November Mourns Page 9

  “Yes. I’m only here to deliver you a friend.”

  That stopped him. “What friend?”

  “One you’ve been missing.”

  The devil faded from sight and soon Jeffie O’Rourke stepped up and stood there just a few feet away, dressed in Armani. His eyes had some new hipness to them that he hadn’t possessed in the can, and his grin was knowing and a touch badass. Murdering your lover had a way of giving you a new confidence.

  “Where’d you get to?” Shad asked.

  “Been out and about,” Jeffie said, taking a step closer. The three-thousand-dollar silk suit gave a gentle swish. Shad could see there was dried blood or paint on Jeffie’s hands, the bitten-down fingernails caked with it. “Spending a lot of time sitting around on beaches, doing seascapes.”

  “Like the warden.”

  “Yes, just like him. He always said they were calming, but I don’t find that to be the case.”

  “You should probably quit then.”

  “I’ll give it a while longer though. Maybe it just takes time.”

  “Maybe so.”

  Jeffie gave a kind of frowning grin, like he was glad to be there and had arrived just in time. “Jenkins, I know this town is about as backass backwater backwards as can be, but are you telling me that you actually walk around this place like that? No shoes, no coat? You’re young but you’re not quite Huck Finn.”

  That slow crawling heat at the back of Shad’s skull made itself aware to him again. It was always there, as much a part of him as the beating of his heart, but forgotten until the strain became too great. It grew more intense but wasn’t yet too painful. He looked down and didn’t see his body under the spruce anymore, and couldn’t be certain if he was awake or asleep.

  “Stay out of the woods,” Jeffie said. “There are snakes in the dark.”

  “Jesus, you people and all these warnings about the fucking woods.” He was starting to feel himself come undone a little. “Are you talking about the snake handlers up there? The community of the hill families? Did one of them kill Megan? Did her heart stop because of rattler venom?”

  “How should I know? I’ve never been around here before.”

  “Why did you show up then?”

  “You wanted me to.”

  Slouching a bit, Jeffie had a swagger now, something else he’d picked up off the warden. He let out a deliberate smirk and started chuckling, standing as if he were twelve feet tall, all this power in his face. Shad felt his shoulders go rigid as Jeffie reached out and touched him on the side of the neck. Flecks of red drifted against his skin. You could find some kind of goddamn symbolism wherever you looked.

  “You ought to let it go. You’re not doing this for the right reasons.”

  “Is that so?” Shad asked as the rage dug in deeper, putting the fire in his skin, kicking his heart rate up. “I’m going to find out what happened to her.”

  “No,” Jeffie O’Rourke said, with that new merriment in his eyes. “I don’t think you are. Not entirely.”

  When the calm wasn’t there you tried to fake it as well as you could. Jeffie kept tugging at all the wrong nerves, the same way he sometimes did back in the joint. Dead maple leaves scuffled past their ankles, scrambling across the wide lawn as the morning winds staggered in and out of the brush.

  “You having fun on the outside?” Shad asked.

  “Not as much as you might think.”

  “Being an escaped felon might hinder your sense of cheer.”

  “It’s not that so much, really. The FBI will never track me down. Those assholes spend most of their time tripping over one another, and they’re into more crooked shit than all of C-Block combined. It’s a machine working against itself. I’ve been number sixteen on the most wanted list for almost a year. They’ve never even come close.”

  “So what’s the problem?” Shad asked, genuinely curious.

  At last, a little of the old Jeffie came easing through. The loving but distressed face shaping his heartbreak. “I miss him.”

  “The warden.”

  “Yes. It’s not the same without him.”

  “Looks like you’ve got money.”

  “I had plenty stashed away. But, even with the cash, there’s no . . . reason in my life, if you can believe that shit.”

  “Okay.”

  Mrs. Rhyerson’s yard began to take on more detail as the dawn broke against the mountains, a murky orange stewing behind the hills.

  “Are you dead?” Shad asked.

