But right now, at eight o’clock in the morning, Clete Williams was pouring himself another bourbon and saying, “I wonder if we could get somebody to go for an ice cream cone.”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” I said.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” He capped the bottle and sat down on the bed opposite me. “Mann send you here to hold my hand?”
“He asked me to check on you.”
“You seen McDougall?”
I nodded.
“I saw him too,” Clete said, frowning in a handsome way. “Stupid bastard. Of all times to get pissed and fall down and crack his skull, he picks now. Jesus.” He paused reflectively. “Hell of a thing,” he said. “You know, when I saw him, I couldn’t help thinking it was a damned good makeup job. Isn’t that terrible?” He snorted. “I suppose we all have to be sanctimonious the next few days. We’ll all have to say kind words about the bastard.”
“You’re right,” I said. “He was a bastard.”
“Yeah. Now why can’t we say that? He was a pompous little shit,” Williams continued. “That’s the truth. I’d love to see—just once, just once in my life—I’d love to see a funeral service where somebody got up to the pulpit and said, ‘The dearly beloved deceased was a stinker, everybody hated him, and all of us gathered here can be pleased and relieved that the son of a bitch is finally dead, which he richly deserved and spent most of his life asking for.’”
I watched him sip the drink. He was edgy, and the liquor was hitting him. It occurred to me that he might have to talk with reporters later. “Maybe you better take it easy,” I said.
He stared at me for a moment. “Would you be happier if I switched to vodka?”
“You have to be practical,” I said. “Vodka might be better.”
“Okay, vodka.” He poured the bourbon down the bathroom sink. I watched him stand in the bathroom for a moment and stare at the tub. As I said, all the rooms in the Holiday Inn were identical—Clete’s bathroom was just like McDougall’s. “Hell of a thing,” he said, shaking his head. He came back with a fresh glass, dropped in some ice cubes, and poured vodka. “Join me?”
“No thanks.”
“You know, there is a chance,” he said, sitting down again, “that this could get very messy. Do you know what I mean?”
“Not exactly.”
“Well, what I mean exactly is that McDougall and I had a fight last night, and I hit him in the mouth.”
I groaned inwardly. “Where?” I asked.
“Right smack in the kisser.”
“No, I mean where did you have the fight?”
“Downstairs. In the El Padrone bar of the Tucson Holiday Inn. You must know the place.”
He said this last bit facetiously. We had been here for three weeks now. We all knew every inch of the Holiday Inn, especially the El Padrone bar.
“What time?”
“Ten thirty, maybe eleven. Pretty late.”
Thatwaslate, I thought, for an actor who had a six-thirty call. Clete would have to get up at five thirty, so he should have gone to bed at ten or so.
“What was it all about?”
“The fight? Brenda.”
I rubbed my face wearily. The male lead fights with the writer over the female lead, and then the writer is found dead the next morning. This was just wonderful.
“A lot of people see it?”
“The usual,” Clete said, meaning the usual number of company people in the bar at that hour. At least twenty witnesses.
