Hawk Moon (24 page)

"You're a good shooter, Gilhooley."

"Yeah, and this woman's about to find out how good. Plus she's a lawyer and you know how I hate lawyers."

"Yeah, lawyers and bus drivers."

"Damn straight."

"And mailmen."

"And don't forget advertizing people."

"Oh, right," I said, "advertizing people." His second wife— he'd had three thus far — was in advertizing so he tended to blame her occupation for their terrible relationship. Not the fact that he was a) something of a nag b) something of a hothead and c) something of a crazy man. No, it had been the fault of her occupation. He invariably referred to ad people with that great sneering rage only a true Maoist can summon, as "showbiz wannabes" — for him a completely devastating judgment. What good Maoist ever wanted to be in showbiz?

"Anyway, I'll be there the next couple of hours. I'm going to cream this chick, believe me."

"I'll see you in a while, then."

"Wait till you hear this, man. This is a really wild story, what these six guys did back then."

W
hile some condemned white men occasionally petitioned the courts for new trials and so forth, red men and black men were generally denied further access to lawyers. Their execution dates came swiftly and without any legal hesitation.

Professor David Cromwell's Indian Journal

November 2, 1903

"I
believe you know this gentleman, Anna," Chief Ryan said to Anna the next morning.

Anna nodded. "Yes, of course. It's Mr. Shipman."

Shipman was an imposing man, handsome in a way that combined the spirit of the rake with the conniving air of a lawyer. He wore a dark business suit and conservative blue cravat and white shirt. He looked tired and unhappy.

"Mr. Shipman would like to say something to you, Anna."

"All right."

Shipman had seated himself on the edge of the Chief's desk. His importance seemed to fill the entire office. He said, "I understand you've been investigating me, Anna."

"Yes, sir, I have."

"Would you care to tell me why?"

"Because I believe that Tall Tree is innocent and that you murdered the Indian girl."

"Anna!" Chief Ryan said.

But Shipman said, "Let her speak, Chief."

"I have certain evidence."

"You do, eh?"

"Yes, Mr. Shipman, I do."

"Would you care to tell me about that evidence?"

"If the Chief gives me permission."

Shipman didn't even look at the Chief. He simply said, "I'm giving you permission, and that's enough."

She glanced at the Chief. He nodded.

"Very well, sir," Anna said. And then told him what she'd found.

"This ‘scientific detection’ of yours, it sounds very clever."

"Thank you, sir."

"Unfortunately, it doesn't have a damn thing to do with the truth."

Anna said nothing.

Shipman stood up, walked over to her, his boots loud on the wooden floor. He looked down into her eyes and said, "I didn't kill her, Anna."

"All right, sir."

"And I expect your investigation to end now that I've officially denied your suspicions. Is that correct?"

But the Chief didn't give Anna a chance to answer. He got up from behind his desk and came around to join them. "Of course her investigation will end. And right now. You can bet I'll see to it, Mr. Shipman, and see to it right away."

Shipman picked up his bowler, his icy blue eyes never once leaving Anna's face.

"It was very nice meeting you, Officer Tolan."

"Nice meeting you, sir."

He nodded to the Chief and left.

Anna felt more certain than ever that he was the killer. The Chief said, "Now, Anna, I want you to tell me just what the hell you've been up to."

She had never seen him more upset than he was at this moment.

"I
need to tell you something, Anna."

"I know. You're going to have another date with Marietta."

"No. Something else."

She had never heard him sound like this. Or look like this. "What is it?"

"When I went east last month?"

"Uh-huh." She knew this was going to be terrible. Her whole body ached in anticipation.

"I met an old high-school classmate of mine. Jenna Thompson. She came back to Cedar Rapids right after I did and — well, we've kind of been seeing each other."

"I see."

"And things kind of developed real fast."

"I understand."

"And we're — well, we're engaged."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, Anna."

"So am I, Trace. And a lot of it's my fault. The way I've treated you sometimes. I'm sorry."

For the very first time in over a year, Trace took his leave without even trying to kiss her. He just got up from the porch swing and left.

A
nna spent most of the night on her bed. Sometimes she wept. Sometimes she slept.

Mrs. Goldman came in from time to time and sat next to her in the darkness and held her hand and just let her cry until she couldn't cry anymore.

T
he really beautiful houses in Cedar Rapids, at least to me, are still to be found in the areas of Grande and Blake. A few of them date back to the time in the early century when one went spooning on the Cedar in rowboats, and sat on the lawns of Bever Park and listened to barbershop quartets, and watched 4th of July fireworks only after hearing stirring patriotic speeches from one of the New York troupes that regularly played Greene's Opera House. This is old money, and while it has all the faults of old money — arrogance, smugness, and the belief that destiny rather than luck gave the old rich their money in the first place — there is real elegance to be found in these homes and streets, reminding me of F. Scott Fitzgerald's descriptions of St. Paul in the late last century, and how he'd ride his bike past the houses of the rich, and glimpse teenage girls of impossible beauty and poise on the rolling green lawns . . . scenes he would later reproduce in Gatsby.

