by Alan Lee
“What do you want, asshole.”
“Huuuuuuge.”
“Tell me.”
“Information,” I replied.
“What kind of information.”
“You answer and I’ll destroy the tape. That’s the deal.”
“What information,” he said again.
“You smoke pot. I know it. You know it. I don’t care. Probably making you stupider, but whatever. That’s not what I’m after.”
He said nothing.
“You knew that Mackenzie Allen smoked too.” I was guessing, but his silence confirmed my suspicion. “I know you didn’t kill him. I don’t think you were involved. But I want to find out who is, so I’m chasing leads. He smoked. You smoked. And you knew he smoked. Right?”
He said nothing, but after a petulant moment he nodded.
“Progress. Here we go, Steveo. Here’s what I think. All schools have marijuana getting into their hallways. I think you know how the pot is getting into this school. I don’t think you’re the dealer or supplier. But you know the source and you do nothing. Because it’s your source too.”
He said nothing.
“You’re going to give me the name of your guy and where I can get him. You’re not going to tell him I’m coming. In exchange, you get this tape and I forget you’re an RO who smokes dope.”
“No.”
I stood and walked to my desk to retrieve a padded envelope. I set it in front of him.
“That envelope is addressed to the NBC news affiliate in Richmond. I’ll address a few more to CBS and ABC, and also send copies to Raleigh. I’ll send the tapes out today, along with a brief note giving the background,” I said.
He squirmed in his seat, stood, and began pacing the room.
“What?” I said. “A week? Before you’re fired? Not to mention assault charges. And you’ll never wear a badge again.”
He kept pacing and shaking his head, his hands on his belt.
“I lose my damn job either way,” he said. He cursed and kicked my wall. “He’ll rat on me. I know he will.”
Rat. Too much TV.
“Not necessarily. I won’t tell him I got him from you. If he tries to bring you into it, it’ll be your word against his. You don’t tell me, I send the tapes out.”
He cursed again. The almighty F word.
“I apologized to you, Steve,” I said. “A couple times. Then I gave you chances to walk away. You dug your own grave. I’m after Mackenzie Allen’s killer. The only thing I can find on him is that he smoked pot. I am going to talk to his dealer. And you have to help me. Otherwise, I’m nailing you to the wall. That’s all there is to it. Do the right thing. Help me catch the killer. If I can leave you out of the rest, I will.”
“Why? Why are you doing this? Let the sheriff do his job.”
“Mackenzie was my friend.” And his mom asked me to.
“So what? He was my friend too. His death had nothing to do with grass, you hear me? Nothing.”
He might be right. But I had to be sure. I said nothing.
He stopped pacing, laced his fingers and rested them on his head. Big sigh. He didn’t look at me.
“Jon Murphy. He lives at 6 Nutcracker Lane, near Boydton. He was Mackenzie’s guy too. He’s connected. Don’t mention me.”
“Just say no to drugs, Steveo. Good advice.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Nutcracker Lane ran less than a quarter of a mile long, providing service to a mere three houses. Jon’s house was a ranch with a concrete carport. Poorly trimmed boxwoods underneath windows with red shutters.
I watched his house for an hour until he came home around seven in an off-white Cadillac. A girl got out of the passenger side and they walked in through the front door. I popped Pringles, watched the second hand on my watch tick for thirty minutes, and thought about drugs.
I didn’t have enough information to know if Jon ranked in the big leagues. At least one law enforcer had a healthy respect for him, which meant he probably had a good system, good reputation, good product, and maybe both muscle and connections. However, he lived in Mecklenburg County, the poorest county in the state. He could be the biggest thing in South Hill and still rank small time.
Someone in the county was dealing both crack and crank. I thought I detected early signs in a few students, and definitely saw it in a handful of parents. Jon’s house didn’t look like a meth lab, but the county in general felt like a good place to make it. It was both the poorest county and also one of the biggest, with a small police presence. Prime conditions.
