Private Eye Four-Pack, page 46
“Maybe he thought you were cute.”
“I am.”
“You think he’s involved in any of this? The drugs? The sheriff?”
“I think he’s capable of anything,” Chick said. “There’s probably little happens around Paradise he’s not at least aware of. Highly intelligent. Brilliant even. Well thought of around town. He’s involved in a campaign to save the downtown area. A unique guy. Knows a lot of people, but probably has few close friends, though there are people who would like to have him in their corner.”
“There’s Horton,” I said, reminding him of the lifestyle editor with the bad manners.
“You find Horton attractive?”
“Mesmerizing,” I said.
“Probably not a lot to choose from in a community like this. Being gay is dangerous work in this part of the country. They may march in the streets and hold political office in San Francisco, but around here they get the crap beat out of ’em, and that’s when the locals are feeling generous. Still, I’m having trouble buying Horton and Winston. Winston has money and mobility. He can go other places for it.”
“Maybe Horton provides information for Winston. He does work for a newspaper. Besides, between the two of them it doubles the contacts they have.”
“Pimp for each other? We’re guessing. But I’ll bet my Josh Logan fan club button he’s involved in this, either directly or peripherally. He likes this stuff. He’s attracted to the wild side. When he left the courtroom he finally looked at me. At first he just glanced, then he looked again and there was something else in it.”
“Recognition?”
Chick shook his head. “Anger. Even hatred.”
“So, what have we got so far? We kicked over some rocks and found a couple of snakes. I didn’t really get anything from Roberts except a bad feeling about my longevity and a warning to keep out of his business. He didn’t seem particularly worried about me.” A door slammed and I heard the sound of a stool flushing.
“This is a nasty place,” said Chick. “I know. I’ve been in nasty places before, and this is one of them. Something ain’t right. The whole feel is wrong. Community betterment signs and a businessman with head-knockers on the payroll. Then, you got this honest sheriff in the middle of all this corruption and everybody says he was honest and he gets bumped. Now you got a moron in his place and all the little snakes don’t have to crawl under rocks anymore. They can come right out and play in the sunshine like they were real people. Oh, here’s something interesting. Guess who Winston was defending in court? Our buddy Luke. The little weasel with the Shit Happens hat.”
“Small world.”
“Tiny.”
I paid Chick’s tab. He was good at this work. In fact, he was good at many things. Unusual things. Talents one didn’t acquire at the Acme Bounty Hunter’s School. Where had he learned them, then? As for Winston and Roberts, I was sure they were involved in most of the dirty doings around the county, but would they kill the sheriff? Winston had his own reasons to hate Kennedy. But kill him? Winston had the big family name. Money. Position. Still, he was a strange one. Roberts was a better candidate. Willie Boy would benefit from having a bonehead like Baxter as sheriff. But killing the sheriff brought in the heat—state bulls and out-of-town suits with names to make. Killing the sheriff was stupid, something Roberts wasn’t.
Unless there was no other choice.
Chick bought a six-pack of Carta Blanca and a pint of Mezcal. “Never know when Villa might ride by,” he said.
We walked outside into the cool, fading light of Ozark autumn. As we neared the Bronco, a county car pulled up and Baxter got out. Deputy Simmons, whom I remembered from my first visit to the sheriff’s office, got out on the passenger side.
“Charles Easton?” Baxter said, trying for official.
“Too many cop shows,” said Chick, to me.
Baxter said, “You’re under arrest.”
TWELVE
“What’s the charge?” I asked.
“Shut up,” Baxter said. “Or I’ll run you in with him. I’d like that. You might even resist arrest.” He smiled. “I’d like that even more. A night in the jug might cool that mouth of yours.”
Chick looked cool and unworried. He had an amused look on his face, as if the sheriff’s fly were unzipped. “What’d I do this time?” he asked.
“I’ll think of something. Just get in the car.”
