by J. A. Kerley
Rose lay on the couch and stared at the monitor on the coffee table. His eyes were red and his fingertips quivered. Jacy’s words echoed in his head.
“Why did you burn that girl up in the fire? … People aren’t supposed to do that. They’re supposed to save people …”
Rose pressed his hands over his ears but Jacy kept talking.
“People save people … save people … save people …”
Rose shut off the monitor.
“SAVE ME, ROSIE!” screamed a voice in his head. “SAVE ME, ROSIE!
Rose shut his eyes. It never helped.
“Save me, Rosie … Save me Rosie … SavemeRosie …”
Fourteen years ago at the farm: Rose’s mother screaming as the attendants took her on the final ride to the hospital, five strong men in white, one at each limb, another trying to control her head, spitting, biting, cursing. Hang on to her legs, dammit … Somebody get the goddamn restraints … Rose’s mama howling, pissing, grunting. Goddamn, get ‘em buckled … The door on the white ambulance opening like a square mouth as they tried to feed his mama into it, bucking, kicking, writhing.
“SavemeRosieSavemeRosieSaveme …”
Then … the white ambulance retreats down the lane from the farmhouse and disappears in a cloud of red dust. The dust floats in the hot air. Somewhere far out on the highway the ambulance changes its mind and returns through still-unsettled dust.
Like magic. Like a dream.
But it’s no longer an ambulance, it’s a station wagon, black, pitted with rust and low over leaking shocks and busted springs. The white-dressed men have become chunky, straw-haired Aunt Junella and tall, thin Uncle Toll. He’s wearing Big Ben overalls, knees bagged, cuffs rolled high over mud-stained boots. Aunt Junella’s in a tight yellow dress opened up so you can see most of her nay-nays. She squat-kneels in the dusty gravel, her eyes as black as oiled coal, and touches a finger to Rose’s mouth.
“My, you’re a pretty little fellow, Rosie. Ain’t he pretty, Toll? Pretty as a dolly with a dolly’s pretty lips … That older brother of yours around, Rosie? You boys be coming with us for now …”
Rose lay motionless for an hour, until the voices in his head subsided to a misty background hiss. He tried pumping iron to relax, but felt drained. He fell on to the couch. After twice picking up the camera switch and tossing it back on the floor, he finally flicked the camera on. Jacy was awake and sitting on the bed, staring into the air. She seemed so sad. Mama was sad like that. One time she sat in the same chair for a whole bunch of days and nights, not talking, just looking at the wall like it was a television. She made water in the chair. Pretty soon after that Mama went away and Uncle Toll and Aunt Junella were there.
They taught him Playtime.
Truman wasn’t invited to Playtime; he was three years older and hair was starting under his arms and around his thing. Aunt Junella said it made Truman too old to play. It was just the three of them.
Rose looked at Jacy and wished she would smile. More than anything he needed to see her smile.
When Ryder rushed into the hospital room at eight a.m., Sandhill was sitting up and reading the Mobile Register. He looked pale, but his eyes were alert.
Ryder said, “Ten minutes ago I got a call from a Karen Pell, head Fradulent Claims investigator for Gibraltar Insurance. Guess what?”
Sandhill closed the paper and set it aside, wincing when he moved too fast.
“She ID’d the fall artist.”
Ryder flipped a thumbs-up. “James T. James, known in the insurance biz as Gentleman Jimmy-Jim. Seems Mr James used to make his living getting hit by cars, slipping on wet floors in supermarkets and falling in icy parking lots. Gibraltar settled three claims with James—under different names—before they caught on.”
“What’s with the ‘Gentleman’ moniker?”
“He was very polite, unctuous. He’d drag himself up from being thumped halfway across the street—seemingly—and start apologizing to everyone. By the time he finished his act the driver and witnesses would be on his side.”
Sandhill nodded. “Made it easy to file big against the carrier. Age?”
“Sixty-two.”
Sandhill raised his eyebrows. “Old for a leaper. But not as old as he looks.”
