by Ron Levitsky
“Why won’t anybody call the police?”
“They don’t want trouble. Whenever the police come, there is more trouble. You’ve seen for yourself. My sister died, someone called the police, and look what has happened. Now . . .”
“So the two events are connected.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Didn’t you?”
She stood close to him, her arm brushing against his sleeve. “Please, you are here at my sister’s wake. I ask you to honor the feelings of my people. Forget this has happened.”
Her face was close enough for Rosen to feel her breath against his cheek. He need only pull her close and . . .
He took a step back. “The Caucasian I saw earlier in your father’s shop—who is he?”
“I . . . I told you I don’t know. Forget it. You must excuse me—my parents are waiting.” She forced a smile. “So much sadness. We should think of more pleasant things. You did say you would call me. I would like that.” She turned and walked into the tailor shop, and everything seemed as it had been when Rosen and Collinsby had first crossed the street. He looked at his injured hand. Had there really been a bombing?
Walking down the street to the car, Rosen still smelled her perfume and felt his face grow warm. Even after three years of divorce, he wasn’t comfortable with other women. He wanted to see Nguyen Thi Trac again, not because of the case (what did he really care about Basehart), but because they were both alone, both wandering spirits. That was reason enough.
Reaching the car, he slid inside next to Collinsby and asked, “Did you hear anything?”
“No. Like what?”
Rosen stared at the other man, who looked back innocently. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
Collinsby drove slowly up a street that had covered its wounds. Nguyen Thi Nhi’s funeral procession appeared ready to begin; the coffin was being carried from the shop. Rosen looked at the opposite curb and noticed the other red Jaguar had gone, doubtless the white face with it. Concentrating, he saw the face clearly and the license plate number, so that the first thing he did after Collinsby dropped him off at the hotel was to call his home office and check on the car registration. While waiting for the return call, he bandaged his hand, lay back in bed with Sarah’s birthday card on his stomach, and fell asleep.
Chapter Six – WEDNESDAY
That same morning Lt. Canary left Jimmy Wilkes a message to meet him for lunch at Lois’s Cafe. No one in Wilkes’s office had heard of the diner except for a custodian, who sometimes helped his brother-in-law haul freight on the weekends and was able to give directions. On the highway near the ocean and not far from the Paddy, it was quite a distance to travel for lunch—Canary had left no further message, but Wilkes looked forward to getting away from the office. Although only a day had passed since his assignment to the case, everything was going better than expected. The murder weapon had been found, a suspect arrested, and even the defense counsel Lester Collinsby seemed ready to make a deal. Yet, Edison Basehart not only refused to confess but vehemently maintained his innocence. And Murray Saunders, the other Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney, hovered like a vulture around Wilkes, waiting for a mistake.
Sunlight had finally broken through the clouds, and rolling down his car window, Wilkes hoped the warm dry air would be good for his cold. He even drove the long way to take in more coastline and watch the fishing boats move lazily through glittering water, their reflections delicate as sketches on a china plate.
Lois’s Cafe stood just inside the highway where it bent like an elbow to move away from the ocean. A long driveway led into a spacious parking lot half-filled with trucks, pickups, and Canary’s brown Ford. Parking beside it, Wilkes leaned against his own hood, lifting his face toward the sun until he could feel it seeping into his skin. Maybe the weather would hold, and his family could go on a picnic next weekend. He dabbed his nose with a handkerchief then walked up the drive and into the restaurant.
Canary sat alone at a booth next to the window; in front of him was a bowl scraped clean of chili surrounded by a graveyard of cracker wrappers.
“Sit down,” he said, wiping a napkin across his face. “I was just having an appetizer until you got here.” He called to the waitress, “Two more bowls of chili over here, Inez! More coffee and crackers too!” To Wilkes, “This place is a dump, but they make the best chili in town. Got a real Mexican working in the kitchen.”
Wilkes sat across from the policeman and took a cup of coffee the waitress poured.
“Yeah,” Canary continued, “this place is famous for its chili and the scenery.” He patted the waitress’s bottom and laughed. “Ain’t that right, Inez?”
