by Alan Lee
“Huh?”
“I work with Calvin Summers. Can I give you a lift?”
“No. Who’s Calvin Summers?” she said, still walking, still looking at her phone. “Dumbass rich name.”
“He owns the trailer park. Never heard of him? Works with Wayne Cross? You know Wayne?”
“Course I know Wayne.”
“And you know Vickie,” I said.
“Duh.”
Alicia was too thin and drawn. Her face had the pinched look of a hard upbringing. Her clothes were old and her hair needed professional intervention and her makeup was too heavy and I saw tattoos on her ankles. She was nasty and mean, but life had given her little reason to be otherwise. Or so I surmised.
“Get in,” I said. “I’ll buy you lunch.”
She stopped and sighed. “Why.”
“For the pleasure of your company.”
“Fuck you mister, I ain’t blowing you in your truck. I’m tired.”
“Ah. No. You misunderstand. My mistake. What I meant to say was let’s get lunch, my treat, nothing required of you. As I told you, I work for the owner of the Ferrum's Fields. Afterwards I’ll drop you off anywhere you want.”
Her arms crossed. “You a cop?”
“I’m not. Promise. Where you headed?”
“My girlfriend’s house, down the way. I stay there till she gets off work and she takes me home.”
“Come on. Let’s get lunch,” I said. “You answer a few questions about the trailer park and we’ll call it even.”
“Fine, whatever.” She stomped around to the passenger seat and climbed in. “This a pretty boy truck. Not good for much.”
“Where to?”
“Duh. Dairy Queen.”
“Silly me,” I said.
The restaurant was off Highway 40, near Ferrum College. She ordered a chicken tender meal with fries and a Mountain Dew. I got a chili dog.
She ate without looking at me. She chewed and skimmed down her Facebook timeline.
“You used to work here, didn’t you,” I said.
“How’d you know?”
“This place and the supermarket are the only two places around.”
“I worked there too.”
“You like what you do now, instead of working at the supermarket?” I asked.
“Pays better. I guess.”
I asked, “How’d you meet Vickie?”
“Through Wayne.”
“How’d you meet Wayne?”
“Everybody know Wayne,” she said. “Wayne’s Wayne.”
“He treat you well?”
“I guess.”
“Does he pay you enough?”
“Hell naw he doesn’t,” she said. “For what I do? Shit. Not enough money.”
“Are you from Franklin County?”
“Course I am. Why you asking these stupid questions?”
“I’m friendly,” I said.
“Yeah. Well. Just keep your dick zipped up, okay mister. What’cha bring me here for, anyway?” Still she didn’t look at me. She started playing with the gold hoop in her right earlobe.
I detected that Alicia did not love Wayne. That she had to tell all of Wayne’s friends to keep their pants zipped up. That maybe I could be a little more honest with her and not get burned.
Or it could be the chili dog giving me hope.
“I work for Wayne’s boss,” I said.
“So.”
“And I wonder sometimes if Wayne steals from him.”
“Oh. Sure he does. Wayne’d steal his granny’s government checks, she let him. Wayne steals from everybody.” She pronounced it, “ehhbody.”
“Has he ever talked about his boss?”
“Don’t know. Wayne’s mean, mister. Be careful, I was you.”
“He’s a big guy,” I said.
“Yep.”
“I’m big too.”
Perhaps for the first time she looked at me. She glanced at my shoulders. My arms. My neck. My face. “Yeah. Yeah you’re big. Why you so big?”
“I did a couple pushups last month.”
“Huh?”
“If he’s such a jerk, why do you work for him?” I asked.
“Gotta eat. What else should I do.” She was back to her phone and her golden earring.
“What—”
“I’m the dumb one, mister. My family’s got important jobs. My sister’s a secretary. My mom drives a school bus. Me? I service old guys who smell like cheese. You think I like what I do? ‘Cause I don’t.”
“Do you live with your family?”
“Live with my boyfriend,” she said.
“Does he work for Wayne?”
“No, he’s a drunk bum. Hurt his foot riding four-wheelers. Can’t even get disability. Been thinking ‘bout leaving him. Hits me, he gets mad.”
“Have you ever seen Wayne talking with an older guy? Good looking, silver hair, dresses like a fancy rich guy?” I asked.
“Nope, no fancy rich guys. I wish. Might pay better.”
“Your customers pay you directly?”
“Naw. Wayne pays me.”
“Do you know any of the other girls who work with Wayne?” I asked.
“Sure, some.”
“Any of them hate Wayne? Might talk with me?”
“No. We don’t hate Wayne. He’s okay. Better’n most, I guess.”
“Do you know Scott?” I asked.
“Scott at Happy Hills.”
“Yes.”
“I know Scott. Nice guy, but he’s got a girlfriend. Why?”
“Here’s what I think,” I said, but I was interrupted. By a woman. She was short. Probably sixty but her hair was still completely brown. A small plain face, but determined. No makeup. She wore a dress, the kind with a faux apron sewn on, and sandals with socks.
“Alicia,” she said. “Alicia I’m taking you home.” She spoke in short fierce syllabic bursts, loud enough that the patrons stared.
