Friend of the Devil

by James D F Hannah

  He had his own pack ready, handing them to her. She took one and lit it. He motioned the pack toward me, and I slipped one free and set flame to it.

  “What happened to Jay?” I said.

  Woody’s eyes stayed on Sheila, but something in his body language shifted toward me. He kept his attention to the back of Sheila’s head. She stared out the window, watching the sparse traffic roll by.

  “He’s dead,” Sheila said from a million miles away. “That’s the only thing that matters, is that he’s gone.”

  I took a long drag on the cigarette. History with Woody and Sheila was tied to a dead husband, and Woody felt indebted to her, and he would keep on paying that debt well past the point the balance sheet was even.

  She turned and offered a wan little smile. “It’ll all be on the news tonight, but everyone knows already. That cycle’s already starting. The small-town news cycle. First, the news gets passed around, person to person, and people can’t wait to find someone new to tell. Then once everyone knows, people call you to find out if it’s true. Lunch time, my phone was ringing off the fucking hook. The next step will be the judgment. People’ll decide whether Dave did it. Most folks, they’ll say he did, and that’ll kind of be the end of that. People want to think whatever the worst is because then it makes them feel better about themselves. Hard to hate your own situation when someone else has it worse off than you do. After that, the phone won’t ring as much, if at all. My world will be so goddamn quiet, you’ll be able to hear a mouse piss on a cotton ball. Everyone’ll act like I’ve got the plague. ‘Can’t get around Sheila; she’s got the “her husband’s a murderer,” and it might be contagious.’ Long enough time passes, I’ll seem safe to everyone, and then that’s when the pity’ll start.” She pushed away some tears with her hands and pulled air into her lungs in a choking, stuttering manner. “That’s the worst part, people feeling sorry for you. I had that once already, and I swore I’d never put up with that bullshit again.”

  It was like the words had sucked all the air from the room, and we stood there and let the silence hang over us. We all smoked and listened to our own heartbeats. Woody walked over to Sheila and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t respond, just drew more nicotine into her lungs and kept her eyes on the kitchen window.

  Because that’s the kind of asshole I am, I said, “Do you think he did it?”

  She twisted around in the chair. “Excuse me?”

  “Did Dave kill him?”

  I could see the expression on Woody’s face. That look, I’d seen on Woody’s face before, and the guys who got it, they limped for a long time afterward.

  After what seemed like a few days, she said, “I don’t know.” She crushed the cigarette out in the ashtray. “I don’t know.”

  11

  I helped myself to more coffee. “We need to figure out the timeline for yesterday. We know Dave went to get his van, and it was gone, so instead of filing a police report, he jumped on a four-wheeler and rode off to his hunting cabin.” I scratched along the side of my face. “Everything about that sounds terrible for our team, but great for the people wanting to put Dave in prison.”

  “Dave was pissy all morning,” Sheila said. “He was in a shitty mood from the point you boys dropped him off here. When he gets in those moods, it’s best to give him space, so Jonah and I went to church, and then we got lunch after.”

  “Dave the violent type? Ever hit you? Jonah?”

  She laughed and slung her head around and whipped her hair around as if it were an independent creature from her. “Honey, if Dave ever laid a finger on me, I’d change him from a rooster to a hen in a blink. Same goes for messing with Jonah. No one touches my boy. But no, he’s never hit me. He’s got his demons, same way we all do, but the worst he and I have ever done is yell and break a dish. He’s not the type to get drunk and start a fight.”

  “He seemed willing to Saturday night.”

  “That was different. There’s shit between him and the Saints. Back to your question: Dave was gone when Jonah and I got home. He got on the four-wheeler and rode over and he called me and told me the van wasn’t back at the Dew Drop, and he wanted to be alone for a while.”

  “That normal for him to take off that way?”

  “It is. Sometimes he needs that space. He roars off through the hillside and he needs that space to swing his dick around.”

  “When did he come home?”

  Sheila lit a fresh cigarette. “He didn’t.”

