I shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Like the woman said, everything means something.”
“Just leave it, okay?”
“Why we coming here?” Cope’s face had gone hard, a piece of black volcanic glass, sculpted with harsh angles.
Because once upon a time, I ate here. Because my step-father ate here. Because this was our baseball diamond and football field. When my friends had sports with their fathers, we had Johnny’s Barbecue. We had photos and theories, stories, all drowning beneath sauce and coleslaw and, later on, beer.
“It was our place.”
“Y’all’s?”
“Mine. My step-father’s.”
“Huh. Done came here, ate some ribs, and tried to solve y’all’s worlds.”
I nodded. “And theirs.”
“Mama and Step-Daddy?”
It was an indoor restaurant, but with three giant garage doors on the north side. In the summer time, when barbeque eating went late into the night while people searched for a time of day that was cooler, those doors opened into a patio ringed by a knee-high brick wall. Neon beer signs, along with strings of lights in the shape of cilantro peppers, made the place feel festive.
“No. Fagan and Hopper’s.”
There was a sign, still hanging crooked on the front door that had been there as long as I could remember and that was going back twenty years or more. Don’t take no cridit cards. No checks, neither. If it ain’t green, don’t bring it in.
That’s how the poker game had been. The guy running it had wanted straight up cash, baby. No credit, no bullshit, no fucking around. Cash on the table or get your ass out.
“Spell ’bout as well as I do,” Cope said.
“Doesn’t matter as long as they can cook.”
Inside, I stopped and inhaled deeply for a long minute. The gumbo of smells—vinyl booth seats, sauce, grease and beer, stale sweat and chaos of perfumes and colognes—nearly knocked me on my ass. Memories flooded me, too many even to sort out, too many to savor. Flashes of dinners and lunches or drinking sessions punctuated by a sandwich or a bowl of onion rings.
“Y’all’s face pretty funky.” Cope took a deep breath. “Y’all best tell me we didn’t slide into the cops’ lair just to get some bones.”
“Cops are blocks away.”
“Don’t that make me feel better. We ain’t here just for bones, are we?”
“Bones and information.”
Fagan and Hopper had come here all the time. Gotten blitzed on ribs, hot links, and cheap beer.
“I called Hopper, too.”
“The radio boy?”
“Yeah. He was a little surprised to hear from me.”
“I bet...y’all being a murderer and all.”
“Yeah. But it’s been a lotta years, too. I asked him to come see us here.”
“Why?”
“Because of your letter.”
“Ah. I seen a look on y’all’s face.”
“He’ll be here in a little while. We’re going to eat, then talk to him, see if maybe he has some answers.”
“Y’all think he do?”
“Better chance than anyone. There’s no way in hell Fagan came to town, looking for smoke and snootch, and didn’t get in touch with Hopper.”
“What’d he say on the phone?”
“I didn’t ask him. Just told him to come eat with a friend.”
The serving line ran the length of the place, along one wall. Grab a dark blue tray, some of the industrial silverware, a cheap napkin, give the cooks an order. Came out at the end with a tray full of food, sides in a basket, drink in a plastic amber tumbler, and a bill.
Tray in hand, I stared at all the faces I recognized. Most had worked here since Moses came down from the fucking mountain looking for kosher barbecue and they all knew me. No way in hell they didn’t know what had happened.
“Y’all ain’t looking so good, White-Boy Darcy.”
“Shut up, Cope.”
I was about half sure they’d serve me lunch and politely wait for me to leave. If I didn’t move fast enough, they’d move me along. But they wouldn’t call the cops. Too many of their customers sat astride that same line. They didn’t care as long as you paid, didn’t tear anything up, and didn’t bring anything down on their heads.
“We’re fine,” I said again as the sound of midday traffic on Spring Street filtered in past the blues playing in the background.
“Who y’all trying to convince?”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah...uh...give me the two meat combo. Brisket and hotlinks.”
“Brisket and links, comin’ up.”