  “Hell no. I’ve assumed the name Prescott Plumber, and I’ve got a sweet deal in East Hollywood. I take care of Albert Herrin. He used to be a director. Pretty popular back in the fifties, did a lot of war movies and had a couple of hits. In the sixties he did biker flicks and cashed in on the drive-in exploitation market right when it was getting big. I invested in a production company, bought up the DVD rights, and we’re making a fortune. Now he’s seventy-eight years old and still has no problem keeping it up.”

  “The benefits of a pure life,” Shad said, a little surprised at the sound of his own bitterness.

  “Highly suspect, that.” Jeffie checked the knot of his tie, the same as Ashtoreth had, the same way the warden always did. “Don’t go up to the ridge. Your luck might not hold. There’s things going on you won’t believe.”

  “So tell me.”

  “I can’t. I don’t know what they are.”

  You never quite knew what was in your head and what was outside of it. “I’ve got to see this through to the end.”

  “Maybe she wouldn’t want you to. Your sister. Ever think of that?”

  “No.”

  It brought the greasy smirk back. “You know you’re probably insane, right?”

  “Sure,” Shad said. “But it’s the probably that keeps me going.”

  “Yeah, but still, everything I’ve told you is the truth. You can check on that.”

  “No need.”

  The moonrunners were starting early, their superchargers screaming down the dirt roads under the highway. The stink of whiskey wafted on the breeze.

  That new flash of smugness in Jeffie’s eyes turned ugly and came on a little bolder, and when he smiled his mouth was full of blood. “Do you want to know what you used to scream in the middle of the night?”

  “No.”

  Bathed in sweat now, Shad turned to go back inside and heard drunken laughter in the undergrowth. He dug through the brush and saw Becka Dudlow and Hoober Luvell seated on a tree stump sharing a jug, hunched and leaning their heads together, lifting their chins to leer at him.

  Hoober looked up with glassy red eyes gleaming, that toothless smile giving him a simpleminded expression. Some folks figured him for retarded because they never got any closer to him than the other side of the street. He was so bloated that his tawny skin seemed ready to peel away at any second.

  Becka’s angry teeth and antagonistic nipples aimed at Shad, and he felt the same way he used to feel when he was sitting in her Bible class and didn’t know the correct chapter and verse. There was a smudge of cocaine on her upper lip.

  It took a minute for Hoober to clear his head enough to actually speak. It was clearly an effort, and Shad wondered why he was even making it.

  The nub of a tongue slid to one side, then to the other as the black gums parted. Hoober said, “Comfort and condolences.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “I think I was.”

  “Nightwalking, eh? Got a pair of tricky feet.”

  “It happens.”

  “To me too, on occasion.” Hoober couldn’t quite open his eyes but his voice sounded sober and smart. “Some of us got a call we got to answer.”

  Becka Dudlow nodded as though the tendons in her neck had been clipped. Her lips quivered as if she might speak, but then her mouth closed again. Very slowly she slid off the stump in a well-practiced motion, curled up on the grass, and began to snore.

  “Ain’t you cold?” H
oober asked.

  The moment Shad thought about it he began to tremble. “Yes. Did you hear me talking before?”

  “No.”

  “You smell any paint?”

  “Paint?” Hoober sniffed. His nostrils were caked with dirt and cocaine. “No.”

  “Or blood?”

  “Damn, those must’ve been some bad dreams you’ve been having.”

  Or something else. Shad could still feel the sticky touch of Jeffie O’Rourke on his neck, but he couldn’t see any of the red flecks on his flesh now. His shuddering became violent and he made his way to the back door of the boardinghouse.

  He passed the phone in the hall. For a moment he thought he might call Information for the East Hollywood phone number of Albert Herrin, give it a ring, and ask for Prescott Plumber. But he didn’t know what the hell he might do if Jeffie answered.

