Free Sam McCain - 02 - Wake Up Little Susie by Ed Gorman

him. He wrote me a few letters from prison.”
    I lit one Lucky off another. Exhaled.
    Sat back. “Why the hell’d you jump all over the Judge and me this afternoon?”
    “How many times do I have to remind you, McCain? My wife is dead. I walked in, and I saw you two standing there talking to Cliffie—” He sighed. “I needed to take it out on somebody and you two were elected, I guess.”
    I noticed he didn’t apologize.
    Nelson Rockefeller had recently said his parents told him, “Never apologize, never explain.” Apparently my guest lived by the same code.
    “God, I don’t know, Squires. This is pretty confusing. Maybe you should talk to the Judge yourself.”
    “Oh, and she’d give me such a fair hearing, wouldn’t she? I wouldn’t get two words out before she kicked me out of her chambers.”
    “I guess you’re right about that.”
    “I need help, McCain. You know how hard it was for me to come over here and grovel.”
    Grovel? If this guy thought he was groveling, I’d have to invite him to watch me in action with the steely-eyed snob who was Judge Esme Whitney.
    “I’ll talk to her.”
    He stood up. “I really
    appreciate it.”
    “Since you seem to prefer the dark, how do I get ahold of you? You got a Bat signal you shine in the sky or anything?”
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
    “Never mind.”
    Now I knew at least two things he
    didn’t go in for: apologizing when he was wrong and reading Batman. It wasn’t going to be easy working with this guy.
    “Call me at my office. Say your name is Frank Daly.”
    “Frank Daly.”
    “I worked on his case when I was a
    prosecutor in Chicago.”
    “Nail him?”
    “He got the chair. I had the pleasure of watching.”
    I almost asked if he knew Elmer the executioner at the tavern. They could compare notes on killing people. But I knew for a fact that Elmer was a Batman reader so I wasn’t sure how they’d get along.
    He moved skillfully through the shadows to the back door. “I’ll wait for your call.”
    “This is crazy.”
    “So is my wife being dead.”
     
    The priest said, “Even though this is highly irregular, I did get a call from the Pope ten minutes ago and he gave us permission to go ahead with the ceremony.”
    I was beaming. All over. Head to toe, rosy glow.
    “Now if you’ll step forward,” the priest said.
    We stepped forward.
    It was kind of crowded on the small altar.
    The priest looked at his prayer book and then said, “Do you, Mary, take McCain to be your lawful wedded husband?”
    “Oh, yes!” she said, looking lovely in her wedding finery.
    “And do you Pamela take McCain to be your lawful wedded husband?”
    “Yeah, I guess so,” she said, after the teeny-tiniest hesitation. She, too, looked beautiful in her wedding finery.
    “Good, then, my children. I now pronounce you man and wives.”
    99
    I was just getting to the good part—the sleeping arrangements for our wedding night—when the phone rang.
    “‘Lo.”
    “McCain?”
    “I think so.”
    “This is no time to be a wise guy. I’m very, very nervous.”
    “Who is this?”
    “Linda. Linda Granger.”
    “Oh, God, Linda, I’m sorry. I
    didn’t mean to be a smart-ass.”
    “It’s Ok, McCain, that’s how I
    expect you to be.”
    Which wasn’t necessarily a compliment.
    “I was wondering if you’d seen Jeff.”
    “Yesterday afternoon at Elmer’s.”
    “How was he doing?”
    I sat up on the side of the bed. Found my Luckies. Had my cigarette hack and then thrust a butt, as Mike Hammer likes to call them, between my lips.
    “Is something wrong, Linda?”
    “They can’t find him.”
    “Who can’t?”
    “His parents. He didn’t come home last night.”
    “Oh.”
    “How was he when you saw him?”
    “His parents didn’t tell you?”
    “Tell me what?”
    “He was pretty zotzed. I drove him
    home from Elmer’s.”
    “Oh, God.”
    “He mst’ve gone out and started in again.”
    Silence. “I suppose he told