Free Muscle Memory by William G. Tapply Page A

pot and began filling it at the sink. “He’s in the other room. Coffee’ll be ready in a minute.”
    Mick’s living room was smaller than my bedroom. An old faded sofa, two ancient chairs, and a new big-screen console tele­vision made it feel cramped. A goldfish bowl sat on top of the TV, and a rather large blue fish hovered motionless in the water.
    Aside from an insurance company calendar featuring an Audubon bird print hanging behind the TV—it was still turned to May—there were no decorations in the room.
    Mick was lying on the sofa staring up at the ceiling. The television was on but muted, tuned to an exercise show. A muscular young brunette in skimpy Spandex was leading a gang of senior citizens in a slow-motion aerobics class.
    Mick lifted his head. “Hey,” he said.
    “How you doing, Mick?”
    He let his head fall back. “You seen the TV this morning?”
    “No.” I sat in the wing chair. A spring poked at my left cheek through the upholstery.
    “Well, you should. You’re on it. You’re a fucking hero, man. You saved poor Skeeter O’Reilly’s life from a crazed, knife-wielding, wife-killing monster at an early-morning hostage-taking. They’re already debating whether they should restore the death penalty specifically for me. They got some footage from outside Skeeter’s—you arriving with Horowitz, going inside, us coming out, me getting cuffed. Somehow they even got some of the conversation Horowitz and I had on the damn telephone. How in hell did they do that? Horowitz give it to ’em?”
    “Of course not,” I said. “They’re expert snoopers, that’s all.”
    Mick shook his head. “And then they showed the crowd gathered outside our house—mine and Kaye’s—in Lexington, with all the police cars there, lights flashing, the EMTs loading Kaye’s body bag into the back of an ambulance. They interviewed some of my old neighbors, people I’ve known for twenty years, friends whose kids played with my kids, folks who we had neighborhood barbecues and yard sales with. Know what they’re saying?
    “They’re saying,” I said, “that Mick Fallon was a loving husband and a good father and they never would’ve guessed he could do something like this.”
    Mick turned his head and smiled quickly. “Exactly. Like, well, he obviously did it, and we sure are surprised.”
    Lyn Conley came into the room. He handed me a mug of coffee, started to sit in the other chair, then straightened up. “Oh,” he said. “Am I interrupting?”
    I waved my hand. “Not at all.”
    “Lawyer-client conversation?”
    “No. Friend-friend conversation.” I took a sip of coffee, then lit a cigarette. “I’d like to talk to your wife,” I said to Conley.
    He frowned. “Why?”
    “He thinks I’m gonna be arrested,” said Mick.
    I shrugged. “I want to be prepared, that’s all.” I turned to Conley. “Gretchen—Mrs. Conley—was Kaye’s best friend, right?”
    “Yes,” said Conley. He glanced at Mick. “We were all best friends. The four of us. I don’t know what kind of shape Gretch is in to talk to anybody, though.”
    “I imagine the police spent some time with her.”
    “Hours.”
    “The whole experience must’ve been horrific for her,” I said. “But she’s an important witness. I’ve got to interview her. I was hoping sometime today or this evening…”
    He nodded. “I guess it’s important. Why don’t you come by around seven, seven-thirty. I’ll give you directions.”
    He went back into the kitchen, and a minute later returned. He handed me a piece of notepaper. “It’s not hard to find,” he said. “I wrote our phone number there, too.”
    I folded the paper, jammed it into my jacket pocket, and fished one of my business cards from my wallet. “If you need to reach me,” I said, handing it to him.
    He nodded, then turned to Mick. “I gotta get to the office, my friend. Anything I can do?”
    Mick shook his head. “Appreciate everything, man. Give my love to