  Chapter Nine

  HE WAS ON HIS WAY TO SEE LUPPY JOE ANSON’S new wife, with Lament laid out and panting in the passenger seat, when Dave’s cruiser filled the rearview mirror. Shad slowed and pulled over, got out, leaned against the ’Stang, and waited. He felt the same way he did when the bulls made their spot inspections.

  When he used to block for the moonrunners, he’d hang a quarter mile in back of Tub Gattling or one of the other boys until the cops pounced from behind the bridges and billboards on the highway. On occasion, Sheriff Increase Wintel himself would circle around the twenty-foot-high stacks of planks at the lumberyard and hop the river on the outskirts of town. He had a girlfriend over that way and if the timing was right, he’d join the fray. The sheriff liked to lean out his window and take potshots.

  The cops could always tell who was carrying make-liquor because the weight would hunker the springs down under the trunk. When Shad suggested that the crews haul only half their loads and make two runs, or evenly distribute the jugs all over the car so the shocks didn’t sag, the runners just looked at him like he was crazy.

  You couldn’t ruin the game, you simply had to play it. So Shad did his part, gunning in and cutting off the cruisers, taking the heat and blocking the cops until the runners got clear. Then he’d lead the police on a reckless chase across town before shaking them loose.

  Everyone had their designated roles to perform. Too much money came into the county on untaxed whiskey. If the stills ever went out of business, a third of the population would suddenly be unemployed. The hollow would fold up in a weekend and reappear in a trailer park up in Poverhoe City.

  The sheriff couldn’t arrest more than a couple of haulers a month. The fun part was doing your best not to be one of the handful that got busted.

  Dave walked over, and said, “Still in nice shape. Who kept it for you?”

  “Tub Gattling.”

  “He do any extra work while you were gone?”

  “No, just kept it cleaned and the battery charged.”

  “I’m surprised he could control himself, considering all the muscle cars he handles for the crews. Enhanced carriages and augmented suspension so they can bolt over rutted back roads, jump the creek beds without too much damage. He’s got a real touch. He’s doing new interior cage designs all the time.”

  Any other cop would’ve played it meaner, even if he was a friend. Coming up and hissing quietly in your ear. The bulls used to play it that way all the time on the tier, shove past with a grin and make threats under their breaths just to keep the cons off-balance. Hit you with a smile up front but their hands always wavered near their belts for the nightstick, just feeling you out. Bull goes home and finds out his sixteen-year-old daughter is pregnant, his son’s selling weed and flunking geometry, his wife is maxing the credit cards out on new living room furniture, and he just doy-de-dums his way through it all until he gets to work. Then he cuts loose on some banger with a bad attitude.

  Any other cop would’ve played it rougher, especially if he had the muscle behind him, but not Dave Fox. He took it calm and quietly. Shad realized he might be in trouble when Dave wasted time with small talk, but he couldn’t do anything except wait it out. “The more money the state gives the police department for cruisers, the more seriously Tub has to take his part.”

  “I’m giving a nod of admiration where it’s deserved. Even so, he should stick to his road shows or the stock car derby. He gets any more serious and someone will have to come down hard on him and even things out again.”

  Did Dave expect him to get right back into the game? Go back to running without a second thought?

  Shad didn’t want to show too much interest but knew it was expected of him, because this was about the only topic they had in common. “Goats still the ones they use most?”

  “Yeah, Luppy and some of the boys still favor the GTOs ’cause their daddies drove them around after ’Nam. Makes them feel like they’ve got a bit of world history themselves.”

  “I always thought that ‘Gran Turismo Omologato’ might’ve sounded too Asian for them to ever go for the make.”

  “Because none of them know that’s what GTO stands for.”

  Your daddy’s car had as much meaning and implication as your first lay. You were never quite a man until you’d passed through numerous fires and crossed a dozen lines scuffed across your front walk. Every time you advanced beyond one, another was waiting. The first time you carried your father home drunk. Your first night in jail.

  Lament crawled into the driver’s seat and was working at the knob trying to roll down the window. Pa had finally gotten a smart pup.