“Bones and beans,” Cope said. “Y’all got any cucumbers? Not slices but whole cukes.”
“Got no cukes, got some pretty good ear-corn.”
“Good enough then. Bones, beans, and two ears,” Cope said.
“Half’a’full?”
“Ain’t man enough for a full, brother.”
The cook laughed. “You more man than all us together, I ‘spect.”
Cope nudged me. “Leave extra tip for that one, he just made my day.”
We chose a table outside, reckless though it probably was. We weren’t facing Spring Street, but a side street. Plus, I knew damn well most people wanted on warrant—as I was—only got picked up when they did something else first. Speeding or broken taillight or some bullshit. Barefield cops were good, but they didn’t automatically know I’d come back home.
In the middle of the patio, Johnny’s had six tables, some in the shade, some in the sun. They were exact copies of the tables in the diner where Lucas had died and I wondered if every diner in the world got their furniture from the same warehouse. Checkered red and white table clothes covered each table, with a centerpiece of ketchup, mustard, salt and pepper, sweet sauce, spicy sauce, and Cholula.
Right now, about half the tables were empty. Twins, call them late thirties, sat just in the shade, a Bible at each right hand, matching khaki pants and bright, nearly matching geometric shirts. They ate with great concentration. The other customers included an old couple and two men, both sporting Barefield Community College T-shirts and Texas Rangers baseball caps. They ate noisily, washed down every small bite with a huge slug of beer.
One thin eyebrow rose over Cope’s left eye. “I’m thinking, don’t matter if Hopper tells y’all nothing or not. I think maybe y’all needed to come here.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“Getting some feeling normal back in y’all’s head.”
“Maybe.”
Butter, melted yellow and slick, dribbled down Cope’s chin from the corn on the cob. He sucked his teeth. “Damn, that’s good. But lookit, see what y’all doing? Y’all coming here before the other place. Step-daddy first, then dead daddy.”
“You want to say it a little louder, so the entire state of Texas can hear?”
Cope chuckled. “Y’all said they already know what you done. Said they won’t do nothing about it.” He finished the corn and moved on to a rib. “Damn, this shit’s good. Look, it’s like you’re communing with the daddy you sad about fucking over. Then you can go to the daddy you really fucked over. Gotta get through one to get to the other.”
“Mr. Darcy,” a tall black man said. He stopped at our table, an empty tub cocked between his waist and right arm, shielded his eyes against the harsh noontime sun. He wore a white apron with L’il J stitched on the left side.
I grinned. “Johnny.”
“Surprised to see you.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Johnny?” Cope asked. “That y’all’s name on the sign?”
“Used to be my daddy’s name. I stole it once he partnered up with Jesus for what I can only believe are Heavenly ribs.”
“These bones right here pretty damned good.” Cope licked his fingers loudly. “Grew up in Chicago, so I’ve got me some experience with ribs.”
Johnny nodded. “Yeah, you probably do. Well, I appreciate your
saying so.” He turned to me. “Heard you had a little trouble.”
“A little.”
“Seeing you back around, I’d guess you got it all figured out.”
“Don’t count them guesses too early,” Cope said.
Johnny nodded, offered a genuine, but small, smile. “Well, it’s good to see you eating again anyway. Take care with the rest.” He turned back just before he left. “You gonna be here long?”
“No, Johnny, not long at all. Don’t worry, I won’t bring a firefight down on you.”
“Well, that’s good. Don’t need another one.”
Cope looked up. “Another one?”
“How Daddy died. Right in this building. Nothing like that, Johnny, I’m just waiting on Hopper. A few questions and we’re out of your hair.”
Now Johnny’s face crinkled as he grinned and shook his head. “Hopper? The smokehound? Shit, I ain’t seen him but three or four times since he went to jail. I hear him sometimes.”
“Yeah, he’s still around.”
