“I do.”
“But we’re not.”
“I got sidetracked. It happens. Okay, here’s what I know about him: While he was in prison, Quinton hooked up with the Brushy Mountain chapter of Kein Mitleid and rose pretty quickly through the ranks to become Richie Rache’s right-hand man. Then for some reason, he turned on them, ratted out their more egregious shenanigans to the authorities, which put him on the wrong side of Rache and resulted in the gang issuing a fatwa on his head. Sorry; fatwa is a nonwhite concept, but I honestly don’t know the white Christian equivalent. Quinton serves his time, gets out early for services performed, and then disappears. No surprise there, based on what I’ve learned about Kein Mitleid. The feds deny putting him into the witness protection program, and I believe them. It wasn’t a federal takedown; it was the local DA office’s operation. Which could mean Quinton’s out there on his own. Very bad for Quinton; very good for Kein Mitleid.”
“But you have doubts that he is. On his own.”
“He must know there’s no love lost between you and Kein Mitleid. If he would turn to anyone for protection, he would turn to you.”
Dayton was slowly shaking his head. It occurred to me that Dayton was also the name of the little Tennessee town where Scopes went down for teaching about evolution. And then it occurred to me that Benton was the name of another little town in Tennessee.
“I’d never heard the name before I received your e-mail, Mr. Ruzak,” Dayton said.
“So you haven’t been contacted by him? You don’t know where he might be?”
“How do I know you aren’t working for Rache?” he asked suddenly. “I had you checked out. You’re who you say you are, but I’d like to know who you work for.”
“I can’t tell you my client’s name,” I said. “But I will tell you it isn’t Richie Rache.”
“You spoke to him,” he said. “At Brushy Mountain. Did you know there’s a fifty-thousand-dollar bounty on Quinton’s head?”
I said I did.
“So you understand where I might get suspicious. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money to someone like you, Mr. Ruzak.” The remark implied it wasn’t to him. Suddenly, I was very self-conscious about my old T-shirt and blue jeans.
“The only reason we met was so I could learn a little more about Quinton,” I said.
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ve been hired to find him.”
“Which brings me back to my original question.”
The air conditioning hummed. Looking over his shoulder, I could see Archie lying in the shade, tongue lolling from his mouth. He must have been dying of thirst. I couldn’t see Benton.
“How did you know I talked to Richie?” I asked.
“Maybe the authorities aren’t the only ones keeping an eye on Kein Mitleid.”
“If you’re keeping your eye on them, how come you never heard of Quinton? He’s the chief reason Rache got tagged with five more years.”
He didn’t say anything. He had turned away. I admired his patrician profile.
“People with Quinton’s personality type are master manipulators,” I said, pressing on. “They know which side their bread is buttered on. I suspect he went to the feds or maybe the state for protection after his release, and I think he was turned down flat because there was nothing he could offer in exchange. The next logical protector he would turn to is you guys. You probably have a battalion of heavily armed Bentons at your disposal.”
“What would be in it for us?” he mused softly.
“He’s a brother in need. And an enemy of your enemy, which makes him a friend.”
“He’s also a traitor, according to you. A turncoat. Why would I trust a snitch?”
“Because if you did, he might pull the same thing on you. Run to the feds.”
“Exactly.”
“But there’s also that old saw about keeping your enemies close.”
“Quinton Stiles is not my enemy,” he said.
“By virtue of his race?”
“I wish I could help you, Mr. Ruzak. But you must understand, even if your hunch is correct, I would never tell you where he is.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t expect you to do that. I wouldn’t even ask it.”
“Then why are we here? I’m confused.”
“I’m just saying, based on everything I know, it would be a good idea if Quinton got out of the state. Maybe even the country. Richie Rache is a very, very dangerous man.”
“And you wanted to convey that advice to me because you think I may know how to forward it to Quinton.”
“Well.”
“Don’t you think Quinton knows as well as you, if not better, how angry Rache is?”