“Tough life, maybe. Pell hadn’t heard of him pulling anything for a few years, thinks something must have drawn James out of retirement.”
Sandhill nodded slowly. “A good payday, perhaps.”
“Pell said it wouldn’t be a lawsuit against the city, James being too well known in the insurance industry to pull it off. I got the impression he’s sort of a legend.”
“I doubt Jimmy-Jim took this recent tumble just to polish his craft. Wonder what the scam was. Or is.”
Ryder said, “And who’s paying for the performance.”
“You got an address on this moke?”
“He moves around. But when he feels like hanging out he stays with a sister in Montgomery. I have her address and number.”
“Why the smile, Ryder? You got a canary in there?”
Ryder tapped the cellphone at his waist. “I called James’s sister twice today. A woman answered at seven-fifteen. But at seven-forty a male voice answered. It was James. Couldn’t mistake that voice.”
“He suspicious of the calls?”
“I was a wrong number when I got Sis, a siding company when I got James. Gentleman Jimmy-Jim isn’t real polite to telemarketers.”
“No one should be. Good work, Ryder. There gas in your tank?”
“Why?”
“You’ve got to get to Montgomery, find out what Jimbo was jumping for. You have to get him alone and discuss events. Any way possible, you get my drift.”
“He’s seen my face from six inches away, Sandhill. Remember? I won’t be able to get close.”
Sandhill picked up the paper and snapped it open. “You have to do it, Ryder. Improvise. Get creative, for chrissakes.”
He began reading as if Ryder were already gone.
The neighborhood was middle class with tree-lined streets and small trim yards abloom with bougainvillea and myrtle and azaleas. Ryder was parked beside a canebrake a half-block distant from the address, watching an elderly black woman in a pink dress water the front yard of the house where James had answered the phone three hours ago. She was soaking the crape myrtles, seemingly obsessed that some tiny area of root system might escape wetting. He’d been watching the woman water for twenty minutes and was surprised the yard hadn’t turned into a swamp.
He hadn’t known his ruse until two blocks away, when he’d stopped into the Food World for a bottle of juice and noted a contest they were running. But his plan was contingent on the sister being at work, and she was obviously retired, in her seventies. It was steaming in his car and he was desperate for an idea, anything to get him into the house.
Then, luck: the woman stopped drowning her yard, coiled the hose and disappeared into the house. She returned three minutes later and stood beside the white Lincoln town car in the drive, scrabbling through a huge floral purse. His heart beating out leave now, leave now, leave now, Ryder watched her climb into the Lincoln and back carefully from the driveway of the single-story ranch house, heading his direction at the pace of an arthritic tortoise. Her rear bumper exhorted followers to Praise Jesus.
He waited two minutes after she’d passed—eyes straight ahead, hands on the wheel at ten and two—before pulling into the driveway. He walked a flagstone path to a multi-paned front door with lace curtains. The doorbell tolled three somber notes. After a long minute a finger slipped aside the curtain and a cautious male eye stared out.
“What you want?”
Ryder’s sunglasses were outsize wraparounds he’d bought at Food World. He’d also bought a cheap white ball cap. Angled down, the cap and the shades hid the upper part of his face. The bottom half he was disguising with sourball candies.
The candy ruse he’d learned from Harry Nautilus: actions are better d
isguises than garb. The one time James had seen Ryder, on the stoop outside Nike’s apartment, he was in slacks and dark sport coat, his fresh-shaven jaw clenched tight with fear and resolve. Now it was dark with a two-day beard, loose and floppy as he rolled hard candies across his tongue, clicking them against his teeth.
He’d removed his suit coat and tie and wore a goofy grin above stooped shoulders. The front of his white shirt had been puffed out to resemble a nascent beer belly. He held up a white envelope found in his glove box and spoke in a high drawl poised at the edge of cartoonish, sucking candy as he spoke.
“Aft’noon, suh. Is Miz Arnett in?”
“She out. What you want with her?”
“I’m Harold Carson, suh. Assistant day man’ger down’t the Food World. Miz Arnett’s this month’s granprize winnuh.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“She put her name on a entry form for the box. Won a five-hunnut-dollar shoppin’ spree. Anything she wants. I got her citif’cate right here.”
