Dead Man's Tale Read Free

my way.”
    â€œAnd I thought you said he found out about us,” Steve said suddenly.
    â€œHe found out. But back where he is now he hasn’t found out. Back where he is now, he doesn’t even know he’s going to die.”
    â€œYou bitch,” Steve said. “You want them to kill him.”
    Estelle’s eyes shrank to steel points. “He knew about us for almost six months before this happened. He treated me like dirt. He let me know about the will. He crowed about it. He even gave me a copy. He made me read it every night before we went to bed.”
    â€œSo you had a talk with Hurley?”
    Estelle ignored his question. “Do you have a passport, Steve?”
    â€œWhy would I want a passport?”
    â€œGet one. I’m not kidding. Steve. If you think I’m kidding, read the papers in the morning.”
    â€œThe papers?” Steve said blankly.
    â€œIn the morning. Then get a passport. Then go to Europe and come back to tell me how Milo Hacha died.”
    Estelle crossed the living room and went down the hall to the front door. She opened the door, said, “Good-bye, Steve.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, she called out, “Petey! Watch the dogs. Steve’s going home.”
    Steve went through the doorway.
    â€œ Bon voyage,” Estelle said pleasantly.

2
    Andy Longacre pulled the MG into the driveway, almost hoping Steve would be out. He wanted to think. That was odd; he had had four years in which to think. Four surprisingly good years, because at first he had been dead-set against going to college.
    But he had used those four years to explore himself, his new and utterly unexpected self, and to explore a world the old Andy Longacre had not even known existed. From black motorcycle jacket and garrison belt with filed-down buckle to B.A. in Comparative Language and Literature and Phi Beta Kappa Key in four years. Wunderbar! And now?
    He saw Steve’s car in the garage, shrugged and unstrapped his big, battered suitcase from the MG’s rack. Maybe, he thought, I should have studied accounting. If I had I’d be able to help my brother spend the money he’s earned as right-hand man to Long Island County’s ex-Mr. Fixit. Besides, if I’d studied accounting I wouldn’t be mixed up now.
    The trouble was that the new Andy Longacre, born some time during the past four years, had been weaned on literature and philosophy and … oh, hell, leave us not exhume David Hume. Andy smiled.
    Damned gold-plated snob, he muttered to himself. Who the hell are you to judge your brother?
    Andy lugged his suitcase up the walk towards the front porch. The grass needed mowing and the porch railing could stand a coat of paint. He’d take care of the lawn first thing after unpacking and maybe having a drink with Steve. He didn’t feel at all tired in spite of having driven all night and most of the day, with only two stops along the way to eat.
    He was a tall, rangy youth. He had crew-cut sandy hair and wore shell-rimmed glasses for reading and driving. And although he hadn’t really pushed it, the coeds at the big Midwestern university had been more than co-operative. He was twenty-two and healthy and had nowhere to go.
    And his brother was a crook.
    Andy found Steve in the living room, stretched out limply on the sofa, his face grey, his striped suit a mess. There was a trace of spittle on his heavy lips and a strong odour of bourbon.
    He tried to make Steve sit up. “Come on, boy. Come on, we’ll put you to bed.” But Steve’s body was limp and unresponsive. Andy decided to leave him there. He removed Steve’s shoes and covered him with a blanket. That was when Steve decided to get sick. Andy went for a washrag and a pan of cold water. Home-sweet-home, he thought.
    Then Andy frowned. Steve had never been much of a drinker, certainly not a solo drinker guzzling himself stupid on a sunny afternoon.
    Andy sat down