Page 133 - Labelle Gramercy, On the Case

Soaked to the Bone

could say something about the tone of voice of the participants, or
whether she heard them come to blows. Maybe not.
“One more question: what was Mr. Fish drinking?”
Nick gazed at her incredulously. “Hasn’t anyone told you? Only
Jack Daniels Black Label, as long as he could afford it or could get it
on credit. That was a mark of distinction to him, and a point of pride
to be able to line up a lot of bottles of expensive booze in his liquor
cabinet over there. He’d probably stop eating before giving that up.”
Labelle Gramercy ceased her annotation and gave him the full
force of her arc light glare. “Thank you, Mr. Krotz, for your
assistance. You may leave now. We will contact you if we have
further questions. Your passport will be returned soon.”
The poor guy looked around as if he could not believe his luck.
Then he regained his composure, nodded to me with some of his old
haughtiness, and left as quickly as dignity permitted. I figured the
police would be using him to catch a dealer or two before they hauled
him in. Then I realized that the lieutenant was regarding me with the
wattage undiminished.
“Ms. Sliner: who wrote that screenplay?”
Damn! I silently cursed. I must have betrayed something when
Nick was talking. And I thought she was absorbed in note-taking or
in scrutinizing him for telltale signs of guilt. How many things could
she pay attention to simultaneously?
“Well, not to one-up our boy Nick, but I am fairly certain it was
Fish’s son.”
“Tim R. Lane, age thirty-two, address this city, occupation
unknown. Is that the one you mean?”
“Yes. And I do not consider that question to be flippant: Fish
himself might not know the extent of his progeny. Anyway, Tim’s
occupation, when he is not under medical supervision, is acting as
Fish’s literary ghost. Not exactly a secretarial position, but closer to
that than anything else. Fish was almost illiterate—in several
languages, as the saying goes. Few people knew this, because he
always found someone he could browbeat into taking care of his
paperwork. Tim was already emotionally unstable—I told you about
his mother dying an alcoholic when he was still a child—and
pathetically eager to gain his father’s approval and acceptance. That
sounds simpleminded, I know, but I’m no psychotherapist.”

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