“Nah,” said Chick. “You know how it works. Play fair. Just tell me what heinous crime I committed. You know, like aggravated assault, public drunkenness. Using polysyllables in front of a known imbecile.”
Baxter reached into the police unit and pulled out a nightstick, one of those black clubs with a T-handle. A nasty weapon. “I’m taking you in for questioning in the murder of Sheriff Kennedy.”
“Waste of time,” said Chick. “I know less about it than you know about fifth-grade math. If I knew who killed the sheriff they’d already be in jail.” He paused for a moment, stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “Or worse.”
Baxter placed the barrel of the stick in his free hand. “I’ve been trained with this, Easton.”
“That mean you won’t mess your diapers when I take it from you?” Chick said. Baxter’s face reddened. The light at the intersection turned amber then crimson behind him. Deputy Simmons was nervous. Baxter wanted to use the stick.
“You dealt it, boy,” Baxter said.
Chick handed me the booze and calmly said, “We don’t need this silliness. I’ll go with you. Quietly, even.”
Baxter relaxed his grip on the nightstick. “Cuff him, Simmons,” he said. Chick held his arms out and allowed him to place the bracelets on his wrists.
“You got anything in a yellow gold?” asked Chick.
“No more smart shit,” said Baxter.
“Mind if I chuckle to myself if I think of something funny?” Chick said. “Like your ACT scores?”
“Get in the car, asshole.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
The deputy escorted Chick to the unit. Held the top of Chick’s head as he helped him into the back of the unit. There was a screen between the backseat and the front.
The sheriff moved closer to me, leaned into my face. “You watching this, hotshot?” His breath was hot on my face. “Learn something from it. This is my county now, and you’re stinking it up.”
“You’re so lyrical,” I said.
“Don’t fuck with me, Storme.”
“That cuts both ways, Leslie.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, like two high school kids in a schoolyard. His eyes were bloodshot and mean, the bad eye, malevolent and dark. Finally, he backed away.
“I’ll follow you down, Chick,” I said.
“Do what you like,” said Baxter. “But nobody talks to or sees him ’til tomorrow afternoon.”
“That’s crap.”
He smiled at my rising anger, spat tobacco on my shoes, and got in his car. They drove away, leaving me on the sidewalk with a bottle of Mezcal and some Mexican beer I wasn’t going to drink. Tobacco spit on my shoes. I felt impotent and stupid.
I put the beverages in the Bronco and walked to an open-air pay phone. The street was quiet and deserted. I thought of the old joke about pulling the streets up after dark, but didn’t laugh. Downtown Paradise was almost gone. Drained of its life by shopping malls, corporate discount chain stores, dual-lane highways, and recession. No jobs and few businesses. The American Dream. Gone without even leaving a high-water mark on the buildings. Mortgaged tomorrows for today. Then tomorrow came.
There was a sadness to it and no joy in its realization.
If Alan Winston could restore the downtown, then more power to him.
I called information and got Jill Maxwell’s number. Called it. Her recorder answered and I hung up. A few blocks away I heard a horn honk and echo. I called information again and got the number of the newspaper. I dialed that number and asked for her.
“I’m sorry,” said a female voice. “Jill’s on vacation.”
I asked when she would return and the voice said two weeks. That made no sense. I hung up and dialed the Days Inn and asked for Sam Browne. Finally, something went right. He answered.
“What’s up, Storme?”
“Chick’s been arrested,” I said.
“Who?”
“Friend of mine. Chick Easton. Baxter cuffed him, said he wanted to question him about the sheriff’s murder. What do you know about it?”
“Nothing. The name never came up. I got a message you called earlier. What did you need?”
I told him about the vanished marijuana. Being shot at. He said they hadn’t had time to get out to the field yet. He asked why I hadn’t reported it.