  “So he never came home all night?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t show until this morning, about the time the sheriff and the state police came calling.”

  “You’ll excuse me for saying your husband is seven forms of fucked. He has no alibi, there’s a videotape of his van at the crime scene, and he tried to start a fight with the victim the night before the murder.”

  She blew out a cloud of smoke that could have enveloped Hiroshima. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Call Jimmy Omaha a ‘victim.’ He was many fucking things, but a victim, he never was. All the Saints, they’re thugs, and they’re scum.”

  “You had no problem hanging with them and marrying one.”

  “I married someone who got out before it turned him. Dave’s a good man. He’s always been there for me and for Jonah, and I’m going to be there for him.”

  Woody said, “Sheila said Dave’s HVAC place, there’s been issues, and we should talk to the guys there.”

  I poured myself another cup of coffee. “What kind of issues?”

  Sheila sipped her coffee. “I dropped a few weeks back, and there were motorcycles outside, and inside it was Mickey Nevada, Teddy Oklahoma, and one guy I didn’t recognize, and they were talking to Dave, but Dave was all pissed-off looking, and the Saints, they had asshole smiles on their face.”

  “Did they say anything to you, or keep talking to Dave?”

  “They shut their shit down tighter than a preacher’s daughter when they saw me, Mickey telling Dave they’d talk later, how he didn’t want to take time away from a man and his wife. When they walked out, Mickey was all smiles and said, ‘You have yourself a good one, Mrs. Miller.’” She hit her cigarette for a lungful of smoke. “I should have punched him in the cunt.”

  “Colorful. Anyone else there at the shop?”

  “The guys who work with Dave. Frog, Toad, and Big Country.”

  “Those are their names?”

  “I don’t think that’s what their mothers put on their birth certificates, but that’s what everyone calls them. You ask around for ‘Roger’ or ‘Pete,’ you get a lot of options, whereas when you say you need to talk to ‘Toad’ or ‘Big Country,’ that narrows it down.”

  “Could one of them have the van from the Dew Drop?”

  “Maybe, but then that means one of them shot Mickey, and you gotta meet these guys to understand they ain’t killers. A guy named ‘Big Country,’ you won’t get philosophy and politics, but they’re all good guys. Thing is, since they never met you, I’m not sure how chatty they’ll be.”

  “We’ll invite them out to brunch and give them mimosas. I’m sure they’ll blather away then.”

  “After you tell ’em what the hell a mimosa is.”

  A Dodge king-cab pickup pulled up beside me in the driveway and the driver’s side door swung open and a pair of feet appeared. They swung around and lowered down onto the step on the truck and hopped onto the ground. The door closed to reveal a little woman who looked like she might have been five feet if you spotted her a few inches, and ninety pounds soaking wet, with most of that in hair poofed up on top of her head. She was pale as buttermilk, dressed in black leggings and a long blousy thing that looked like someone had vomited crayons onto a Pollack painting. The closer she got, the older I could tell she was, at least somewhere in her seventies, with silver eye shadow and drawn-on eyebrows that would have shamed Joan Crawford. She clutched a purse large enough to carry a slightly smaller versi
on of herself.

  She saw Woody and me standing there and stopped and contorted her face into a snarl.

  “Mr. Arbogast,” she said.

  Woody smiled. “How are you doing, Iris?”

  She smiled back without even a hint of happiness. “I’m wonderful, asshole. How the fuck do you think I am?”

  “A breath of sunshine, as always.”

  “Who the hell asked you to be here?”

  “I’m here to help Dave, that’s all.”

  “Wonderful. That works out so goddamn well when you decide to ‘help.’” She looked over at me. “You his friend?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “My condolences. You want a nickel’s worth of free advice? Get away from this asshole as fast as you can. All he’ll do is get you killed, and I sure as hell hope you’ve got someone who’ll bury your ass.”

  She brushed past us, smacking Woody with her purse as she did, and charged up the steps to the back door. Sheila opened it and smiled when she saw her and started to cry. The woman hugged her and closed the door behind them.