The new rich tend to live in housing developments on the eastern outskirts of the town. True, these are very special housing developments, with half-million-dollar homes and imposing areas of wilderness nearby and security of every sort you can afford. Yet they're still housing developments eight, ten, twelve large homes corralled into several acres that have been gnawed out of timberland, with plenty of wide streets to accommodate all the BMWs and Porsches and lumbering family vans.

Cedar Rapids is a small but successful city and always has been. Much as we like to complain about generations of hack politicians, the city fathers past (and present) obviously had a pretty good sense of what they were about, especially when you consider that we not only survived the eighties — factory closings, farm foreclosures, the first sad, ragged appearance of homeless people — but are today one of the country's largest exporters per capita. Even though I live forty miles outside the city, in a small town and a small town that has aspirations to be nothing more than it is, I still think of myself as a Cedar Rapidian.

All these things were on my mind as I pulled past the open gates leading to a PRIVATE lane of six massive redbrick houses, each furiously designed to look different from the others.

Evelyn Cook, in white halter and red shorts despite the definite autumnal chill on the air, was watering her front yard. She watched me drive up and park, but as soon as I got out of the car she turned back to her watering.

The closer I got, the better she looked in her simple appealing sexuality, the body that should have long ago slid into fat but hadn't. The velvet push of breasts from the top of her halter; the shining blonde down on her firm white thighs; the merry hint of lust in the cornflower-blue eyes. Usually, anyway. Today there was no hint of merriment at all.

"Hi, remember me?"

She kept on watering her lawn. "Of course."

"Wondered if your husband was around?"

Shook her blonde head. "He's at work."

"That's funny."

"What is?" She still hadn't looked at me. Apparently found her lawn one hell of a lot more fascinating than she found me.

You got a nice sense of country out here, anyway, I thought, glancing up at the sky to see a hawk sliding down the air currents, and a scarecrow silhouette on the horizon of a distant cornfield.

"What's funny is that at work they told me he hadn't been in for a few days and that he was home sick."

"Oh." She finally looked at me with her sweet little face. "I guess I don't know where he is."

"Just no idea at all, huh?"

"I don't care if you believe me or not."

"Well, you have to admit that it's kind of strange."

"What is?"

"A wife who doesn't know where her husband's been for two days."

"I didn't say two days."

"I see."

"I didn't say two days at all."

She was so sumptuous in the halter and shorts, too bad the sorrow in her eyes sapped her of all vitality. Dark crescents had formed under her blue, blue eyes.

"Then when was the last time you saw him?"

"I didn't see him. But I heard from him."

"When?"

"Last night."

"About what time?"

"I don't have to answer any of these questions, you know."

"I know."

She walked away from me then, her white feet covered with blades and flecks of newly mown grass, walking back and forth several times to finish off her watering.

After a few minutes, she came back to me and shut off the hose. "He called about nine o'clock last night."

"Did he say where he was?"

"No."

"You look scared."

"I am scared."

"He give you any idea of what was going on?"

Shook her head. "He was pretty drunk and he just kept saying, "It's all gonna come down on me, babe. It's all gonna come down on me."

"Do you know what he meant?"

Shook her head again. "No. And I'm not sure I want to know."

"Mommy."

A slight but pretty girl of perhaps eight stood on the front porch of the recessed entryway in the front of the large Italian Renaissance house. "Mom, Derek won't give me the blue crayon. He says he doesn't have to because it's his birthday."

"Tell him that even though it's his birthday, he has to give you the blue crayon."

"And the red one?"

"Yes, the red one, too."

"Even the yellow one?"

"Yes, honey, even the yellow one. He has to share all of them with you."

"Thanks, Mommy." The little girl went back inside.

"She's very cute."

"Thanks."

I took the photo from my jacket. "Here's another little girl I want you to see. Does she look familiar at all?"

She took the photo. "No. Should she?"

"I think she has something to do with your husband's trouble."

"A little girl?"

"She's not a little girl anymore. She's twenty-five now."

She handed me back the photo. "He really is in trouble, isn't he? Is it some sort of scandal or something?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What's going to happen?"

"No idea, I'm afraid. Not yet."

I put my hand on her shoulder. The flesh gave me a start, so tender and warm and female. The gesture had been intended merely as courtesy. Or so I'd told myself anyway. She seemed to read my thoughts, looked at my hand on her shoulder, then back at me. I took my hand away.

"Were you really in the FBI?"

"Yes."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yes. Then you're not just some sleazy private investigator."

"I do have a license for that."

"You know what I mean."

"I know what you mean."

"Your hand feels nice there." For the first time, she looked older, a certain harshness tightening the blue eyes and the soft erotic mouth. "I'd like to tell Bryce some of the things I was thinking about when you put your hand on my shoulder just now. Not that he'd give a damn." She raised her head and looked up at the sky as if God had written a sentence or two of wisdom for her to read. "Not that he's given a damn in a long time. Not about me, anyway. About the kids, yes. But me . . ."