Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? Read Online Free Page A

it.
        She said, "Find out what's going on. Dana thinks it's our friends Cliffie and Jeff Cronin."
        I laughed. "How does it feel to be on the same side as those two?"
        A sip of brandy. "Oh, please. I'm hardly on the same side. About the only thing we have in common is our belief that poor Joe McCarthy got driven out by the liberals."
        "Ah, yes. Saint Joe. I'd forgotten."
        "You would've mocked Napoleon if you'd lived back then."
        "Not to mention Caligula."
        She got me again. This rubber band rested on top of my head. "Now that's something you don't see very often."
        "No, I've noticed that. Your rubber bands rarely land up top. Maybe we should inform the people at Ripley's Believe It Or Not."
        "You really shouldn't drink, McCain. Your reflexes are awful. I rarely get you twice in one day. Not anymore, anyway."
        I stood up and went to the door.
        "I won't try to hit you again today. It'd be like shooting fish in a barrel."
        "Your largesse knows no bounds." I put my hand on the knob.
        "It's very frustrating when you're hung over, McCain. You take away one of the few pleasures our little burg here affords me. You could think of me and my needs once in a while, for God's sake, couldn't you?"
        
***
        
        Big-city investigators rely on private sources of information far more than they do on legwork. A town our size doesn't have stool pigeons per se, but it does have a group of old folks who know more about what's going on than any cop, county attorney, or newspaper reporter. And, conveniently enough, they can be found most days around a bridge table out at the Sunset Care Home.
        You hear a lot of arguments against nursing homes, but this one actually has a reason to exist - besides the greed of the owners, I mean. The eighteen souls who live there all had the misfortune of losing their children down the years so there is nobody else to take care of them. The facility, a long, barrack-like building, is set at the base of piney hills. There's a clean creek running nearby, horses in a pasture, picnic tables and an outdoor grill, and some nice hiking trails for those so inclined. The staff is competent, friendly, and actually likes the people it serves.
        I got there, as I usually do, just at noon so I wouldn't interrupt any TV shows. It's visits that keep these folks apprised of all the gossip, rumor, and scuttlebutt I find useful. These folks talk to a wide range of people every day - doctors, deliverymen, workmen, ministers, visitors, each other - and they listen carefully and retain what they hear. And then they begin to speculate among themselves about what they've heard. And they start to form impressions. You could call it gossiping, I suppose, but it's subtler and more refined than that. It's the kind of deduction that detectives and DA's make when they're putting together a case.
        You have to be careful and make sure you get around to every one of them. You don't want to leave anybody out. I also bring small gifts from time to time.
        I hadn't talked to Helen Grady in some time. Helen frequently eats alone if she's reading one of her Mickey Spillane novels. Helen, eighty-two, a grandmother seven times over, is Spillane's most faithful fan. She's read all the books many times but says her memory is just bad enough that by the time she starts over again she's forgotten the plots.
        The lunchroom was sunny. The windows were open. The repast today was hamburger, fresh-cut green beans, peaches in syrup, and a slice of cherry pie. It made me hungry.
        All but Helen were divided up at two long tables. Tom Swanson winked at me and said, "Helen's finishin' up One Lonely Night. That's where the woman turns out to be a man."
        And then they started talking about the difficulty of using bifocals. I walked over to the only table for two. "Hi, Helen."
        She looked up