Jake's Burn

by Randy Rawls

  “So, Arty, how’s life been treating you? Cigar?” He opened a silver case and pushed it toward me. I had no doubt the cigars violated the trade embargo on Cuba.

  I looked at him sitting behind his massive desk and the only word that describes how I felt is jealous. I know it’s petty but there he sat, same age as me. I’m losing my hair, but his thick black hair had gray sprinkled through the temples, giving him a distinguished look most men have to pay for, and women find attractive. I knew he stood six-feet-two, towering over me. Women described him as handsome. I doubted that many used that word for me. The suit he wore would go for at least seven hundred. My jeans showed their wear, although they were only three years old. That was a reminder. I needed to watch for a sale on jeans.

  “No, no cigar,” I said. “Haven’t you heard, the Surgeon General says smoking is detrimental to your health?”

  “Maybe.” Jake selected a cigar and closed the case. “What did you find?”

  “Two bodies, Jake. Two people died. Do you know who they were?”

  “No.” He sniffed the cigar. “I guess one of them might have been Sheila. As far as I know, she was home last night. The second one—I don’t have a clue.” He fiddled with the cigar, clipping the end and taking his time lighting it.

  “Bullshit, I can’t buy that. What the hell’s wrong with you? Sheila was your wife, your best friend for a long time. Don’t try that cavalier attitude on me. I know you too well.”

  Jake looked at me, laid the cigar in an ashtray, then switched his concentration to his manicured fingernails. A flush rose from his throat flowing over his face.

  I waited, determined to force him to comment.

  “Okay, Arty. To tell the truth, I don’t know how I feel. I’ve been mad with her so long, I don’t know how to react. She made her decision when she took off with Bubba, and I have kept my feelings buried under anger ever since. I had no clue how much I loved her until I lost her.”

  He hesitated, then sighed. “You remember, Sheila made a big fuss about our home during the divorce so the judge gave it to her. No one but me knows how bad that hurt.”

  I remembered. In a perfect example of divorce court justice, the judge handed the keys to Sheila and returned the payment book to Jake. One of those things I can never figure out. That was one of the reasons I quit the police department—judges who ignore facts and reward or refuse to punish the guilty.

  “The house went to Sheila, but I had to pay the bills. I even had to pay for the hired help—gardeners, butler, upstairs maids, downstairs maids, cooks, all of them.”

  I knew his memory had slipped. He refused to pay for the chauffeur-bodyguard-personal trainer, the one Sheila walked out with.

  He stopped and examined his nails again. I wondered if his manicure had chipped.

  He gave me a straight look—eyeball to eyeball. “I could never wish her dead though.”

  As our eyes stayed locked together, I made a judgment call. I believed him. But that didn’t change what I had to do. “I gotta ask you this. Where were you last night? Did you torch the house?”

  “Arty, I’m going—”

  “Dammit, Jake. Don’t call me Arty. How many times—”

  “You asked a question, Arty.” Jake returned my interruption. “At least let me answer it. As I was saying, I’m going to assume you had to ask me if I burned my house. No, I did not. I loved that house. I designed it. I oversaw the laying of every brick, the nailing of every timber. I wanted that house back, not burned to the ground. I hoped Sheila would sell it to me if I left her alone and didn’t fight the judge’s orders. No, Arty, I did not burn my house.”

  I squirmed forward, trying to touch the floor with my boots. “Okay, suppose I buy everything you say. Everything except calling me Arty. Do you know who might have a grudge against Sheila, who might kill her and burn the house?”

  Jake had a faraway look in his eyes. He ignored my question, rose and walked to the far end of his office. “Come here, Arty, and look at this.”

  I fought my way out of the parasitic wingback chair and joined him.

  “Look at that.” He pointed at a photograph on the wall, a twenty by twenty-four of the house. “It’s the most beautiful home ever built in Eastland County, perhaps all of Texas. You know the area, you know the view from there. I’m going to rebuild it, just like it was before some son-of-a-bitch burned it to the ground.”

