Read Online Dead Low Tide by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online
Authors: John D. MacDonald
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over and swooped it up. “Good morning. Long, Contractors. McClintock speaking.”
A heavy distant droning voice, like a squad of summer bees, said, “McClintock, this is Chief Wargler.” I’d never met our police chief, but I’d seen him, and seen his pictures. He looked like his voice sounded, big and vague.
“Good morning, Chief.”
“I’m trying to plan out something here. Forgot just—What you say, George? Oh. McClintock, we don’t want to do this on the phone and right now I can’t spare a man or go myself. Wonder if you’d run over to Long’s house and tell his missus he’s dead.”
“What!”
“Hell, didn’t you know about it? I should have thought when that construction fella called in, he’d called you, too. He’s out at that there Key Estates of his. First man on the job found him this morning.”
“Heart?”
“No, he took his own life, son. It’s a little on the messy side. We’re waiting on the coroner and then we’ll have to get him cleaned up a little before I’d ask his missus to identify him legally. Don’t you let her come running on out here. You just find out where she wants the body took, and we’ll let her know when it’s time to come on down and tell us it was John Long, I know damn well it’s John, but we got to do it right.”
“Can I come out after I tell her?”
“Why, sure. I see no reason against that. I’ll have the boys send the crew home, telling them to come back on Monday, if that’s O.K. with you.”
“I think that’s best.”
“Well, you break it to her gentle. She’s a little thing.”
I hung up. I prayed for a sudden case of amnesia, and I’d have been willing to settle for a pair of broken legs. I guessed he’d started thinking it over, and decided that Big Dake could break me in on the construction end of it. Maybe it had got painful. Cancer or something. So he’d gone out there in the middle of the night and … It seemed incredible that he could be dead, all those muscles stilled, that hard body slack. I even toyed with the idea of the phone call being some kind of gag. But nobody has that good a sense of humor this year.
So I drove to their beach house at an average rate of ten miles an hour. I’d never been inside the house before, but I had no interest in the cool look of it, the soft greens and blues, the glass, the low-slung furniture. The maid took me out on the terrace and pointed down the beach to a figure on a dark-red blanket. “She’s down there.”
I thanked her and walked nine million miles down the beach. The Gulf was a sparkling blue, and the sand was pale cream. A one-legged gull landed and gave me a ruffled, evil look. He was all white, with a black head like a penguin. A line of pelicans went by, wings still, bellies inches from the water, looking straight ahead, and all brooding about prehistory and the dull taste little fishes have had for the last thousand years. And no matter what I did, I was still getting closer to the blanket.
I glanced ahead and saw that I had been wrong about the figure. It wasn’t prone, it was supine, and clad only below the waist. I wondered dimly why any woman should want to get her bosom tanned. She had little red plastic cups on her eyes, and she was well greased. I coughed and looked out to sea.
“Why, Andy!” she cried. “No, don’t look yet. Now.”
She was back into her halter and sitting up. “What is it, dear?” she asked. “You look awful guilty.”
“Well—” I started. I was doing fine. Writing a truly great script for myself. “Well—it’s John. There’s been …” I stopped. I was damned if I was going to say there’d been an accident. It’s one of those situations where anything you say sounds as if they’d start selling soap just after you finished. I dropped to my knees on the corner of her blanket, sat back on my heels, and took her hand. In spite of the sun, her fingers were frosty.
She looked at me with a child’s soberness in her eyes.
A heavy distant droning voice, like a squad of summer bees, said, “McClintock, this is Chief Wargler.” I’d never met our police chief, but I’d seen him, and seen his pictures. He looked like his voice sounded, big and vague.
“Good morning, Chief.”
“I’m trying to plan out something here. Forgot just—What you say, George? Oh. McClintock, we don’t want to do this on the phone and right now I can’t spare a man or go myself. Wonder if you’d run over to Long’s house and tell his missus he’s dead.”
“What!”
“Hell, didn’t you know about it? I should have thought when that construction fella called in, he’d called you, too. He’s out at that there Key Estates of his. First man on the job found him this morning.”
“Heart?”
“No, he took his own life, son. It’s a little on the messy side. We’re waiting on the coroner and then we’ll have to get him cleaned up a little before I’d ask his missus to identify him legally. Don’t you let her come running on out here. You just find out where she wants the body took, and we’ll let her know when it’s time to come on down and tell us it was John Long, I know damn well it’s John, but we got to do it right.”
“Can I come out after I tell her?”
“Why, sure. I see no reason against that. I’ll have the boys send the crew home, telling them to come back on Monday, if that’s O.K. with you.”
“I think that’s best.”
“Well, you break it to her gentle. She’s a little thing.”
I hung up. I prayed for a sudden case of amnesia, and I’d have been willing to settle for a pair of broken legs. I guessed he’d started thinking it over, and decided that Big Dake could break me in on the construction end of it. Maybe it had got painful. Cancer or something. So he’d gone out there in the middle of the night and … It seemed incredible that he could be dead, all those muscles stilled, that hard body slack. I even toyed with the idea of the phone call being some kind of gag. But nobody has that good a sense of humor this year.
So I drove to their beach house at an average rate of ten miles an hour. I’d never been inside the house before, but I had no interest in the cool look of it, the soft greens and blues, the glass, the low-slung furniture. The maid took me out on the terrace and pointed down the beach to a figure on a dark-red blanket. “She’s down there.”
I thanked her and walked nine million miles down the beach. The Gulf was a sparkling blue, and the sand was pale cream. A one-legged gull landed and gave me a ruffled, evil look. He was all white, with a black head like a penguin. A line of pelicans went by, wings still, bellies inches from the water, looking straight ahead, and all brooding about prehistory and the dull taste little fishes have had for the last thousand years. And no matter what I did, I was still getting closer to the blanket.
I glanced ahead and saw that I had been wrong about the figure. It wasn’t prone, it was supine, and clad only below the waist. I wondered dimly why any woman should want to get her bosom tanned. She had little red plastic cups on her eyes, and she was well greased. I coughed and looked out to sea.
“Why, Andy!” she cried. “No, don’t look yet. Now.”
She was back into her halter and sitting up. “What is it, dear?” she asked. “You look awful guilty.”
“Well—” I started. I was doing fine. Writing a truly great script for myself. “Well—it’s John. There’s been …” I stopped. I was damned if I was going to say there’d been an accident. It’s one of those situations where anything you say sounds as if they’d start selling soap just after you finished. I dropped to my knees on the corner of her blanket, sat back on my heels, and took her hand. In spite of the sun, her fingers were frosty.
She looked at me with a child’s soberness in her eyes.
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