When the Pirate Prays. James B. Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ and input into the situation. That is, I should have kept my big mouth shut. Not to mention wanting to impress Mary Lynn who had stopped to watch the byplay. At that moment thunder crashed and she turned and continued on with the pregnant woman. The probability of spending time with Mary Lynn at the expense of assisting in a birth was worth the effort.

      Ionata spoke again. “Please, ladies and gentlemen, nobody leave the hotel?” He looked straight at me.

      “It occurs to me,” I said softly, “that as lieutenant governor, you’ve got the most to gain from Henry B.’s death.”

      The entire place fell silent except for a couple of deep intakes of breath.

      Ionata surpised me. After giving me a scathing look, he nodded. “That’s one way to look at it.”

      Ms. Maple began flashing pictures from every conceivable angle. Henry B. would be immortalized on film in a rictus of death. When she was finished, she climbed the stairs slowly and flashed pictures up there.

      After she completed her task, Ionata wrapped the tennis racquet murder weapon in a plastic garbage bag. Blood stained the clear plastic immediately. I’d guessed that whoever did it would probably have had the foresight to wipe it clean of prints before dropping it over the railing, but you never know. Then I noticed the handle had a cloth sleeve. So much for prints.

      A real pencil-necked geek I’d seen but didn’t know escorted the whimpering fellow away down the corridor. Somebody whispered that the two were the governor’s aides. “Late governor,” somebody else pointed out.

      Ionata addressed me and Silas Smith because we were the closest to him. “What do you do with a body? We can’t just leave him here.”

      “I don’t know, Judge.”

      “Put it on ice,” I said, eying Henry B. who was getting stiffer by the minute. Ordinarily, a recent corpse will allow fluids, solids, or gases to escape through various channels, so to speak. But Henry B. was countering the norm.

      “Stands to reason,” said Ionata, rubbing his gray beard. He looked at me through wire-rimmed glasses, showing suspicion. “Is this more of your expertise? You’ve both medical and funeral experience?”

      I know I looked guilty. I glanced at Tapes for help, but he was characteristically silent. I’d gotten myself into this and, since it wasn’t physically dangerous now, he’d let me get myself out of it.

      “The woman I assisted in giving birth?” I said. “Her husband was there and he was a mortician. I learned some things.”

      “Sure he was,” said Ionata. “But what Mr. Birthday says is not contra-indicated.”

      “I smell a bureaucrat,” I said.

      Ionata stepped to Orlo and friends. “Would you help carry him?”

      “Where, your honor?” Orlo asked uneasily and looked at the body.

      “To the freezer at the back of the kitchen,” said Ionata.

      “Urp,” said Silas Smith and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bouncing like a ping pong ball going down a windy mail chute.

      “Our freezer?” he asked timidly.

      “Well, then,” Ionata said slowly, “let us just chuck him out on the front lawn.” He paused a moment. “Maybe we should just leave him here and wait for the sheriff’s department in a couple of days.”

      “I can make room in the freezer,” said Silas Smith quickly.

      Orlo looked at the body. “I ain’t touchin’ no dead body. How ’bout thee, Axe?” he said to the one drooling from the corner of his mouth. At the time, I thought Orlo’s reluctance was natural.

      Axe shook his head widely but said nothing.

      Tapes had disappeared but reappeared down the hall carrying a blanket. The rest of the world talks, but Tapes acts.

      He laid the blanket out beside the late governor and stood at the corpse’s head waiting.

      Gritting my teeth, I strode over and grasped Henry B.’s ankles above the Nikes. Tapes took his shoulders and we scooted him onto the blanket. Each of us grabbed two corners of the blanket and straightened.

      “Lead the way, Silas,” I said.

      We went down the corridor of the north wing, past the elevator and public rest rooms, past the first kitchen doors, to the rear kitchen doors. Inside were several walk-in coolers and freezers. We headed for the closest one, Gonzáles not getting any lighter.

      Silas Smith hurried in front of us. “No, no, not that one.” He pulled open the door of the center cooler and indicated a place atop some crates.

      I shivered.

      We covered the ex-governor with another blanket.

      4: MONDAY, 11:30 A.M.

      “Geography bee,” I said. The dog was making me angry.

      “Spelling bee,” Tapes said.

      “Geography bees make you think, know things. Spelling bees you memorize a few rules and a few exceptions and that’s it.” I crossed my arms.

      “Spelling bees require discipline and presence of mind,” he said, putting down his Bud on the table. “Geography bees, you just got to know places; then memory tricks and associations bail you out.”

      “Geography bees,” I said emphatically, “open the entire world to you. Stange and foreign places. Mystic lands. You know geography, you have a good start on knowing people, peoples of this good Earth—”

      “Don’t get deep on me, Shorts,” he warned. “Next you’ll be using iambic pentameter—”

      “I don’t do metric,” I shot at him.

      “Anyway,” he said around a mouthful of roast beef, “you can tell a lot about a person by the way they use the language.”

      “Ain’t that the truth,” I said.

      “You talk like you ate a dictionary,” he accused.

      Tapes and I were sitting in the lounge eating sandwiches and potatoes I’d nuked: Silas Smith had sent the few remaining staff home last night. A move which I thought strange. Of course, the day shift had never arrived this morning.

      Orlo and his two buddies were there, too, eating steaks they’d cooked.

      Silas Smith entered through the double-wide doorway. I was becoming used to his sallow face and bad complexion. They say beauty is only skin deep, but Smith proved the old adage that ugly is clear to the bone.

      “NOAA radio,” he said, stopping at our table, “just reported that winds are up to seventy-three miles an hour.”

      “That makes it a tropical storm,” I said. Two more MPH’s and we’d have a hurricane. Shutters rattled as if to underscore his news.

      “And it’s stalled СКАЧАТЬ