Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery

by T. Blake Braddy

  “That gives me some thinking to do,” I said. “Keep in touch.”

  I downed the Coke, paid, and left, glancing once over my shoulder on my way out the door to see the two men scheming already.

  * * *

  I called Detective Hunter that evening. He answered the phone on the first ring. I ran through my encounter with Jeffrey and the traffic stop and told him about the picture.

  "Leland Brickmeyer isn't even on our radar," he said. "You don't have much to worry about in that regard, but I can't deny people aren’t looking into you."

  "That's fine," I replied. "They won't find anything but me trespassing on his land. I just went over there to ask him some questions earlier."

  "What did you and Jeffrey talk about?" The clack of computer keys rattled off in the background like popping knuckles.

  "Do what now?" I stalled, debating my answer. If I told him about the teacher banquet that an Emmitt Laveau had attended, the detective's sixth sense would be aroused. If too much pressure was placed on Leland and Jeffrey, they would put up a perpetual stonewall.

  "You glossed over your discussion with Jeffrey Brickmeyer. What did the two of you talk about that angered him?"

  In the end I decided to tell the truth. Something told me I might need Hunter's assistance in the future. "He knew Laveau."

  "Knew him? How?"

  "He lied about meeting him. I had a conversation with an old teacher who confirmed Laveau attended an event at their house, one where all involved parties were present."

  To his credit, the detective refrained from any sort of response. No sigh. No Goddamnit. No nothing. Just the machine gun fire of keys. "I'll look into it," he said.

  "I know it doesn't amount to much, but it's proof that some lies are being floated to the public. They might have never talked to him, but damnit he was at their house. We know that for a fact."

  "Mmm-hmm. Okay, it's not a big fuck-up, but it fits. Secrecy is a Brickmeyer thing. Leland is no different than his old man, who was apparently as paranoid as a mob boss. Leland's reticence is probably related to how his father raised him."

  I moved the cell phone to my other ear. "Thankfully, the youngest scion isn't quite so tight-lipped."

  "He would be smart to distance himself from his father. He'll get dragged in by association, and something tells me the old man wouldn't hesitate to stick junior in his place, if need be."

  I didn’t tell him that I felt the exact same way. "It won't get through to him. I told him the same thing, but he's got daddy issues. Wants to prove to the old man that he's capable of shouldering the legacy. He’s even got a life-size portrait hanging on the wall above his head."

  "Well, that's all you can do," Hunter said. "You know what's funny?"

  I could almost hear him smiling. "What?" I asked.

  "In the grand scheme of things, who is Leland Brickmeyer? Nobody, really, right? A local politician. A state senator with no sense that he’s bumping up against the ceiling. And yet, here you are, implicating him in a murder, and he’s lying to protect his career."

  "Some people have no shame," I said.

  "I guess you're right, McKane. Take it easy, and keep your ass safe."

  * * *

  Driving home made me anxious. I wasn’t satisfied with anything right now. There was so much to consider, from the revelation about Jarrell Clements’s history to the pictures and the cops tightening down on me. I imagined things would get sticky from here on out.

  Also, I wasn't convinced about Ronald Bullen. His turnaround could be a ploy, and yet he had given me solid information, so I wouldn’t betray him. Not yet. Besides, if he was beginning to trust me, there was a possibility I could get some inside information from the department.

  Checking the time on my phone, I saw a missed call from Jarrell. A coldness spread through my chest and not just because of what the old pulpwooders had told me. Tracking down Emmitt Laveau's killer had distracted me from my looming court date, scheduled two days from now. Too many loose ends needed to be tied together before I entered that courthouse, for two reasons. Number one: the longer the murder investigation lingered, the more distant a possibility an arrest would become. Number two: there was a chance I was going to jail for some indeterminate amount of time.

