A Living Grave

by Robert E. Dunn

  “I do business with money. Not people. Johnny’s problem was he couldn’t stick to the money at hand. He always kept trying to reach into another pot.”

  “I can see how that could be a bad habit.”

  “Fuckin’ A.”

  “Is that what got him killed?”

  Figorelli looked right into my eyes for the first time. Cardo stared from over his shoulder, still smiling that lifeless show of crooked teeth.

  “You asking me if that was what got him dead, or if I killed him for it? Because me and Cardo here were enjoying the local highlife all day long. But you know that.”

  “Some people kill with the gun and some with the word. Maybe that’s why you took advantage of the local highlife, such as it is. So everyone would know where you were when Johnny got popped.”

  “You seen too many movies, Detective. Are we through here? I’ve got some things need taking care of.”

  “I’m sure whatever it is can wait for one more question. What’s Leech mean to you?”

  “Leech?” He repeated the word without understanding. “What the fuck is leech? Another redneck delicacy?” He laughed as much at me as at what he’d said. It was meaningless to him.

  “Listen,” he said. “There’s no hard feelings here. You come on by Moonshines and it’s all on me. And tell your boyfriend, I’ll be talking to him. We got business to settle.”

  “He told you no. Seems to me it’s pretty settled.”

  “Things change,” he said. “We’re partners now that Johnny bought it. Maybe now he’s ready to let go. He can just retire and paint. Leave work to the regular slobs like me.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was telling me something or just talking to hear himself. I did latch on to one word, though. “Partners?”

  “See, you don’t know everything, do you? I bet your boyfriend don’t, either. Johnny borrowed money from me. He secured it with his share of Moonshines. Funny thing is—Johnny didn’t tell boyfriend about me. He sure didn’t tell me about boyfriend. Things have a way of coming out in the wash, know what I mean? You ask me, a guy like that—he’s just looking for what he got.”

  “You’re a class act, Figorelli. I don’t care who says different.”

  “Class, huh? Like this whole state—peckerwoods, crappy music, and bikers. That’s where Johnny had problems. Why aren’t you hassling those shitbirds?”

  I didn’t answer. I left him standing there staring at me as I walked away.

  * * *

  After rattling the cage with Figorelli, I decided to check on another cage. Our jail is run by a 300-pound former deputy who seemed to care less with every pound he added. His name, Donald Duques, condemned him at an early age to be known only as “Duck.” He was friendly to me in some bizarre, old-school way that seemed to assume that no observation or comment was off-limits. It took me a while to understand how to handle him. Turns out, he likes it mean and feisty right back, so . . .

  “What’s up, Duck?” I asked at his wire-mesh cage.

  “What’s got up you, Hurricane?” he said, winking. Even that little movement made his chins wiggle. “Someone good, I hope.”

  “You know I’m just waiting for you to lose enough weight so we can find things.”

  “Oh, funny girl. You be careful what you go looking for. It’s liable to be more than you can handle. Now, what you wantin’ in my jail?”

  “Besides you?”

  “Even an old man’s got his dreams.”

  “Figorelli or that other guy, Cardo,” I reminded him. “Visitors? Phone calls?”

  “Figorelli made one call after processing. Then they both settled in to wait. They acted like it was a party. Met with a lawyer couple of hours later. Guy in a shiny suit. It wasn’t much of a party after that. They made bail at arraignment the next morning. Cash. Never heard a peep out of them otherwise.”

  I nodded and worked through the timing in my head. A couple of hours after they got here someone shot at Middleton and missed. No better alibi than being in custody. “Anything at all strike you as strange?”

  “What do I know from strange when it comes to the lowlifes? Most of them only talk about freedom to live the way they want, but keep doing the things that put them inside. You ask me, half the world has some kind of defective gene.”

  “Okay. Thanks for your insights into the human condition. Do you have the kid?” I asked. “Barnes?”

  “Juvenile segregation and suicide watch. He just sits there staring at the wall and marking it up.”

  “Marking? With what?”

  “Either he had a coin we didn’t catch when we searched him or he found one in the cell. He was using it to scratch things in the paint. As if this place needed more decoration.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  Duck looked me over like I was an attractive mule who had just asked him to dance. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons.

  “It’s your case, but you know a kid with no parents and no lawyer—anything he says won’t make it into court.”

  “I know the drill,” I told him. “I’m going to talk to him, not question.”

  “Explain the difference and you could be his lawyer too. But there’s the other thing.”

  “The other thing?”

  “They say you went all God’s vengeance on the kid. Not that he didn’t deserve it. Still, I ain’t lettin’ you in the cell with him and I’m not putting him in an interview room alone with you. Other than that, it’s your case—go on and fuck it up.”

  Duck was an ass but he wasn’t wrong. Keeping the kid out of my reach was just good sense that protected me, Danny, and Duck. He was right about the interview as well. Anything Danny said to me could not be used. Even though he’d been Mirandized, he was a juvenile. Parents or his lawyer had to be in the room if I wanted information that could be used against him. But that wasn’t what I wanted.

  “Hello, Danny,” I said from just beyond his cell door.