Alicia nodded her head, like a schoolgirl getting caught by the principal. All the mean prostitute bravado had vanished. She looked at me again. “Sorry mister. Gotta go. Thanks for lunch.”
“You’re welcome.”
The fiery older woman said, “Now Alicia.”
“Yes Mrs. Hunt,” Alicia said.
Mrs. Hunt. I knew that name.
“Collect your things. Throw away your trash. Wait in the car,” she said.
“Yes Mrs. Hunt.”
The woman waited, eyes fixed on me until Alicia had walked outside and gotten into her old Subaru.
“You. Outside.”
“Yes Mrs. Hunt,” I said.
I threw away my trash under her watchful eye and followed her into the parking lot feeling strangely penitent.
“I know who you are,” she said.
“And I know you. You’re Boyd’s wife and you operate the dairy farm,” I said proudly. Maybe I’d get a gold star.
“You’ve got no right. No right to bother these girls.”
“But—”
“I know who you are,” she said again. “You’re working for that Calvin Summers. You fooled Mr. Hunt, with your talk of expansion. But not me. You’re up to something and it’s not good. And you’ve got no right.”
“Perhaps there is more to this story than—”
“Oh, I’ve done my homework. You live in the city. Come down here. Think you know better. Think you’re superior. Think all your education and modernization is salvation, gives you the right to exploit us,” she said. Her hands were gripped together and every few words they’d flex and tug. “You look down on girls like Alicia. Think she’s helpless and pathetic. I don’t know what your goal is but I hate it. You’re too busy to notice you’ll get people hurt.”
“I’m not going to get Alicia hurt,” I said.
“Stop working for Calvin Summers. Stop this instant, you’ve no right.”
“I can’t stop. But—”
“You’re going to hurt someone innocent.”
“Maybe n
ot,” I said.
Passersby watched us from their cars and from the sidewalk. We made quite the show. I wished she’d keep her voice down. I didn’t embarrass easily but she’d done the trick.
“Let Alicia alone. Let the other girls alone.”
“How do you know them?”
“I live here.” She practically bit the words off and threw them at me. “You don’t. They weren’t born with silver spoons. They’re doing the best they can with what they were given and the last thing they need is you snooping around.”
“You know what Alicia does for a living,” I said. It was half a question, half a statement.
“Of course. Everyone knows.”
“You approve?”
“Don’t be a fool. Of course not. You’re no better than Calvin Summers, trying to make money off us. It’s not Alicia’s fault. Calvin wants to exploit her and so do you and so do the awful men in those awful places and I wish you’d all just let her alone.”
We glared at each other for a minute.
Well. She glared. I tried not to wither.
I said, “I’m not here to make trouble for Alicia.”
“You’re a hired thug. And you’re bringing trouble with you.”
“What further trouble could she possible get into? I’m trying to help.”
“She don’t need help from the city. She needs her family. She needs to bottom out and take some responsibility. There aren’t quick solutions in real life.”
“How do you help?” I asked.
“I help her fill out job applications. I clean her up when she gets beat. By men like you.”
“Men like me put our kids to bed at seven thirty and watch a ball game until nine when we’re exhausted. Men like me are starting to grow hair on our ears and we don’t know why. We don’t hit girls.”
She sniffed.
“You’re her family?” I asked.
“Not by blood. May as well be. Leastwise I live here. Unlike you.”
A chasm of inexpressible misunderstandings separated us. I couldn’t explain to her my ulterior motives for working for Calvin Summers. Not here in a parking lot. And even if I tried she wouldn’t believe me. I could think of nothing to say. So I went with that.
“Calvin Summers is a bad man,” she said.
“Yes ma’am.”
“You work for him? So are you.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She scowled. “You want to help? Go back to Roanoke. And stay there.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think Calvin Summers is Alicia’s employer. I think Wayne Cross is running that show without Calvin’s permission.”
“Don’t mean Calvin Summers is a good man. He should still be rotting in jail. And so should that Wayne Cross. I’ll ring the sheriff again, not like it does a lot of good.”
“You’ve called the sheriff on Calvin?”
“Of course I have. I’ve done everything I can think of to help these girls.”
She stomped to her Subaru and slammed the door.
As the car drove off I heard Mrs. Hunt haranguing Alicia on the folly of her ways.
I’d finally found someone who hated Calvin Summers, and she’d even called the cops on him.
She was kinda great. Even if she hated me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kix and I went for a jog. From our house it was only a mile to the greenway, paradise for plodding runners such as myself. The daffodils had begun to fade and tulips threatened to bloom. The tulips wouldn’t last long because Roanoke had a bizarre urban deer population which lived almost exclusively on tulips. I could purchase a bow and arrow and kill a deer a day and eat deer sausage for every meal and it wouldn’t make a dent.
I ran a mile and a half each way on the greenway and finished at the playground with the big green alligator near Black Dog Salvage. I sat on a bench in the shade of a budding oak tree and panted and sweated profusely.
Kix stared at me with bottomless eyes.
We need to talk, he said.
“About what?”
You know.