  “Jake, wake up, dammit. Quit crying about the house. Sheila may have died in that fire. Don’t you have any feelings for her?”

  “No. Absolutely not. You’ll never understand how she hurt me when she took up with Bubba. For God’s sake, Arty, Bubba was her damn chauffeur—a high school dropout. You want me to feel sorry for her? I can’t. I don’t feel a damn thing for her. She knew what I loved and took it from me. She didn’t give a hoot about the house.”

  The bitterness in his voice surprised me. In all the years I’d known him, there had never been an occasion when he voiced anything close to what he said. All I could think to say was, “You gotta get over it. If you don’t, it’ll eat you alive.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m in therapy. I’m coming together with the fact I left her alone too many times and was away too often. My shrink says I set up the crash—it had to happen. Maybe someday, I’ll accept my guilt, but for now, I hurt.”

  I saw the pain in his eyes, but as I looked, they changed. The old Jake rose to the surface. “Now, look at the plans of the house. It was fantastic.”

  Jake walked behind his desk while I circled to the front of it. I couldn’t help but wonder what great oak had surrendered its life for him to have such a desk. It was solid oak—well, looked like oak—and was about six by twelve feet. It must have taken a team of weight lifters to bring it into the office. Either that, or it was assembled in place. The finish on it was beyond my vocabulary, something you see few times in your life.

  He dropped into his chair and scooted to one end of his desk where he opened the bottom drawer. I wondered why he didn’t have a motorized office chair to move from one end to the other. He pulled out a tube and withdrew a roll of papers. “Come over here.” He stood and walked to a small conference table at the other end of the office.

  Since I’d stayed away from the wingback chair, I was able to follow him without exerting myself. He spread the plans, and we spent about thirty minutes examining them while Jake explained each line.

  He slowed, and I seized the opportunity. “This is all great, and I understand how much you loved that house, but I’m no closer to figuring out who torched it. That’s why you hired me, but I need help. To find the arsonist, I have to backtrack on Sheila’s life after you two split. Who were her friends? Who did she run with? Did Bubba live with her?”

  Jake looked at me, then walked to his desk. He opened another drawer and pulled out a brown folder, flipped it open and studied it for a moment. “Now Arty, I hope you won’t be upset with me, but…”

  He stopped and flicked his eyes over me before looking back at the folder, then continued, “I hired another PI to follow her. I wanted to know who she was spending my money on. I knew you were too busy for a small job like that.”

  Now, that did hurt my feelings. I didn’t tell him not to call me Arty. I wondered how much he’d paid the guy, and thought about how hard up for money I’d been. But out of a straight face, I said, “What’d he get? Anything I can use?”

  He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to me. It was a list of names, dates, and locations. I studied the list. “I recognize some of these as the group she ran with before the divorce, but the others mean nothing to me. Some of the last names look familiar, same as people we grew up with. Are all these from around Cisco?”

  “More or less, and I’m not surprised you don’t recognize them. Some moved there after you left, and some were conceived when we were in college. Here’re some snap shots.”

  I laid the list aside and took the pictures. They showed young people in their twenties and thi
rties. I looked at Jake. “Are you telling me Sheila ran with a group this young?”

  “Yep, that’s it. She had this problem with age. It was part of our marriage problem. When she passed thirty, she went nuts. She couldn’t stand the thought of the years passing her by. Remember, she was thirty-five when she took off with Bubba. He was twenty-eight. These people are all Bubba’s followers, his group. The guy I hired said she tried about every one of the men.”

  Jake stopped and looked at his desk. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “In fact, she might’ve tried the women, too. Seems like it’s a pretty versatile group.”

  I sat there, feeling Jake’s embarrassment and pain, not knowing what to say. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut.

  The alarm on Jake’s Rolex sounded, telling us it was two o’clock. I looked at my Timex. Yep, two o’clock—same time, thousands of dollars apart. “Well, what’s the chances one of these characters did her and burned the house?”

  “That’s what I’m paying you to find out. But, be careful. Some of them are tough—sex, booze, and drugs. The investigator said they do it all.”

