“You leave that to me, Rafferty. We’ve got lawyers to cover that.”
“Ummm ….”
Pause. Sigh. “Okay, an exclusive then. I do this for you, I get first chance to write the story.”
That I could live with.
“Done. You got a paper and pen?”
“I’m a fucking reporter, Rafferty. Whaddya think?”
“Fair enough.”
I listed all the documents I wanted from her contact, which was a lot more than I was actually interested in, but I needed to bury the important needle in the middle of a bigger haystack, in case Monica went digging. She’d find it eventually, but I wanted to buy myself some time at least.
Said she’d get back to me in a few hours and we’d set up a place to meet for the handover. Sounded good to me.
So good that I went and had a nap.
Later, at the dining room table, I separated out the majority of the pages from the manila envelope Monica had handed to me in a grubby little alley in West Dallas. Good grief, this wasn’t Watergate and I wasn’t Deep Throat, but she picked the location and I didn’t want to tarnish whatever images she had of clandestine meets and backroom deals.
The other documents might be useful later, but I concentrated on the ones I really wanted. It took me about two hours to get my answer and when Hilda got home from work, I asked her to double-check me.
“Seven kids,” she said as I stood in the kitchen with a beer. “Yep, from what I can tell, you read it right. Seven kids that weren’t marked off in class at the time of the shooting.” She looked up from the dining room table.
“Don’t forget the other three—Bradley Wright and the other two shooters—but yeah, seven kids unaccounted for at school when it all went down.”
“Thanks.” She took a sip from the glass of wine I handed her. “So, what does that mean?”
“I imagine there’s innocent explanations for most of them. Kids sick at home and Mom forgot to let the school know. Maybe one, or a couple, running late and hadn’t made it to school yet. Whatever the reasons, I’m sure the cops have already eliminated anyone who wasn’t at school on the day, to make sure there weren’t unaccounted students on the school grounds after the shooting.”
“That makes sense.”
“What I’m more interested in is why Imani Laweles was at school, but not marked off in class.”
“The girl from the paper?”
“Uh huh.” I finished my beer and put the bottle on the countertop. “She’s made a big song and dance about being rescued on the day of the shooting. From her classroom. But she wasn’t there. Why would she lie about that?”
“I can’t tell you that, Ugly. But you want to know what I can?”
Hilda smiled up at me and my heart melted. She had this ability to catch me at odd moments and shatter me into a billion pieces. Whether it was the light, the flecks of color in her eyes, or the way her mouth twisted up slightly more on the left-hand side, I wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, she had it in spades.
“What’s that, babe?” I said.
“I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
Chapter 21
We got one of the last tables at the Indonesian place, started with more wine and beer, and pored over the menu. Now that we were here, my stomach decided it wanted to play, and roared to life. We settled on rijstaffel to share, and the beaming waiter bowed and scurried away to the kitchen.
“How did the sale of that underarm hair curler go? Did you get a good price?”
Hilda took my hand across the table. “It was an antique mustache comb,” she said, “and you knew that, silly.”
“Guilty.”
“Yes, I did get a good price, and the buyer was happy to add it to his collection. I might even be able to find some more pieces for him in the next few months. But, speaking of guilty, big guy, what’s this I see in the paper about you nearly getting shot yesterday?” Her voice was light, and her touch soft, but her eyes let me know in no uncertain terms that she was anything but relaxed about what had transpired on the Wright’s lawn the previous day.
“It was nothing. A minor misunderstanding if you will. Some redneck mistook Charlene’s front yard for the local wrestling camp, that’s all.”
Hilda’s eyes flashed. “How can you be so cavalier about it? You almost got shot.”
“But I didn’t.” I shrugged. “Not sure what else there is so say. The worst part is that the paper didn’t get my good side in the photo. I told them to make sure they shot me from the left, but they never listen.”
Hilda poked her tongue out at me. “Are the natives getting restless? The protestors, I mean.”
I pulled my hand away. For some reason, I think better when I can use my hands. Italian blood from way back where, maybe. Hilda took the opportunity to sit back, fished a cigarette out of her packet and lit up. I reached for my pipe.
“They’ve been camped out on a stranger’s front yard for nearly a week now. They’re tired, probably hungry, and uncomfortable, and with Bradley still in hospital, there’s no outlet for their anger. I think restless is a fair word for it.”
“So they just decided that they could attack the boy’s mother?”
“It was only one of them, not the whole bunch …” I had an image of the whole crowd storming the house, mob mentality taking over, Cowboy and I trying to hold them off, but being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Maybe getting Mimi up here wouldn’t be a bad idea.
“Rafferty?”
“Sorry, hun, just updating a mental to-do list. Nah, Frank was just one guy, and probably closer to the shooting than most of the crowd out there.” I relayed the story of his daughter, killed in the hallway. Hilda teared up almost immediately.
“Oh, Rafferty. The poor man.”
“Hey. Just a minute ago it was, ‘Poor Rafferty. You almost got shot.’ What happened to that?”
“But you didn’t get shot, right? You said so yourself.”
“Touchè.”
“And how’s Bradley’s mother doing? Happy to be back home?”