  “Zeke Hester was in the emergency room last night,” Dave said, and they were into it.

  Shad made his face into a C-Block mask of blankness. “That so?”

  “Seems he broke his arm again.”

  Sometimes you just had to be the asshole. On the rare occasion it was better than the alternatives. “Guess he should be more careful.”

  The November air swept by full of ash. Over the crests of rising fields, the farmers were burning branches of holly and poplar from the edges of their orchards. Dave crossed his massive arms over his chest and made a show of barely maintained restraint. It was a gesture that would’ve held more gravity before the days of Little Pepe. “I reckon the same could be said for others.”

  “Sure. Did he tell you what happened?”

  “No.”

  Shad pinched at his chin with thumb and forefinger, putting on his thinking cap, hitting the pose but trying not to go overboard with it. You didn’t really want to fuck around with Dave too much.

  “Maybe he tripped over his mother’s loom again, coming in wrecked from the roadhouse. You got me wondering now. Did she ever do another paint-by-numbers to replace Elvis and Jesus up on the cloud?”

  “No, she liked that one so much she just taped it back together.”

  You gave away nothing, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun. He never would’ve tried it in the can, but he had to admit, being home made him feel smarter than he should’ve.

  Dave glared, and his tie somehow became even straighter. “You gonna make me sorry you ever came back to town?”

  “What a vicious thing to say.”

  “I know, I’m appalled at myself as well.”

  Lament had the window a quarter of the way down and was sticking his snout and jowls out, tongue lapping at the glass.

  “I suppose you’ll do what you have to do while you’re home,” Dave said, “whatever the price.”

  “You only know that because you’d do the same.”

  “I believe in stepping lightly until it’s time to jump.”

  “So do I, but until you all decide what ‘death by misadventure’ means, I guess I have to go my own way on this.”

  “Look, I don’t expect you to hand out buttered hot biscuits and gravy to your neighbors. But the sheriff isn’t going to put up with too many problems.”

  “If that’s true, then why isn’t he here talking to me instead of you?”

  It was a good question. Lament considered it to
o, head cocked and tail swiping back and forth, oversized puppy paws looking like they were too heavy for him to lift. Dave shifted his stance and Shad saw the hardness come into his eyes. “There was a stabbing at Dober’s last night. Sheriff’s busy with that.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “No. I followed up with you as a courtesy, and you ought to count it as such.”

  “I do.” This sort of jab and feint was beginning to chip at his resolve. “If you’re interested, Zeke came at me. From behind, charging like an ox. I wasn’t looking for a fight.”

  “Learned to be nonviolent in prison, that so? Studied up plenty on the principles of Gandhi.”

  “I admit I didn’t mind knocking him on his ass.”

  “You did a little more than that.”

  “Yes, and it could’ve been worse. Let’s leave it go.”

  “All right, for the time being.” Dave turned aside, stared into the deep reflection of his own face peering from the highly buffed hood of the Mustang. Dave Fox’s daddy had once owned one just like it, when he’d gotten back from Da Nang. “Where you headed now?”

  Already knowing where Shad was going, but making sure he realized the pressure was on, that the eye was on him.

  “Luppy’s place. I want to talk with his new wife.”

  “Callie. She’s young, but has a real flair. I like her a lot. Joe’s lucky, and she’s gotten him to change some of his more dire ways.”

  “I look forward to meeting her.”

  “Wonder if she’ll feel the same.”

  They let it go at that. When Dave pulled out and drove past, Shad had the angry urge to race after him, get in front, and smoke him all the way out to Waynescross.

  Okay, so that hadn’t gone as well as it might’ve. He got the distinct impression that he’d possibly lost the one friend around here who could actually help him find out what happened to his sister.

  Lament picked up on the mood and flicked his tail cautiously, heavy hound dog face drawn into a grief-stricken look. The window was all the way down and Lament hung halfway out of the car, uncertain whether he should jump free. Shad knew how he felt. Hung up half-in and half-out, too scared to leap.