Time. I tilted my head back and squeezed a few drops out of an eye-dropper into the corners of my eyes and held them there. I got out of the car, wiped away the tears, took a deep breath, put on my Ray-Bans and began walking unsteadily to Jon’s house.
His wooden front door was ajar and I could hear voices inside. I banged on the screen door and put my hand on the bricks underneath his porch light.
The wooden door creaked open a little further and a guy peered out.
“The hell you want?”
“Hey man,” I said. Heavy breathing. “Sorry to bother you at home, Jon. I just need whatever you got.”
“Do what?”
“Listen, I’m on my way out of town, man, and I need to fill up before I go.”
“Got the wrong house, dude,” he said and began to close the door.
“Hey,” I said. “No, dude. Jon. I’ll get outta here fast. I got money. I brought money, man.”
The porch light came on and he opened the door further to look at me.
“I don’t even know you. You got nerve on you, dickhead, come here banging on my door.” He had the typical South Hill accent. He was about my height, which was tall, and other than the sparse mustache he was a good looking, well-groomed guy. His hair was combed backwards and held there with gel. He wore khaki shorts and a polo shirt.
“I’m sorry, man. Haven’t been here in years, just don’t know where else to go this side of town. On my way to Boydton.”
“Take off your glasses,” he said.
“What? No.”
“Take off your damn glasses, or take a hike. Think I’m scared of you cause you’re big?”
“I brought money, man,” I said, and stuck my hand inside my zip-up hoodie. “Look.”
He opened the screen door wide enough to reach out and snatch the glasses off my face. I winced as light hit my sensitive eyes, and I looked at him.
“Whoa.” He grinned. “You’re pretty toasted, big fella.”
“Nah, man, I brought money.”
He smacked my fingers away from the zipper, and with a quick motion unzipped my jacket the rest of the way. He had strong hands. Five stacks of twenty-dollar bills fell out and landed on the front step. I had almost emptied my meager life savings, and it lay there between us. Jon didn’t know me, but he recognized $2,500 bucks when he saw it.
“Holy…” I said, fumbling for and missing the money as it fell out of my jacket.
“Jeez man,” he laughed again. “Pick that crap up, and get in here.”
I bent down, groped for the thick wads of money, and walked in holding the cash close to my chest. His living room was arranged around an enormous flatscreen TV. New orange couches surrounded a thick glass coffee table. Two towers of DVDs stood next to his stereo system. Speakers were in the corners, and old cups cluttered on top. His walls were mostly bare except for a poster of girls in bikinis looking over their shoulders at the camera and holding beer. Jon had too much money and no decorating sense.
The girl sat on one of the couches. She wore wedge shoes, a short denim skirt, red tank top, and glasses that pushed her dyed blonde hair backwards. She smacked gum and looked annoyed.
“Just be a minute, baby,” Jon told her. “Gotta do some business real quick.”
“Thanks, man,” I said again. I was sizing Jon up as quickly as I could. This was gonna go fast and I’d have one pass, maybe two at detecting a lie. “I’ll be gone in no tim
e.”
“So what do you want? I don’t keep much here.”
“Everything,” I breathed out. “Whaddaya got?”
“Nothing hard. I don’t do that crap. Mostly cannabis, baby. I got reefer, oxycontin, E, shrooms, what?”
“No dice?”
“Nothing hard, I said. No heroin. No crystal.”
“Lemme get two grand in bud, man. And five hundred Molly.”
“No problem, man. Sit tight.” Jon winked at the girl as he walked out. Easy to stiff the stoned.
“Jon’s great, man.” I smiled at the girl. “Good reputation. Great rep. Always there for you. Always there, you know?”
She gave me a fake smile and looked away.
As far as drug dealers went, Jon didn’t appear that skeezy. His girl didn’t have any bruises I could see and he was neither stoned nor drunk. He was, however, probably going to try to take my $2,500 and give me $1000 worth of drugs. He was also probably the one giving eighth-grade kids marijuana to sell to their friends.
