Read Online A Killing in Comics by Max Allan Collins - Free Book Online Page B

Chandler had asked, and what I had answered—not word for word, but my memory is one of the most reliable things about me. She jumped rope through most of it and I was exhausted by the time she and I had finished.
    “Take a break, why don’t you?” I said. “You’re killing me.”
    “Sissy,” she said, and went over to a thermos and poured herself some ice water. “Want a sip?”
    “No. Let’s sit down, though.”
    A bench on the back wall, between the doors to the men’s and women’s dressing rooms, was our only option other than the floor. She sat with her hands on her knees and breathed deeply, but honestly she didn’t seem winded or anything.
    “So how’s the weight?”
    “One thirty-two,” she said. “Miles to go before I sleep.”
    “Well, just the same, you need to come out of hibernation. Donny’s funeral is tomorrow, you know. You should be there.”
    She shook her head and the red curls flicked sweat on me. “ You can represent the company.”
    “Like hell.” I took the towel from her and wiped her sweat off me.
    “That’s what vice presidents do, Jack: attend funerals.”
    “Swell. What else do vice presidents do?”
    Her head swiveled and the green eyes fixed on me, unblinkingly; that pale, lightly freckled face of hers was intimidating in its beauty, and she hadn’t a speck of makeup on. She looked young. About twelve.
    But she sounded eternal as she asked, “What do you think a vice president in your situation should do?”
    I took a deep breath. I looked anywhere but at her. I let the breath out.
    “I’m afraid,” I said, “a vice president in my situation ought to look into this goddamned murder.”
    “Why?” Nothing accusatory or argumentative—just why .
    I shook my head wearily. “Chandler is looking hard at Harry Spiegel and Moe Shulman. If the boys did this, we ought to know about it as soon as possible, before we sign a new contract with them on that new strip. And if they didn’t do this, we ought to help ’em out of this jam.”
    “That’s noble.”
    “You know me, Maggie. Nobility is my middle name.”
    “Your middle name is Thomas. And I suspect ‘Doubting’ is squeezed in after the John . . . But —I agree with you.”
    Now I looked at her, only she was studying the matted floor. “Really,” I said. “What in the hell’s got into you, agreeing with me?”
    “It’s not nobility. The Starr Syndicate is in a spot. Two of our top talents are key murder suspects—if they did it, we have a publicity nightmare, at least a temporary one.”
    I snorted a laugh. “Not that temporary. Months. Well into next year. A trial and, God help us, executions. ‘Wonder Guys Go to the Chair.’ How many papers do you think the strip will be in after that?”
    She sighed. “I could use a smoke.”
    “I thought you quit.”
    “I did. I don’t want one. I could just use one.”
    “Oh.”
    “Don’t you ever want a drink?”
    “No more often than you want a smoke. Maggie, did you know Donny was diabetic?”
    “Sure.”
    “. . . I hate it when I’m the last to know.”
    The green eyes locked onto me again. “Jack, if the boys didn’t do it, but are arrested, and sit in stir for weeks and maybe months, they’ll look guilty enough for papers all over America to drop the Wonder Guy strip like a bad habit.”
    “Like smoking?”
    “Not to mention, the longer this drags on, with all its connections to us—Americana and their employees and Rod Krane and that goofy guy writing Amazonia , and maybe the mob connections getting dredged up—we’ll be the focus of ridicule and criticism and, well, nothing good.”
    “I agree,” I said.
    She frowned so hard a small crease revealed itself between her eyes. “What do you think of Chandler?”
    “He seems fairly sharp. There’s a lot that the Homicide Bureau and the New York City police department can accomplish that I can’t—including interview all damn-near one hundred pertinent people . . . suspects and