“Most likely. The thing I’d like Quinton to understand, because I’m not sure if he does yet, is that it would take one word from someone who knows his whereabouts and Quinton’d be a dead citizen of the White Aryan Nation.”
“And that someone would be this mysterious client of yours?”
Benton had reappeared. I saw him standing in the shade next to Archie. Archie lifted his paw and Benton took it into his huge hand and gave it a slow, overly formal shake.
“No,” I said. “That someone would be me.”
FRIDAY
7:21 p.m.
“I don’t feel right about this, Ruzak,” Farrell said.
“I was going to ask someone else,” I admitted. “But I don’t have her number.”
“You couldn’t look it up maybe?”
“I don’t know her last name.”
“She won’t tell you?”
“I never asked. Plus, she’s married.”
He looked at me. “A married woman? You?”
“We’re not dating.”
“Neither are we, but here I am. Why am I here?”
“As a favor. So I won’t feel like the third wheel.”
We got out of the car and started up the walkway. Halfway there, I realized I’d left the wine in the backseat, so I hustled back to the car to fetch it. Farrell waited for me. I rang the bell. He pointed out the fact that Felicia didn’t seem to like him very much and his presence could start the evening out on a sour note.
“I don’t think she doesn’t like you,” I said. “She just comes off that way sometimes.”
“She’s your secretary, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “Why would you feel like a third wheel?”
The door opened, sparing me from trying to come up with a halfway reasonable explanation. A stocky, three-foot-tall human cannonball exploded onto the stoop, bounced off Farrell’s legs, ricocheted into mine, spun full circle, then darted behind us and ran down the walkway toward my car. Farrell gave me a look.
“Tommy,” I said.
A man was now standing in the doorway. He was wearing blue jeans and a royal blue Ralph Lauren Polo Shirt. Tall, broad-shouldered. Clean-shaven and good-looking in an all-American kind of way, not darkly handsome, more Tom Hanks than Hugh Jackman. When he smiled, like he was now, there were dimples. Dimples! He shoved his hand toward Farrell and said, “Teddy Ruzak?”
“That’s Ruzak,” Farrell said, taking Bob’s hand. “I’m his date.”
Something tugged on the seat of my pants. Tommy.
“Where’s Archie?” he demanded, his wide face thrust forward, his fat bottom lip quivering.
“Archie’s at home because your—” What was Bob? “Because Mommy’s, um, Mommy’s…”
“Bob,” Bob said.
“Mommy’s Bob has allergies.” Mommy’s Bob? The kid was looking at me like I was speaking Swahili.
“I want Archie!” he shouted. “Bring me Archie, Ruzak!”
“Hey, kiddo,” Bob said. “Let’s get inside before the skeeters eat us alive, huh?”
Tommy stamped his foot. “Archie!”
Felicia appeared. She was wearing a brightly colored sleeveless sundress. Her hair was up; her feet were bare. She stepped past Bob and grabbed Tommy by the wrist, pulled him toward the house.
“Archie!” Tommy bellowed. “Archie!”
Felicia started to say something, did a double take on Farrell.
“Hi,” he said.
She looked at me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Teddy, terrific to finally meet you, man,” said Bob.
“Me, too,” I said. We shook hands. Felicia hauled Tommy into the house. Tommy didn’t want to go into the house and made that preference clear to everyone.
“You get to eat in front of the TV tonight, remember?” Felicia reminded him over his howls. “Mac and cheese and scrambled eggs—your favorite. Your very, very, very, most favorite favorite.”
Farrell and I followed Bob into the small dining room. A bouquet of fresh flowers sat as a centerpiece in the middle of the table, with a tall candle burning on either side. Four place settings had been laid out. The silver looked polished. Bob took our drink orders (a Bud Light for me; a Jack and Coke for Farrell) and ducked through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
Felicia came into the room. An errant strand of hair had slipped from her bun and she was absently trying to tuck it back into place. She raised her voice to compete with Sponge Bob’s coming from the next room. Mommy’s Bob. I almost giggled.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Ruzak didn’t know the married lady’s phone number,” Farrell said.
