Free No Cure for Death by Max Allan Collins Page A

the abruptness of an ambulance siren.
    Damn. That was bad. He was a laugher—somebody for whom getting high was an intensification of life’s absurdities. Which meant he would let out a peal of laughter at just about anything, everything.
    “Listen,” I said. “Listen to me. Are you so high you don’t care whether or not you get busted? You best talk things over with me or I’ll have the sheriff on your butt so fast you’ll think you’re hallucinating.”
    The cackle turned into a more or less normal laugh, which kept going as he said, “Call him... go ahead, ya stupid jerk, go ahead and
call
the Man.”
    That stopped me.
    “You talked to him already?” I said.
    His smile flickered yes.
    “Gave him permission for the autopsy?”
    His smile again said yes and he laughed some more.
    I didn’t know how much of this to buy, so I asked him, “What’s the sheriff’s name, since you know him so well?”
    He then did a very bad impression of Walter Brennan that was just good enough to make his point.
    I said, “Brennan knows you’re a user?”
    “‘Just be out of town by sunrise,’ is all he says. ‘Yessir, Mister Dillon,’ I says.”
    “What about Janet? Doesn’t it mean anything to you she’s dead?”
    He stopped cold for a moment, no laughter, no smile, but his eyes still fixed on some remote fleck of dust. He said, “Man, you and me we’re dyin’ right now. You’re born and then you start dyin’. Big fuckin’ deal.”
    “What about your son? Any feelings about him?”
    He shifted his focus of attention to the right corner of the room. He smiled again, this time not at me. It was neither yes or no.
    “What about your son?” I repeated.
    “What son? I don’t have a son... son... sunrise... out of town... ‘Yessir, Mister Dillon,’ I says. Get outta’ my karma, man.”
    I released my hold on him but he stayed put anyway. I got up and roamed restlessly around the room. I looked in his suitcase: one newly purchased, now-wrinkled dark dress suit; some soiled underwear; no heavy dope, other than a lid or so of that admittedly strong grass; a rental slip for the Javelin outside; and the last half of a round trip ticket in a Pan Am envelope. On the outside of the latter was his time of arrival: eleven that morning; he’d come in from Chicago. That pretty well ruled out any thoughts I might’ve had, after his spirited attack on me, about him being a possible suspect in the beating of Janet’s mother and the burning of the house. The only other item in the suitcase was a recently bought shiny black leather billfold. The only identification in it was a crinkled-up, dirty driver’s license—Illinois, expired—and there was some cash in it. Five crisp, new bills.
    Five thousand dollars.
    I rushed over and grabbed one of his skinny arms and said, “Where the hell did you get money like this?”
    He grinned at the ceiling.
    “Answer me!”
    He kept grinning. “One of my paintings, man.”
    “Yeah, I heard you were an artist.” I shook him. “What did you do for this kind of cash? Who’d you rip off?”
    He said, “Turn on th’ music.”
    A thought came to me from out of left field.
    “Norman,” I said.
    Somewhere in the glazed, dilated eyes a small light seemed to go on.
    I grabbed a thin arm. “Norman—what’s that name mean to you? Norman? Norman!”
    He started back in on a laughing jag and I got in the way of the stale warmth of his musky breath. Another whiff and I’d get a contact high. He said, “Turn on th’ music. Get outta’ my karma.”
    I let go of him. Got out of his karma. Threw the billfold on the nightstand, by the stick of melting incense.
    On my way out I turned his cassette player back up; Deep Purple was playing an instrumental called “Hard Road.”
    Taber and I liked the same music. For some reason that made me feel a little sick.
    Or maybe I just wasn’t used to the smell of pot smoke anymore.

PART THREE
    NOVEMBER 28, 1974 THANKSGIVING

THIRTEEN
    I knew