Johnny sat, set the tub aside. “We all still around, Darcy. Me, you, Hopper, your daddy—” He caught himself. “Not Fagan, I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“We all from Barefield and we all come back eventually. This place gets in us, Darcy. You know that. Love it and hate it and don’t ever leave it.”
“Y’all sound like one fucked up billboard.”
“How’s this for fucked up,” Johnny said to me. “Ol’ Hop is working ‘All The Way Right.’”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What?” Cope asked.
“Conservative talk radio.” I shook my head. “Weak station, maybe only ten-thousand watts. I can’t believe the owner makes enough money to pay Hopper.”
Johnny shrugged. “Maybe his pay ain’t regular pay.”
“Huh,” Cope said. “Like to hear more of that story.”
Instead, Johnny squeezed my hand, “Take care with all that stuff,” and was gone. He stopped at the table with the twins, wiped a couple of tables down, straightened some sauce bottles, headed back inside.
Cope sat back heavily in his chair. “Y’all makin’ it awfully hard to do my thing.”
“Yeah? What’s your thing?”
“Don’t spend no time worrying about my thing. Just know you fuckin’ it up.”
A few minutes later, as Johnny filled a few tumblers of soda, the bell above the door tinkled. It was a tall man this time, a shock of silver hair sticking out from beneath his brown cowboy hat. His face was angular, hard, plenty of years carved into it. He wore a dark blue denim shirt and khaki pants. His brown boots clomped on the grease-stained hardwood floor.
The hair on the back of my neck stood. “Christ on a shingle. He’s got— He’s wearing a goddamned holster.”
Cope’s hand flashed out, quick and steady, popped my cheek and went back to his coleslaw. “Y’all watch that language.” He took a deep breath. “Damn, this whole thing getting ugly. Thanks.”
“Why are you blaming me?”
“’Cause if y’all hadn’t’a come along, I’d still be in Valentine, bouncing between Esther and Monea’s love patch.”
“I sure as shit didn’t ask you to come along. You could have stayed in that church and beaten yourself silly for all I care.”
Cope nodded. “Yeah, well, ain’t answering to y’all.”
“Who, then?”
“Don’t worry none ’bout my answering.” He nodded toward the man. “What kind of gun he got?”
“Uh...I don’t...I...none. He doesn’t have a gun.”
“An empty holster? That makes good sense.”
The man disappeared behind the soda fountain, came out a moment later. His eyes scanned the patio and he sat at the table directly behind me and Cope.
“Morning, Judge,” Johnny said.
My teeth froze around the link sticking out of my mouth. Cope’s mouth stopped, too, sliver of cabbage hanging out of his mug.
“This isn’t happening.”
“Y’all cain’t be surprised. Y’all told me all the brass ate here. Couldn’t’a just been Barefield PD brass. We waltzed right the fuck downtown.”
“Johnny,” the Judge said.
“Just the drink today?”
“Yes, sir; a little meeting is on the docket today.”
“Good enough.” Johnny cleared his throat and stuttered a few words, as though gathering his courage.
Never heard him like this. All the years I’ve seen him, all the times I’ve been here and I’ve never heard him uncertain.
“Listen, Your Honor.” Johnny’s voice dropped. “I’m wondering. Can you hook me up? I wouldn’t ask, but— Well, I’m a little short, got me a little jones going on.”
Cope’s eyes were as big as Esther’s breasts. The bit of coleslaw stuck to his lip fell to the table. “What the fuck?” he mouthed.
I shrugged.
“Johnny, you’re a good man, a good man,” the Judge said. “It would be an honor to serve you.”
There was some rustling, one of them were rifling through pockets.
“That keep you busy for a while?” the Judge asked.
“For a while, sir,” Johnny said. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.”
“If that little bit gives you as much of a good time as your ribs give me, then we’re even.”
Together the men laughed.
“Come back around in a little bit, I might have something new for you. I have a meeting, but I also have a truck coming through.”
“Truck? You getting a delivery here?” Johnny’s voice was panicked. “Judge, you know I got that trouble behind moonshinin’, I can’t afford no busts in my place.”
