Dead Folks by Jon A. Jackson

Author:Jon A. Jackson [Jackson, Jon A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Press
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Of this I am certain, that we are not here for a good time.

— L. Wittgenstein

Well, not all the time, anyway.

— Fuckin Mulheisen

Fang, you mean!

Jimmy had looked at him expectantly, hoping that Mulheisen would enlighten him as to the true meaning of that “F.” But Mul only laughed and added in his Tombo razor point the letter “A,” following “Fuckin’.” “Fang,” of course, was the old street moniker that had long been attached to Mulheisen, apparently in reference to his rather long teeth, though also perhaps in recognition of his tenacious bite. It was an epithet that Mulheisen had never acknowledged.

Driving his solid old Checker through the holiday traffic out of Detroit toward his home in St. Clair Flats, Mulheisen mused for the first leg on the fact that to his colleagues, the joke aside, it appeared that he was still considered the boss of the detectives, although everyone seemed equally to concede that Jimmy Marshall was the nominal boss. But the comments made and questions asked, after those about the naked ladies of Montana, were the expected ones about their own cases, seeking his advice and guidance. He saw that it was incumbent on him to make clear that Lieutenant Marshall was the boss. This was fine with him. He knew, however, that he would continue to be the éminence grise, as it were.

Long before he approached the still somewhat rural lane off which stood the house in which he had been born, his mind had turned to Sally McIntyre again. He had to talk to her, he had to know what she was thinking. That is, he needed to know if she was thinking about him. He was alarmed by this feeling. He couldn't recall ever feeling this way before. And when he considered the situation as rationally as he could, he had to figuratively shake his head. A woman in her thirties? Living in an underinsulated trailer house on the side of a sage-dotted range hill with two young kids? What was he thinking about? Well, he knew what he was thinking about: red hair and soft breasts, a hard, lean belly and welcoming thighs. But also sweet lips and an easy laugh, the kind of mind that is serious and thoughtful but also eager to find the humor in every situation.

He found the humor here, himself. He also found himself hoping simultaneously that his mother would be home and that she would not be there to interfere with his call. It was already ten o'clock, which would make it . . . ah, only eight o'clock in Montana. That was not too late to call.

The house was dark and not very warm. His mother never kept the thermostat very high, but clearly she had turned it down even more. It was set at fifty-five degrees. The note on the refrigerator door, pinned with a magnet that carried an Audubon Society emblem, was dated a couple of days earlier. It read:

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