Nothing hard. That was disappointing. Busting a cocaine dealer felt great. Busting a methamphetamine dealer felt better.
“So where do I know you from, bro?” he asked as he walked back in. He held two plastic grocery bags in his hand.
“Ah, dude, jeez,” I said, and rubbed my forehead. “Been here twice, I think. Can’t remember. Shame about Mackenzie, man. Frickin’ shame.”
“Mackenzie?” he said, and looked up.
“Yeah,” I said, and let my shoulders drop. “Mackenzie Allen.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, man, it is a shame. Damn shame. You know Mackenzie?”
“Hell yeah, I knew Mackenzie. Maybe you seen me there at his funeral.”
“Naw, I didn’t get there. I should have.” He stopped digging in the bag and looked into space. “I should have. Known Mackenzie for…hell, six or seven years.”
“Me too, man,” I said. I wiped my eyes and put my sunglasses back on. “Such a sweet guy. Solid. Ever play poker with him?”
“Yeah. At Greg’s place. Maybe that’s how I know you.”
“Mackenzie, man. He was solid. Sweet guy. Who’d hurt Mackenzie?” I said. With my glasses on, I could watch him easily.
“Got no idea,” he said and started digging. “You’re so right, though. He was righteous. Righteous dude. I hope they catch him, you know? Hope they fry him. Hope they fry that guy’s ass up like bacon.”
“You don’t know?” I said. “Man, I thought you’d know. About who got Mackenzie? You know everything, you know. Everyone always says. Murphy knows. Thought you’d know.”
“I wish I knew, bro,” he said. He was pulling out thick sandwich bags full of marijuana. “I wish I knew. I wouldn’t let the cops get him. You get me? I’d put his ass in the ground myself. No cops needed, if I knew.”
He was telling the truth. His voice was easy, he talked while he worked, didn’t mind looking me in the eye, spoke with sincerity. His girl wasn’t nervous, didn’t start kicking her feet, didn’t look at him out of the corner of her eye. My gut spoke with the experience of several years of interrogation. Jon the drug dealer knew nothing about the murder. Dang.
“Thought Murphy would know, for sure. Who’d know, then? Someone did it. Someone knows. If not you, then who would know, I wonder.”
“Dunno, big guy. Lou would know. Lou always knows. Anytime something goes down, Lou knows.”
Lou! I wondered if Andrews would know the name.
“Except Lou’s been in jail for eight months now, I guess,” Jon said.
Double dang. Lou don’t know. My work here was done.
“Well…”
I dialed 911 on my phone, hit the speaker button and held it up in the air.
Jon looked up as the sound of ringing filled the room. Only one ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
A bomb could not have changed the mood in the room quicker.
“What the hell…” Jon looked at the phone, smile gone.
“Help, help,” I said in a slow, monotone voice. “I’m at 6 Nutcracker Lane, in South Hill.”
“Johnny,” the girl said in alarm, crawling up to sit on the back of the couch.
“Hey,” Jon said, stupefied by the sudden shift of my voice and the conversation.
“I’m being attacked by Jon Murphy,” I said. “Send help. Quickly.”
“6 Nutcracker Lane, South Hill, Virginia,” the feminine voice said over the phone. “Sir, can you verify that? I’m dispatching the police right now.”
“That’s the right address,” I said helpfully, and hung up.
Stunned silence. The girl had quit chewing her gum. Jon’s hands hung limp by his side, still holding bags.
“You know,” I said, and zipped the wads of money back up in my jacket. “I’ll probably hold onto these.”
“Hey! The hell, man?” Jon yelled and hurled a bag at me. I let it bounce off my shoulder. It was filled with leaves and I’m super tough. “That ain’t funny, man! Was that a joke? You joking, man?”
“Fraid not, Jon. You give drugs to kids. In fact, you probably give drugs to kids that are in my class. But not after today.”
“Kim,” he said and threw the grocery bags at her. She missed them in surprise and bags of pot fell over the back of the couch. “Start flushing, baby. Down the toilet. Go!”
