Free Suspects by Thomas Berger

He preferred her this way, without makeup, and not all fancied up, her natural coloring being what it was, and he preferred not to see much of her body, either in the form of bare shoulders and legs or snug-fitting apparel from the waist down. Larry on the other hand, in what had to be perverse in a husband, was always urging her to show more flesh, buy a strap bikini, wear miniskirts, and was capable, after a few drinks, of getting downright disgusting, at least in front of Lloyd, on the subject of underwear. “Black garter belt and mesh stockings! Put a little zing in your dull life!” He would shake his head at his brother. “But no , not Little Miss Muffet there, in her pantaloons.” Donna of course would have turned maroon by now. But on the few occasions when Lloyd protested against this treatment, it was she whom he offended, not Larry, who never took him seriously in any event, yet always urged him to drop around to the house.
    It was while filling the backpack now that Lloyd consciously remembered the scene at the liquor store, and immediately thrust it back into the labyrinth of mind in which he stored such material. He had not committed the robbery nor done the mayhem, nor did he know either perpetrator or victim. He had shoplifted the whisky, but also he had reported the greater crime to 911. He had done the right thing when it was required. Maybe this was an odd pretext by which to feel a sense of accomplishment, and one perhaps too complex to explain to anyone else, but at least it was not another failure.
    Afterward he must have gone home and drunk scotch until he passed out. Or so it seemed. What was hard to understand was why he could not find the big bottle this morning. Could he have thrown it out the window at some point? Perhaps in the direction of the barking dog that could be heard every early morning from somewhere beyond the trash-filled areaway on which his only window looked down. And at one point he had cut himself shaving. But why had he shaved in the midst of an orgy with the bottle?
    The whole thing had begun when he realized he needed a drink before going to see Donna. It was absurd when you thought about it: he had required solace after a bad morning that began with the accident with the electric shaver, which in effect got him fired, and then with no money he could not buy liquor, so he stole the bottle, narrowly missing being either shot by the robber who had gunned down the clerk or arrested by the police, and when he finally got home after that ordeal he drank so much of the whisky as to lose consciousness, but revived, at least dimly, to shave and cut himself with the throwaway razor, only to collapse again and piss the bed before waking.
    The longer he had been up, the more ill he felt. It was the kind of empty-stomach sickness that could not be relieved by puking. Something to eat and a cup of coffee would no doubt be the best medicine, but he was no less broke today than he had been yesterday. All the fight had gone out of him. He now regretted having gone to the supermarket to alienate his boss further. If he had apologized to the man, he might at least have been able to collect the wages due him. Maybe, if he had been pitiful enough, he would not even have been discharged, though that approach had never been known to work with a male superior. With women bosses, of whom he had had a couple thus far in life, counting an after-school job, it was effective if they were old enough to feel maternal. If one was near his own age, forget it: she was even worse than a man.
    Should he swallow his pride and go see Donna in his current condition, get a free meal and a sympathetic ear? At least he had never asked her or Larry for money, and he would not do so now. Nor had he ever gone to their house without a little gift for Amanda. He could not break that tradition, which was all he had left.

5
    Patrolmen Jack Marevitch and Art McCall were en route to the variety store where the