  In the state of Georgia, pleading guilty to a DUI makes you subject to several penalties: a stiff fine, in upwards of two thousand bucks; probation; loss of driving privileges for at least six months and more likely a year; and, what I feared most, jail time. The minimum sentence is one day, and the maximum is an entire year, if there aren't other, extenuating circumstances. Like a car accident. Injury. That sort of thing.

  Jarrell didn't answer when I called back. Part of me was thankful. I didn’t have time to worry about the future until it was the present.

  * * *

  Vanessa spending this time with me felt strange, but I had no real way of dealing with it, other than to let it happen. I felt ineffectual. She had left me, run off with another guy, leapfrogged from bed to bed, nearly killed herself with drugs, and she had come back, acknowledging what she had done.

  And, coldly or not, I had welcomed her back, let her just come back into my life. I couldn’t just tell her to leave. I still felt like there was something we hadn’t dealt with, and I wanted to come to terms with it before we parted ways. If we parted ways. That thought, too, circled in the back of my mind.

  I can still recall the good times. They're packed up and hidden in the attic of my memory, but they still exist. If remembrance were painted in broader strokes, there's a great portion of my life I wouldn't want to experience, even in thought.

  But Vanessa and I had been happy enough. Even the worst marriages aren't completely empty.

  Everything started well. We dated throughout high school, and I can remember our first date, which could also double as our finest hour. In a gesture that in retrospect seems simultaneously nice and corny, I invited her for a picnic near a lake north of the Junction. She wore a floral print sun dress and little leather sandals, and I can't for the life of me remember what I wore, but it was too hot for the weather and I was nervous, a sixteen year old boy on his first real date. I ended up sweating through my shirt on the drive and kept wondering if Vanessa thought me strange.

  I forgot the blanket and, despite that, Vanessa enthusiastically volunteered to kneel in the grass by the lake in order to eat our sandwiches and salads and pieces of fruit: grapes and slices of watermelon and whatnot. When we were done, she backed up and reclined against an old oak tree, and all that comes to me now are the indentations of the ground on her knees and the blades of grass that remained. That one detail is as fresh and clear as the moment it happened. Everything else has blurred, like shadows on a wall, but that one moment remains unsullied by time.

  I went over to her and brushed the stray blades away, gently, trembling all over, and she grabbed my hand and guided it up her thigh beyond the edge of the dress, pressing my fingers down so they experienced the smooth warmth of her skin. The shiver that passed through me then still hits me today, triggered by the distinct smell of a certain kind of spring air.

  But memory is unreliable.

  The house was alive with light when I pulled into the driveway, so I knew for at least another day that she hadn’t slunk away to find some new and desperate way to hit bottom.

  Vanessa was sitting on the couch, watching some reality show, her chin propped up on her knuckles, and she smiled at me as I came through the door. "You okay?" she asked, and I nodded, a complete lie.

  "Just tired," I said.

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed a beer. I twisted the cap off and set the bottle on the counter, staring at the condensation. The idea of drinking made my stomach turn. I thought about the time before, of throwing up, which in turn made me think of the rancid cure-all Kweku Laveau had given me. Maybe it had taken a few days to get its claws into me, but now that it had, the damn thing wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to d
rink; it was that I almost physically couldn’t.

  When I brought the High Life up to take a swig, the smell of it sent a sickening pulse through me, and I ended up pouring it down the sink, watching it fizz and bubble going down the drain. Instead, I poured myself a glass of sweet tea from a fresh pitcher Vanessa had made - she couldn't live without the stuff - and went in the living room.

  "Court date's the day after tomorrow," she said, muting the television.

  "I know."

  She had that same disaffected look about her, but there was something else to it, too. She seemed to be missing something that would make her complete, and I searched for what it might be.

  "That what you're thinking about?" she asked.

  "I haven't really thought about it much over the last few days." And I definitely couldn't tell her what I was actually thinking about. My eyes darted once to her thighs, covered by jeans, and it brought me back to the day by the lake.

