"What I have reference to, Mr. Dwyer, is the story in the newspaper this morning."
"I see."
"The one about Karen Lane dying of an accidental overdose of Librium and alcohol."
"Yes."
"Well, the story said that you were with her at the time of her death and that you were a former policeman, so I thought I would tell you something that might be pertinent."
"What's that, Doctor?"
"Karen Lane was my patient for several years. I'm a medical doctor, not a psychiatrist, but for some of my patients who tend to get depressed or overanxious, I prescribe various kinds of tranquilizers or antidepressants."
"I see."
"The point I'm trying to make here, Mr. Dwyer, is that I once prescribed Librium for her."
"And?"
"And she had an allergic reaction to it. Welts appeared on her tongue and her throat got very red and sore."
I threw my feet over the side of the bed. It was one of the moments I wanted a cigarette. "So what are you saying?"
"I'm not sure what I'm saying, Mr. Dwyer. I wish I could say absolutely that Karen Lane would never take Librium, but sometimes, as we get older, our allergies change. We begin to tolerate things we once couldn't tolerate-and vice versa."
"When was the last time you saw her, Doctor?"
"Oh, five or six years ago. She moved from the city, and when she came back she apparently found another doctor."
"So the sensible thing for me to do would be to find who her doctor is currently and to see what sort of medication he was prescribing for her, right?"
"That seems sensible to me."
But I knew who her current doctor was. And I also knew the vested interest he had in keeping Karen Lane his own. For the first time I started considering Dr. Glendon Evans a murder suspect.
"I really appreciate this, Doctor."
"Of course." A pause again. "Karen was a very striking woman."
"Yes, she was."
"I-" He stopped talking again and in his silence I could hear that he'd been smitten, too. "We went out a few times."
"I see."
"I'm afraid I was married and I'm afraid it got messy for everybody concerned."
This was the part where circumstances forced me to be a surrogate priest. I never much cared for the role. "I was afraid that if I went to the police with this, I'd get dragged into the papers myself and it would bring up some bad memories for my wife."
"I see."
"So if my name could be left out-"
"Of course."
"My wife and I have a much better marriage now." I made careful note of the fact that he didn't say "good marriage." Only "much better." His sadness got to me and I wanted to say the right soothing thing, but I didn't know what that would be.
"It was very good of you to call."
"I felt I owed it to Karen."
"Thank you, Doctor."
As I was hanging up, Donna appeared, leaning model-fashion against the doorjamb, imposing in a dark blue cashmere sweater, designer jeans, and short leather boots, her red hair wild as mountain water down her shoulders.
"Well, I guess I'm ready." She sounded like a little girl who was being sent off, much against her will, to a summer camp run by bona fide ogres.
"You ready?"
"I guess," ' she said. "But you're not." Then she smiled. "God, Dwyer, I really think we should start sort of a kitty so you can get yourself some new underwear and socks."
"Thanks."
"You're nearly forty-five."
"Gee, don't I like being reminded of that."
"And all your underwear and socks have holes in them. Like a kid."
"They're clean, though."
"That's true. They are clean. But-"
So I went over and grabbed her and yanked her back to the bed and she said, "I just got dressed."
And I said, "I think we should have some general underwear inspection here. I just want to make sure that you're not being hypocritical. How do I know your underwear isn't in rags?"
"Dwyer, you really are nuts, you know that?"
But she relented and let me inspect her underwear anyway.
Chapter 19
"The name Sonny mean anything to you?"
"It's the name of a song."
"Yeah," I said.
"There was Sonny Liston."
"Right."
"And Sonny and Cher."
"Uh-huh."
"And Sonny James."
"Who?"
"Country-Western singer."
"Oh."
"Don't give me your crap about country-Western singers."
"All right."
It was one-thirty in the afternoon in Malley's Tavern on the Eighth Avenue side of the Highlands. The place smelled of beer, disinfectant, and peanuts. Strong warm sunlight brightened the aged wooden floor. Bob Malley, paunchy, bearded, wrapped around with the spotless white apron that is his pride, stood behind the bar he owned and idly flipped a quarter, checking heads or tails every time it came down. I imagine he does this as often as five hundred times a day. Some people find this the kind of minor social irritation that can turn nuns into psychopaths. But I'm used to it. Though he was a grade ahead of me, Malley and I have been friends since, respectively, first and second grade. I've seen him flip quarters probably twenty million times by now.
Ordinarily I come in three afternoons a week. Today I had two reasons to be there. To say hello and to ask for information. Malley remembers our school days with the reverence of Thornton Wilder recalling an autumn afternoon in New England.
"Sonny Tufts," I said.
"Oh. Yeah. Sonny Tufts. You want another shell?"
"Nah.
He grinned. "Donna's a good influence on you, Dwyer. You've cut your drinking in half since you met her. So when's the date?"
"We fornicate without benefit of clergy, Malley. We have no plans to get married. We're not ashamed. She's not even Catholic."
"That's my only reservation about her."
"Right."
"So what's with this Sonny jazz?"
I told him about the woman in the black leather and how she'd mentioned Sonny.
"And you were in Larry Price's house?"
"Yeah," I said.
"Then she probably meant Sonny Howard."
"Who?"
"Sonny Howard. Summer of our senior year. Remember we went to summer school so we could take a lighter load during the regular year?"
"Yeah."
"Well, he went to summer school, too. Except he hung around with Price and Forester and Haskins. Then he killed himself."
He tossed it away so casually it almost went right by me, like doing a bad double-take shtick. Then, "What?"
"He killed himself. Don't you remember? He jumped off Pierce Point."
"Give me another shell."
"I thought you didn't want one." He smiled and got me another shell.
"Tell me some more about him."
"Don't know much more about him," Malley said, setting down my beer.
"Why don't I remember him?"
"Probably tried to forget him."
"Why?"
"He sort of hung around Karen Lane. That's when you were chasing rich chicks and trying to forget all about her."
"He knew Karen Lane?"
"I don't think they were getting it on or anything-I mean, I don't think she put out very much when you came right down to it-but I remember toward the end of the summer they were together a lot."
"Why were people so sure he killed himself? I mean, Pierce Point, you could fall off real easy.
"There was a witness."
"Who?"
"You're being a cop again. Ease off, okay? I'm not especially fond of cops."
"So you've told me."
"Witness, I don't know, seems it was David Haskins."
"You're kidding?"
"You asked me. Why would I kid you?"
"David Haskins was the witness?"
"David Haskins was the witness."
I drained half my shell and set it down and watched white foam slide down into the yellow beer. I liked taverns, hearing the crack of cards as men played pinochle, and the clatter of pool and the sound of workingmen loud at the end of a workday. At four I used to sit in union taverns and eat salted hard-boiled eggs and sip my old man's beer and learn all the reasons why you should never trust Republicans.