “that you didn’t question my remark. Just,” and then she lowered her voice to sound gruff and masculine, “just ‘Who told you that?’ You crack me up, Thomas.”

“
Interesting
,” I said, “that you didn’t answer
my
question.”

“I never divulge my sources. Without them, I wouldn’t win all those awards and receive accolades from all over the country for my story about you and all that interesting stuff that happened here a while back.” Then she dug into her salad.

I understand what passes for journalism these days. A writer has to have sources she won’t give up, even to the point of being jailed for withholding names. I get it. I also have to admit that she did a credible job on all the troubles I ran into over a year ago and, even though I didn’t cooperate with her, enough people did, and she took it to the bank. Awards, keynote speaker gigs at big conferences, and interviews on all the networks followed. A big book deal soon after the fireworks ended. The sensationalism of her coverage sold papers and her book. I heard that she even got to sit on the curvy couch with the hosts of Fox & Friends. A brief big deal nationally until the next rock star overdosed.
Time enough to get rich and independent.

“Okay,” I said, after starting in on my second Loony Burger, “so you know. What’s so newsworthy about a simple suicide? As far as I know, she wasn’t famous.”

“What’s
newsworthy
about a simple suicide is that it happened in this crime-infested, quaint village. What makes it
sensationally
newsworthy to me is that
you
found the body, in the middle of the freaking night, Thomas. When everyone else is sleeping! There
be
intrigue about, boy-o, for that simple reason.”

And then she giggled, snickered, and laughed out loud.

“What?”

“You’re a real piece of work, Thomas.
So close-mouthed and such a lousy liar.”

“I didn’t lie. I believe I just mentioned suicide, just because that’s likely what it was.”

She stopped laughing. “Look, you know me, and you know I’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m already ahead of the local constabulary, far ahead of your little weekly newspaper, and miles beyond the national media. I’ll get this ‘suicide’ figured out, and I’d love to work together with you in finding out what exactly happened.”

“Who told you about the body?”

“None of your beeswax, bub,” she said. “But knowing you, you’ll find out eventually.”

She gave up on her salad and pushed it away, took a sip from her soda, leaned back and stretched up her arms, and locked her fingers behind her head. Her lovely topside lifted in a kind of poetry that goes beyond any poor language to describe. She unlocked her fingers. Her hands returned to the table separating us. She was wearing a dazzling opal ring. New, I think. All that fame.
All that income.
Next thing I know, she’ll have a tan in February.

“You know, Thomas, this little town of
Rockbluff
, jewel of the Whitetail River, is making me famous. How the
hell are
you people able to generate so many luscious stories in such a small place in such a short period of time? This is like that old TV series, ‘Murder, She Wrote.’ I learned one thing from watching those reruns: stay away from Jessica Fletcher—wherever she goes, murder follows. And you’re just like her. Oh, by the way,” she said as I continued to work on my meal, “I have looked into your past, and imagine, I discovered there are little security blocks everywhere other than the fact that you sang in the junior church choir in Clinton, rescued stray cats and dogs, played football and basketball for the River Kings, and got thrown out of school once for fighting in the hall. Oh, and you enlisted in the military right after high school and went to some kind of Navy boot camp in California. Then, imagine this,” she said, lowering her voice again and propping her bosom on the table, nearly brushing her salad aside, “I can’t get any deeper into your past. And considering my resources,” she went on, shifting her weight, “that’s saying something.”

“Once again, your sources are inaccurate. Remember when the troubles took place last year, and you said your sources said I called in the nine-one-one call? Remember that?”

“Yes.”
Attitude.
Petulant.

“And it turned out that the caller was Mrs.
Soderstrom
? Not me?”

A look that would chill a serial killer.

“Well, you need to know I was never in my junior church choir.
Another error in your reporting.
And I don’t rescue cats.”

“I wasn’t being
literal
, Thomas. Jeez, lighten up a little.”

“But I’ve improved on hospitality, haven’t I? I mean, I bought that lunch you’re ignoring and I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”

“Yes, but that’s your beer talking.’

“Ale talking.
Belgian ale.”
I finished off my final Three Philosophers.

“Let’s change the subject,” she said, leaning back against the booth and folding her arms under her chest. “I could make you famous, you know. If we worked together, we might make things happen. It could be fun, Thomas.”

“I had my taste of fame after you wrote your stories about me. I couldn’t step outside my home without some nut job wanting an interview, or a photograph and an interview, or money, or even some endorsements for shotguns. Look, all I want is peace and quiet and to be left alone, and you damn near ruined it for me. You
did
ruin it for a while. And now you’re back.” I finished my second Loony Burger.

She raised her hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I apologize, Thomas. I’ll admit I got a little pushy with the story, and I’ll even admit I might have emphasized some elements of the story that would have been just fine by themselves, and…”

“You
sensationalized
parts of the story! You made me sound like a death machine—not a person. I’ve had three men at different times come into this place and want to fight me, and when I told them to go away and they didn’t, Mooning had to throw them out, all because of that charming little line in one of your follow-up reports about, ‘if there were a Tough Guy Contest for northeast Iowa, Thomas O’Shea would easily win.’ That brought ’
em
out of the bushes, Suzanne. Thank you for that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And when those guys went outside, they waited for me.
Each of them, weeks apart, waiting for me in the parking lot outside.”

“What did you do?”

“I defended myself. What do you think I did, call for help?”

“Did they end up in the hospital?”

“That’s beside the point. They were just young punks, wanting to make a rep by working me over for some kind of street cred. They didn’t even know how to fight. And you put them there.
Shame on you.”

“I said I was sorry, and I am.”

“Why do you suppose I don’t believe you?”

“History.
Which is just that—history.
I really do think we could work together, but I can let that go. For now,” she said.

“I am not one bit interested in working with you.
Reporters
,” I muttered, tossing in a little contempt in my tone.

“I’m not a reporter anymore. I’m not even an investigative journalist, Thomas. I’m a
writer
.
Nothing more, nothing less.”

“I saw your book on display in
Bednarik’s
Books. I think everyone in town bought one.”

A smile broke brightly across her face. “What did you think?”

“I didn’t read it.”

Her smile drifted away. “Did you buy it?”

“No.”

I looked out the window. A rich, vivid, red and orange sunset was showing off, its vibrant colors a backdrop for the trees denuded of foliage, their stark outlines against the burning sky like a Japanese print. I looked back at her face and saw the disappointment there and understood once again despite her hurt feelings, maybe
because
of hurt feelings, that she was a beautiful woman.