Little Easter by Reed Farrel Coleman Page A

one more little favor I had to ask. I gave him as much as I could about Kate Barnum. I needed to know more. I needed to know why she was dumped from the Times. I wanted the inside skinny on her husband’s suicide. I needed to know about any dirt, about anything that could hurt or stop her. Larry didn’t respond immediately, but I could swear I heard his fangs clicking against the phone. Larry didn’t have to ask why. He understood about blackmail and painting people into corners. Some people painted corners of their own.
    Kate Barnum’s number came quickly enough to my finger. I’d just dictated it to Larry. I got in half a ring before her smoky voice interrupted.
    “Your hand surgically attached to the phone?”
    “God,” she coughed, “I wish I could be so witty. Do you think you could teach me?” Barnum moved on without waiting for my answer. “I got prelims on the deceased bird collector. Want it now or in person?” This time she waited.
    “Give me the basics now and we can get particular later,” I spoke, expecting the dead woman to have; ‘. . . some kinda funny name. Something biblical. An-drella, maybe.’ That’s what O’Toole had prepared me for. It’s not what I got.
    “Carlene Carstead. 1422 General Lee Boulevard, Biloxi, Mississippi. Forty-four years of age. Unmarried. No children. Assistant manager Dixieland Pig and Whistle, 2001 Delta Avenue, Biloxi . . .”
    She droned on like that for some time. I’m not sure when I stopped paying attention. My mind was racing fast enough to lap itself. I tried recalling the dead woman’s made-up orange face and her self-possessed tone of voice when asking for Johnny Blue. Somehow my recollections of her didn’t add up to the deep south. South Brooklyn maybe, but not the deep south.
    “Do you have a place of birth down there?” I shouted into the mouthpiece.
    “Wait . . . Yeah, right here; Baptist and Saviour Hospital, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 4/1/45. Why?” Barnum had picked up on my frantic curiosity for a fact which shouldn’t have mattered much.
    “Nothin’,” I did my best stage yawn.
    “Nothing my ass, Klein,” the reporter didn’t care much for my acting.
    “Speaking of your ass . . .” I injected, trying another tack.
    “Later. Tonight around eight?” she agreed too readily, figuring she’d have more success with me in person.
    “Eight it is. Make me up a copy of your little fact sheet. Okay?”
    “It’ll be here. Klein!” she screamed, sensing me about to hang up.
    “Yeah?” I pulled the phone back to my ear.
    “What do you suppose a glorified grocery clerk from Biloxi was doing in Sound Hill, Long Island, New York on Christmas Eve? And what do you suppose she did to make someone mad enough at her to blow an access road through her skull and then pave it with golden feathers? Klein,” she paused, waiting for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming. “You’re not the only mathematician in town. Pretty soon the whole neighborhood’s gonna be working on this equation. I’ve already started putting some twos and twos together myself.”
    “And what’d’ya get?” I played along.
    “A headache. But my best hunches come on the heels of headaches. Work fast, Klein,” Barnum’s voice dropped into a more serious octave. “I don’t think we’re alone in this anymore.” I listened to her phone rattle back into its cradle.
    I waited for a dial tone and punched up long distance info. Both numbers were listed. They would be. I knew that. Now the ugly part would follow; the scamming, the half-truths, the things that I’d fooled myself I’d left behind. I felt an old need. I brewed some coffee.
    I liked coffee less these days. Maybe it was just less important. When I did insurance work, coffee kept me company. When I was an ambulance chaser’s best friend, trailing broken necks to make certain they were wearing their braces, most of my blood was bagel-shop Java. When I had to pretend about who I was and what I wanted and why,