“Now, Lou, behave yourself. Remember, you’re on duty. Chili’s coming right up. Here’s some more saltines to keep you quiet.”
After she left, Wilkes demanded, “Why did you bring me all the way out here?”
Tearing open a package of crackers, Canary said, “Business, and you’re paying for lunch. After all, you big shots in the Commonwealth’s Attorney’s Office have those expense accounts for taking your secretaries to dinners and motels. I’m only a poor honest cop trying to make it with Inez now and then. Wanted to see you, because I got some news about the Basehart case.” The waitress set down the bowls of chili. “Easy on the Tabasco sauce, Jimmy. I told you, they got a real Mexican in there.”
Wilkes pushed his bowl aside. “I don’t have time for your games. What is it?”
“There’re two things. Did you know Basehart got himself that Northern lawyer?”
“I saw Mr. Rosen with Lester Collinsby yesterday at the courthouse. He was awfully quiet during Basehart’s interrogation. In fact, I got the impression that Lester was planning to plea bargain his client. Are you sure Rosen’s come on as co-counsel?”
The policeman nodded.
“How’d you find out about him so quickly?”
Canary paused to build a mound of chili on a cracker then, cranking open his mouth, swallowed it. “A good cop knows his town. That ambulance chaser and Cowpie went over to the Paddy this morning. I wouldn’t worry about it. What the hell they gonna find that we didn’t see first? Have to admit I’m disappointed in Basehart, hiring some out a’ town slick. That’s just not his style.”
“He has a right to retain anyone he wants for a proper defense.”
“Yes, your majesty, I appreciate you reminding me.” He blew his nose into a napkin. “Can’t shake this damn cold.”
“Is that why you had me drive all the way out here? You could’ve told me this over the phone.”
“Oh no, that was just a little piece of small town gossip which I figured you’d be far above. No, I asked you here to go shopping. That’s right. Take a look across the street.” He leaned back to light a cigarette.
Looking out the window and across the highway, Wilkes saw the large wooden sign, “Edison’s Bait and Tackle Shop,” and below that in smaller letters, “National Headquarters of the Guardians of an Undefiled Nation.” Set back a few yards from the road was the shop itself. It was not what Wilkes would have guessed from Basehart’s personal appearance, but a neat little house of green shingles and shuttered windows with flower boxes. In the driveway a brand new pickup gleamed in the sun, while on the front porch a hammock swung gently back and forth. Two men sat on the steps; the taller one was whittling while his companion sipped a beer. The whole scene looked like a Currier and Ives print.
“That’s Basehart’s shop?”
Canary blew his first smoke ring of the afternoon. “Bet you didn’t know our Edison was such a country gentleman.”
“To look at him, he’s just a . . . How can he live so well?”
“Probably sells a helluva lot of worms. You know about his worm farm? Last time we ran him in, he told me about it—the only experimental worm farm in the world. For years he’d been trying to crossbreed different kinds of night crawlers for better bait. That’s the kind of man we’re dealing with, but that’s not why you’r
e here. The man swinging in the hammock is Billy Lee Pelham, our wandering boy come home. My men have been sitting here since the murder, waiting for Billy Lee. He finally turned up a few hours ago.”
“Basehart’s alibi.”
Canary snickered. “Billy Lee’s so used to lying, he probably couldn’t tell you who his real mother is. He’s been in and out of jail as much as his fishing buddy. No, I wouldn’t worry too much about Billy Lee, counselor, but just the same, let’s take a walk over and find out where he’s been since the murder. Right after you finish that bowl of chili. Inez, how about bringing me more coffee and a nice slice of pecan pie!”
Ten minutes later Wilkes followed a belching Canary out the door. Crossing the highway they approached the front porch. The two men sitting on the stairs looked up nonchalantly, and the whittler said, “We got company, Billy Lee.”
“Customers?” asked the voice inside the hammock.
“Not likely. Besides, don’t think we have enough worms to feed this canary.”
The policeman smiled. “Hello, Billy Lee.” The hammock slowly came to a halt. “What you whittling, Rupert?” He took the piece of wood—a half-formed whistle—from the man’s hand, examined it carefully then, grabbing Rupert by the neck, stuffed it into his mouth. “You were saying something?”
