The Subtle Art of Brutality, page 21
Or two, she won’t be calling back.
54
Clevenger: “RDB, bad news.”
“If the news is worse than Volksman saying the pastrami Reuben at Macotoni’s was good I don’t want to hear it.”
I’m paying my bill and he calls. I drop a twenty on the counter and check my watch. Jeremiah will need his car back in four hours and I have one more stop.
“Funny you should mention Volksman,” he says.
“Please say Volksman is dead. Please. It’ll serve him right for pimping this grotesque sandwich.”
“No. On the contrary, his case is solved.”
“The arson?”
“Yes. You’ll love this.”
“Will I really or will I hate you?”
“Hate me. Early this morning fishermen pulled a dead man out of the bay. Paulie Torreno. Executed. Dumped.”
“The Andretti Family’s torch man?”
“The one and only.”
“Unbelievable,” I say.
“Listen, Richard—”
“Volksman—who is a worthless piece of shit by the way—lands an arson, pins it on the mob for something that went down decades ago then just happens to find a dead mobster firebug? He’s tying all his loose ends with messy little knots and calling the case closed?”
“Why would he not?”
“You know, Volksman—I’ll bet money...good money—that Volksman would rather find a fall guy and whack his ass to make it a convenient way to close his case.”
“Volksman is lazy but he wouldn’t gun down a mobster just to lighten his own case load.”
“You give him too much credit,” I say.
“I know your hand is turning up all jokers but we’ll get through this.”
“Jesus—well, thanks for the head’s up. I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”
“Hang on, now,” Clevenger says.
“Yeah?”
“White’s wife has an alibi for the murder. Checks out. Said White went to the doctor to get tested for AIDS and whatnot. Some idiot at the doctor’s office mailed him the results and the wife opened the letter, confronted him about it, et cetera. Big fight. She rolled out and went on some huge bender in Vegas. Probably racked up enough infidelity counts to rival a professional athlete. She’s on at least eight different casino security cameras.
“She didn’t know of any mistresses he kept. I checked with his work place and his friends, and none of them coughed up anybody. Must have learned well getting burned with Delilah Boothe. Bottom line is Pierce White is dead by unknown party.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Also,” Clevenger says hesitantly, “Pinky Meyers got busted on a parole violation three weeks ago. Been in the pen ever since. He’s not our guy.”
“That was a big to-do about nothing.”
“Just thought narrowing your suspect list down would be good news.”
“It is. Riggens called with similar news less than an hour ago.”
“I heard he pulled in Abigail Bellview’s ex-boyfriend for questioning. He confess?”
“Riggens thinks it’s forthcoming. Now Volksman.”
“Well, you know Rudd likes Ben Boothe.”
“Yes. We spoke earlier. He’s so dirty one fire isn’t going to put any tarnish on his record.”
“Rapists,” Clevenger says. “As a species they are never going to get better, are they?”
“Sure,” I chuckle. “Alright, I gotta go for real this time.”
“No problem,” he says. I hang up.
A-bomb. What a fucking A-bomb.
The cashier hands me my change and I set the tip down on the table. I start to head out and veer off to the counter again.
The cashier is the diner type: middle-aged, overweight, pleasant-looking, chewing gum. Poofy hair, pencil behind her ear. Apron.
“Ma’am?” I ask.
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s better here, the corned beef Reuben or the pastrami Reuben?”
“Oh my gracious, honey.” She seems shocked that I wouldn’t just know, let alone ask. “The corned beef. Everyone knows that.”
Fucking Volksman.
55
Juliette Marsden was married six years ago and became Juliette Franklin.
Delilah’s high school best friend is of average height, weight and pretty. Noticeable, but not stunning. I prefer noticeable as opposed to stunning because I am a man of limited charm and the stunning women expect a lot from suitors that my charm will not produce. Nor do I care to put out that much effort.
Juliette Franklin’s cleavage is just the way I like it: exposed, Grand Canyon deep and in my face. She and her husband let me in their door after I tell them who I am and what I am doing. He prepares drinks and Mrs. Franklin sits down next to me. Close enough I can count the freckles on her boobs.
Even if she doesn’t know anything this visit will be worth it.
If her husband has a problem with his wife’s conduct towards unannounced guests he either doesn’t say anything for fear I’ll fuck up his world or he doesn’t notice.
Or care.
“Yes, Delilah was here three days ago,” Mrs. Franklin says as if it weren’t a big thing.
Well, I’ll be damned. Mrs. Franklin, if you knew how many people I have killed in pursuit of this gal.
“What were you having again, Mr. Buckner?” the husband asks as he sets a fu-fu looking cocktail in front of his wife and her boobs.
“Three Wise Men.”
“Just a shot? Want a beer also?”
“No, no beer. But you can put the shot in a glass.”
“What kind of glass would you like?” He smirks, asshole-like. “A shot glass?”
“A collins glass is fine.”
“You want that much booze?”
“Yes, I do.” I make it a point to turn my attention back to his wife’s chest.
He simply turns his back and begins grabbing bottles. Good boy.
“Three days ago?” I ask her boobs.