I thought of Charlene sitting at the table when I left the previous night, cocooned in her own little world as she pushed food toward her stomach. “Not necessarily happy per se, but relieved, I think.”
“That’s good. So where’s the case at? Any new evidence on Bradley?”
“Nothing specific either way at the moment.”
The food arrived, we piled plates high, and I made sure another round of drinks was on the way.
“Whatcha gonna do about the girl?” Hilda said around a mouthful of gado-gado.
“Imani?” She nodded. “We’ll have a little chat and, like the super sleuth that I am, I’ll glean exactly what went on from a combination of her physical tells, the heightened smell of pheromones, and the minute—but obvious—modulations in her speech patterns. From there it will be a simple job to make the case for or against Bradley.”
“Really?”
“Of course not. I just hope I can understand what she’s saying. The youth of today …”
“Rafferty, are you becoming a curmudgeon?”
“I sincerely hope so.”
We shut up and ate then. The rijstaffel was excellent and, despite the literal translation being ‘rice-table’, only one of the dishes was actually rice.
Hilda and I ate and sipped and held hands like silly teenagers.
Dinner was done—I was stuffed full—and I forced myself to not order another beer. “I’m bushed, hon. You ready to head home?”
Hilda swallowed the rest of her wine. “Ready to go anywhere with you, Ugly. Especially home.”
I waved for the check, paid with plastic, and we walked down the cool sidewalk hand in hand. Happy and contented for the most part, but I couldn’t stop myself thinking about Imani Laweles, why she would be lying about what happened on the day, and who else might be doing the same.
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t immediately register the two guys sitting at a high bench in t
he window of the bar that we walked past. Didn’t realize that I had seen the flash of recognition on one’s face, saw him slap his buddy on the shoulder, or that they got up from their table.
Those realizations all coalesced and hit me about twenty seconds later, as I heard the front door of the bar bang open and the blast of music and laughter follow us down the street. The Pacer, and the Colt in the glovebox—shit, no, that was still in the Mustang. Well, the car was in a lot two blocks over, but I didn’t want to hurry and scare Hilda, it might be nothing.
It wasn’t.
We were halfway down the block and under a streetlight, when the voice came.
“Hey! Hey you!”
I stopped walking and turned to put Hilda behind me and next to the light pole.
“Rafferty?” she breathed.
“It’s okay, babe. Probably a couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses who’ve been missing me at home.”
The two guys stepped into the fringe of light. Middle-aged, clean shaven, both carrying more pounds than they should, and didn’t look all that smart.
“Hey you!” the dark-haired guy said again.
I replied. “Lucky I heard you. I usually only respond to ‘Mr Caulfield.’ ‘Holden’ is also acceptable, though I prefer ‘Oh Captain, my Captain.’”
“What the fuck?” the buddy said.
Dark Hair took up the dialog. “We don’t care who you are, Caulfield …”
Like I said, not that smart.
“… you’re that dickhead looking after that killer’s mom.”
“Rafferty?” Hilda whispered and clutched at my arm.
“I believe you have me confused with someone else,” I said, “though I’m sure this other fellow is also handsome, and physically impressive, with a rapier-like wit.”
“Not gonna be so impressive when we whup the shit out of you.”
“As I already said …” I didn’t break eye contact with the would-be rumblers while I reached around and pried Hilda’s hand off my arm, squeezed her fingers twice and let them drop. “… I think you’re looking for someone else.”
“We’re looking for you, asshole,” Buddy said.
“Not so tough without a gun, are you?” Dark Hair finished.
About what I figured. A couple of forthright watch-people from the Wright front lawn. The crowd had grown so much I hadn’t been able to keep track of all the faces.
“Oh, I’m plenty tough enough, with or without a weapon. Don’t worry your pretty little heads about that. But, like I’ve explained previously, I really think you’re looking for someone else.”
Buddy decided that rhetoric had gone far enough and the time had come to take action. He stepped forward, thrusting out his right arm. I don’t think it was a punch, probably just a stabbed finger in the air at me.
He didn’t get that far.
I sidestepped in time with his move, shielding Hilda as I did, grabbed his wrist, jerked down and stepped into him. Grabbed his shoulder with my left hand and before Buddy, or Dark Hair for that matter, knew what was happening, I had him spun around, his arm twisted behind his back and I was levering his hand upwards. Shuffled us both sideways, keeping our little dance routine between Dark Hair and Hilda. I could hear her little gasps, forced myself not to concentrate on them.
“Okay guys,” I said. “Here’s how it shapes up. I have no idea what the hell you thought you’d accomplish with this stunt. I’ve got no beef with you. And you only think you have one with me.”
I watched Dark Hair’s eyes. He was squinting questions at Buddy and I could see his hands clenching in my peripheral vision. I levered Buddy’s wrist and arm a little higher, put more pressure on his shoulder. He struggled, shook, I stayed with him and pushed up further. He gave a little shake of his head. Dark Hair relaxed a touch, held his ground.
“Don’t waste your time, guys,” I said. “It makes you look stupid, and you don’t know when and what I’ll be carrying. F’rinstance, I could reach inside my jacket right now, grab my .38 and pop you both right here.” I kept the pressure on with my right hand, stepped into Buddy, while shuffling my left hand inside my pocket.
