Prime Suspect

by A. W. Gray

  A portly woman in white cotton slacks and a sleeveless blouse stood behind the teenagers. She’d been raised up on tiptoes to watch the action and now sank down on her heels and yanked on her husband’s arm. “That’s disgusting,” she said. Her forehead was perspiring, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.

  Her husband, a tall man with a wide rear end, wearing Bermuda shorts, was watching three girls. The girls, all in their late teens or early twenties, wore snug shorts and bare-midriff halters, and sported healthy tans. They were ohing and ahing over Greg Norman. The husband said to his wife, “Huh?” He had thick knees and hairy legs which were turning pink in the sun.

  “That’s disgusting,” she repeated. “His wife just murdered and it all over the news like that, the day before her funeral he’s out playing golf. If you ever pulled anything like that I’d climb out of the grave and do you in.” She fiddled with her pasteboard grounds pass, which hung by a string from a button on her blouse.

  The husband directed his gaze toward Percy Hardin. Hardin bent his head to say something to Greg Norman, and the two men laughed like old buddies. “I’ll you what, hon,” the husband said. “Just don’t you die anytime I got a chance to play with Greg Norman. Then we won’t have to worry about it, okay?”

  Around nine-thirty that evening, the band at the Colonial pro-am party yielded to pressure from the older folks and agreed to play a slow one. As the opening bars to “Twilight Time” filtered through the room, hip young women in mod slacks and designer jeans led tanned up-and-coming stockbrokers and insurance agents in knit Ralph Lauren and Vito Domici golf shirts from the dance floor and formed a line at the portable bar. Behind the bar, red-jacketed blacks and Hispanics mixed highballs, whipped drinks to a froth in twelve-speed blenders, and shook specially ordered cocktails in chrome interlocking cups. As the younger folks gave way, statuesque graying women with two-hundred-dollar hairdos led balding, paunchier men onto the floor, where the couples embraced and did hesitant box-steps together.

  Near the center of the floor, Luwanda Monroe danced with her just-widowed son-in-law. “We should go home after this,” she said. “I’m getting enough dirty looks as it is.” She wore a navy slack-suit with a filmy pink scarf at her throat. Her silver hair was blued, and faint rays from the bandstand footlights glinted from the diamond barrette positioned above her ear. Her neck was firm from cosmetic surgery and her body was slim, though Hardin’s hand on her back was touching loose skin. She’ll be into liposuction pretty soon, Percy Hardin thought.

  “I’m having a tough time keeping upbeat,” Hardin said. “I keep telling myself it’s what she would have wanted, and I think I’m right about that. They’re dedicating the club tennis championship to her, I thought that was quite a gesture.”

  “That it was,” Luwanda said, blinking. She wore thick mascara and eye shadow along with bright pink lip rouge. “We still have Betty, that’s something. If she stays the fuck in town.” She bumped gently into the couple behind her; Hardin steered her away from them while throwing an excuse-me glance over his shoulder.

  “She’s been here what, six months?” Hardin said. “Probably ready to settle this time.”

  “I damn sure hope so,” Luwanda said. “It’s the longest she’s been here since college, and every time I think she’s home for good she’s farting around off to France or someplace. She’s almost twenty-six, she should be finding herself a husband.”

  “How’s Ross taking it?” Hardin said. “I haven’t talked to him much.”

  “Getting by, you’d never know if the bastard had terminal cancer, the way he’s ate up with being so fucking tough about everything. What time are we due tomorrow?”

  “They’re hauling Marissa over to the church around eleven. Twelve, I suppose. Thereabouts.” Hardin drew Luwanda abruptly closer, avoiding a collision with another couple by a hair. Luwanda stumbled slightly and gripped Hardin’s shoulder for support.

  “I need some more champagne,” Luwanda said. She giggled and burped. “Twelve’ll be fine, my hair appointment’s at nine-thirty. Do you remember the last time you danced with me?” She pressed her cheek against Hardin’s chest.

  “I’m thinking,” Hardin said, wincing as Luwanda stepped on his toe.

  “It was at your high school graduation, and it was to this same song. „Twilight Time.’ You were young and strong. Still are.” Luwanda hiccupped.

  “How could I ever forget, Luwanda,” Percy Hardin said.