Spitting out splinters and blood, Rupert dropped his knife and crawled away, the other man on the porch hurrying after. Canary took the knife and wood, walked up the steps, leaned against a post, and began whittling. Wilkes stayed below, resting a foot on the first step while watching the hammock grow still as a stone.
Finally a pudgy leg emerged over the side, followed by the other, feet yellow with dirt, then the rest of the body slunk from the hammock. Billy Lee Pelham was short and stocky, as if his limbs had been pushed together like pieces of clay. His face was unshaven, stubbled with several days’ growth. The flaps of Pelham’s overalls were unclasped so that they hung over his lap, revealing a hairy chest streaked with sweat. He blinked hard in the sunlight and smiled, his teeth as brown and mangled as Basehart’s.
“Well, well, well. If it ain’t my old friend, Lt. Canary.” His voice was high-pitched and singsong. “Been awhile, ain’t it. And how’re you today?”
“Just fine, Billy Lee.”
“Come lookin’ for some worms, have ya?”
“Let’s just say a snake.”
Pelham scowled for a moment, but the smile soon crept back upon his lips. “Who’s he?”
“Well, I’m shocked, Billy Lee, that a man as active in public affairs as yourself doesn’t know one of Musket Shoals’ leading citizens. This is Mr. Wilkes, Assistant Commonwealth’s Attorney in charge of electrocuting your fishing buddy.”
“Yeah?” Pelham looked Wilkes up and down. “What’s he doin’ here? What’s this all about?”
Canary resumed whittling the whistle. “Do I need to spell it out for you? Edison Basehart’s been yelling for the past day and a half that he was with you the night the Slant woman was murdered. You’re his alibi, Billy Lee. How about it?”
Scratching his head, Pelham did not answer.
“Well, boy?”
He pursed his lips and tossed up his hands. “Sure he was with me. I mean, guess he was.”
“What do you mean, you guess?”
“We was playin’ some cards the night you’re talkin’ ’bout, then I got tired ’n fell asleep. I woke up real early in the mornin’ to go fishin’.”
“How early?”
“It was still dark out. Maybe ’bout five a.m.”
“That’s why you weren’t there when we arrested Basehart at seven. Too bad for your friend.” Canary took a step closer. “What time did you fall asleep? That’s real important, Billy Lee, because if it was after midnight, Basehart can use you as an alibi—for all the good it’d do him. But if it was before twelve, and you were dead to the world until five in the morning, how’re you supposed to know what he did? See what I mean?”
“I know what you’re sayin’, ’n I been thinkin’ on it long ’n hard, Lieutenant. Lord knows it’s a heavy burden havin’ a man’s life hangin’ on exactly when your head touched the pillow.” He looked at the sky, contemplating a flock of passing seagulls.
Canary had almost finished the whistle and pointed the knife at Pelham. “I just had a big lunch. That always tires me out and makes me cranky if I’m put under any undue stress, which is what you’re putting me under right now. It’s a heads or tails question, either yes or no. Are you alibi-ing for Basehart or ain’t you?”
“Well, Lieutenant,” he said rubbing his jaw, “if you put it that way—so clear ’n all—guess I’d have to say no. I had a few beers—musta fell asleep ’bout eleven. I’ll be on the witness stand ’n have to put my hand on the Bible, swearin’ before the Lord. Not to mention perjury ’n goin’ to jail for lyin’. Look, Edison’s one a’ my dearest friends. We’re both officers in this fine organization to keep America pure. But, hell, my ass is on the line.”
“So that’s it.”
“The truth will be told. Anything else I can do for you all?”
Puffing on a cigarette, Canary blew a large smoke ring. “Yeah. Take off your clothes.”
“What?”
“You heard me, boy.”
“Shit . . . you’re jokin’ . . . ain’tcha?”
Canary shook his head. “When the Nguyen woman was killed, someone else was shot in the same room. Wasn’t Basehart.”