“Yes. She stayed here for about a week and then left. Just got antsy one day. Upset. It was hard to talk, really. I offered her a longer stay, but she said she was going out of town.”
“Say where by chance?”
“Three Mile High, I believe.”
“Say where in Three Mile High?”
“No. But she has a boyfriend up there.”
“Does boyfriend have a name?”
“Something about Jimmy. Jim. Or John...”
“James? James Dobbins?”
“Yes! Thank you.”
“My wife is terrible with names.” Mr. Franklin sets the collins in front of me. He smiles and for the first time I can see he doesn’t want me looking at his wife the way I am. Which, incidentally, I have not been trying to hide at all.
“I’d hate for Juliette to not be able to help you with your case. I’m glad you’re able to jog her memory about those things. I know I can’t,” he says.
“No problem, Mr. Franklin,” I say and take a drink. Severely watered down. Cocksucker. “I’m good with getting what I want from women.”
He gives me an incredulous stare and I persist, “So don’t worry about the case. If there’s anything else your wife is terrible at that I want, I’ll be able to work out in the end.”
“I see...” He draws from his beer and looks to his wife. She looks back and smiles blankly.
“So Delilah came here. Say where she’s been?”
“Poor thing. Said her stepdad tossed her out of a place he bought for her, so she went to her real dad and he wanted nothing to do with her. She came here and of course we put her up for the night. She just let her hair down for a few days and then she said thanks but she had decided to move in with her boyfriend in Three Mile High.”
“I see.”
“Funny,” Mrs. Franklin says, thinking hard. “You know, I never remember her mom remarrying. Also, Delilah never struck me as the type of girl to just run around like she’s doing, sleeping on couches and moving in with men.”
“Well, honey,” Mr. Franklin says, “you two have lost touch since high school. A lot can happen to a person to change them.”
“Of course,” his wife says.
Mr. Franklin looks on, sipping beer. His eyes sneak back at me anytime I lift the watered down drunk to my lips. I wonder if he snuck a little dribble of piss in it. He seems like the kind of frat-house fuck-face who would pull a junior varsity prank like that.
“Delilah isn’t that kind of girl?” I ask. “Until you offer to let her live here? Then she becomes that kind of girl?”
“Well—” Mrs. Franklin says. The thought seems to block her up. Mr. Franklin looks on, not wanting to talk about Delilah’s conduct.
“Mr. Buckner, are you investigating her sexual past or are you making sure she is safe and sound?” he asks. A tell.
I look him in the eye and flash the cards in my hand at him. “Both.”
“I see...” And with that he simply sets his mostly full beer down and stands up. “Honey,” he says, “I just realized I need to finish with that thing out in the car. I’ll be back in about, oh, fifteen minutes.”
“Great, baby,” he gives her a little peck and takes off. He gets my message.
Now that we’re alone: “Did Delilah mention being pregnant at all to you?”
“Oh, Mr. Buckner,” she says, surprised. “In confidence but...I didn’t think she—”
“She called and told her mother. Her mother told me. Have you told your husband?”
“No, I haven’t. I just figured he wouldn’t care. He always kept his distance from her.”
“Shy?”
“Yes.”
“I see. Let me guess: didn’t know what to say so he’d just complement her.”
“Yes. He was always very nice.”
“I bet,” I look at her, so clueless. “You seem very nice as well.”
“Thank you.” Blushes a little. I watch the color rise in her cleavage.
“You are extremely beautiful, I might add,” I say.
She giggles. Fans herself. There’s nothing better than making a run at an asshole’s wife in his own home and coming up roses.
“I hope for the best, Mr. Buckner.” Change of subject. All right.
“Her mother. She’s very afraid,” I say.
“I would be too. What with it being—” She stops, sips her drink. “Will you excuse me, please?”
“Of course.”
She gets up and carries her breasts towards the bar. Freshens her drink. While she is away I grab her husband’s beer and spit in it. I’d drink it myself but who knows what this guy has. Since he obviously was sleeping with Delilah he’s got whatever she gave him.
Mrs. Franklin comes back, sits down. Composes herself. Stirs her drink. It’s all clear booze now, no coloring, no fruit, no salt rim, no umbrella. I take my highball glass and knock back the waste of alcohol in it. One swig. We’re about done here.
“May I call you Juliette?”
“Please do.”
“Juliette, do you have Delilah’s cell phone number?”
“No. If she had one she never told me.”
“She made a call to her mother—when she said she was pregnant—and it was anonymous. Is your number unlisted?”
“Yes. My husband is an aide to a politician. He doesn’t like to be bothered.”
“Democrat?”
“Of course.”
“I thought so.”
I give her my card and stand up. “Thank you for your time, Juliette.”
“You’re welcome.” She gives me a bright smile.
“Thanks for the drink.”
“Anytime.”
I get my coat. She comes scurrying up to me and hands me a sheet of paper from a notepad I saw under a magnet on the refrigerator.
It has her name and phone number written on it, surrounded by little scribbles hearts straight out of a high school yearbook. Before being her little flirty-note, it was the grocery list. Her hearts have to compete for space on the paper with things like “eggs,” “buttermilk” and “stronger fiber pills.”