“Johnny,” she yelled.
“Now! You want me to go to jail, Kim? Is that what you want? My ass in jail?” he yelled back and went for his gun. I’d guessed he kept his piece hidden within the drawer of the couch’s side table. I was right. When thinking straight, he wouldn’t shoot me. But he probably wasn’t thinking straight, so I got to the table at the same time and took his gun away from him. I grabbed his hand as he snatched the revolver, bent his wrist backwards until he was aiming at himself, and then twisted a little more until he yelled and let go. I threw it in the corner behind me.
I knew what was coming and had prepared for it, even hoped for it. I needed to take the charge, draw a foul, earn a good bruise. He swung at me. I stood my ground and didn’t block him. I turned my face at the last minute to take the punch but not lose my face. His knuckle caught me on the lip and split it open. Perfect.
I turned my body into a low uppercut that drove under his ribs. Not enough to injure him. I no longer hurt people for fun. Just enough to keep him from cleaning my clock. He groaned and staggered backwards.
Outside, the clear wail of police sirens sounded impossibly near. I had just hung up. Kim hadn’t even left the room.
He rushed me, trying to bowl me over. I pivoted and automatically raised an elbow, but stopped before I drove it into his face. He was supposed to be attacking me, not the other way around.
My hesitation cost me. The world turned white as he struck me on the side of the head. My glasses landed near my feet. The sirens sounded as though they were on our street.
“Jon,” I growled. “I am annoyed.”
He spit at me and attacked a last time. I turned again, used his momentum and threw him into the couch so hard it turned over. I retrieved my glasses and walked out the front door.
Three cars so far. Four deputy sheriffs streaming from the doors and running toward Jon’s house. The front lawn flickered with blue lights. I raised my hands. The deputies apparently recognized me because they ran straight by and into the house. I was notorious.
Sheriff Mitchell stood next to his car and put down his radio as I approached. Andrews stood beside him.
“Took long enough,” Mitchell said. “Been waiting two hours.”
“A girl is in the back, doing her best to flush bags down the toilet,” I said.
Andrews repeated that into his radio, and said, “She won’t get far.” He nodded toward my bleeding lip and said, “Nice one.”
“Badge of honor,” I said. “Taking a bite out of crime.”
“Thanks for getting us in,” he said.
“Mackenzie August, professional victim.”
“Pressing charges?”
“Nah. And I don’t think he had anything to do with Mackenzie Allen.”
“Wanna stick around anyway?”
“Nope,” I said, anxious to scoot before a newspaper reporter showed. “Take my statement, then I’m going to play with my son before bedtime. You’re not invited.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Leta met me at the door the next morning in her cooking apron. Kix inhaled, rocked in my arms and held out his arms to her.
“Well.” She laughed, which she always did. “Look who’s a happy boy today.” She always said that too. She took Kix. “I heard about you on the news this morning.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Channel Eleven. That’s my favorite. James don’t like the other shows much. The reporter, she’s that blonde I like, was talking about a bust at a drug house. She said the same person who discovered the dead fellow named Mackenzie was the one who called the police to the house with the drugs.”
“Gracious,” I said, and set Kix’s diaper bag inside the front door. “It’s not even eight in the morning yet.”
“So it was you? James said it probably was, which is why you were out so late last night.”
“It was me. Tonight, though, I plan on no drug busts. I’ll be here to get Kix on time.”
“Ah, its no trouble,” she cooed, and bounced Kix. “It likes to stay with us.” She also called Kix “it” quite a bit.
The Mecklenburg County Sheriff’s Office sat several miles out of my way in Boydton but I made the trip anyway. The office was functional and old, clean and efficient. Filing cabinets, telephones, old computers, wooden bead-board walls. I saw a poster which read, “Crime of the Week.” The latest entry was five years ago. Puppies had been stolen.
I spoke with one of the deputies who’d been there last night and then pushed into the jail. Four cells, only one of them occupied. Murphy sat on his cot with his back leaning against the painted cinderblock wall.