  "That old coot Clements going to be able to get you the minimum on the DUI?"

  "I hope so," I said. "Janita Laveau's going to make a statement on my behalf. What have you done all day?"

  "Cleaned up this pig sty for you.” She paused. “As a way of saying thank you, I guess."

  "Thanks," I said, looking around. She'd even managed to mop the hardwood, which I absolutely never did. I returned her smile and joined her, sitting on the opposite end of the couch.

  "I know it's weird having me here," she said, leaning back against the headrest and staring at the ceiling. "It should make you feel good that I trust you enough to come back like this."

  Not exactly, I wanted to say.

  "It's confusing, Van," I said, turning my attention to the muted television. "And I'm not in the mood to talk about it."

  "Well, fine." In my periphery, I saw her make a face. Just a slight tweak of her features, but enough to know that she was displeased.

  And this is how the past is dredged up, not in the pleasant memories but the half-forgotten anger of a thousand petty arguments.

  I sighed. "Stay as long as you need, and we'll talk about the awkwardness later. I've got a lot on my mind, from the DUI to everything else. Just stay clean and we'll be all right until then."

  She ran her fingers through her long, dark hair. "I thought we might have an opportunity to talk. About. Um, us?"

  "Is that what you cleaned up for?"

  "No, I just thought it'd be nice."

  "There isn't any us right now. You're staying here because you need help getting that shit out of your system."

  “But it’s been nice being here,” she replied. “It’s like you said. I can’t be concerned with who I was but only try to be a new me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” What I’d meant was, I didn’t mean for that to apply to me.

  “I guess I’m just trying to make up for things.”

  I saw her eyes growing wet, but I couldn’t soften. I had grown calloused in the time she’d been gone. Hell, I reckon I’d always been calloused, just not toward her.

  “Listen. Okay. Yes, it has been good having you here. Fuck, Van, I never asked you to leave. You did that all on your own.”

  “And I’m-”

  “Don’t. Don’t.” I tried to pick my way through all of the things I wanted to say, like choosing a blade for a good, old-fashioned knife fight, but looking at her made that hard to do.

  “I am, though,” she said. “Sorry.”

  It was impossible not to clench my fists and my jaw. “And if you get the jones again? If I wake up at midnight to the sound of tires on the road?”

  Everything about what I felt was ugly and mean, but that didn’t keep me from wanting her. All the time she had spent away had locked away desire, but even starved it hadn’t died in those chains.

  She was crying openly now, and I leaned in and put my face between her neck and shoulder, and I smelled her, the way she used to be. I was shaking, and some of it was from sobriety and the other was from being pissed off and lonely.

  Her hands were on me, on my back and on my neck and then in my lap. I kissed her just below the lobes of her ears and ran one of my hands down her side, down below the hip. We were both desperate and unhappy, but at least right then we had each other.

  She unbuttoned my jeans and slipped a hand inside, and I found the latch of her bra with one hand and tried to unhook it. It was going to happen like this, and it was going to be a mistake, but it was going to be made.

  But then something happened. My head became disoriented, and I felt the edge of my mind becoming blurry with one of those visions. It was faint, but it was there for me to experience.

  Not now, I thought. Not now, not now, goddamnit.

  Had I been drunk, I might have seen everything, smelled the stink of their indiscretions, but I caught enough to make me pull back. I didn’t know if it were my imagination or a true vision, but it was enough to push me back.

  Her eyes widened when she saw the look on my face. In that instant, I saw her face not as it had been on that day by the lake but cracked with drug use, sliding down a man’s chest beyond his gut, kissing him every few inches, and then disappearing so that the top of her head was all that was visible.

  I flinched. “What?” she said, reaching back to where she had been holding me.

  I pushed her hand away. The image in my head was gone, but the silhouette of it remained with me, and I felt sick. “I can’t,” I said.

  She leaned back, her face a question mark.

