Free Blowback (The Nameless Detective) by Bill Pronzini

yesterday, but it started up again, thin and raspy, as I came back along the side of the cabin. I spat out a glob of shiny gray phlegm, scuffed it into the earth with my shoe. The taste of it lingered bitterly even after the coughing subsided.
    To get rid of the taste, I went to the Coca-Cola cooler and swung the lid up—but there was no beer left, nothing except half a dozen cans of soda pop. I picked up one of them and looked at the label. It said the contents were an “imitation citrus flavored dietary artificially sweetened carbonated beverage.” I decided I wasn't that desperate and put the can back and sucked on a piece of ice instead.
    Then I remembered that there were several stacked cases of Schlitz inside the shed; I got one of those and carried it out and began loading up the cooler while I waited for Harry to return. I was just putting away the last of the cans when Ray Jerrold came walking into view along the edge of the lake.
    He was wearing a pair of white seersucker walking shorts and a flowered silk sport shirt. He had his head tilted down and I could not see any of his face under his fisherman's hat. His stride was quick and jerky; one hand made little fluttery gestures in front of him, as if punctuating a conversation only he could hear.
    It seemed like a good idea to get a close-up look at him, an idea of his mental state today, so I stepped away from the cooler and moved toward him at an angle, hurrying a little. He did not seem to notice me until I called out, making my voice friendly and relaxed, “Mr. Jerrold—you got a second?”
    He stopped then and swung his head around. When I reached him I saw that his eyes had thinned to narrow slits, like embrasures on the tight oval of his face—either in reaction to the sight of me or to the harsh glare of the sun, I could not tell which. Otherwise he looked no better and no worse than he had yesterday, although I could not see enough of his eyes behind those slits to judge how much of the wildness might be there.
    He said “What do you want?” in a voice that was hoarse and flat. The odor of gin was sour on his breath, but not stale. He had been at it again today, early as it was.
    “Well, I was just wondering if you're planning to go off somewhere this morning.”
    “What I'm planning to do is my own business.”
    “Sure,” I said carefully. “Only there was some kind of accident across the lake last night, and I understand the police will be sending someone around to talk to all of us here.”
    That got me a long, silent stare. Then: “What kind of accident?”
    “I'm not sure. But a man was killed.”
    “I don't know anything about it.”
    “I guess none of us do,” I said. “I just thought you might want to know about—”
    “I've got things to do,” he said, “the hell with the police.”
    “They'll still want to talk to you, though.”
    “Then they can talk to me later,” Jerrold said, and pivoted away from me and went to where the Cadillac was parked and got into it. He hit the accelerator hard enough backing up to slew the Caddy around in a wide half-circle, billowing clouds of dust, nearly slamming it into the side of Bascomb's Ford. He got it braked just in time, shifted into a forward gear. The Caddy bucked, skidded slightly, came back on a point, and sailed up onto the road in a haze of reddish powder and back-spun pebbles. By the time it vanished into the screening trees, the chrome of its rear bumper glinting sharp reflections of sunlight, he had the speed up to forty and climbing.
    I stood for a moment, watching dust particles settle like flakes of gold in the glare. Then I shook my head and went over to Harry's porch and sat on the steps, worrying Jerrold around in my mind, not liking the impression I had just gotten of him.
    It was another ten minutes before Harry showed up, and he at least did not appear as grim as he had earlier. He gave me a thin smile and leaned against the railing and took off his fatigue cap;