“I didn’t know that you kept up on the law, Cliff, Jr.”
He hated it when I added the Jr. to his name, but since he was about to do a little picking on me, I decided to do a little picking on him. With too much Brylcreem — Cliff, Jr., apparently never heard the part of the jingle that goes “A little dab’ll do ya” — and his wiry mustache, he looks like a bar rat all duded up for Saturday night. He wears a khaki uniform that Warner Brothers must have rejected for an Errol Flynn western. The epaulets alone must weigh twenty-five pounds each.
“Yep, next year they’re goin’ to start fryin’ convicts instead of hanging them.”
The past few years in Iowa, we’d been debating which was the more humane way to shuffle off this mortal coil. At least when the state decides to be the shuffler and make you the shufflee.
“And I’ll bet you think that Rick Whitney is going to be one of the first to sit in the electric chair, right?”
He smiled his rat smile, sucked his toothpick a little deeper into his mouth. “You said it, I didn’t.”
There’s a saying around town that money didn’t change the Sykes family any — they’re still the same mean, stupid, dishonest, and uncouth people they’ve always been.
“Well, I hate to spoil your fun, Cliff, Jr., but he’s going to be out of here by tomorrow night.”
He sucked on his toothpick some more. “You and what army is gonna take him out of here?”
“Won’t take an army, Cliff, Jr., I’ll just find the guilty party and Rick’ll walk right out of here.”
He shook his head. “He thinks his piss don’t stink because he’s a Whitney. This time he’s wrong.”
4
The way I figure it, any idiot can learn to skate standing up. It takes a lot more creativity and perseverance to skate on your knees and your butt and your back.
I was putting on quite a show. Even five-year-olds were pointing at me and giggling. One of them had an adult face pasted on his tiny body. I wanted to give him the finger but I figured that probably wouldn’t look quite right, me being twenty-six and an attorney and all.
Everything looked pretty tonight, gray smoke curling from the big log cabin where people hung out putting on skates and drinking hot cider and warming themselves in front of the fireplace. Christmas music played over the loudspeakers, and every few minutes you’d see a dog come skidding across the ice to meet up with its owners. Tots in snowsuits looking like Martians toddled across the ice in the wake of their parents.
The skaters seemed to come in four types: the competitive skaters who were just out tonight to hone their skills; the show-offs who kept holding their girlfriends over their heads; the lovers who were melting the ice with their scorching looks; and the junior-high kids who kept trying to knock everybody down accidentally. I guess I should add the seniors; they were the most fun to watch, all gray hair and dignity as they made their way across the ice arm in arm. They probably came here thirty or forty years ago when Model-Ts had lined the parking area, and when the music had been supplied by Rudy Vallee. They were elegant and touching to watch here on the skating rink tonight.
I stayed to the outside of the rink. I kept moving because it was, at most, ten above zero. Falling down kept me pretty warm, too.
I was just getting up from a spill when I saw a Levi’d leg — two Levi’d legs — standing behind me. My eyes followed the line of legs upwards and there she was. It was sort of like a dream, actually, a slightly painful one because I’d dreamt it so often and so uselessly.
There stood the beautiful and elegant Pamela Forrest. In her white woolen beret, red cable-knit sweater, and jeans, she was the embodiment of every silly and precious holiday feeling. She was even smiling.
“Well, I’m sure glad you’re here,” she said.
“You mean because you want to go out?”
“No, I mean because I’m glad there’s somebody who’s even a worse skater than I am.”
“Oh,” I said.
She put out a hand and helped me up. I brushed the flesh of her arm — and let my nostrils be filled with the scent of her perfume — and I got so weak momentarily I was afraid I was going to fall right back down.
“You have a date?”
I shook my head. “Still doing some work for Judge Whitney.”
She gave my arm a squeeze. “Just between you and me, McCain, I hope you solve one of these cases yourself someday.”
She was referring to the fact that in every case I’d worked on, Judge Whitney always seemed to solve it just as I was starting to figure out who the actual culprit was. I had a feeling, though, that this case I’d figure out all by my lonesome.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Judge Whitney as upset as she was today,” I said.
“I’m worried about her. This thing with Rick, I mean; it isn’t just going up against the Sykes family this time. The family honor’s at stake.”
I looked at her. “You have a date?”
And then she looked sad, and I knew what her answer was going to be.
“Not exactly.”
“Ah. But Stewart’s going to be here.”
“I think so. I’m told he comes here sometimes.”
“Boy, you’re just as pathetic as I am.”
“Well, that’s a nice thing to say.”
“You can’t have him any more than I can have you. But neither one of us can give it up, can we?”
I took her arm and we skated. We actually did a lot better as a team than we did individually. I was going to mention that to her but I figured she would think I was just being corny and coming on to her in my usual clumsy way. If only I were as slick as Elvis in those movies of his where he sings a couple of songs and beats the crap out of every bad guy in town, working in a few lip locks with nubile females in the interim.
I didn’t recognize them at first. Their skating costumes, so dark and tight and severe, gave them the aspect of Russian ballet artists. People whispered at them as they soared past, and it was whispers they wanted.
David and Millie Styles were the town’s “artistic fugitives,” as one of the purpler of the paper’s writers wrote once. Twice a year they ventured to New York to bring radical new items back to their interior decorating “salon, “ as they called it, and they usually brought back a lot of even more radical attitudes and poses. Millie had once been quoted in the paper as saying that we should have an “All Nude Day” twice a year in town; and David was always standing on the library steps waving copies of banned books in the air and demanding that they be returned to library shelves. The thing was, I agreed with the message; it was the messengers I didn’t care for. They were wealthy, attractive dabblers who loved to outrage and shock. In a big city, nobody would’ve paid them any attention. Out here, they were celebrities.
“God, they look great, don’t they?” Pamela said.
“If you like the style.”
“Skin-tight, all-black skating outfits. Who else would’ve thought of something like that?”
“You look a lot better.”
She favored me with a forehead kiss. “Oh God, McCain, I sure wish I could fall in love with you.”
“I wish you could, too.”
“But the heart has its own logic.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Peyton Place.”
“That’s right.”
Peyton Place had swept through town two years ago like an army bent on destroying everything in its path. The fundamentalists not only tried to get it out of the library; they tried to ban its sale in paperback. The town literary lions, such as the Styleses, were strangely moot. They did not want to be seen defending something as plebeian as Grace Metalious’s book. I was in a minority. I not only liked it; I thought it was a good book. A true one, as Hemingway often said.