Free One Dead Drag Queen by Mark Richard Zubro

agency.”
    “Yes, you’ll probably find someone to take your money. They may even lie about how effective they will be.” Faslo shrugged. “I can’t prevent that.”
    “What about the note at the hospital?” I asked. “You must be able to ask questions about that.”
    Faslo said, “I need to talk to my partner for a few moments.” They rose and left the room.
    “I wish I knew more about these guys,” McCutcheon said.
    “You want me to have you investigate the investigators?”
    “Lot of that going around these days. Might not hurt for me to make a few more calls. Having a reputation is one thing. Knowing their real background is another.”
    After fifteen minutes Borini and Faslo reentered the room. Borini said, “The police are better equipped to do any investigating in what is undoubtedly a complex matter. However, if you give us a retainer of fifty thousand dollars, we will commit resources to finding out who has been threatening you. Obviously this will include asking questions at the hospital about the note. We will not directly involve ourselves in the bombing investigation. As we said, even if we cared to, we do not have the resources for such an undertaking. We promise to follow up every lead we get. As longas you understand, Mr. Carpenter, that we guarantee nothing. That if we come up with any information about the bombing, we will be giving it to the police as well as you. It is most likely that we will come up with nothing. Your offer of a million dollars is out of line. I hate to let it go. At the moment we’ll take the much lesser amount. As I’m sure you know, money is not always the answer, nor is greed. Who knows, we might get prestige from having Scott Carpenter as a client.”
    “I want to be there when you ask questions at the hospital.”
    “No,” Borini said. “You are hiring us because we’re professionals. We know our business. You would be in the way.”
    “I’m the client.”
    “And you’re rich,” Borini said. “We know that, but we’re going to do this our way.”
    “I guess you will.” They weren’t giving me a lot of choices. So much for throwing my money around to get instant gratification. Tom would advise me to stick with chocolate to fill this latter need.
    We left. It was after six. The Loop was nearly deserted of traffic. The weather continued perfect. The sunset was golden orange, soft pinks, and soothing blues. The enjoyable warmth of the day was fading to a pleasantly cool evening. I slumped in the passenger seat of McCutcheon’s Hummer. Several times I almost nodded off as we drove to the hospital.
    The last streaks of sunset hung in the sky as I talked to the doctor and Tom’s family outside his room. There had been no change in his condition.

10
     
    The first thing I noticed when I woke up was dull pain all over, and a feeling that I’d been drugged. I noted that I was in a bed, and I was looking out a window at the end of a sunset or the beginning of a sunrise. I heard the murmur of voices at some distance. I wondered why an IV tube was attached to my arm. I shut my eyes and slept.

11
     
    McCutcheon drove me home.
    I phoned Tom’s school number for substitute teachers and left a message on the machine. I called several of Tom’s close friends from work to give them the news.
    In the living room I turned on the stereo system and then shut off all the lights. I let the glow from the city outside and the digital readout on the stereo illumine the white carpet and the white furniture. I picked out a tape I’d made from all my county-and-western CDs. It consisted of the softest ballads and the most melancholy and sappy songs of the past thirty years. The best part was all of Mary Chapin Carpenter’s slow songs at the start of the first side of the tape. Even Tom likes those. I rewound it to the beginning. I lay on the couch and let her voice soothe me. I did my best to suppress the still undimmed memories of the carnage I’d seen. My exhaustion