  I got up, and I went into the bedroom and picked up an old Stephen King paperback, lying on the bed and letting my eyes go over the words, even if I had no idea what it was I was reading. Several minutes later, I heard a sob as loud as a dog's bark and then the opening and slamming of the front door. The junker Van was driving groaned to life, and she went squealing off into the night.

  Fine. Just fine. That was her MO. I just hoped she wasn't going out to get high, and I spent the rest of the night wondering where she was.

  It wasn’t until I went into the bathroom to start a shower that I found a silver coin lying face up on the sink. On one side was a prayer for serenity - God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change - and on the other the words “one day.” I found another one on the nightstand on the side of the bed where I normally slept when we were together. She’d meant for me to see them, to give me a hint, I think I might have reacted differently had I seen them first.

  * * *

  "You believe in voodoo, Deuce?" I asked him outright. We were leaning against the bar, under the faint, orange glow of the neon signs. The smell of beer was so strong it was like it was being pumped in through the vents.

  But that didn't mean it was unpleasant, either. A bar's smell is often agreeable if you have spent enough time in them, particularly in the afternoon. I don't know if that's sad or not, but it probably is.

  "Not any more than a normal man, I suppose, old buddy," he replied. Then his face changed. "Wait a minute. I thought you were supposed to be the one to disregard all that spiritual nonsense."

  It was early evening - too early, even, for the street lights to flicker on - and yet the bar was half-full. If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought there was something heavy in the air. People seemed restless. That, and the pulpwooders were noticeably absent, their normal places now manned by a couple of strangers in dingy work shirts.

  "You say that," I said, "but I'm sitting on a stool in a bar and I don't even have the urge order a beer. Have you ever known me to do that?"

  Deuce took a drink and placed his frosted mug back in its spot, rested his arms on the rail. "It doesn't have anything to do with your scheduled appearance in court tomorrow, does it?"

  There was a hint of disapproval in his voice, but only a hint. I mean, he was sitting here with me, after all.

  "No," I said, though I hadn't thought of it in quite that way. It sort of shocked me. "At least I don't think so. I think it has to do with something out of the
ordinary."

  "Would you get the cotton out of your mouth, Rol? You're talking nonsense."

  "Janita Laveau's uncle."

  "The old voodoo man."

  "Yeah.” I saw two kids, maybe not even twenty-one, necking in the corner. My heart did a weird two step and then went back to normal. “He gave me some godawful drink the other day, and, well, I don't know. Something happened."

  "He gave you anti-drinking juice?” Deuce smiled wryly. “The people at Budweiser would shit themselves if they knew that existed."

  "Don't be patronizing. What he gave me tasted like it had been scraped from the bottom of the Okefenokee. Called it a cure-all."

  Deuce shook his head and groaned absently. He wasn't focused on me. He had become infatuated with a sliver of frost, using a fingernail to push it around the surface of the glass. "And you drank it? That old man handed you a cup full of chum, and you went and you drank it?"

  "I was trying to get in his good graces. I wanted some information out of him, and, I don't know, I guess I thought drinking that mess might help me. Goddamn folk magic."

  "Magic doesn't even begin to describe voodoo."

  "How would you know?"

  "I was in the NFL, buddy," he said. "Nobody in this world is more superstitious than a professional athlete, especially a football player."

  "Really? Even in the pros?"

  "Think about it. Football is regimented like no other sport. It follows very specific rules repetitively. As a football player, you get caught up in the repetition. You practice the same game plan, the same plays, the same movements, until there's not much more you can perfect. It's easy to become fixated on the little things.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” I said.

  “That's how players get caught up in believing superstition. Coaches tell them from a very young age, 'It's about the little things. Do the little things right, and you will win football games.' Now, that mentality transfers over. The player begins to think the way he brushes his teeth or what he keeps in his locker will have an impact on the game. As long as you're winning, people don't say anything. People, all people, begin to believe these superstitions themselves."