“Married lady? What married lady?”
“I don’t think he’s too sure,” Farrell said. “He doesn’t even know her last name.”
“She hangs out at Cotton Eye Joe’s,” I said. “On Bunko nights.”
“They play Bunko at Cotton Eye Joe’s?” she said.
“Bunko’s her cover.”
“Her cover for what?”
“Picking up young studly males so she can feel a little less numb.”
“And she’s dating you?”
Farrell stifled a laugh. It may have been a cough, though. I shoved the bottle toward Felicia.
“I brought some wine.”
“It feels warm,” she said. “I’ll get it on some ice.”
She left us. We stood by the table. It felt awkward.
“What the hell is Bunko?” asked Farrell.
“A game. You play it with cards and dice, I think.”
“And they play it at Cotton Eye Joe’s?”
“No.” I sighed. “I never said that. Nancy plays it.”
“I thought you said it was just a cover.”
Bob came back with our drinks. I sucked on my bottle. Farrell sipped his Jacked-up Coke. Bob stood with his hands on his hips, and the tan on his biceps and forearms glowed golden in the candlelight.
“So finally,” he said, grinning broadly. “The great Theodore Ruzak. I was honestly starting to wonder if this day would ever come.”
He was an inch or so shorter than I, muscular, but not overbuilt, not like some nutty bodybuilder, just a lot of lean muscle mass. His grin was very natural-looking, with none of that forced bonhomie you sometimes encounter at first meetings. He seemed genuinely glad I was there.
“Like almost every night,” he went on. “It’s Ruzak this and Ruzak that. ‘Guess what Ruzak did today?’ It feels like I already know you, except I don’t.”
“That’s how I feel,” I said.
He nodded, smiling, and didn’t say anything. Maybe he was waiting for me to say something, like “Felicia talks about you all the time, too.” When I didn’t say something like that, Bob looked past me to Farrell.
“Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Farrell.”
“Like the comedian?”
“What comedian?”
Bob didn’t miss a beat. “You know, a lot of people, especially in these parts, have a problem with this kind of thing, but I’m like, This is America, right? Live and let live. As long as it’s not in my face, I don’t care what you do. It’s none of my business, and, hey, all these states now making it legal, you two must be thrilled.”
“Thrilled about what?” Farrell asked.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t assume it’s serious, but what I mean is it’s a positive development in general for your kind.”
“My kind?” Farrell asked.
Felicia came into the room with my wine in an ice bucket.
“I think the chicken’s done,” she said to Bob. Bob went into the kitchen. She set the bucket beside one of the candles.
“You told Bob I was gay,” I said to her.
“I did not,” she said.
Farrell was looking at me. “I didn’t know you were gay.”
“Why would I tell him that?” she asked me.
“Maybe trying to get out of having me to dinner.”
“That would be stupid,” she said. “Gay people eat, too.”
Farrell said, “When did you go gay?”
“People don’t ‘go gay,’ Farrell,” she snapped at him. “It’s like asking when did you ‘go straight.’ ”
“Why does he think it, then?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. You showed up to a dinner date with a man on your arm. Maybe that had something to do with it.”
Farrell turned pale. “Oh God.” He shuffled to his right, putting extra space between us. “I knew you’d never go out with a married woman. Bunko, my ass!”
“Relax, Farrell,” Felicia said. She was starting to get tickled. “Ruzak isn’t gay.”
“He better not be,” Farrell said darkly. He glared at me. “I don’t like fags.”
“That’s ugly,” Felicia said. “Very unenlightened.”
Bob popped through the swinging doors, wearing oven mitts, bearing a steaming casserole dish. He set it down and asked Felicia for a little help with the rest. They left together. Farrell and I were alone again.
“So are you?” he asked.
“No.”
“Never seen you date, come to think of it.”
“I’m as hetero as…” I searched for a good example. Went with the first name that popped in my head. “Eliot Spitzer.”
