by Randy Rawls
I sat Sweeper down. He flipped his tail, raised his nose and walked toward the kitchen. His message was clear.
“Striker,” I called. “You can come out now. It’s me.” There was no use looking. He’s an expert at hiding.
When they were kittens, I hired someone to come in and check on them when I was away. The first two trips ended with my returning home after a frantic call from my cat sitter. The message was the same each time although a different person delivered it. “Striker’s gone. I can’t find him anywhere. He must have run out when I opened the door. I’m sorry, so sorry.”
I rushed home expecting the worst—Striker dead, crushed under the wheels of a car. But to my surprise, when I opened the door, he greeted me. Three more times I received panicky phone calls from a sitter. After those episodes, I gave up and left them alone. Two bowls of food and water a day would keep their appetites sated. As for bathroom facilities, I had several litter boxes, and tonight, the house smelled like it.
My first item of business was to haul the litter out and dump it in my neighbor’s compost pile. My trips, four of them, were made in haste, and I hardly looked right or left. Oh, in case you’re wondering, my neighbor asked me to put it in his compost pile. He said it helped the compost cook faster. I thought he was nuts, but it helped me get rid of the boys’ litter.
I sprayed each room with air freshener, then looked for candles and matches. I was lighting candles in the cats’ bathroom when a vision hit me. Had I seen something as I dashed from house to compost pile and back?
I walked to the front room to peek out the window. Striker and Sweeper were there, noses pressed against the panes, staring out. Their tails were double their normal size with the hair standing tall. Low growls and snarls came from their throats. I killed the lights and edged my way to the window. My night vision was shot, but I hoped there’d be enough moonlight to allow me to see.
I peeked out. “What is it, boys? What do you see?” I thought I saw a car creeping along the curb. If there was, it was under the moon shadow of the trees growing alongside the street. The cats’ throaty growls were non-stop. Also, there was movement in my front yard, sneaking closer to the house, blending into the darkness. I saw a head swinging right and left, and a tail swishing—a damn dog.
“Thanks, guys. You scared the hell out of me to let me know a dog was passing though. Some watch-cats you are.” As I berated the boys, I heard an engine start. Looking at the street, I saw a car accelerating away, its lights flicking on as it gained speed.
Thirty minutes later, I still paced the floor, trying to piece it together. Why had the cats been growling? Did I see a car creeping down the street with its lights off? Was it the same car I saw down the block turning on its lights as it drove off? Was I getting too old for this business?
“Okay, boys, family meeting.” I dropped into my recliner and Striker took his customary position in my lap while Sweeper claimed the arm of the chair. “I’ll fill you in on our current case.” I told them the details, including the people I’d met. “Got any clues for me?”
Sweeper jumped to the floor and disappeared from the room. I scratched Striker behind the ears. “At least one of you guys is loyal and will tolerate my stories.”
Sweeper bounded into the room in hot pursuit of their favorite toy, a miniature soccer ball. The two of them play with it for hours, contesting every touch. This time though, Striker stayed in my lap.
Sweeper dribbled around my chair several times then launched an accurate shot at the corner. Once he followed up, he stared at me.
“Very good, Sweeper. Again, you prove your name to be a good one. Now, it’s time for bed.”
Before heading for the bedroom, the boys and I checked the windows, doors, and locks. I found my Beretta, checked the magazine, and laid it on the nightstand. I might be getting old, but I wasn’t taking any chances. When I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up, the boys were underneath. They usually sleep on top.
SIX
The next afternoon, I returned to Cisco where I picked up Bubba. We were in my car, heading for the Down Home Bar. He said Sheila’s friends hung out there.
“Bubba, where were you the night Sheila’s house burned?” I’d put off asking, afraid Bubba might take offense.
“You got a nice car here. Someday, I’d like a convertible like this.”
“Thank you, but you didn’t answer my question. Where were you when Sheila’s house burned?”
“I was kinda hoping you wouldn’t ask again. Now that you work for me, you ask other people things like that, not me.”
“If you don’t talk to me, I’ll not work for you. I don’t work for anybody unless I’m sure they’re innocent.” I hoped he would connect the dots and give me an answer.