  “I don’t have to talk to you,” he said instantly. His tone was surly and defensive and he practically spit the words out.

  “No, you don’t,” I answered. “But I thought I’d try.”

  “Try what?”

  “Just talking, Danny.”

  “You had no right to hit me like that. Sneaky bitch. I coulda kicked your ass if you didn’t sneak up on me.”

  I already wanted to pull him out and give him another beating. Instead I said, “Threatening people, especially cops, isn’t the way to help your case, is it?”

  I waited for an answer but he just pushed his shoulder deeper into the corner and stared at the painted brick. The area above his wall-mounted bed was scratched with fresh marks. Danny worked hard while he had his coin. He had written Carrie’s name several times over and in different ways. The only thing featured more prominently was the name, Leech. In places the right angle and arrows were incorporated into the name and in others it stood alone like clock hands, eternally frozen fifteen minutes apart.

  “Has Carrie been to see you?”

  “Of course not. I’ll never see her again until she gets away from her mother. You made sure of that.”

  “What do you mean, gets away?” I asked.

  “When she’s eighteen. Then she can walk out of there and never look back. Then she’ll come be with me.”

  “Be with you? In jail?”

  “I won’t go to jail.”

  I wasn’t sure if the fact that he was already in a jail was lost on him or if he was clear-thinking enough to mean he would not go to prison.

  “Why are you sure you won’t go to jail?”

  “You don’t know anything. When I’m out of here I’m going to sue you and the cops. You’ll be sorry and I’ll be rich and you won’t be talking down to me anymore.”

  “Danny, I’m sorry if you think I’m talking down to you. I don’t mean to. I’m just trying to understand.”

  “You can’t understand. Not yet. You will, though, when I get what’s coming to me.”
<
br />   “What’s coming to you, Danny?”

  “Everything I want,” he said, growling with energy now. For the first time he came out of the corner and off the bed. His eyes were jittery in his head like he didn’t know where to look or maybe he saw something I couldn’t. Something moving. Danny stood at the door to his cell with his hands at his sides and his face knotted in concentration. “I get everything. And I get Carrie. Rewards come to the ones who serve the best and that’s us. We did everything and we get everything. When she has the baby then you’ll see.”

  It would be easy to say the kid’s train had skipped the tracks. There were a couple of bits of information to follow up on, though. Was Carrie Owens pregnant? And who was it he thought he was serving?

  I didn’t get the answers from him. I didn’t get any more from him at all that time. Danny stood still in front of his door and just darted his eyes at the rest of my questions. I didn’t get the feeling that he was mentally troubled. It just gave the impression that he was being a smart-ass, acting crazy.

  * * *

  After my time in the jail I wanted to be outside. Since none of my calls had panned out, I decided to check up on Clare. He wasn’t at his home but I had an idea of where to find him that I wanted to check out. Friday, while Nelson was being tended to by the EMTs, I had wandered to the cliff over which he had been painting. I had seen a bit of white smoke curling up from under a canopy of oak, walnut, and hawthorn. It was a clean white smoke, seasoned wood. The fact that there was smoke at all suggested to me it was a new fire, not yet hot enough for full combustion. At the time I didn’t think a lot about it, but it struck me that Clare would have to build up his new still camp after being run off.

  It took a little prowling around but I found him about where I expected to. The new camp was more compact than the last and the spring it was alongside was smaller, but even clearer, if possible. Driving up, I caught Clare building up a new compost bin.

  “You’re the only environmentally conscious moonshiner I’ve ever heard of, Clare,” I said as I got out of the SUV.

  “We’re not all toothless bumpkins with no worldview.”

  “Worldview?” I asked. “I think you’re one up on me.”

  “I come from a long line of farmers. My granddaddy went bust in the Dust Bowl days. Most of that was because the land was used in ignorance. All those old guys learned from their mistakes and built the land back up.”

  “So your worldview is hillbilly hippie? How does that set with tax evasion and unregulated production of controlled substances?”

  “Did you know I was a teacher?” I must have looked surprised because he laughed to see the expression. “Yep. High school history for twenty years. Before that, I was a different kind of teacher.” Both the tone of his voice and look on his face said there was a story there. He shrugged them off and asked, “Wanna know another secret? Most of my life I’ve voted Democrat.”

  It was my turn to laugh and Clare joined in. As far as I knew, no Democrat had won an office in Taney County in the last fifty years.

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let that get around,” he said. “I am what you call a fiscal conservative, but since I take some social liberties of my own I would hate to take them from anyone else.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You’re a renaissance man. Are you trying to make a point?”

  “I am. Taxes should be paid, but not as a means to control individuals and benefit industries. Regulations are important because industries put profit and shareholders above the resources they should be stewarding. I’m a good steward and I run a homegrown business that hurts no one and helps those I do business with.”

  “You like to give the same kinds of lectures as my uncle.”

  “Orson’s a good man, but I’m not just flapping my gums. There’s something about that distillery restaurant.”

  “Moonshines?”

  “Yeah. The way I understood it they had to jump through lots of hoops to get licenses.”

  “Well, the liquor industry is heavily regulated.”