Some of the wariness in the eye was replaced with interest. “Beer and wine too?”
“Anythin’ up to five hunnut dollars.”
The latch clicked and a hand snaked out. “I’m her brother, I’ll see she gets it.”
“I’m s’posed give the citif’cate to the winnuh.”
The fingers wiggled. “I said I’ll see she gets it. She ain’t coming back for hours.”
Ryder let out a loud breath and clicked the candies across his teeth, having a tough time making a decision.
“Tell you what, suh, how about you sign for it? Maybe show a drivin’ license or something. That’ll take me off the hook with my boss.”
“Yeah, shit, I can do that. Come in while I hunt it down.”
The door opened and Ryder stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. It was an old woman’s home: Nick-nacks and photos covering every horizontal surface, doilies under lamps, a plaster cast of Dürer’s Praying Hands on an end table, psalms and inspirational phrases crocheted into throw pillows on the overstuffed couch. There was a scent of liniment in the cool air.
James said, “You wait here while I go and—”
Ryder blew the candies into James’s face like small sugar torpedoes.
“What the hell—” James sputtered as Ryder threw an arm over the man’s silk shirtfront, jammed a leg behind him, and flipped him face-up on the couch. He straddled the man, and pushed his head into the couch cushions with a throw pillow embroidered with the Twenty-third psalm.
“I want to talk about a stunt you pulled in Mobile.”
He lifted the pillow. James’s eyes were wide with surprise and anger. “What you talking about, I ain’t been to Mobile in years.”
Ryder stripped off the cap and shades. Gentleman Jimmy-Jim looked into Ryder’s face. Whispered, “Oh shit.”
Ryder pushed the pillow over James’s face again, harder. Put his mouth beside the man’s ear.
“Mr James, I have no time to play games. I’m looking for two kidnapped girls and I think you have something to do with it.”
Ryder pulled the pillow away, the anger and confusion in the man’s eyes replaced with fear. “Them stolen girls? I had nothing to do with that. That’s sick shit, man. I don’t know nothing about them girls.”
“Tell me about Mobile. Why’d you do it? Who paid you?” Ryder hovered the pillow over James’s face.
“I don’t know. That’s the truth, man. I got a phone call a few days before my … act. Said if I could come outta retirement and do a bit I’d come out five grand ahead plus expenses. I held out for eight. Plus expenses.”
“What was the bit?”
“Man on the phone said I had to make you guys—the cops—look bad, like police brutality. Didn’t care how I did it long’s there was a crowd and TV cameras. Piece of cake, man, that little stoop and that fat ol’ mama to drop on.”
“Fake blood, too.”
“Blood bags under my tongue. One bite and I’m gushing. Looks ugly as hell. But I didn’t have nothing to do with no little girls.”
“Who hired you?”
“I was only close to him twice, for the down payment and the final payoff. And I didn’t see him; it was night.”
Ryder tossed the pillow to the floor and stood slowly, tacitly signaling belief in the story. If James continued to be truthful, Ryder would allow him the dignity of speaking without coercion.
“Tell me about meeting the bag man.”
James narrowed a suspicious eye. “What gonna happen to me?”
“Depends on how I like what I hear.”
“Man paid me from a car. Like I said, it was dark and I didn’t barely see him. He pull up, flip me an envelope, I counted and got gone. Same the night after the action.”
“You just fall off the turnip truck, James? You got some kind of read on the guy, didn’t you? He white or black, young or old, ignorant or educated?”
James sighed, looked at the ceiling. “White guy. Kind of a round face. Over forty, but prob’ly not fifty. Not no high-falutin’ professor kind of talk, but not ignorant. Asked if there was anything special I needed. Told me I might have to sit in Mobile a few days, wait out the right time.”
“But you got lucky.”
“Got me a call saying there was this preacher going over to stir things up at some apartment—and the timing might be right, y’know?”
“Tell me more about the pay. Man give you a number to call him at?”
