Page 65 of Fade Out
It was so annoying when the police did that. Stating the things you’re accused of as though they’re facts, hoping you’d screw up and just answer. Drunk. Since I was drunk, I had to be careful about that.
“Noooo, I didn’t kill anybody’s daughter. Jesus Christ. Possum killed Hillary Buckman. Not me.”
“And that’s what you came to tell the Buckmans?”
“Sort of. I mean, I wanted to find out some stuff too. In case I was wrong.”
“But you’re not wrong?”
“Noooo, I’mnotwrong.”
Surprisingly, the waiter came back with a cup of coffee for me. I almost turned it down, but the waiter stood behind White winking. I took a sip of coffee. It was full of whiskey. I watched the winking waiter walk away.
“What does ASA Sanchez have to say about all this?’’
“I don’t know. We talked about something else.”
“And what was that?”
I rolled my eyes. “She offered me a deal. Not a very good one.”
“Tell me about it.”
I leaned forward and quietly said, “She wants me to help her get Deanna Hansen.”
“And she’ll drop a murder charge? That sounds like a pretty sweet deal.”
“I don’t want to end up in the Chicago river. Do you want me to end up in the Chicago river?”
He shrugged like it was no big deal. I realized then, through my fog, that I was making a mistake talking to him. So I said, “I think I want my lawyer.”
Chapter Fifteen
The next morningI woke up naked and puking into a bathroom sink. One that I didn’t recognize. I ran the water and stood up. Catching a glimpse of myself, I almost puked again. I looked bad: ghostly pale, dark depressions under my bloodshot eyes. I rinsed out the sink and then my mouth. I rubbed cold water on my face.Where was I?
I opened the bathroom door and saw I was in a small studio apartment. It had one big window that looked out onto a wall, a portable TV on a bookcase, a café table, and a double bed in a metal frame shoved up against the window with a very naked, very young man in it. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.
He saw me standing in the bathroom door and smirked.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He giggled. “Oh my. You were a lot drunker than I thought.”
“You didn’t answer the question. Who are you?”
“Steven. Or Fitz. My friends called me Fitz.”
“How did we meet?”
“I worked the cancer dinner last night. I kept bringing you drinks. You kept trying to tip me.”
I squinted at him, mentally putting clothes back on him. I had a dim memory of him. “You brought me coffee and whiskey.”
“I did.”
I remembered the Buckmans excusing themselves and Gloria being annoyed because they left before writing a check.
“I’m going to have to make that up to Helena,” she’d said.