Pelham stared at the policeman for a long time, then his face brightened. “Oh, I get it.” Pulling down the flaps, he wiggled off his overalls and, wearing no underwear, stood naked as a bloated tick. Walking in a small circle to show his backside, he said, “See, no scars, no marks, not a damn thing—pure as the day I was born. All right to get dressed?”
“Yeah, before I lose my lunch.”
As Pelham pulled up his overalls and grinned, Wilkes remembered Basehart’s bravado and smile quickly melting into a desperate fear, so alone. “Ask Billy Lee!” the accused had cried. Something was wrong. Wilkes would have been the last person in the world to condone perjury, but any human being, even a creature such as Basehart, deserved some loyalty, if it was only a hesitation before throwing him to the wolves. Yet, Pelham couldn’t wait to betray his friend. “Ask Billy Lee!” Now they had.
Wilkes took a step up the stairs. “Where have you been the past two days?”
“This is a free country,” Pelham said, sitting back in the hammock. “Ain’t nobody’s business where I been.”
Canary flicked the whittling knife so that it stuck in the floor a shade below Pelham’s left foot. “The man asked you a simple question. How about a simple answer?”
Pelham shifted his feet. “Sure. Ain’t nobody got more respect for the law than me.” He paused momentarily, half-closing his eyes deep in thought. “Like I said . . . from Sunday night to Monday about five in the mornin’, I was with Edison. Then I went fishin’. Didn’t have me no luck, so I left off fishin’ couple hours later, got in my pickup ’n drove out to Morgan’s Creek to do a little squirrel shootin’. Camped out there last night—slept in the back of the pickup. This mornin’ I got up early to shoot ducks ’n caught a chill. I crawled back in the truck ’n slept it off. Just got back a little while ago. I feel a whole lot better, in case you’re interested.” He had spoken slowly and carefully, as if trying to repeat something from memory. Having finished he relaxed, even started the hammock rocking again.
“Anybody see you?”
“Don’t think so. You know how bad Morgan’s Creek can get, especially after a big rain. Not too many folks get out there this time a’ year.”
Wilkes asked, “Why didn’t you come forward after Basehart was arrested?”
“Radio’s broke in the pickup. Just heard about Edison’s misfortune from Rupert not but an hour ago. Anyways, what the hell can I do? Ain’t really none a’ my affair.”
Furrowing his brow Canary stared at Pelham, who looked down at the floor an
d stopped rocking. The detective blew his nose, stepped down from the porch and walked to the pickup in the driveway, Pelham hurrying after. Canary carefully inspected the vehicle, bending to examine each of the wheels, the mud-flaps, and bumpers. Opening the car door and leaning inside, he brought out a rifle.
“This what you went hunting with?”
Pelham nodded.
“Looks mighty clean.”
“I cleaned it,” Pelham answered almost before Canary finished.
“The truck too? I do know what Morgan’s Creek is like. With all the rain we’ve been having, that road going in there must be full of mud, let alone all those side trails. Your tires should’ve been swimming in mud up to the axle. This truck is mighty clean, Billy Lee.”
“Like you said, Lieutenant, I cleaned it. Cleaned it real good at one a’ them new quickie car washes. After all, it’s my prize possession. Just ask any a’ the boys.”
Returning the rifle to the truck, Canary walked back to the porch. This time Pelham followed like a whipped dog, knowing he had to come but not wanting to get too close.
“Well, that’s something, that sure is something,” the policeman said to Wilkes while lighting another cigarette. “Here’s poor Billy Lee, so sick he has to crawl into his truck to get some rest. Crawl, mind you. Then he feels so much better, first thing he does when he gets back home is to clean his gun and wash his truck. My, he’s a tidy one. Look at him, Jimmy, don’t he strike you as a tidy one?”
Running a hand through his greasy hair, Pelham said, “T-Told you, I’m feelin’ better now. What’s all the fuss ’bout anyway with me bein’ up at Morgan’s Creek? I told you what you wanted to know—that I can’t be sure Edison was with me. That’s the truth and ain’t no one can make me say any different.” He looked anxiously from Canary to Wilkes.
“Leaving all that be for now,” the policeman said, “you got any idea why Basehart’s gun was found outside the dead woman’s apartment?”
Pelham shook his head.
“You got a gun.”