“That Olympic swimmer with the handlebar mustache and the Speedo? Jesus Christ!”
Bob came back bearing a serving tray with asparagus and mushrooms on it, followed closely by Felicia, who was carrying another casserole dish. Bob instructed us to have a seat. Felicia told me to open the wine. Farrell watched me insert the corkscrew, as if the truth might be found in the efficacy of my efforts. From the kitchen, Felicia howled with laughter. Sponge Bob was also laughing, that high-pitched giggle so irksome to James Dobson and his ilk. To ease some of the tension, I remarked to Farrell that the sautéed asparagus looked delicious. His eyes fell upon the phallic spears, and I realized I had made a mistake. I filled his wineglass. He told me he didn’t drink white wine. I swapped my empty glass for his full one.
They returned with salad and dinner rolls. Bob sat on my left, Felicia on my right. I poured wine. Bob made a toast. Farrell watched me over the centerpiece as I loaded up on the spears and creamy corn casserole. The chicken had been slow-cooked in some kind of white sauce. Very tender and juicy. I congratulated Felicia on the effort.
“Thanks, but Bob does most of the cooking,” she said.
Across the table, Farrell’s eyes narrowed at Bob.
“It’s really good,” I told Bob.
Bob acknowledged the compliment with a nod, tore off a hunk of bread, pushed it into his already-full mouth, and chased it down with a gulp of wine.
“So how long have you two been together?” he asked.
Farrell threw down his fork and said in a loud voice, “That does it!” He turned to Bob. “Look, cookie, we ain’t ‘together.’ I can’t speak for Ruzak, but I’m not gay. Never was, never will be. I can’t stand gays. If I see a gay coming down the street, I cross to the other side. Gay people disgust me. I came here tonight as a favor to Ruzak because he said he’d never met you and he’d feel awkward with just the three of you in a ro
om together. He’s my friend is all. Not even a good friend. I barely know him, to tell you the truth, but I’m here because he’s been helping me find the son of a bitch who nearly killed my daughter.”
Bob was nodding calmly; Farrell’s outburst didn’t seem to faze him at all. Bob was a firefighter, a first responder. He was used to dealing with all kinds of trauma.
“Felicia told me a little about that,” he said. “Still no luck?”
“It depends on how you define luck,” I said, jumping in.
“Not finding him is almost as good as finding him?” Bob asked.
“Better, in my opinion,” I said. “Finding him would kind of force a decision upon all involved.”
“Sort of like Lincoln hoping Jeff Davis would get away.”
“Bob’s a history buff,” Felicia said.
“Did he?” I asked. “Get away?”
“No.
“He was hung,” Farrell said portentously.
“Actually, he was arrested, spent a couple years in prison before being released on bail, and spent the rest of his life speaking and writing and basking in the glow of the tragic hero,” Bob said. “He was never even tried.”
“ ‘Mercy bears richer fruits than justice,’ ” I said.
“The Bible,” Felicia guessed.
“No.” Bob seemed filled with delight. “Lincoln. My man Ruzak!”
“I have this book of quotations,” I said.
“He keeps it in the john,” Felicia said.
“No, that’s the dictionary.”
“ ‘May God have mercy upon my enemies,’ ” Farrell said. “ ‘Because I won’t.’ General George S. Patton.”
“I gotta say I’m with Felicia and Ruzak on this one,” Bob said. “Better to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Still better to shoot the rabid ones,” Farrell said.
“I don’t think he’s even in Tennessee,” I said.
“Do we have to talk shop?” Felicia asked. “There’s apple pie and ice cream for dessert.”
Farrell threw his napkin onto his plate and announced he had lost his appetite. Felicia shot me a look that screamed, Why, Ruzak, why?
“Look, I’m sorry about that whole homosexual thing,” Bob said smoothly. “But you did identify yourself as Ruzak’s date.”
“It was a joke,” Farrell said.
The Highly Effective Detective Crosses the Line Page 10
