wasn’t any heavier than a drugged walrus. When I had everything on the sofa but his legs and one arm, I hurled my shrieking discs into the nearest armchair and dragged over one of those telephones with the dial built into a receiver that’s about as easy to hold in one hand as a flagstone. Sandy Broderick’s soundstage baritone answered after two rings. He listened, said, “Wait for me,” and hung up in my face. Next I called Sharon Esterhazy to say her boy was safe and that Broderick would give her the details later. She wanted to know where Bud was. I repeated what I’d said, said good-bye, and did some hanging up of my own before she could press me further.
After a brief search, I found a bottle in the stereo cabinet with an inch of Bourbon in the bottom. I used it straight from the bottle and was waiting for the heat to crawl up my spine when Paula came in carrying a steaming white china mug. She saw the dead soldier in my hand and shrugged.
“I only keep liquor in the house for Bud,” she said, setting down the mug on the end table next to the sofa. “I never could get used to it.”
“Just as well you didn’t. That stuff doesn’t go with pills.”
She stood rubbing her right hand up and down her left forearm absently. It was hard to tell what kind of shape she had under the bags she wore. “I’ll bet you got that information from Bud’s mother. She caught me on a bad day. I don’t usually zonk out.”
“Save it. I’m just the hired help.” I picked up the mug. “Better bring the pot. It’s for old Iron Liver there.”
She left and came back with a glass pot three-quarters full of black liquid.
“Salt too,” I said.
“You mean table salt?”
“As much as you have.”
She had an unopened box of Morton’s. I opened it, poured a thimbleful into the mug, and stirred it with a pencil from the end table. Together we sat Bud up and I held his nose and dumped the mixture down his throat, fixed another, and sent it after the first. He coughed, spluttered, struggled, pleaded in a gasping voice for me to stop.
“Get a bucket,” I said to Paula. “If you don’t have one handy, any good-size container will do. Don’t trip over anything on the way.”
I gave him time for air while she hurried out, then filled the mug again, doctored it with salt, and forced half the contents down him. Bud was making familiar urgent noises when she returned carrying a large copper-bottomed pan. I seized it and put it in his lap just as he bent forward. He gave back two cups for each one he’d drunk.
I grinned. “ ‘When it rains it pours.’ ”
When he was finished, I set the pan on the floor and mopped his lips with my handkerchief. Oh, the life of a private eye. Then I emptied the mug into the pan and filled it with fresh coffee. I lifted it to his lips.
“No,” he gasped, turning his head away. “No more. Please.”
“One more, without salt. You want it the way you got the others?”
He didn’t. I helped him put his hands on the mug and tilt it. He sipped, lowered it, breathed, raised it, sipped. Again. His face was the color of old cheese.
“I’ve never seen him drunk before,” said Paula. “He’s been under a lot of pressure.”
“The hell with him. My head hurts.” I waited for the mug and set it to one side when it was empty. Bud sat with his elbows on his knees, massaging his face and hair with both hands. After a moment he stopped, looking at me through his fingers.
“Who are you?”
“The Bourbon fairy.”
A car door slammed. Daddy was here.
I opened the door. Broderick, hands in the pockets of a station-issue overcoat with a fur collar, glanced at me, then past me, his face registering impatience when his vision collided with the wall of the entryway. He looked at me again, harder. “What the hell happened to you?”
“It all started when I flunked my high school aptitude test.” I stepped away from the door.
He opened his mouth again, then closed it with a minute
After a brief search, I found a bottle in the stereo cabinet with an inch of Bourbon in the bottom. I used it straight from the bottle and was waiting for the heat to crawl up my spine when Paula came in carrying a steaming white china mug. She saw the dead soldier in my hand and shrugged.
“I only keep liquor in the house for Bud,” she said, setting down the mug on the end table next to the sofa. “I never could get used to it.”
“Just as well you didn’t. That stuff doesn’t go with pills.”
She stood rubbing her right hand up and down her left forearm absently. It was hard to tell what kind of shape she had under the bags she wore. “I’ll bet you got that information from Bud’s mother. She caught me on a bad day. I don’t usually zonk out.”
“Save it. I’m just the hired help.” I picked up the mug. “Better bring the pot. It’s for old Iron Liver there.”
She left and came back with a glass pot three-quarters full of black liquid.
“Salt too,” I said.
“You mean table salt?”
“As much as you have.”
She had an unopened box of Morton’s. I opened it, poured a thimbleful into the mug, and stirred it with a pencil from the end table. Together we sat Bud up and I held his nose and dumped the mixture down his throat, fixed another, and sent it after the first. He coughed, spluttered, struggled, pleaded in a gasping voice for me to stop.
“Get a bucket,” I said to Paula. “If you don’t have one handy, any good-size container will do. Don’t trip over anything on the way.”
I gave him time for air while she hurried out, then filled the mug again, doctored it with salt, and forced half the contents down him. Bud was making familiar urgent noises when she returned carrying a large copper-bottomed pan. I seized it and put it in his lap just as he bent forward. He gave back two cups for each one he’d drunk.
I grinned. “ ‘When it rains it pours.’ ”
When he was finished, I set the pan on the floor and mopped his lips with my handkerchief. Oh, the life of a private eye. Then I emptied the mug into the pan and filled it with fresh coffee. I lifted it to his lips.
“No,” he gasped, turning his head away. “No more. Please.”
“One more, without salt. You want it the way you got the others?”
He didn’t. I helped him put his hands on the mug and tilt it. He sipped, lowered it, breathed, raised it, sipped. Again. His face was the color of old cheese.
“I’ve never seen him drunk before,” said Paula. “He’s been under a lot of pressure.”
“The hell with him. My head hurts.” I waited for the mug and set it to one side when it was empty. Bud sat with his elbows on his knees, massaging his face and hair with both hands. After a moment he stopped, looking at me through his fingers.
“Who are you?”
“The Bourbon fairy.”
A car door slammed. Daddy was here.
I opened the door. Broderick, hands in the pockets of a station-issue overcoat with a fur collar, glanced at me, then past me, his face registering impatience when his vision collided with the wall of the entryway. He looked at me again, harder. “What the hell happened to you?”
“It all started when I flunked my high school aptitude test.” I stepped away from the door.
He opened his mouth again, then closed it with a minute
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