“Yeah. That mean you think Adams is innocent?”
I wondered about Jake. I didn’t want to believe he had anything to do with Sheila’s death, but he had good reasons to be happy. Bubba waited for an answer. I lied. “That’s what it means. I don’t think Jake did it.”
“Humph, maybe you’re not so smart, after all.”
“Bubba, you hired me. If you change your mind, just say so. I’ll let you out of our contract.”
“Nah, you’re still on the payroll. But, I don’t think you oughta write Adams off. You ain’t heard all the things I have.”
“You’re right, I haven’t. However, that still doesn’t answer my question. Where were you the night Sheila died?”
“You ain’t gonna quit askin’, are you?”
“Nope.”
He inhaled deeply, then blew it out. “Okay. We had a fight. She said she had plans for the night, and she didn’t want me around. I knew what that meant. It meant she had a guy coming by. She was…ah…she liked…ah hell, she liked a new guy whenever she could find one.” Bubba’s head hung, his expression like a whipped dog.
“I understand. Remember, she did the same thing to Jake.”
His head jerked up, and he glared at me with an intensity that made me wish I hadn’t said that. “All right, Mistah Cop. You think I don’t know—don’t think I know I took a man’s wife away—don’t have no conscience. I knowed I shouldn’ta done it, but I loved her so much. I still love her.” Tears streaked his cheeks.
I watched him, wondering if I’d ever met a grown man with so many tears. We had reached the Down Home Bar. I pulled to the back of the parking lot where it was darkest. I sat, giving Bubba time to recover.
After a few minutes, Bubba blew his nose in his red bandanna then continued where he’d left off. “She told me to get lost for the night and don’t come back ’til tomorrow afternoon. I argued with her, told her I loved her. She laughed at me. She said I was her stud, but tonight she had other plans. She told me not to worry, she’d be using my services a lot more times.”
Bubba stopped talking, and I whispered, “That must have hurt.”
“That’s not all she said. She said I’d be there anytime she needed me. She said all she had to do was pop her thighs, and I’d come running like a puppy. I was so mad I just hadda bend something. I charged out—and, and, never saw her again. She’s dead, ain’t she?” The creases on Bubba’s face showed the depth of his despair.
I looked at him, wondering how it would feel to love someone so completely, so deeply. As I sat there watching a man twice my size cry his heart out because he dared to love, I wondered if that was why Janice left me. Maybe that was how love was supposed to be. Maybe I didn’t have the capacity to love her enough.
I wanted to give him time to settle down, but after several minutes, I interrupted. “Where did you go? What did you do?”
He wiped his eyes and sniffed. “I drove down to the tree farm. You know, the one Adams kept so he’d always have hardwood for his fireplace. Sheila got it in the divorce. I cut down trees, sawed them to fireplace length, and split them. I musta cut and stacked about a cord that night. I worked all the mad out of me. I wanted to go back to the house, but she’d told me to
stay away. I came here to the Down Home and had a few drinks with the gang. Then Sonny and I took a coupla cases of long necks to my place and drank ’til we fell asleep.”
“Sonny who?”
“Sonny Barrow. That’s his pickup over there. You can ask him when we go inside. But, better let me tell’m you’re okay. Sonny’s kinda quick tempered, if you know what I mean.”
I knew what he meant. I grew up in Cisco. “One last question before we go in. When did you find out about the fire?”
“The next afternoon. Sonny and I slept late and woke up with hangovers. I heard it on the radio. The man said the Adams house burned to the ground, and the police found two bodies in the ashes.” Again, his head dropped, but he fought the tears. “I knew, somehow I knew she was dead. Sonny and I drove to the house, then to the county cop station. They said the firemen had found the bodies so we drove over there.”
Bubba had been mumbling but now he looked up and stared at me. “That’s when I found out Mr. Adams had hired hisself a private cop. I talked to that punk fireman and he told me all about finding the bodies and the Dallas cop who was here to make them look bad. I figured if I waited, you’d be around.” He grinned, a look of triumph on his face. “I figured if you wuz any good, I’d hire you, too. You did come around, and I hired you. I’m still hoping you’re good.”