  I looked back at the photos. The women were attractive and didn’t need a lot of fancy makeup. The guys were grubby looking in that way women find handsome. Some had shaved heads and faces, a few had long, stringy hair and scruffy beards, and a few had combinations of each. The women wore clothing that emphasized their physical attributes. The men dressed in jeans, plaid shirts and boots. The women’s clothing was clean and carefully chosen. The men looked like they had come off a construction crew.

  Sheila stood out, the most beautiful woman among beautiful women—a beauty pageant collection. She was also the most mature, or I could say, the oldest.

  I laid the pictures aside. “Back to the fire. We have to assume one of the bodies was Sheila’s. Any ideas on who the other might have been?”

  “No, not really. Could have been anybody or nobody. I don’t know who she’s been with recently.” He reflected for a moment, then asked, “How long until they I.D. the bodies?”

  “Not sure,” I replied. “They’ll probably have to get help from the state. There’s not much to work with. I hope it’s soon though. The solution might be in the second body.”

  FOUR

  “Yeah, I remember you. You’re that asshole cop that went private. Adams’ private dick, digger of dirt, and all round sonofabitch.”

  I had come to interview Bubba, and we stood in the living room of his apartment. He was so involved in abusing me he’d forgotten to offer me a chair. I took his insults, hoping he’d slow so I could get in a couple of questions. After several minutes, I decided, screw him and his lack of manners. I walked to his couch and sat. When he stopped to inhale, I jumped in. “When’d you see Sheila last?”

  Bubba stepped toward me with both fists clenched. “You bastard. Don’t mention her name. She was the most perfect human bein' ever born. You helped that scumbag ex of hers. You bastards made up a bunch of lies to hurt her at the divorce. She told me about it.”

  I’ll bet she did, I thought, while you two played hide the weenie in Jake’s bed.

  All you macho folks might wonder why I tolerated his insults. Simple. The name Bubba fit like an expensive glove. His real name is John Wayne Hudson, and that fit too. He stood six-feet-four, and his muscles had muscles on their muscles. I always assumed one of the reasons he became a chauffeur was because he didn’t need a jack to change a tire. He could pick the car up, jerk the flat off, and jam on a good one. Jake told me one time they were out and the car died. Bubba didn’t call Triple A. He towed it himself.

  Nevertheless, I needed answers. Maybe I could turn the tables on him. “Excuse me, Bubba. You might find this odd, but I think Sheila was a very nice person. But you know, a job’s a job, and right now, Sheila’s my job. I know how broken up you must be, losing someone as sweet as she was.”

  It was enough to stop him from cursing. He gave me one of those looks somewhere between I wanna beat the shit out of you, and I’d like to buy you a beer. “Huh, you mean you liked Sheila, too?”

  “Of course. I knew her in college before she married Jake. We go way back together. I always respected her. I thought she was a perfect lady.”

  Bubba stared at me, and I sensed that in his cobwebby space where most humans store a brain, rusty gears meshed. I pictured an old gristmill with the millstone slowly turning.

  “Well, why’d you tell all them lies?” His expression told me he wasn’t convinced, and my health was still in jeopardy.

  “Listen to me. Didn’t she get the house? Didn’t she get more money than you guys could spend in a hundred years? Didn’t Jake have to pay her bills? Didn’t you two leave the courthouse laughing at Jake and the judge?” I leaned back on the couch like I didn’t have a care in the world.

  The millstone made another revolution. Bubba walked over and dropped into a recliner. “Yeah, I guess she kinda did. But you didn’t plan for her to get a dime.”

  “Of course I did.” I could see a ray of sunshine beginning to show—right through his ears. I didn’t say anymore. I didn’t move. I wanted to give him every opportunity to think, and I figured any small distraction would be like a volcano erupting on a small ocean island.