“I don’t trust Baxter. The last time I made a report someone was killed. And my name leaked out despite assurances from the murder victim.” I told him of my visit to the newspaper and my talk with Jill Maxwell. I told him about her sudden vacation. “Somebody’s damming the swamp. I’ve been shot at, Chick’s been arrested, and Jill takes an unscheduled vacation. Bad things are happening to people I talk to, including the sheriff.”
“Maybe the girl planned the vacation.”
“No way. She’d never let go of something like this. Too hungry. Too good a reporter.” I told him of my visit with Willie Boy Roberts and Chick’s observation of Alan Winston. It failed to make him happy.
“What the hell are you doing? You stay out of this investigation.”
“What did we do? I can’t apply for a job, and Chick can’t visit a public courtroom?”
There was a silence at the other end. I was beginning to think he’d hung up when he said, “You amateurs are going to stir up a hornet’s nest. You can’t go around burning the locals.”
“So, what have you got?” I asked.
“That information is privileged. You know that.”
“You’ve got squat. I know Roberts is linked to the marijuana field because of the dog.”
“Doesn’t do me any good. Where’s the dog now? Your word against his. We know Roberts is a bad actor, but he’s never been arrested or indicted for anything. Not even a speeding ticket. His sheet is clean. We can’t move on him until we’ve got something solid. The information you’ve given me is interesting, but you don’t just jump on a guy like Roberts without everything in place.”
“Roberts is going to run you in circles. Eventually, you’ll leave town. He knows that. Or whoever shot Kennedy knows that, too. You guys leave and it’ll be back to business as usual.”
“I should arrest you for interfering in a homicide investigation,” he said, then there was another pause. “But…there is something to what you’re saying. Roberts smells of something. Something familiar and out of place here. He doesn’t seem like a businessman. We’re running into blocks when we try to run Roberts’s background. Federal blocks. They won’t tell us why. Look, I’ll check on the girl and the big goon, Cugat, and try to get out to the marijuana site. But you back off. Do you understand?”
I agreed to. Better off in his hands. I thought about Sandy. Bail Chick out, grab the chemist and head back to Colorado, and let the wheels of justice turn. I could always come back. Then I thought about Jill Maxwell. What if she never turned up? What if I couldn’t get Chick out of jail? Or, if I could, would they let him leave town? I asked Browne if he could do something to cut Chick loose.
“You are crazy,” he said. “McKinley will fry my butt if I stick my nose in…” He paused. I heard him sigh. “What the hell. See what I can do. Maybe I can find something out. I didn’t want to make sergeant anyway. What would I do with the extra money? Easton may have done things you know nothing about, you know.”
No doubt about that, I thought.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “get him a lawyer and keep out of this. As for Roberts, I’ve heard some things. He isn’t anybody to push. You could end up with a permanent limp.”
“You think he’s capable of that?”
“Yes.”
“Murder?”
“Damn,” he said. “You don’t listen, do you? That’s all you get. Head back to the mountains. You’re a pain in the butt.” He hung up, loudly.
As he did, I noticed a brown Chevrolet pickup making its third circuit of the block. It had tinted windows. Couldn’t see inside. I memorized the license number and filed it away. Was I becoming paranoid? Like the comedian says, “Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean everybody’s not really out to get you.”
I dialed Jill’s number again. The electric voice of the answering machine started up and I broke the connection. I didn’t want to leave my voice and name on tape at this point. While trying to think what to do next I’d forgotten about the pickup. A mistake.
I felt a hand, a big one, on the back of my neck. It squeezed and my head exploded into little spiders of pain. Another hand gripped my belt and I felt myself being lifted. He grabbed my collar and hustled me down the sidewalk, my feet touching the ground intermittently. I weigh over two hundred pounds and he was handling me like a sack of feed. I struggled, reaching back to break the hand loose from my jacket, but couldn’t. He was too strong. I kicked back with my heel and caught a leg, but it was a glancing blow and did little damage.
