Free Briarpatch by Ross Thomas Page B

payments and the finance company turns him over to me. And if his phone hasn’t been cut off, I call him up and say in my real deep scary voice, ‘My name’s Corcoran, pal, and you owe us money and if you don’t pay up, something’s gonna have to be done about it—understand?’ I’m really a pretty good frightener. Well, sometimes the guy pays up—I don’t know how, but that’s not my worry. If he doesn’t, I get hold of this kid who used to steal cars for a living and we go out and repo the car so the guy can take the bus when he goes out looking for a job wrapping bacon.” Corcoran paused. “Like I said, I’m a little ridiculous.” There was another, longer pause. “I think I’ll have another drink.”
    Corcoran had only to glance over his shoulder to bring the waitress hurrying over. After she left with the order, he said, “There’re some days I just want to go out and break something, know what I mean?”
    Dill nodded. “I think so.” He took a sip of his cognac. “The services are going to be at ten on Saturday in Trinity Baptist.”
    â€œWhy there? Felicity was a real let’s-not-fuck-around atheist.”
    â€œThe last I heard,” Dill said, “she was sort of a well-intentioned agnostic.”
    â€œThat was before homicide. After about two or three Saturday nights down on South Broadway she had this sudden leap of faith and went all the way. We were still together then. I remember she called me up one Sunday morning about six. I said hello and she said, ‘There is no God,’ and hung up. I found out later some guy had just wiped out his family with a Boy Scout hatchet. There were six of them, not counting his wife. Six kids, I mean. The oldest was eight. Felicity was first through the door.”
    â€œThey’re sending a limousine for me,” Dill said. “You like to ride along?”
    The big man thought about it for at least fifteen seconds and then slowly shook his head no. “I don’t intend any disrespect—hell,
that’s not the word. Indifference is the word. I’m not indifferent, but I don’t want to go to Felicity’s funeral. Funerals are awfully final and I don’t want to say goodbye yet. But thank you for asking me.”
    â€œIs there anyone else I should ask—anyone close?”
    Corcoran thought about it. “Well, you might ask Smokey.”
    â€œWho’s Smokey?”
    â€œAnna Maude Singe—singe, burn, scorch—Smokey. Felicity’s lawyer. Mine too. They were close. It was Smokey who told me you were staying here.”
    â€œYou talked to her today?”
    Corcoran nodded.
    â€œDid she tell you about the two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar life-insurance policy Felicity took out naming me as sole beneficiary?”
    â€œNo. When?”
    â€œWhen did she take it out?” Dill said. “Three weeks ago.”
    â€œSmokey didn’t tell me about it.” The big man’s expression grew thoughtful as he stared down at his drink. When he looked up Dill saw that the slightly mismatched green eyes had changed. Before they had been too small, too recessed, and too far apart, but clever. There was still too much wrong with them, but now they were more than clever. They had become smart, perhaps even brilliant. He tries to hide it behind all that size and ugliness, Dill thought, but occasionally it just seeps out. “There was no reason Smokey should’ve, was there?” Corcoran said. “Told me, I mean.”
    â€œI guess not.”
    â€œBut it means Felicity knew, doesn’t it?”
    â€œKnew?”
    â€œThat somebody was going to kill her.”
    â€œSuspected.”

    â€œRight. Suspected. If she’d known for sure, she would’ve done something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Corcoran smiled, but it was a small smile that only made him look sad. “She was a cop. There