  To Woody, I said, “President of your fan club?”

  “Card-holding charter member.”

  “You gonna tell me what that’s about?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Every story with you is ‘eventually.’”

  “Yes it is.”

  Which didn’t mean he would be telling it to me soon.

  12

  Molly Hatchet blasted from overhead speakers as I walked into Dave’s Heating and Cooling. The building had been an old storefront, with the area stripped out and turned into a waiting area. The ripped vinyl chairs looked leftover from a TB ward, and the magazines were all trade publications from the heating and cooling industry not intended to be a way for customers to while away their time. There was a curtained doorway behind the counter. The door alert rang, and the curtain parted and there was nothing until I heard footsteps behind the counter and a head, followed by the shoulders, and then the rest of a man’s body rose like the most awkward sunrise ever.

  He would have needed to have craned his neck to look up at the little old lady who’d blasted Woody with obscenities fifteen minutes earlier—that’s how short he was. He carried it with a full-on Duck Dynasty beard and shaggy brown hair and a bulldog’s face stretched across a human’s skull, His blue dress shirt had “Elroy” stitched into the chest.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “Sheila sent me over. I—”

  He held small hands up in the air. “I know all about what’s going on with Dave, but we’re trying to wrap up the jobs we got. If you’re one of ’em, I gotta ask that you give us a chance to finish it up. Me and the guys, we’re committed to keeping things running while Dave works out whatever the hell it is he’s got going on.”

  “A first-degree murder rap is what he’s got going on, and that’s why I need to talk to you.”

  His eyebrows were heavy and thick and when he knitted them together, they became almost one uninterrupted line across his brow. “You said Sheila sent you?”

  “I did.” I filled him in on the pertinent details, such as who I was, and what I wanted.

  Elroy excused himself and descended his stairs and disappeared through the curtain into the back room. Through the dirty front windows, I saw a pickup pull up outside and two men get out. They both wore work shirts for Dave’s HVAC company, and they looked like a comedy duo from the 1950s. One was built like a gorilla, tall and big boned, with rope-like arms that hung low and were not meant for human clothes. The other guy was just as tall, and he was so thin he would have been invisible sideways. His red hair retreated backward, and he had a mustache and goatee, but none of the hair necessary to connect the two.

  From a vantage point on the sidewalk, they stared through the window into the shop. I smiled and waved like they were taking my picture on a roller coaster.

  Elroy came out of the back room and walked up beside me. “You check out,” he said.

  “Good to hear.”

  “Though Iris Hatfield said something in the background that if you were anything to do with some bastard named Arbogast, I should punch you in the nuts and throw you out.”

  “Want me to get you a ladder for that?”

  He smiled. “Nice. Addressing the elephant in the room, shit like that.”

  “Right.” I pointed out the window at the two men. They were still talking to one another, not paying us any attention. “Ozzie and Harriet plan on coming inside, or they going to clutter up the sidewalk?”

  “It could take a minute or two with them. You can work those morons harder than rented mules, but I wouldn’t ask either one of ’em to look at the sky during a rainstorm.”

  “On account they’d drown?”

  “On account they’d drown, yes.”

  I shook his hand. “Good to meet you, Elroy. Out of curiosity, which one are you: Frog or Toad?”

  “Neither one.” He gestured to the two guys. “The big guy, that’s Frog, and the skinny redhead, he’s Toad.”

  “Which must make you Big Country.”

  “If it must.”

  “I wouldn’t have suspected Raineyville to be the place to go for irony.”

  “Are you saying my stature wouldn’t traditionally let me be called ‘Big Country’?”

  “Depends. Are you going to punch me in the balls?”

  “Don’t feel like going in back to get the ladder, so you’re safe.”

  “Then yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “What’s even better is if I tell you I’ve only got one leg.”

  “Artificial leg?”

  “Nah. I keep my limp dick tucked into the sock.” He walked to the door and stuck his head out. “You geniuses want to get in here before people think you’re both homeless?”

