Free A Shroud for Aquarius by Max Allan Collins

at me. “He’s an insurance man.”
    “Ever hear anything else about him?”
    “Such as?”
    “Such as, I don’t know. Just wondering.”
    “No. He’s Dave’s insurance man, that’s all I know.”
    “Really. Does he ever come to see Dave, at the office?”
    “Sure. He was in this morning.”
    Interesting.
    “Like another beer, Shirl?”
    “No. Thank you. This’ll do me.” She glanced at a round clock on the pine wall, surrounded by shrubbery. “It’s almost five. I have to pick my little girl up at the sitter’s in fifteen minutes.”
    “Thanks for taking off early, so we could have this little chat.”
    “It’s okay. Dave’s loose. Anytime after four, I can go if I need to, or just feel like it.”
    “He sounds like a good boss.”
    “He really is.”
    I walked her from Amelia Earhart’s around the corner and a couple blocks down, to a parking ramp where her car was. Mine, too, actually.
    On the way, I said, “You must be about my age—probably a little younger, though.”
    “I’m thirty-three.”
    “You’re a year younger than me. Can I ask you a question?”
    With nice dry humor, she said, “It’s a little bit late to start asking me if you can ask questions, Mal, isn’t it?”
    I put my arm in hers; she seemed to like it.
    “You’re right,” I said. “But I wanted to get a little personal.”
    “I’ve been sort of hoping you would.”
    “What’s your attitude toward drugs? Recreational ones, I mean.”
    “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve used some over the years. I may not look it today, prim and proper and all, but I did acid, once upon a time. Among other things.”
    “And?”
    “And I never had a single flashback, and I never sat and stared at the sun till I went blind, either.”
    “Good for you. So, are you still into that, at all?”
    “No. That’s kid stuff, don’t you think?”
    “I do, actually. But a lot of people don’t.”
    “I have a little girl of my own. I don’t have any of that stuff in my house. I see it at parties sometimes, but stay away from it, even there.”
    “Why?”
    We were at the parking ramp.
    “I wasn’t a campus radical or anything,” she said. “But I’m the right age to remember what people said back then. What sort of changes they hoped to make. The Woodstock nation, give peace a chance, dawning of the age of Aquarius, all of it. And what became of it all? Look at Dave—he was a mover and shaker in those days, in those circles. And now he sells advertising. Oh, he does a great job at it, I’m all for it. But isn’t it funny how the only thing left from those days is the dope? The ideals, they’re all gone. But the dope is still here. And what good has ever come from it?”
    I didn’t have an answer for her.
    “Ginnie was part of that,” she said suddenly. “I didn’t know her but to speak to her, but she was part of that.”
    “Part of what? Dope?”
    “Yes.”
    “She still used it?”
    “Oh, probably. She used to be a dealer, everybody knows that.”
    “Was she still?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe not. I’m just an outsider.”
    “Shirl, if you know something, please tell me.”
    “I don’t, really.”
    “All right.” I let some air out, took her by both her hands, squeezed gently. “Thanks for having a beer with me. I’d like to see you again some time.”
    “Even though you found out I have a little girl at home?”
    I grinned at her. “If I didn’t go out with women who have kids at home, I’d have to restrict my dating to preteens. And I’m getting a little long in the tooth for that. I like women my own age.”
    “Is that why you wear the Sgt. Bilko T-shirt?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “If a girl recognizes Bilko, then she’s old enough to date you, is that it?”
    I laughed. “Subconsciously, that could be the reason. Never thought of it that way. Could I have your phone number?”
    She got a little piece of paper out of her purse and wrote the number on it and gave it to