He shoved me into a darkened doorway and slammed me into the wall. The feeling of helplessness was pervasive. I was at the mercy of this powerful force behind me. I felt the rough contour of brick scrape my face. He drove a meaty fist into my kidneys, and for a brief moment I was afraid I would wet my pants like a child. He cuffed me with an open hand and the inside of my head erupted into a nightfall of diamonds. Consciousness pinwheeled away from me. As my head cleared I saw the face of the giant from Roberts’s office. He said something that bounced puttylike in my ears. My head was hazy, as if clouds of steel wool were clogging my thought processes.
“…where you’re not wanted,” he said. “Smartasses can get stomped and shoved in a culvert around here.” He picked me up and slammed me down roughly on my feet. My teeth clacked together and my damaged knees felt like glass had shattered within them. My head smacked against the wall again. I couldn’t take much more. There was no fear, just the realization I had to stop this.
His breath was on my face now, and it smelled of beer and tomato sauce. He had me by the front of my jacket with both hands. A voice behind him said, “Fuck ’im up, Cugie. S’matter, shithead? Nothin’ funny to say?”
My head cleared. In the bigs you played with pain. Played through the pain. It was irrelevant to the task. I raised both arms and brought them down heavily against his forearms, which brought his face close to mine. Then I drove my forehead into his mouth and nose. I heard something crunch and pop like stepping on popcorn. I lifted my hands from his arms and lashed out with the back of my right hand, catching him on the mouth. I followed that with my left elbow, driving it hard against the side of his chin.
He bellowed, letting go of my jacket to put his hand to his face. I felt something warm and damp on my forehead. I fought the fog drifting into my brain and staggered from the doorway. There was a form in front of me. Much smaller than the other man. Felt raw knuckles on my shoulder. I drove on through the man as if breaking a tackle. I needed to get away. The small man crumpled before me like a card castle. Must be near the goal line, I thought. I staggered three steps and fell against a parked car.
I slid down. Down…
THIRTEEN
“We’re concerned about your conduct with the media,” said the voice of Richmond Butler, vice president of the Dallas Cowboys. His voice came at me from somewhere behind the too-large desk as he smoked a too-big Jamaican cigar.
“I don’t conduct myself with them,” I heard my voice say. It was disembodied and hovering somewhere above me. “I don’t talk to them. I nod. I grunt. I take my shower.”
“That’s the problem, son,” Butler said. He leaned forward. His face grew. Too much nose. Not enough chin. “You won’t talk to them. Why the mystery? What does it hurt to talk to them? It’s league policy and it’s good PR. As a Cowboy, you are part of this organization, and as part of this family it is your responsibility to promote the Dallas Cowboys.”
“I do promote them. Every Sunday afternoon.”
His face was warping, twisting out of shape. “We pay you a hell of a salary. You owe us.”
“No,” I said, rising to leave. “I owe you nothing. You didn’t buy me. You rent my skills. Nothing else. You don’t get me. I belong to Christ and myself and I can walk out of here anytime.”
Butler laughed and his too-large diamond winked in the artificial light. “Where are you gonna make the kind of money we pay you?”
I laughed back at him, and it felt good. “You think I do it for the money.”
“What other reasons you got?”
“If you have to ask,” I said, quoting Louis Armstrong, “you’ll never know.”
He gestured with the cigar, and it flamed at the end like a torch. “You made a deal with us. You are what we say you are. That’s your job.”
“I don’t have a job. I play a part. And whatever part I try to play, it’s obvious that the person who plays that part never suited up for the game.”
Richmond Butler’s office dissolved into the hard pavement of a Paradise sidewalk. A female voice spoke and I felt soft hands against my face. I was in a movie and the heroine was kneeling over me, asking if I was all right. I forgot my lines and looked into the wonderful bone structure of Tempestt Finestra. Her eyes were large and green and soft. I reached up and touched her cheek and she kissed my palm. Despite my condition I felt stirrings inside. Not good. Sandy.
