Free Swan Dive by Jeremiah Healy Page A

him, and have a little talk with him about stuff he doesn’t want aired in court. No more trouble unless he starts it.”
    The conversation wound down from there. Replacing the receiver, I tried not to think about the pulling guard I’d known in college.
    I worked for another hour or so, doing bills and the assorted other trivia that had piled up. At 5:10, I closed up and went downstairs. The rush hour crowd was just filling Tremont as I walked around two corners and into the little alley. My car was the only one left. The building threw a deep shadow, and my eyes were slow to adjust, as though I were plunging into a tunnel on a sunny day. Digging into my pocket for the car keys, I heard a little shuffling noise in the ground trash next to the dumpster. I thought, ”Rats, I knew we’d get rats.” Then something hit me just behind my right ear and night fell somewhat early.

    The sweet scent of Creamsicle. Actually, somewhat turned Creamsicle. I started to sit up, but lost my balance and banged my head on something metallic and heavy. A wave of nausea swept over me, and I rolled over instinctively. I threw up two good ones, then followed with some dry heaves as the complex stench of the surrounding air caught up with me and my other senses kicked in. My face and hands felt wet and sticky and the support under my palms and knees was uncertain, here sharp and unyielding, there soft and mushy.
    1 was lying in garbage.
    I slowly braced my legs, got a good purchase with one arm, and strained until I got up. I was next to the dumpster, grabbing the lid and causing it to clang against some chain-restraint. It was twilight. I looked at my watch: 9:10. Shit, Nancy —wait a minute.
    I still had my watch. I reached for my wallet. All there but the cash. My car and house keys still in the other pocket. Around the back—uh-oh. No gun. Cash and firearm. A mugger, but a pro.
    The Fiat was still where I’d left it. I gingerly probed the back of my head and brought my hand around for inspection. Lots of refuse colors, but no bright red. If I’d been cut by whatever hit me, it was closed and dried.
    Playing a couple of coordination games, I could make all my limbs work, and I was seeing only the right number of fingers. I drove the ten or so blocks home like a fastidious drunk, taking double the usual time to get there. Up in the apartment, I tried to call Nancy , but her line was busy. Twice.
    I considered reporting the missing gun. Then I thought about the details the cop who answered would want. Chewing four aspirin, I decided tomorrow would be plenty of time.
    As things turned out, it wasn’t.

Ironically, I was awakened by a garbage truck clanking and grinding its way down the alley behind the condo. I had focused on calling Nancy when I heard the pounding at my front door. I got up, just dizzy enough to have to use both hands to guide me through the bedroom doorway.
    ”Who is it?”
    ”Murphy. Open up.”
    I unlocked the door. There was a youngish guy in a cheap suit standing behind Murphy. The young one eased his hand out from under his coat when he saw I couldn’t be carrying. He had a ruddy complexion and that unformed, almost larval lack of features that some cops have.
    Murphy said, ”Cuddy, I ever ask you to do something without a reason?”
    ”Not that I know of.”
    ”This is Detective Guinness. He works Homicide with Lieutenant Holt’s squad. They want to talk with you.”
    ”What about?”
    ”Now, pal,” said Guinness.
    Murphy spoke to him without turning his head. ”Guinness, I hear you talk one more time before I’m finished...”
    ”Sorry, Lieutenant.”
    ”Why don’t you two come in and sit down while I get dressed?”
    I half expected Guinness to check my windows for a fire escape. I left the bedroom door open as they went into the living room. Putting on some comfortable clothes, I tried to think things through. I didn’t like Murphy’s being on edge. I especially didn’t like his showing up with