“No number. But he knew about me. Said my age was pretty good, but it be better if I looked older. So I talcumed my hair to give it more age. Bent over some and walked creaky, talked older, put a little Tom in it. I can do that stuff.”
“You fooled me. What else?”
“I told the guy I couldn’t do anything that brought in a lawsuit cuz I was on the hot list at all the big insurance carriers. He said it wasn’t anything like that. I had to come to town, wait for the moment, stick it to the cops, and haul ass. I wasn’t supposed to hang around and let the police start in with questions.”
“What kind of car the guy drive?”
“Kinda big, long. Square, not that air-ee-odynamic kind of thing. Dark, like black but maybe dark blue or purple or something. Nothing fancy like a Benz.”
“What else?”
The man looked down and to the right, body language for lying.
“Nothing.”
Ryder bent and picked up the pillow. James held up his hands and began backstepping. “You a cop. I can’t tell no cop ’bout what I think.”
“Here’s how it is, Jimmy-Jim. I represent no police agency at the moment. Right now I want you to think of me as a concerned citizen.” Ryder squeezed the pillow for emphasis.
“OK, Mister Concerned Citizen. It felt like the guy had some kind of in with the system, like the cops or something. Least that’s what I figured.”
“Why?”
“Way he talk. Like he knew how many cops might show up at the scene, the way they be acting when they hit the ground. Said I could take some of my cues from the Rev, y’know; said the preacherman love to hear hisself talk and I could maybe use his noise to play off.”
“You get the feeling this preacher was clued to the action?”
James shrugged. “Can’t say yes, can’t say no.”
Ryder turned toward the door. He paused and pulled out a business card, flipped it to James. “You come up with anything else, or hear from this guy, call this number. It’ll be worth your while.”
James studied the card, confusion in his eyes. “The Gumbo King? I’m supposed to call a muthafuckin’ restaurant? Hey, come back here, man. What is this craziness?”
Chapter 38
Jacy Charlane sat cross-legged on the cot with a book on her lap. There were books beside her on the bed, books on the floor. The Minute Hour had brought the books. He hadn’t said a word, just set the books down near the steps that came from the World, then scampered up the ladder again.
Some of the
books were baby books, picture books. But some were cool, with stories she could read. She didn’t know why the Minute Hour had brought the books, but was happy he had. When she read the books it was like she wasn’t there.
Sandhill floated blissfully in a cloudbank. It felt like a waterbed filled with warm custard; he wanted to lay in the clouds for ever.
“Mr Sandhill?”
Though he was in the clouds, the voice seemed to come from above. Sandhill reluctantly felt himself lift through the white layers. He fought to open his eyes. An angel was calling him, that’s what it was. He sighted the angel between his feet, about a quarter-mile away, framed against a square of white as if guarding the portal to heaven.
The angel was psychically beaming him a recording of a conversation they’d had several years ago. “It’s Tylenol with codeine, Mr Sandhill. It’ll make your side feel better. What’s with the hat?”
“It not a hat, Nurse Ratched, it a crown. I am the Kumbo Ging.”
A load roar and the angel zoomed up to within feet. The roar trailed off to little more than a tingling in his temples.
“Mr Sandhill. Hello?”
It wasn’t an angel; it was a woman. She was leaning against the credenza and backlit by the window. Each time she spoke she was louder.
“Mr Sandhill, I don’t have much time.”
He opened his eyes fully. “I hear you quite well, Mayor. You don’t have to shout.” The words came out slow and thick. Norma Philips moved closer and looked into his eyes dubiously.
“Are you tracking in there?”
He pointed at the table a few feet from his bed.
“Water.”
Sandhill fumbled for the bed control and raised himself to sitting position. Philips handed him the pitcher. He drank all the water, then rubbed ice over his face. The wall clock showed that he’d drifted off for three hours. Ryder would be back soon.
Philips gave Sandhill an arched eyebrow as water and ice splashed down the front of his gown. “Are you alright, Mr Sandhill? You sure you’re coherent?”
“This is Oslo, 1956, right?”