  “Maybe you ain’t so bad after all.” He stood, sticking out a hand the size of a country ham. I reached and watched my hand disappear up to the elbow, or so it seemed. The thought crossed my mind that if he wanted, he could send me looking for a prosthetic device. I was lucky. He only jerked it up and down several times like priming a pump. He almost lifted me off the couch with each motion. “You all right. I like you.”

  I was relieved when he finally turned me loose. I counted my fingers, something I’d been doing a lot recently. They were still tender from shaking hands with Sam Raleigh. I was glad to find Bubba had also left five.

  “I want to find the person who killed her, and I want to find out who burned the house. I need your help.”

  Bubba shook his head, saying, “You think somebody killed her? Naw, everybody loved Sheila.” He settled back into his chair.

  “I know she was special. But somebody doused the house with enough gasoline to fuel the Indianapolis 500. Now, if they did that, I’m betting they killed Sheila first.” I stopped because Bubba’s face was turning ugly.

  He bounced out of his chair, stretching up even taller—seemed like about ten feet—and said, “I’ll kill the sonofabitch. You find’m, and I’ll rip his head off. He shouldn’t have hurt my Sheila.” Then he collapsed in his chair, crying.

  Any doubts I’d had about Bubba’s innocence washed away with his tears. He cried like a three-year old. If he hadn’t been so big, I might have put my arm around his shoulder to comfort him, but I wasn’t going to take any chances he might misinterpret my empathy.

  He cried about five minutes while I let my eyes roam his apartment. It was obvious Sheila hadn’t bought him any expensive presents, or if she had, he didn’t keep them here. I didn’t spot anything beyond a chauffeur’s wages, or a yard sale.

  “Okay, what’re we gonna do? You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” He wiped his eyes, blew his nose in a red bandanna and stood. “Get up. We got work to do. We gotta find Sheila’s killer. I’m gonna hire you, and when you find him, I’m gonna kill him.”

  “Slow down,” I said. “I already have a client.” I tried to explain I was working for Jake, and I could only work for one person at a time, but he didn't buy it. He’d used up his quota of brains for the day. After three tries, I gave up. “You wanna hire me, it’s going to cost you two bills a day.” I figured he’d say it was too much. That way, I could scoot out by refusing to charge less.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Two hundred a day? You’re hired. Do I start paying today or tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow,” I squeaked.

  FIVE

  I approached the door with trepidation. I hate going through doors not knowing what’s on the ot
her side. There have been too many surprises, too many times when I wish I’d stayed out. I fitted the key into the lock and turned it. A quiet click as the tumblers fell into position was the only sound. The deadbolt slipped backward noiselessly. I sighed. Gently, I turned the knob and pushed the front door inward. The heavy wooden door swung on its brass hinges, easing its way open until there was almost enough space for me to squeeze through. Then, a telltale squeak, a shriek of protest from a hinge not properly oiled. I froze, not daring to move. Maybe the sound went unheard. Maybe my luck would be good for a change. I held my breath until my lungs protested, forcing me to exhale. I sucked in fresh air, congratulating myself, thinking I had made it. There was no noise, no sounds indicating the squeak had been heard. As soon as the slit was large enough to accommodate me, I stepped through. I turned to close the door, and a force shoved me into the wall.

  I fell, a heavy weight riding my shoulders. Sweeper had again won our game. I rolled over, laughing. Sweeper moved with me, ending on my chest. It was dark in the house, but enough moonlight sneaked though the curtains for me to see his eyes. I swear he was smirking, as if saying, “Ha, gotcha again.” Once more, I congratulated myself for giving him the right name. Nothing gets past a good sweeper on a soccer team, and nothing gets by my Sweeper.

  “Okay, you old tomcat,” I said, as I gave his ears a scratching. “One of these days, I’m gonna sneak in and surprise you. Where’s Striker, ghosting again?”

  I climbed to my feet, holding Sweeper in my arm, and hit the light switch. I saw what I expected. The living room was a mess. The lamp that usually stood on the table by the couch lay on its side. The tops of the tables were bare. My boys are excellent at demonstrating their displeasure at being left alone, and they never fail to welcome me home by clearing all the tables.