  When the dance ended, Percy steered Luwanda back to the linen-draped table. She was listing some. As they approached the table, Ross Monroe stood while Betty Monroe kept her seat, her elbows resting on the linen, her slim fingers intertwined, her classic chin resting on her interlocked hands. “It’s time we’re going,” Ross said. He was square-shouldered and erect, a man of sixty still in shape, and who could break eighty if he made a few putts.

  “Yeah, head for the house,” Luwanda said, thick-tongued. “Where’s the car?”

  “Nigger’s gettin’ it,” Ross said. He cupped his hands in front of his mouth and yelled in the direction of a table which stood twenty feet away, “Pete. Hey, Pete, we got to have lunch.” A rawboned man whose cuffs struck him above his wrists raised a hand and answered, “Sure, let’s do it.”

  Percy Hardin went around the table to hold Betty Monroe’s chair for her. She stood, her dark eyes on a level with Hardin’s chin, her full lips set in a bored pout. She wore baggy green shorts and a Nelda DuMont cotton sweater from Neiman’s over in Dallas. She nodded. “Percy,” Betty Monroe said.

  Hardin returned her nod. “Betty.”

  “Come on, daughter,” Ross Monroe said. “You’re gonna have to do the drivin’, mama’s on her ass and I don’t see too good at night.” He grabbed Luwanda’s upper arm and guided her none too gently, skirting tables in the direction of the exit. Over his shoulder, Ross said, “See you at the church, Perce.”

  Betty Monroe took a couple of modeling-runway strides after her parents, then stopped and turned. The tip of her tongue flashed briefly as she licked her lower lip. She said to Percy Hardin, “I’ve got to wait until they’re both zonked. About one-thirty?”

  “Come around to the back,” Hardin said. “I’ll leave the porch light on.”

  Percy Hardin finally got away from Edna and Donald Rafferty and made his way out to the parking lot. Christ, what a bunch of insincere tripe he’d been listening to. The only reason Edna Rafferty gave a damn about Marissa being dead was that Edna would have to find herself a new tennis partner, and somebody new with whom to go on and on over the phone. And Percy hadn’t missed the slight smolder in Edna’s glance nor the way she kept brushing against him. Hardin’s being widowed gave the old broad a new prospect for someone to hump her in the afternoons. Christ, Hardin thought, I’d as soon hump Luwanda. Would that be a fearsome twosome, or what?

  And Donald Rafferty the Distributor was enough to make Percy throw up on the floor. Christ, what a bullshitter, going on and on about deals with Paramount and Universal, when the truth was that the only films Donald Rafferty had anything to do with were produced in some motel room with a guy keeping watch by the door. Percy would bet that old Donald had had to get the club picture book down before he knew which broad Marissa was. Wherever you are, Marissa, Percy Hardin thought, the truth is that you might be the lucky one.

  The valet parking attendant, a young black guy wearing a waist-length gold jacket, approached at the door, but Percy waved the kid away. Hardin would get his own car; the walk across the parking lot in nighttime air might clear his head. He hadn’t had that many Scotches, but on a near-empty stomach, and after five hours of golf in the sun, the booze had fuzzied his thinking. Jesus, what a round, huh? That shot on eighteen with Greg Norman looking on and that big gallery watching from behind the ropes, that had been one for the memory book. Would stay with Hardin forever.

  The asphalt lot was half-full, the autos parked in silent, slanted rows. They were Caddies, Mercedes, and Porsches m
ostly, with an occasional plain vanilla Buick or Chevy which probably belonged to some of the middle-class proles who’d wangled tickets to the pro-am party. Probably won the tickets in a raffle, Hardin thought, or on a KVIL radio giveaway. Hardin pictured a working stiff at an insurance company, fucking off instead of tending to business, listening to Ron Chapman while the boss wasn’t looking and trying to be the twelfth one to call in to win the pro-am tickets. Well, by God, Percy Hardin had better not catch his gardener or maid calling in to any fucking radio show on Percy Hardin’s time. Have those fucking Mexicans running for cover, if he were to catch them at it.

  Hardin’s midnight blue Mercedes was four rows from streetside, practically dead center in the north-south layout of the parking lot. He paused for a moment behind his car, glanced both ways at thick groves of elm and sycamore trees that bounded the golf course and country club, then looked up at the three-quarter moon. The moon shone hazily through the light Fort Worth smog, and the leaves around him rustled in the spring night wind. Directly in front of him, visible through the trees, headlights passed one another going in opposite directions on University Boulevard.

