Part 35 (1/2)
”I'm not much of a talker,” he said.
”Me either.”
”Guess I could talk to the department shrink if I really need to.”
”Couldn't hurt,” I said.
”What about you, Mulligan? You got somebody you can talk to?”
”Matter of fact, I do.”
I dropped a few bills on top of his, and we walked out of the bar into a bitterly cold night. He got into his Crown Vic and headed for state police headquarters, his work only begun. I got into Secretariat and drove to Swan Point Cemetery to talk things over with Rosie.
49.
Friday morning, Lomax plucked a McDonald's breakfast sandwich wrapper and an empty coffee cup from the corner of my desk, dropped them in my wastebasket, sat on the freshly cleared s.p.a.ce, and read from a printout of the obituary I'd just filed.
Raymond ”p.i.s.ser” Ma.s.sey, 46, of 102 Plainfield Street, a reckless daredevil and rabid ”Jacka.s.s” fan, died suddenly Wednesday evening after living longer than he had expected and twice as long as he deserved. His last words were, ”Hey, s.h.i.+rley! Watch this!”
”Pretty good, huh?” I said.
”No, it isn't,” Lomax said.
”No?”
”It's inappropriate.”
”I think I've captured him to perfection. This is the way p.i.s.ser would want to be remembered,” I said, p.r.o.nouncing his name the Rhode Island way: ”p.i.s.sah.”
”But is it the way his family would want to remember him?”
”I gotta think it is. I got most of the details from his mother and sisters.”
”Really?”
”Yeah.”
”Huh.”
”So we can go with it?”
Lomax scowled, removed his gla.s.ses, wiped the lenses with his s.h.i.+rttail, put them back on, and silently read the obituary through from beginning to end.
”All right,” he said. ”Let's do this. Take out the part about him living twice as long as he deserved. It's too judgmental.”
”Fine.”
”And remove the nickname. No way I'm printing 'p.i.s.ser.'”
”Will do.”
”And take out all the references to public urination.”
”You sure? p.i.s.ser took great pride in his ability to p.i.s.s twenty feet in the air.”
”I don't care. Take it out.”
”Okay. You're the boss.”
He gave me a curt nod and shuffled off, leaving me pleased that my campaign to make the obituary page more interesting was making a little headway. It was past noon before I finished the day's obituaries and pointed Secretariat toward the little bayfront town of Warren.
”So who shot him?” McCracken said.
”Wasn't you, was it?” I asked him.
”No,” the private investigator said, ”but I don't plan on sending flowers to the funeral.”
”Then it's gotta be the same people who hit the Chad Brown snuff film factory.”
”And its customers in Wisconsin and New Jersey?” he asked.
”I think so, yeah.”
”State cops got any idea who the shooters are?”
”Not a clue.”
”How about you?” he asked.
”I'm beginning to get an inkling.”
”Want to share?”
”Not yet.”
”I wonder how the shooters knew what Wayne was mixed up in,” McCracken said.
”I've been wondering that, too. Did you mention your suspicions to anybody else?”
”No. You?”
”Not a soul,” I lied.
McCracken swiveled his office chair and studied the framed photos of the PC basketball stars on his office wall. Then he turned back to me and changed the subject. ”Have you given any more thought to coming to work with me?”
”I've been considering it, yeah.”