  Once they were both in, I noticed the skinny one—Toad—had something circular shoved into his throat. It was one of those synthesized electronic voice boxes, the kind you got after throat cancer surgery and your larynx is removed, so you can still talk but you sounded like the computer voice from a shitty science fiction movie. It was creepier than a windowless van at a playground, and I was already making plans to never need to speak to Toad.

  Big Country flipped the sign on the door to “Closed” and we went in back to talk. It was a makeshift combination office and storage area, with parts scattered everywhere: lengths of ductwork, motors, and fans. An ancient computer and a yellowed VDT monitor were against the wall. Photos of half-naked women holding wrenches and power drills, their bodies glistening with fake sweat and dirt smudged underneath their eyes, were taped to the walls.

  Big Country filled a coffee cup that would have been oversized in my hands, and was plain ridiculous looking in his, and asked if I wanted any. I said no, and he sat behind the desk, putting his feet up. He wore kids’ sneakers with Velcro straps.

  Frog and Toad pulled up chairs and sat behind Big Country. No one offered me a seat. Oh well.

  Toad said, “Who the hell are you?” The voice was as bad as I imagined it would be. At any moment I expected him to cry out, “Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!”

  “I’m working for Dave’s attorney, investigating the murder of Jimmy Omaha,” I said.

  “You a private eye?” Toad said. “Like in the movies?”

  “Just like in the movies.”

  “Gonna smack people around if they don’t talk?”

  “Might do that for fun. Depends on my mood.” I said this crap because what people expect is for you to be a tough guy, and I hate to disappoint a crowd; I prefer to disappoint on a one-on-one basis.

  Big Country swallowed a gulp of coffee. “You can stomp on the Saints all day long, if you’d like.”

  “Not a fan?” I said.

  “They’re assholes.”

  “Sheila said Dave had words with them last week.”

  Big Country set his vat of coffee aside. “Jimmy Omaha brought his goons in and let us know the co
st of doing business in Raineyville was going up.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “He meant he was raising our rent.”

  “The Saints own this building?”

  “Hell no. They call it ‘rent,’ but back in the day folks used to just say it was ‘protection money.’ But since the Saints are the only game in town, there’s not anything they can protect us from but themselves.”

  “Who’s paying rent to the Saints in town?”

  “Anyone with an ‘Open’ sign in their front door,” Toad said.

  “Sheriff Gibbs know about this?”

  Toad laughed. It was a noise like a stalled car engine wrapped in aluminum foil. “He knows. Everyone knows.”

  “How long this been going on?”

  Big Country shrugged. “Long as anyone knows. However long the Saints have been around.”

  “And folks are okay with that?”

  “Not much of a choice. Anyone has a problem with it got a bigger problem with the Saints.”

  “Dave was bucking up to them.”

  “Small town, business isn’t what it used to be, and I know Dave has a hard time making payroll and every other bill each month. Not that the Saints care about anything like that. What they’re concerned about is getting their money, and I’ll tell you now the cost of business with them always goes up, no matter how much we are or aren’t making.”

  “So why’s Gibbs not done anything about it? Or the state police?”

  “Because no one wants to be Larry Bailey again,” Toad said.

  Frog made a low, groaning noise that sounded like the rumble of a distant thunderstorm. Big Country laughed. I gestured toward Frog.

  “He ever talk?” I said.

  “Not unless he’s got something to say, and he never seems to have much to say, so no,” Big Country said.

  “Sounds like he had thoughts on Larry Bailey.”

  “Larry bought into an auto parts store, one of those chain places. It was after one of the owners died, and the other owners needed an influx of cash. The Saints had got their money out of the store for years, and they figured nothing was changing with Larry. Larry, though, he had gone up to Morgantown, gotten himself a degree in business, and he thought he knew how to handle things, so when the Saints came by expecting to get paid, he said no. They let him slide that first time, and they even let him slide the second time, figuring he’d catch on, but the problem was, people got wind that Larry wasn’t paying, so they told the Saints they didn’t want to pay anymore. This just could not abide, obviously.”