Free If Dying Was All by Ron Goulart Page A

Easy. The bandaged Eddie brought their drinks.
    “Sorry the tray is all bunged up,” he said as he served.
    “Are you sure you ought to be working, Eddie?” Perry asked.
    “You have to have more than warts removed before they let you have a day off around here.” He went back to the bar and resumed his anecdote.
    Easy said, “Do you know the Manzana area?”
    Perry replied, “Bud and I spent a few days there once. Years ago.”
    “Not since? Not this month around the 21st?”
    “No,” she said. “Bud’s been very busy at the studio. And he was out with the flu for a few days. We haven’t had any time for a desert vacation.”
    “Did Jackie ever write you letters?”
    “You mean lately?”
    “When she was alive.”
    Perry pursed her lips around the tip of the slim cigarette. “I don’t think so. I was very close to her, you know, back then. Stayed overnight at her place. We got to know each other pretty well. I can’t remember she ever went anywhere far enough away to call for sending me a letter.”
    “Who got her effects when she died?”
    “Her father, of course.”
    “Did he go down to San Amaro and gather them up?”
    “No,” said Perry. “As a matter of fact, Ned Segal and I got Jackie’s keys and, once we were allowed to, packed up everything and delivered it to Mr. McCleary.” She jabbed the cigarette out in the blue ceramic ashtray. “I really would like to help you, Mr. Easy. Because Jackie was a dear friend of mine and I still feel concern for her father. I’m honestly afraid I don’t have any idea who would play such a cruel joke on an old man.”
    Easy was sitting with his wide shoulders narrowed and his chin resting on both fists. He watched her awhile longer. “It’s been very interesting,” he said, “hearing your version of what happened. I’ll be talking to you again.”
    “Please do, if you feel you have to,” she replied. “Though I won’t have anything more to tell you.” She shook herself out a new cigarette. “I really ought to quit. By the way, you say Mr. McCleary has no idea what someone might want to steal from him? Granted that theft is what’s behind this cruel trick.”
    “No,” said Easy. “I’ve asked him to think about it.”
    Perry lowered her head and her voice. “Would you mind paying for the drinks, Mr. Easy? I’d like to treat you, but our tab here is quite enormous already. Bud will growl and snap if it gets too much bigger.”
    “Sure.” Easy slid back his chair and reached out his wallet.
    “So you’ve been calling on all our old beach crowd. What has five years done to them?”
    “The same thing it does to everybody.” Easy stood and went to the bar. He waited until the injured Eddie came to a punch line and paid the tab.
    Outside the afternoon had a prickly feel and the sky was blurring from blue to a sooty yellow. Easy strolled to the parking lot and went down a row of cars toward his weathered Volkswagen.
    “Hey, you son of a bitch.” The rumbling motor of a sports car had started some place to his right.
    When Easy reached an exit lane between rows of country club cars he saw Bud Burley. The red-skinned man was in a tan Triumph TR 6 and coming fast toward him.
    Easy backtracked and the bumper of a parked station wagon hit his legs and made them buckle somewhat. He swung out one arm to catch his balance.
    Burley’s TR 6 growled straight at him. The big man’s face was contracted with anger and looked like a red fist. At the last instant he swerved his car and missed hitting Easy. “Son of a bitch.” He laughed.
    Easy leaped straight out, got hold of Burley and swung himself around and into the passenger seat of the open car. He snapped out a hand and clicked off the ignition.
    The TR 6 coughed and kept rolling, its engine silent. Burley tugged at the wheel and footed the brake. Not soon enough to keep from sideswiping the silver grille of a new Mercedes 220S. Both cars made raw scraping sounds, and flecks of gray paint