The Second Mouse - Archer Mayor [23]
Joe paused with his hand on the railing. “You Newell Morgan?”
“Yeah. What d’you want?”
“Talk about Michelle Fisher a bit.”
“She’s dead.”
It was Joe’s turn to smile. “Yeah.” He dragged out the word tellingly, allowing the ensuing silence between them to speak for him.
Morgan got the point. He scowled. “Oh, for Christ sake. Fucking woman’ll never let me go.” He turned on his heel and added wearily, “Come on in.”
Joe climbed the steps and opened the screen door that Morgan had let slam behind him. He and Sam entered a freezing air-conditioned living room clearly decorated by a woman. Only a single La-Z-Boy planted before a flat-screen TV set of Olympian proportions and brilliant clarity had escaped her touch. Running soundlessly across its surface, pumping the air with one fist, was an overweight baseball player trailing a mane of greasy hair. The TV and chair made the scene appear farcically lopsided, the former’s robotic sleekness and size making the room’s array of 1950s china figurines crowding every flat surface look like refugees seeking a way out.
That wasn’t the only contrast. The chair and the rug immediately surrounding it, unlike the rest of the truly pristine room, were borderline disgusting, stained and soiled by its occupant’s haphazard eating habits. It seemed clear that a truce of sorts had been made in this house—she could rule, and clean, the roost, in exchange for his living like an old dog in one restricted corner.
Morgan half fell into his reclining throne and reached down to retrieve an opened beer can placed on the embattled rug, spilling part of its contents in the process. He stared at the muted screen without expression and took a noisy gulp from the can. He did not offer either of them a seat.
“I guess you two didn’t get along,” Joe suggested as Sam began walking slowly around the room, quietly taking inventory.
The fat man swiveled his head to look at him. “Fucking right we didn’t. That little whore may’ve turned my idiot son’s head, but she didn’t fool me.”
“How so?” Joe asked when nothing further was added.
“She was a leech. A freeloader. She saw him as a soft touch, and she milked him till he died.”
“There didn’t seem to be much to milk,” Joe said mildly, sitting in a ladder-back chair near the wall.
“That’s because I wouldn’t let it happen,” Morgan muttered, and went back to watching the game.
“Oh?”
He kept his eyes where they were. “I controlled the purse strings. Archie didn’t know anything about money. She would’ve cleaned him out.”
“I thought you said she did.”
Morgan angrily hunched forward in his chair, fixing Joe with a glare. “I said she would have. I didn’t let her. I can smell someone like her a mile off—a conniving little cock teaser. And my son was the perfect mark.”
“How did they meet?” Joe asked, hoping to move him along.
“What do I know? She probably got him drunk and spread her legs. Archie was no rocket scientist. He went where you pointed him.”
Joe scratched his head. “From what I’ve learned, they seemed pretty happy.”
Morgan looked as if he were addressing a moron. “Well, of course they were happy. They had me to mooch off of, all the booze they could drink, and no responsibilities. What’s not to be happy about?”
“They mooched how? The house?”
“Well, yeah.”
Joe pretended to be confused. “But they paid you rent and made and paid for any renovations. I saw the bills.”
Morgan was clearly stumped by that, if only for a couple of seconds. “That was nothing,” he finally blurted. “It was the least they could do for my giving them a place to live. I could’ve sold that house for a small fortune instead of letting them run it down.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Morgan?” Joe asked out of the blue.
“I’m on disability,” Morgan said quickly. “The battery plant fucked me up and I can’t work no more. How’s that matter?”
“Just wondered,” Joe said. “Does your wife still work?”
Morgan’s face reddened. “Yeah, she works. Look, what’re you busting my balls for? Why’re you even here? Am I supposed to get a lawyer or somethin’?