  Hardin brushed off the front of his shirt. Lavender. Christ, was that a perfect color for a perfect pro-am to remember, or what? He’d checked both pros and amateurs coming and going, and he was sure that his was the only lavender outfit in the bunch. Christ, to think he’d nearly worn orange. Damn near half the players in the pro-am had been wearing orange, a bunch of Ben-Crenshaw-Hook-’Em-Horns assholes. Your day all around, old Perce, Hardin thought. How „bout that three-wood on eighteen, huh?

  He went up to the driver’s side of the Mercedes, fiddled with his keys, inserted the proper key in the lock, and turned. The horn began to honk monotonously and the lights to flash. Hardin opened the door and shut off the burglar apparatus, then after a final glance toward University Boulevard he prepared to sink into the driver’s seat.

  And caught sudden movement in the corner of his eye, sucked in his breath as a big hand clamped onto his collar, grunted in pain as the hand yanked, then shoved, felt himself pushed inside the car like so much foam rubber, and watched the stumpy man climb in beside him. Hardin gritted his teeth as the stumpy man’s elbow dug into his ribs and slid over by the passenger window to give the stumpy man room. Christ, the stinking breath, the hate in the stumpy man’s look. Maybe it wasn’t such a good day for Percy Hardin after all.

  “You been forgetting me or something?” Everett Wilson said.

  Hardin felt gingerly of his own ribcage. “We’re, we’re not supposed to have any contact.”

  Wilson put a thumb on one of Hardin’s cheeks, a forefinger on the other, and squeezed. He put his nose just inches from Hardin’s. “You don’t give me one word of shit,” Wilson said. “Not one, you hear? You come to me, I didn’t go looking for you. Where’s my goddam money?” His breath reeked of onion.

  “Christ. Hey, let go, will you.” The fingers released their hold on Hardin’s cheeks, and he sat back and massaged his jaw. Christ, the bastard was strong. Had to be careful what you said to these types. Like jungle animals. “Money’s nothing to worry about,” Hardin said.

  “Yesterday. You were supposed to see me yesterday, you fucking—”

  “I was tied up. Business.”

  “Well you ain’t tied up now,” Wilson said. “Pay me, I ain’t fucking with you.”

  Hardin shrank back against the passenger door. “I don’t carry that kind of cash. A man in my position.”

  Wilson held a stumpy forefinger underneath Hardin’s chin, pressing into the flesh. “Lemme tell you something about your fucking position. Your fucking position is that you told me to do something and I done it. Now. My goddam position is that I don’t got no problem doing it to you, too, I don’t get my money.”

  Hardin’s throat constricted. “Look, there’s a meeting.”

  “There damn sure is. It’s going on right now.”

  Feet scraped suddenly on asphalt as two men in golf outfits walked by in front of the Mercedes. Wilson murmured, “Shut up. Not one fucking word, you hear?” Hardin sat straight as a ramrod and followed the men with his gaze, wanting to yell, needing in the worst way to take a piss. The men got into a Cadillac, started the engine, and drove away.

  When the Caddy had exited the lot onto University Boulevard, Wilson said, “You gimme five thousand, and you owe me ten. Now, I’m telling you—”

  “Insurance people,” Hardin said in a high squeaky voice, then cleared his throat and said more normally, “Insurance people, they don’t pay out the kind of money we’re talking without a meeting.”

  “The fuck you talking about insurance people? You didn’t say nothing about no insurance when you come to me.”

  “It’s a big policy. Pays double on a murder.”

  “You rich asshole, you telling me you ain’t got ten thousand dollars?” Wilson folded his arms and leaned back against the cushions.

  Hardin adjusted his collar. His sharp-looking lavender collar. The collar was wrinkled and bunched together where the stumpy man had grabbed him. Christ, people like this. “Well, sure. Sure I’ve got ten grand, only I can’t make a cash withdrawal like that without raising suspicion.”

  “You done raised some suspicion. Mine.”

  “You’re going to get paid,” Hardin said.

  “You fucking-ay bet I am.”

  Hardin did his best to think. Christ, this wasn’t like putting off a note at Ridglea Bank, wasn’t like calling up Merlyn Graham and telling old Merlyn to deduct the interest from the trust account and send over a renewal notice. Wasn’t like that at all. “Look,” Hardin said.

  “I’m looking.”

  “It’s just a temporary situation. My wife paid out fifteen thousand to that contractor guy, and it’s run me a little short.”

