Free Muscle Memory by William G. Tapply

you?”
    “Suppose we introduce ourselves,” I said. “Then maybe we can start over again. I’m Brady Coyne.”
    He cocked his head, looked me up and down, then nodded. “You’re his lawyer. Jesus, I’m sorry. I assumed—”
    “What, that I was a reporter?”
    He nodded. “They’ve been here all morning, swarming all over the sidewalk, creeping around out back, double-parking their vans on the street. Mick’s up there crying his eyes out, and these—these monsters are banging on the door and yelling for him to come down and talk to them.” He blew out a long breath, then held out his hand. “I really apologize. I’m Lyn Conley. Mick’s best friend.”
    I shook his hand. “Good of you to be with him.”
    He shrugged. “I was up all night with my wife. I tried to call Mick early this morning, but he wasn’t answering. I figured he could use some company, so I came right over. He’s a mess.” He smiled. “I guess you know that. You were with him last night.”
    “Conley,” I said. “Gretchen…?”
    He nodded. “My wife, yes. She’s the one who found Kaye’s body.”
    “How is she doing?”
    “Better. She’s calmed down a little. Her mother’s with her now. Look, Mr. Coyne, Kaye and Mick are—were—our best friends. Our families were very close. Kaye was—well, every­body loved Kaye. You met her?”
    “Just once,” I said. “Not under the most favorable conditions.”
    He nodded. “The deposition. Sure. Well, that’s your loss. She was warm and funny and just a terrific person. I cannot imagine anyone wanting to do anything except hug her. And Mick?” He shook his head. “This is a terrible, terrible thing as it is. But the way they’re playing this story on TV, it’s as if Mick has been tried and convicted already. And that incident at the bar last night…”
    “What’s Mick told you?”
    Conley shrugged. “He’s a wreck. There’s no way he killed her. You never saw a man who loved his wife like Mick.”
    “Well,” I said, “I just came over to see how he was doing, maybe try to reassure him a little.”
    “I know he’ll want to see you,” said Conley. “Next time just ring and come on up. This door here doesn’t lock.”
    I followed him up the narrow flight of stairs, which paused at a landing on the second floor, took a 180-degree turn, and climbed steeply to Mick’s third-floor apartment. The entire stair­way was lit by two bare sixty-watt bulbs, one in the ceiling at each landing.
    The door at the top opened directly into the kitchen—cracked linoleum floor, open shelves above the sink, dirty white refrig­erator, scarred wooden table in front of a sooty window that looked out onto a small weedy backyard and, beyond it, the back side of another three-decker. A door in the corner of the kitchen led out to a small porch. Soot—or just years of house dust—covered the windowsill, the top of the baseboard, the edges of the linoleum. Three rickety wooden chairs were pushed in against the table. Beer bottles and dirty glasses and dishes and pots and pans were piled in and beside the sink and on the table. It smelled of old cigar smoke, sweaty socks, stale beer.
    “Mick’s in the living room,” said Conley. “Coffee?”
    “Please,” I said.
    Conley picked up some beer bottles and dropped them in a trash basket that was already brimming over. “I keep telling him,” he said. “He drinks too damn much. He doesn’t watch out, he’ll end up where I was.”
    I arched my eyebrows at him.
    He nodded. “I’ve been dry for four years, seven months, and thirteen days. I came damn close to blowing everything.”
    “You think Mick’s an alcoholic?”
    “I see my old self in him.” He shrugged. “He’s not ready to face it. I don’t know. Maybe this—” he waved his hand “—this tragedy will make him see the light.”
    “You don’t think…?”
    “What, that Mick killed Kaye?” He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.” He found the electric coffee