That was enough. Dark Hair took a step backwards and Buddy slumped. I went with him a little. No point dislocating the guys shoulder for no reason.
“Are we clear, guys?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dark Hair said.
“Good.” I pushed Buddy away and made sure I was still shielding Hilda while he collided with his friend. They got their collective feet underneath them and stood again on the edge of the light circle. Buddy massaged his shoulder with his left hand, while Dark Hair glared at me.
“Knock yourselves out with your protesting, guys. I don’t care. Sing your songs, write your witty signs, whatever gets your juices flowing. But …” I pulled out my pipe, went through the theatrics of lighting and tamping.
“… if you come at me or my clients again, all bets are off. Got it?”
They nodded, looked like they wanted to speak, couldn’t think of what they might say, turned and headed down the street. They stopped several times down the block to look back, and I kept watching until they were back inside the bar.
Hilda grabbed my arm again. “Oh my god, Rafferty.”
I put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “Beats bad after-dinner coffee, don’t it?”
“How can you make jokes? Those men wanted to beat us up.” She shivered. I rubbed her arm, turned her around and we started walking toward the car again.
“Not that it makes much difference, but I think they only wanted to beat me up. Poor, misguided fools.”
“I know that’s supposed to make me feel better, Rafferty. It doesn’t.”
“I know.” Wondered whether it was weird that I felt better than I had all day. Yeah, it was weird, but what the hell.
“They weren’t interested in hurting you,” I said. “Hell, they weren’t even that interested in hurting me. They’re just pissed off and want to get rid of that anger.” I leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
“Is that why you didn’t hurt them?” Hilda tucked her head into my chest, and we kept walking.
“Oh, he’ll be feeling that shoulder for the next few days.”
“You know that I mean.”
“Yeah, I do, and I think you give me too much credit, babe,” I said. “If I think like that, it’s after the fact. During, I’m not thinking much at all. I’m focused on eliminating threats and protecting what I need to protect.” I squeezed her. “If that comes across as a deep assessment of the circumstances and the delivery of a thoroughly analyzed moral and ethical response, so be it.”
I stopped and turned her to face me. She looked up at me, eyes glistening, and I fell in love again for about the thousandth time. I held her shoulders and leaned in close. Whispered.
“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation as a hard-ass.”
Hilda laughed, a caw that ricocheted off the nearby buildings. She snorted then and pulled me close, linked her hands behind my neck and buried her face in my chest.
“I love you, Rafferty.”
“You too, babe.”
We stood on that side-street and held each other close. I rubbed her back, felt her heartbeat slow and her breathing relax. I kissed her head and looked both ways down the street. There was no-one else there.
We hurried to the car and I watched everything, checking shadows and making sure that I kept myself between Hilda and blind corners. Driving home, Hilda rested her head on my shoulder, I patted her leg and vowed that I would get the truth from Imani Laweles tomorrow and this stupid case off my back.
Chapter 22
Before I got to Imani though, I needed to check in with Cowboy, so I drove to the Wright house, parked a way down the street and watched the front yard crowd. It had swelled since two nights earlier—no doubt due to the Frank, Cowboy and Rafferty show on the late news—and the two network vans seemed to have procreated, giving birth to a couple of new arrivals.
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Nothing screams ratings and human interest like footage of people almost being shot. Film at eleven.
I wasn’t keen on running the gauntlet. Cowboy’s truck was still parked, nose in, on the driveway and I knew by the time I stopped the Pacer, got out, locked up, and tried to make it to the porch, I’d be swamped with reporters and, on their heels, the fervent and righteous.
Maybe Cowboy was right. My cases did seem to include more than my fair share of god-botherers.
Hell with it, I couldn’t wait out on the street forever.
I pulled the car up in the single driveway as close as I could get to the back of Cowboy’s truck and found my instincts were still sharp. Before I had the park brake engaged and killed the motor, microphones and camera lenses were competing for turns to bump against the driver’s side window.
I rolled the window down a half-inch, fired up the pipe and blew smoke at the gap and those behind the recording devices.
“What do you have to say about the near-tragedy on this front lawn the day before yesterday, sir?”
The reporter, with his serious voice and his serious look and his serious suit, shot questions at me while I sat and smoked. Thought about giving him the bird, decided that would give them footage they could use, so I did my best at boring him to death. Didn’t acknowledge his questions, or his existence, and when my pipe was finished, I reached around to ferret in the pile of crap on the back seat for a John D. MacDonald novel I thought was back there.
Wondered for a few seconds why the back seat was so clean, then realized that the novel was in the Mustang. Along with the Colt. And the gloves. Goddamn. This constant not having the things I needed within reaching distance was starting to piss me off.
For the moment I was trapped in the car, within talking distance of the front porch, but it might as well have been the width of the Atlantic, given the predatory newshounds still tapping on the window.
Nap time.
When I woke up a while later—about forty-five minutes, actually—it had got awful quiet. The human tide had receded to the curb, so I checked twice to make sure no-one was interested, hopped out and hoofed it into the house.
Wright & Wrong Page 16