  “That’s the thing. This place is outside of the industry. I said lots of hoops but I didn’t say difficult ones. Something is rotten with that place because the kind of people who would shut me down in a second don’t look twice at a place like that.”

  “Rotten?”

  “As Denmark,” he said.

  “What about other moonshiners? Are they getting the same pressure to stop?”

  “Almost everyone I know has stopped. Or, like me, they moved deeper into the woods to cook and it’s mostly about the cooking. The doing what you want and waving the big screw-you at everyone else. Hardly anyone is selling.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Beats me,” he said, shrugging. He put a hand on the side of his compost bin to check the sturdiness. It held. “But there are two possibilities as I see it. Either the people who buy are scared to do it, or they’re getting it at a better price.”

  I thought of Byron Figorelli. “There’s another option,” I said. “They could be scared and taking the price they’re given.”

  Clare shook his head and looked out over his camp. “That’s the old days. And stuff like that is about the money. I made a profit of about seven grand last year. Most of the guys I know do a lot less. It’s just not worth it.”

  Maybe he was right but it bore looking into. When I got my information back from the e-mails and phone messages from that morning I would have more to go on. One thing for certain: Figorelli was in it for the money. So where’s the money coming from?

  * * *

  After leaving Clare I went up the road to Carrie Owens’s home. That was when I walked face-first into the connection I’d been looking for. The door opened quickly, forcing out a wash of air. It carried a heavy smell of cigarettes and sour beer. For the first time I was face-to-face with Carrie’s mother. She was the same woman I’d seen on the back of Leech’s bike.

  Mrs. Owens wasn’t happy to see me. “Go away,” she said as soon as she saw me. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  I was stunned. I stood there with my mouth hanging open for a moment, waiting for more tumblers to fall into place. They didn’t. Nothing magically opened up to show me the whole story. I finally managed to shut my mouth and say, “I have some questions.”

  “I don’t care,” she said and tried to close the door. I put my hand up and held it open.

  “We can do it here and friendly, or we can go in and make it official.”

  “What do you even want from me?”

  “May I step inside?” I asked, trying to sound reasonable about it.

  She said, “No.”

  “What’s Leech’s name?”

  It was her turn to stand openmouthed. Her surprise was not at all what I’d expected.

  “Leech,” she said as a statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” I said. “I want his name and how to find him.”

  “Leech,” she said again.

  “Yeah, Leech,” I said back, getting a little exasperated. “I need his name.”

  “Are you a crazy woman?”

  “What?” She surprised me a second time.

  “Leech is just some made-up kid thing. There ain’t no other name.”

  I didn’t let my mouth gape that time but it was an effort. I’d made so many assumptions based on a name carved on some trees. It was like Danny and Carrie had seen me coming.

  “The biker,” I said. Her eyes got large and she looked past me, glancing each way up the street.

  “How do you know? Who’s been talking about me?”

  “I saw you. You were on the back of his bike at my dock.”

  She stared blankly. She didn’t remember and I believed it. She’d looked like she was on something at the time.

  “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Riley. Riley Pruitt,” she said. As easy as that.

  If I hadn’t spent all that time chasing an imaginary Leech, I probably would have had him
by now. I pulled out my notebook and wrote the name down, then asked, “Where can I find Mr. Pruitt?”

  “How the hell should I know? He shows up when he shows.” She craned her neck, trying to see the length of the street around me.

  I couldn’t tell if she was trying to see if the neighbors were watching or if she was expecting someone. “Is he on his way here?”

  Like a kid caught peeking at something she shouldn’t, Mrs. Owens pulled her head back and centered her gaze at about my collarbone. “What do you want? We’re good people.” Then she looked me in the eyes, a slow thought blooming in her face. “This is just between us, isn’t it? It doesn’t have to be public?”

  “It depends—”

  “I have a husband.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not like you think. Everything is over. You know, all but the paperwork. But I have a chance with Riley.”

  “Right now, I think you might be more concerned about your daughter.”

  “She can stay with her dad. This ain’t about her. It’s about me.”

  “Ma’am, I don’t think you understand.”

  “No, that’s not a good idea, is it?”

  She wasn’t really listening to me. There was some kind of selfish dialogue playing in her head, making plans and excuses.

  “Ma’am,” I said, firm as a smack. “I need to talk to Riley Pruitt about the murder of Angela Briscoe. You need to help me find him.”

  “No,” she said. “No. You got Danny. You got the little bastard that’s been around my girl. Who knows what all he’s done. But you got him. He’s the one.”

  “I still need to talk to Pruitt.”

  “This can’t be happening.”

  “And I need to talk to Carrie, too.”

  “What?” That brought a new focus to her eyes. “What for?”

  “She lied to me. She’s involved with Danny Barnes.”

  “Leave her out of it,” she said with a fire building under her words.

  “I can’t do that, ma’am.”

  “We’ll hire a lawyer,” she threatened. “Don’t think we won’t.” That point she emphasized with a bony finger pointed right at my chest.

  “Ma’am, I don’t believe your daughter is accused of any crime,” I tried to tell her.