“A delivery? Would I do that to you? Absolutely not. One of my trucks is coming through town, on the way to Amarillo. I asked the driver to make a stop and give me a sample.”
Johnny’s voice became nearly a whine. “But, Judge, you cain’t have him dropping goodies here.”
“Calm down, Johnny, it’s just a loaded truck. Goods for the heartland. My driver will have a small sample with him. I’d like to give it to you, get your assessment of the product.”
Who the shit is this judge?
“Well, yeah, Judge, it just makes me a little nervous is all.”
“Nothing at all to worry about.”
Then Johnny gracefully slid past our booth, disappeared into the kitchen. A second later, the back door opened, then banged closed.
“Not sure I wanna stay around with a dope-slinging judge getting a drop off,” Cope said.
No shit, I thought. But Hopper was on his way.
“We can watch for y’all’s boy from across the street.”
“That’ll work.”
Cope set his food down, took a last quick swig, and started to get up.
“Judge,” a new voice said.
My heart stopped in mid-beat. As though someone had reached inside my chest and snapped a toggle switch.
I know that voice. Fuck me and God save my poor soul, I know that voice.
“Shit,” Cope said. “Ain’t likin’ y’all’s face too much.”
“Detective Kurston,” the judge said. “Have a seat.”
Twenty-Two Hours, Forty-Seven Minutes Ago
I coughed up about a gallon of soda. Left it on my lunch, on Cope’s lunch, on the table and floor.
“Well?” the Judge said quickly. “You find it?”
Kurston put himself in the chair directly behind me, bumped his chair into mine, and without looking said, “Excuse me.”
The air was suddenly full of Aqua Velva. The scent of old school cops everywhere.
“That’s a tough search, Judge,” Kurston said. “It’s been missing awhile.”
“Yeah. That’s why I came to you. I figured if anyone could find it....”
Kurston sighed, deep and heavy and somehow oppressive. “I’m sorry, Judge, but I don’t have it.”
“You don’t need to have it, you just need t
o know where it is. I’ll get the damned thing myself.”
“Guns a’blazing?”
“If I have to, goddamned right.”
“Please,” Kurston said. “The less I know about that, the better we both are.”
The Judge chuckled, a tight, dry sound that reminded me of a snare drum. “May be true, that.” A long pause, then, “So not even word of it?”
“Rumors and bullshit. I heard a Ranger had it, then heard a woman had it. I figured both of those were probably Mariana.”
“Damn.”
“Judge? You okay? Got kinda pale on me.”
“You hearing anything about a finger mixed up with all this bullshit?”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” The Judge cleared his throat and it was like a curtain had been closed. Whatever act they’d just been dancing, now it was time for something else. “What can I do for you?”
This whole thing was stupid. Beyond stupid. Asinine. Irrational. I sat less than a foot from the man who wanted to put my ass away for murder. What the hell for? For some information and maybe a few bucks? Or the pendant if the Hand of God came down and gave me any luck at all? How stupid was that? The necklace would be a bullshit apology, anyway. If I really wanted to apologize, I should man up, put myself in Kurston’s hands, and pray to God for all the people I’d killed.
It had to happen this way; there was no way it couldn’t. Kurston had known all along where I was, had known every step and move, every town and bank. There hadn’t been a move I’d made or a thought I had, that SuperCop didn’t know. For whatever reason, Kurston had chosen none of those moments to come get his man.
Kurston had chosen this moment.
Because this is my place. Because this was as close to sacred as any place I have.
“I’m fucked, Judge,” Kurston said.
“You have had some trouble,” the Judge said.
“Trouble isn’t the half of it.” There was a moment of silence, yawning and terrible. “I lost him.”
I closed my eyes, lowered my head. The pain started somewhere deep inside, radiating out everywhere.
“Your son,” the Judge said.
Exit Blood (Barefield Book 2) Page 13