It was time for me to put on my hard look. I glared at Bubba. “Let’s get a couple of things straight. Yes, I said I’d work for you, and yes, I told Jake I’d work for him. But understand this—understand it now. I find out either one of you had anything to do with that arson or those murders, I’ll do my damnedest to put you under the jail. You got that? Cause if you don’t, we’re quits right now.”
He rocked back in the seat and stared. I doubt very many people talked to him like that and got away with it.
He clenched his fists a few times as I waited, not sure whether to get a solid grip on my Beretta or take it like a man.
Finally, he said, “Okay. But you better treat me and Adams the same, you understand? You better not let his money buy you, or I’ll break every bone in your body.”
“Deal,” I said.
“Deal,” he echoed.
* * * *
When we walked into the Down Home, the chatter stopped as the patrons stared at us. Except for the TVs and the jukebox, it was quiet as a funeral home at three in the morning. The thick cigarette smoke hung like a gray veil dangling from the ceiling. Bubba walked around the room speaking to first one and then another. They answered him, shook hands and exchanged high-fives, but their eyes stayed on me. When Bubba got to the bar, he said in a loud voice, “Give me two long neck Buds, one for me and one for my friend, Ace Edwards.”
I was afraid the bartender might have a heart attack. His mouth dropped opened, and his face turned red. Either that or he’d suffer serious eyestrain from staring at me.
Bubba said, “Hojo, you know I don’t like to repeat myself, and I don’t like to wait for my beer. Now, move it.”
About the time I figured somebody might get hurt with a flying beer bottle, Hojo moved with a speed that belied his size—about three hundred pounds. In the flick of an eye, two uncapped long necks sat on the bar.
Bubba picked up the beers and handed one to me. He leaned his back against the bar, hooking one of his boots on the bar rail. “Y’all listen up now,” he said loud enough to gain silence in the room. “Ah want y’all ta meet mah friend. This here’s Mistah Ace Edwards. He’s an expensive private detective from Dallas, and I done hahr’d him to find out who killed Sheila and burnt her house. I know you gonna hep him all ya kin.”
Was it my imagination or had he cranked up his good ol’ boy accent a few notches? “Now, I want y’all ta come on up heah and introduce yourselves. Maybe later, Mistah Edwards will wanna ask you some questions. Be a good idear to answer him. Oh, one other thing. Tell’m the truth.”
Now, I’ve been in many places, and I’ve been introduced to many people, but this may well have been the most effective introduction I ever received.
A tap on the shoulder caused me to turn toward the bar.
“I’m Ben Wallace. Everybody calls me Hojo ’cause I worked in a Howard Johnson’s once. I’m mighty please to make your acquaintance.”
Another tap took me back to the crowd. “Mr. Edwards, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Sonny Barrow. Bubba’s my best friend. We get drunk together all the time.”
I met Hojo, Sonny, Arizona, Tex, Little Tex, Cactus, Dogface, Steer, Tattoo and Jonathan. Many of the people I met had pictures in Jake’s files, his private investigation files.
I was about to ask Jonathan about his name when a disturbance in the crowd caught my attention. When I looked through the heads, I saw Sheila walking toward me. I did a double-take, shook my head, and blinked several times but it was still Sheila—the Sheila I’d known in college, the Sheila who married Jake, a Sheila who could melt every man's heart in a room.
I watched as she moved closer, pausing to speak with first one patron then another, establishing herself with the crowd.
When she was about five feet away, my mind quit doubting itself, and I saw the differences between Sheila and this woman. Although the style and appearance were similar, this one appeared warmer, more compassionate. And as beautiful as Sheila was, this look-alike was more beautiful.
As she neared, I stepped out to greet her, but she said, “Hello, Mr. Edwards, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard wonderful things about you. I’m Terri Hart.”
Taking the hand she offered, I found it warm, soft, and comforting. I covered our hands with my free hand, hoping she wouldn’t pull away. She didn’t. I’m forty-two years old and balding, although I think I do an excellent job of camouflaging the loss. Yet, this woman opened new portals into my soul. I heard myself answering like a fifteen-year-old, tongue-tied youngster. “Why, ah, Miss Hart, it’s, ah, it’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” That’s as far as I got. I was lost in her midnight blue eyes.