I imagine the fiber is for her husband, who looks like he hasn’t been able to shit out that used condom his boyfriend lost up in there days ago.
I give Juliette a smile and open the door.
I walk out and see her husband in the garage doing nothing. The door is up and I walk right in.
“Mr. Franklin?”
He looks at me, straightens and then leans all cool-like against the roof of his non-descript four-door sedan. So tough.
“Yes.”
“So, you fuck Delilah Boothe once or twice and then she splits.” The look he gives is one that all guilty people who cannot hide their guilt give. I expect more from a politician’s aide. Lying convincingly should be the language he does business in.
“I figure the first time was because she was in a terrible place, vulnerable, whatever and you were all cutesy and gentlemanlike.”
I walk closer. Right up on him. See the first droplets of sweat on his brow, his upper lip. It’s freezing outside.
“But after that, she either felt dirty for doing that to her generous best friend or thought it was going to get out of control. She’s got a long history of ruining things by sleeping with married men. Too bad you couldn’t cash in more often.”
“Fuck you, sir,” he says as limp-wristed and empty as the devil must have been moments before he was cast down. “Now get off my property.”
My hand out. He looks down. I take his cell phone right off his belt. He does nothing. Weak. Thumb through; find a listing in his address book for Delilah. View it, write it down.
I drop his cell phone to the concrete. Look at him. Start to turn around and say: “If you’re done with the one inside, I’ll take her.”
I walk off. He says nothing. I leave. Jeremiah is getting off work soon.
56
It dawns on me and I call Mrs. Franklin as soon as I’m down the street.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Franklin? It’s Richard Dean Buckner—”
“Oh my God, I was hoping you’d call me—”
“I know. We can have sex later. Right now I need you to tell me who’s the father of Delilah’s baby.”
“Excuse me?”
“You had started to say something when I asked you about it earlier. Who is it?”
“Oh, Mr. Buckner...I guess I thought she told her mom and she told you.”
“No.”
“Well, this is gross but...her dad.”
57
Ben Boothe’s ramshackle shitbox sits on a small lot in a bad neighborhood and faces a major street.
The tree in the front lawn looks like it was struck and killed by lightning twenty years ago and now the weight of decades of decay are taking their toll. The thing looks mummified: withered and feeble.
I pull up alongside the street. I can’t get in the driveway; the police cruisers, the ambulance and the crime scene tape are in my way.
The trifecta: Riggens fingers the Shitski flamer, Volksman fingers the conveniently dead mob flamer, now this. Whatever it is, I know two things: arson investigator Rudd is here and the EMTs are carting out a body bag.
I get out. Approach Rudd. She waves me through the police line, albeit with a sour look on her face.
“He dead?” I ask.
“Yes, he is.”
“You do it?”
“No, I did not.”
“His daughter? You seen her?”
“No, she did not do it either.”
“Did Volksman kill your suspect for you also? Make it an easy case to close?”
“Volksman did not kill the mob goon he pinned his fire on. Please be reasonable, Mr. Buckner—”
“What happened then?”
“Why do you care?”
“I was here an hour ago. Looking for his kid.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“I was here a few days ago as you are well aware. You come by today, barking about more crimes. I stop by today with his Intensive Supervision Officer while he made a home visit. The ISO requested I come inside with him. Ben knew me from the arson investigation and probably put two and two together. He left the door open, walked into the other room and ate a 9mm. End of story.”
“So you are going to pin your arson on him?”
“Parolee gets out, immediately commits another felon—which will be his third strike, mind you—and we come sniffing around from a few different angles. You and me and the ISO. He knows the gig is up, doesn’t want to go back inside, doesn’t want to run, so he cowards his way out. Signed, sealed, delivered.”
I know the look consuming her eyes. Confident. Swimming the deep seas of arrogance. Unwavering. A believer. I cannot tell her anything about her case. It’s solved.
I think about saying that his daughter is running around telling people he knocked her up. But I don’t. I don’t even ask who the homicide investigator is. Doesn’t matter anymore.
Rudd adjusts her coat and begins to say something but her face becomes an angry red smear. Her words twist and distort in my ears and melt down into a buzzing sound that goes well with the swirl of color dripping across my vision. I feel my brain go numb and my eyes swell as the pleasant tan of Rudd’s face darkens to a brown and to a black. The whites of her eyes spill down her face like popped eggs and runners of cream fall like rain. I hear her voice crawling up from some void towards me, and as it approaches the Big Fry smear slowly inches back to where it hides in my brain.
“Mr. Buckner. I need a statement,” Rudd says with her hands on her hips and an impatient look on her face. Scolding mother look.
“What?” I say.
“I’ll need a statement about your interaction with Mr. Boothe. A written statement. And I’ll need it now.”
She hands me an official Saint Ansgar PD Witness Statement form. I write, “Sexual predator did the right thing,” fold it in half and put it under her windshield wiper.
I leave. Confirming his alibi with the supposed rape victim can wait now.
58
