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dirty sad way.
"What the hell are you doing in here?"
I pointed at the ashtray. "Lorraine didn't like that kind of stuff, did she?"
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"Who are you?" he shouted, jumping up.
"John Hood. I'm a detective. A private one. I'm looking for the guy who killed
Lorraine Perau."
His eyes told me everything. In an instant. They said, Sure, Lorraine didn't
like it and she threatened to get noisy about it so my boys bump her. They
said, Sure, there's good money in stuff like that, and besides, I like that
kind of art work myself. They said, You must be the guy Lorraine was running
around with. I knew it was some guy. She wasn't the kind to go off by herself
for very long. All he actually said was, "You're a pretty smart son of a
bitch, aren't you?"
He tried to open his desk drawer. He got the Luger out and fumbled with it as
if he didn't really know how to use it. I shot him. He fell over his chair and
waved his arms and crashed through the big picture window and tumbled down a
rip-rap slope into the lake. I walked over to the mess of broken glass and
stared down. His head bobbed in the water like some kind of sputtering cork. I
stood there while he drowned.
Then I went to his chair and sat down in it. I knew I was nothing but a dumb
sap and Romo Spain would never have let me do a thing like this. Steve Lannes
lay dead somewhere down in the lake. But it couldn't bring Lorraine back. It
didn't erase the memory of her face, either. As if it ever could, you
goddamned fool. What were you thinking? What in Christ's name were you
thinking?
I shouted out loud. "I don't know. I don't know!"
Louie and the other boy got away. I heard their car start. I holstered my .38
and went back outside. I walked Gert Carter to the coupe. We drove back south
toward the city. I stopped in a grocery and called Homicide long distance and
told them what I knew. I hung up when they started asking too many questions.
Gert Carter talked on and on but I didn't hear. In Evanston I dropped her at
an el station and made a promise to call her. Then I went to my apartment and
got out two more pints. I didn't pass out this time. Broekman came through the
door before that.
"Goddam you, Johnny. Goddam you for sticking your nose in." He glared down at
me, looking tireder than ever. "This wasn't your business."
"I'm sorry," I said. "You want a drink?"
"No, I don't want a drink." He started pacing, letting out sighs and slapping
his right fist into his left palm. He wheeled suddenly and stabbed a finger at
me. "We got the guys who actually shot her. After you called, we staked out
all the terminals. They tried to get a plane for Mexico City. A couple of dumb
punks. They got scared and admitted the killing, but that doesn't make you any
less guilty."
"No, it doesn't."
"I wish I could pin something on you. But if he's got a gun in his fist when
we get him out of the lake, I don't know what I can do. I wish to God I could
stick you, though. Wait till Spain hears about this. He'll burn your tail off.
A dumb private cop trying to take over my job." He was jealous and sore, but
he was right. I had gone over my head. And it wouldn't bring Lorraine back.
"What time is it?" I said.
"Dawn. Six-fifteen."
I had sat up all night. "I guess I better go to bed."
"I guess you better." He walked out and slammed the door hard behind him.
Romo got home a week and a half later. By then he knew it all; Broekman had
written him a letter, airmail special delivery. Still, I had to go see Romo. I
was scared, but I had to go. I rang his bell and waited. The voice roared,
"Come in, Johnny."
He sat in his wheelchair, cigarette holder tipped up jauntily from the corner
of his mouth. He had Broekman's letter on his lap. I could see the police
department seal and the special delivery stamps. He wanted to let me know he
knew the story, but otherwise he ignored the letter. I stood fiddling with my
hat. "How was the vacation?"
"Exceptional. There's milk in the icebox. Pour yourself some."
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I did. I fiddled with the glass instead of the hat. He stared at me. "Do you
want a shopworn phrase?"
I nodded.
"Time," he said. "It will take time."
Silence hung between us for a long space. When he spoke again, his voice had
softened. "You loved her, didn't you, Johnny." It wasn't a question. Something
snapped inside of me, broke like a spring breaking.
"Yes," I said. "I loved her." I drank the glass of milk. I pulled up a chair.
I sat down and told him how it was.
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