  “That ain’t my problem. If the contractor got fifteen grand, you should have got the fucking contractor to off her for you.” Wilson leaned his sloping forehead against the top of the steering wheel. “I done it perfect, make it look like some pervert done her and everything. You got to come up with something, man.”

  “I’m going to. Just a little time.”

  “How much time?”

  “Ten days. The check should be here in ten days.”

  “Jesus Christ, where they come up with assholes like you?”

  “Ten days, you have my word on it.” Hardin showed his best The-Check-Is-In-The-Mail expression, then felt sort of foolish because the stumpy man couldn’t see the earnest look in the dark.

  “Fuck,” Wilson said. “I tell you something. If you’re bullshitting me you ain’t going to be around eleven days.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” Hardin said as sweat popped out on his forehead. “My word is my bond.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Listen,” Hardin said, “we can’t keep sitting here. Let me drop you someplace.”

  Wilson held out his hand, palm up. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, my car’s a block or so away. Gimme your keys. I always wanted to drive one of these things. And think about it. You ain’t going to be driving this car much longer yourself, if you’re fucking with me.”

  Hardin handed over the keys, tried to relax as the stumpy man cranked the Mercedes’ engine. As Wilson wheeled out of the parking lot, Percy Hardin’s bladder let go and he pissed in his pants.

  12

  Helen Taylor’s smirk told Nancy Cuellar that she wasn’t going to like the message even before Helen could get the words out of her mouth. “Two men out front,” Helen said. “They’re policemen.” She spoke quite a bit louder than necessary. Up and down the corridor outside Nancy’s cubicle, typewriters skipped a beat, then resumed their clickety-clack chatter like wagging tongues. Helen was around forty, broad shouldered and large breasted, and wore her hair fluffed out around her head like a Roman warrior’s helmet. She’d had it in for Nancy ever since Mr. Brantley had chosen the younger girl as his assistant, and Helen could smirk with the best of them. She
handed Nancy a printed business card and rested her ample hip against the edge of Nancy’s desk.

  Nancy resisted the urge to panic as she read the card: Tarrant County Sheriff’s Department, Charles Morrison, Detective, Homicide Division. She wasn’t really surprised; if it had been good news Helen would never have traipsed the length of the corridor to deliver it. Good news would have come through Trudy, the law firm’s message coordinator, with Helen’s instructions to relay the tidings to “that Mexican girl.” Well, caramba to you, Helen, this is one Mexican girl that’s not going to let you get her goat. She showed Helen her best smile of gratitude. “Thanks, Helen,” Nancy said.

  Helen’s eyes widened slightly, and a grain of mascara dropped from one of her lashes to form a speck in her purple eye shadow. She drew in a breath and said, “They’re waiting,” even more loudly than she’d announced that the cops were outside. The chattering typewriters skipped another beat. With a final toss of her permed mane, Helen turned on her heel and left. Her big rear wobbled above thick ankles and heavy calves. Inside ten minutes everyone in the office would know that the police had come calling on the Mexican girl. If they didn’t know already.

  Nancy stood and pushed her rolling secretarial chair flush against her desk. She took her time about straightening things, paying more attention than normal to the shipshape alignment of pens and steno pads on her blotter, as she flexed her mental muscles and got ahold of herself. Crying time’s over, Nance, the think-positive voice inside of her said, and even if they should take Lackey into the death chamber and shove the needle in, Nancy Cuellar’s going to hold her head high. That was the message she’d delivered to her brother and uncle two nights ago, and that’s what she’d tell the rest of the world as well.

  Her desktop in order, she smoothed her skirt as she went over to rattle the handle on Mr. Brantley’s door. It was locked, of course, and Nancy had already known that. Mr. Brantley was in depositions out in Phoenix (thank God for that, Nancy thought, otherwise Helen Taylor would have screamed that the cops were in the reception area) which meant that the young lawyer from the University of Houston who was doing Brantley’s wife would be late this morning. As Nancy straightened her shoulders a tiny sob escaped from her throat; she choked back the sob, forced her lips into a confident smile, then strode briskly down the hall toward the waiting room, a slim young woman wearing a green-and-gray checkerboard blouse, navy skirt, and white high-heeled shoes with straps encircling her ankles, her dark hair cut in flippant bangs, bustling along in a manner that would make Tammy Wynette proud. Stand by your man.