“About Kristin.”
Obviously.
“You don’t like Kristin.”
And you don’t like her much either.
“She’s fun,” I said.
He looked away from me and took a long drink from his juice bottle. I’d started to mix his juice with water because he’d gotten a little heavy in the cheeks. He slammed it back onto the tray. She’s fun.
“Well…”
She’s FUN??
“Not a great reason, I know. But she’s pretty. She’s successful. Well educated.”
So is Condoleezza Rice. Date her.
“Condoleezza doesn’t like me. Kristin does.”
You’re lowering your standards.
I wiped my forehead with my shirt. The breeze had an edge and the sweat would make me shiver soon. “You’re right. I’ve lowered my standards. But that doesn’t mean Kristin can’t be great.”
You say that because you’re lonely.
“I know this.”
That’s crap. We got a good thing going, the August boys.
“Not a good thing, a great thing.”
What about Ronnie?
“What about her? She’s getting married to another man.”
…and?
“Kix. Don’t be a scoundrel.”
The girl is into you.
“So.”
More importantly, she’s into me.
“She’s got great taste.”
She does. Way better than what’s-her-name. Remember when what’s-her-name asked how to shut me up?
“You mean Kristin.”
Yes. That one.
“Ronnie’s a mess, Kix. She’s in at least two relationships which aren’t healthy. She doesn’t need a third. Because then I’d get mixed up in the mess too.”
You already are.
“I know. Let me finish this case for her father. Then I’ll think about the other stuff.”
Wimp.
“I believe the word you’re searing for is cautious.”
Wimp.
“Somebody wants an earlier bedtime tonight.”
Tell Ronnie you love her.
“Love her?”
The heart wants what it wants.
“You’re about to lose Elmo privileges.”
Fine. Let’s talk about something else. Speaking of getting mixed up into messes, how about you working for crime bosses?
“Just one crime boss. And he’s the least of them.”
Don’t try to explain it away. That’s a tactic for lesser men.
“When I took the case I didn’t know Calvin was connected with the underworld.”
This is a bold career choice. Becoming a hit man.
“I’m not a hit man.”
Kinda.
“I didn’t choose it. Soon as I finish this, I’m done with them.”
I doubt it.
“I doubt it too. Marcus Morgan seems to think I’m already thick with the thieves.”
Manny thinks so too.
“Manny is a maniac. He’d like for us to get into gun battles most weekends.”
Considering you are my primary care provider, I cannot approve of gun battles. Wait. Do I get all your stuff if you die?
“Not till you’re eighteen.”
I cannot approve of gun battles.
We paused our existential conversation while two women power-walked nearby. They smiled at us. We smiled back. Kix examined their muscular structure after they’d passed. I shook my finger at him. He shrugged.
You keep talking about finishing the case.
“Yeah?”
You think Mrs. Hunt is the informant.
“It makes sense. She hates Summers. She’s called the police on him. She thinks he should still be in jail. She’s connected to the money. Summers bought her farm and she didn’t approve. It’s gotta be her.”
So you’ll turn her over to Calvin Summers and his chainsaws?
Maybe you shouldn’t watch Law & Order while I’m in the room.
“I’m not turning her in to Calvin.”
Then you’re breaking your promise to him. And that goes against who you are.
“Who I am?”
You value responsibility. Truth. Honesty.
“What about my responsibility to the innocent? Innocent people like Mrs. Hunt?”
You’re the detective, not me. I am simply an observer. And I observe your conscience won’t let you betray your client to such an extent.
“You’re right. I can’t completely betray my client.”
Yes.
“But I also won’t hand Mrs. Hunt over to be slaughtered.”
Quite a pickle you’re in, old man.
“If it’s even her.”
It’s her.
“You’re just guessing.”
He yawned.
“Maybe you should take a nap,” I said.
He grinned. The little boy grin I adored.
Heck of an idea. Get my stroller moving. I like a little motion.
I stood, stretched, and started pushing toward home. “Thanks Kix. You’ve given me some clarity.”
What are you going to do? About the informant.
“I’m not sure. I’m not positive it’s Mrs. Hunt.”
But.
Now that I thought about it…
I knew a remedy for that.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bill Osborne the federal prosecutor arrived at Billy’s at precisely 5:30pm. I stood at the bar drinking a gin and ginger and watching a Cubs game wind down. Bill didn’t dress like some other US attorneys I’d met. Federal guys were alpha dogs, power players, dressed to kill and grind down any injustice which needed grinding. The bar was dark and he didn’t notice me at first. The bartender brought him a scotch without being asked. Bill sat on the stool, twitched his shoulders, and sipped his drink and loosened his tie. He took a deep breath and glanced at the television before returning to his phone screen.
The bartender was just a kid, maybe twenty-five. Jeez, when did twenty-five-year-olds become kids? This guy kept his hair long and pulled back. He wanted to grow a beard but it wasn’t happening. I finished my gin and set the glass down heavily.
“Another?” the kid asked.
“Please,” I said.
Distracted by our witty banter, Bill Osborne glanced up and recognized me.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re the guy. The private detective.”