She withdrew her hand and tossed her shoulder length red hair. “If I can help, please call me anytime. Sheila was everybody’s friend.”
She looked into my face and her eyes swallowed me. I stammered, “Do you come here much? If you do, I’ll make this my headquarters.” I gave her one of my best grins. “Maybe when I wrap this case, we can talk privately.”
She smiled, then walked away—the crowd parting like water before a sleek yacht—with my gaze glued to her gorgeous derriere. The straight skirt she wore made her as lovely moving away as coming toward me.
As I stood falling in love, a blow to my back jolted me back to the present. I looked around. Standing behind me, getting ready to slap me again, was a pimply-faced young man. Where Terri Hart brought to mind a sleek yacht, he was a garbage scow.
“Hey, Mr. Edwards. I’m shore glad to meet you. I feel like I know you already. Shucks, you been the talk of the town ever since you blew in. Even my sister talks about you. You must be some stud to turn her thermostat up.” He giggled and lifted his arm again. I countered by grabbing his hand in a firm handshake.
“That’s nice, but who the hell are you?” I looked for Bubba, hoping he’d rescue me.
“Oh, ’scuse me, Mr. Edwards. My momma’d whup my butt if she knowed I forgot my manners like that. I’m Joey Hart, Terri’s brother. Most people call me Joey-Boy. I’d shore be honored if you’d call me Joey-Boy like other folks.”
I looked him over. “Okay, Joey-uh-boy. You’re Terri’s brother?” Once again, I proved the obvious never escapes me. “Any more of you Harts around?”
Joey-Boy threw back his head and laughed, more of a snorting. “Nah, you’ve met us all, or all that hang out here. My dad’s a good Baptist and won't come near this place and Mom, well, she does what Dad says.”
“I’m glad to know. Too many Harts can give you a coronary.” I grinned at my joke, looking him over. Terri’s brother? I had doubts. She was tall and statuesque while he was short and s
quatty. Her complexion was clear and unblemished. His was pockmarked and splotchy. She spoke as if she owned the world. He talked as if he’d stumbled in from the backwoods. She was a sleek fighter plane. He was a lumbering Gooney Bird.
“You’re lookin’ at me like ev’rybody does who meets Terri first.” A frown creased his forehead. “Let me answer all your dam’ questions. Yes, I’m Terri’s brother. She looks like Mom. I look like Dad. We ain’t no kin of Sheila Adams. Terri just looks like her. Terri’s thirty and I’m twenty-two. She ain’t married. If you wuz to ask her, she might go out with you, that is if her other business don’t git in the way. She ain’t no virgin but she ain’t easy. We ain’t got no other brothers or sisters. Anythin’ else you wanna know?”
I was embarrassed at how well he’d sized me up. Every one of those questions had cut a swath through my head. “Ah, thanks. I believe you answered all my questions.”
A waitress saved me from further embarrassment as she made her way through the crowd. “Oh Miss,” I said, “could you bring me a Killian’s, please? Joey, you want something?”
“Shore, if you’re buying. Margie, bring me my favorite.”
The waitress said, “Your taste is shitty even when somebody else buys.” The look on her face said the rest.
Joey snorted again. “She don’t think much of Louisiana Bayou beer. But man, I’m here to tell you, that’s good stuff.”
I didn’t follow up. I’d never heard of Louisiana Bayou. “Joey, did you know Sheila?”
“Ah shit, Mr. Edwards, ev’rybody knowed Sheila. And, I do prefer Joey-Boy.” He lowered his voice and leaned into me. “I don’t think you want to call me what most women do—Lovetoy.” He snorted a couple of more times.
I stepped back. I did not want to call him Lovetoy. While I tried to think of something new to say or, better yet, a way to escape, the waitress showed with the beers. There was indeed a beer named Louisiana Bayou. It had a strange smell, like formaldehyde. I’ve heard formaldehyde speeds up the aging.
