The Exiled

by Christopher Charles

  “You already said that. What makes him so interesting?”

  “He has a record. He fits the profile.”

  “Do you ever just answer a question?”

  “For now, it’s better if I don’t give you all the details.”

  He knew as soon as he said it that the phrasing came out wrong.

  “I see,” she said. “You think because I cried for my friend, I’m—”

  “No, that’s not it.”

  “How’s this? Tell me who he is, or I won’t help you.”

  Raney hesitated, remembered his promise to Bay.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But first I have to make sure you aren’t holding anything back.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything you might know about Mavis. Her past.”

  “Like I said, it never came up. I didn’t want to ask.”

  “I thought the two of you were close.”

  “You’re being mean.”

  “No, I’m being a cop.”

  “Look, Mavis didn’t open up to me. We were close, but not in that way. Sometimes I felt like a child around her. Sometimes I felt she was playing parent. Letting me into her home, letting me be around Jack, was the closest she came to confiding in me.”

  It rang true: all signs pointed to Mavis as someone who told people what she wanted them to know and nothing more.

  “Now it’s your turn,” Clara said. “Who is it I’m asking about?”

  Raney braced himself.

  “He’s Mavis’s son. From before Jack.”

  “That’s insane. I saw Mavis nearly every day for three years. She may not have told me everything, but—”

  “She didn’t raise him. As far as I know, she never laid eyes on him before last week.”

  Clara turned, stared out the window.

  “You think he killed her?”

  “No, but I believe he was here. He may have fought with the man who did kill her.”

  “You said he had a record. What kind of record?”

  “A long one,” Raney said. “Long and violent.”

  “So you think Mavis told him about Jack’s business? You think she enlisted him?”

  “I don’t think anything. I’m following a lead.”

  “That’s just something you feel you have to say. You’ve made up your mind, but you’re wrong. You’ve overlooked something. I would at least know what Mavis was capable of. She didn’t have her estranged son kill her husband and make off with a drug stash. She owned a crafts store. She was sixty-two. It’s fucking absurd.”

  “I’ve been doing this job a long time…”

  He felt her eyes gloss over.

  “Spare me the things I’ve seen speech. Your years as a cop don’t make you clairvoyant. I knew her, and you didn’t.”

  Raney let it pass.

  He locked his gun and holster in the glove compartment, watched Clara cross the parking lot, counted to a hundred, and followed.

  No Sims, no jolly-giant bartender. There was a peace about the place in the morning; the frenzy hadn’t yet begun. He dug in his pockets for loose change, walked the aisles of slot machines, hoping the right one would somehow call to him. There were nickel slots, dime slots, quarter slots; cherries, spaceships, full and half moons. He settled on one with an unlikely theme: cowboys and Indians, top prize for tomahawks straight across. He dropped in a nickel, pulled the lever. Lasso, peace pipe, stirrup. Prize: the chance to play again. Two pulls later, he won five dollars, a hundred nickels to keep him entertained until Clara came back. He found the random nature of the game liberating; with poker or blackjack you could trick yourself into believing there was skill involved, a system to be conquered. Slot machines demanded a total submission to chance. Raney understood why they were so popular with the elderly.

  The action of feeding the machine turned mechanical. His mind drifted. He thought of Bay’s comment: cash in my forty. For eighteen years, Raney’s expenses had been subminimal. His car was state-issued, his gas paid for. He was even given a clothing allowance. Sophia, or, more likely, Sophia’s father, had refused all child support; the checks Raney sent were either returned or never deposited. No mortgage hung over his head. Little of what he liked to do required much money. If he continued to live as he had been living, he could resign tomorrow. So why didn’t he? There were days, more and more of them, when he could imagine starting over, at age forty-two, as a photographer, a park ranger. But he had no doubt that ten years from now he would still be Detective Raney. Why? To continue with something implies hope.

  His phone rang. The sound startled him. Bay’s name lit up the caller ID.

  “Sheriff?”

  “Raney, this is weird. Real goddamn weird.”

  “What is?”

  “I ran Mavis’s background like you said. I used the name on her son’s birth certificate: Mavis Adler. I even called up a fed buddy to make sure I had all the databases covered.”

  “And?”

  “There is no Mavis Adler. There never was. Not our Mavis.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there are plenty of Mavis Adlers out there, but not one comes close to Mavis Wilkins. Either they turn up deceased, or the age is all wrong.”

  “Huh.”

  “Is that the best you can offer? Where are you, anyway? Sounds like a video arcade.”

  “The casino. Look, you know what to do. Run her Social against the dead Adlers. And send her prints to Interpol.”

  “Could it be some kind of witness protection thing?”

  “Maybe. There was more to her than a crafts store, that’s for sure.”

  “Forty years in a town this small and no one knew a goddamn thing about her. How’s that possible?”

  “Practice,” Raney said. “And luck.”

  “I guess her luck ran out.”

  “I guess it did. What does the birth certificate say about the father?”

  “Unknown.”

  “We’ll have to ID Mavis before we can track him down.”

  Bay clucked his tongue, hung up.

  A half hour later Raney’s forty dollars had dwindled to fifteen. A church congregation occupied the machines around him, adults of all ages wearing T-shirts that read IN CHRIST WE ARE WON. They called across to each other as though Raney weren’t there. The day’s frenzy had arrived.

  Clara tapped him on the shoulder.

  “I don’t know if it’s good news or bad,” she said.

  “Was he here?”

  “He still is. Or at least he never checked out.”

  “You get a room number?”

  “Seven thirteen.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “Very good.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  Raney handed her his depleted stash of nickels.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  “I’m not coming with you?”

  “You’re too pretty for the cameras.”

  He walked away wishing he’d said something—anything—else.

  He stopped in the gift shop, bought a baseball cap featuring a Zuni sun and an oversize sweatshirt with the name of the casino painted across the front. He changed in the men’s room, bent the brim of the cap and pulled it low, folded his shirt and blazer into the gift-store bag. He kept his eyes on the carpet as he walked to the bank of elevators, mugging tourist for the cameras.

  A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung outside room 713. Raney knocked just in case, then jimmied the door with a credit card, slipping the hard plastic between latch and frame quickly enough to pass for lawful entry.

  The room gave an immediate impression of slovenliness: bed unmade, pajamas in a heap on the floor, iron and ironing board left out, towels scattered around the bathroom, power cord on the desk plugged into nothing. A second look revealed someone who was orderly to the point of obsession. Unlike most people, Kurt used every space the hotel provided. A half dozen identical salmon-colored dress shirts hung in the closet by the door, neatly pressed,
buttons facing in the same direction; perfectly creased pants lay draped over the tiers of a slacks hanger; argyle socks, black T-shirts, and patterned boxers filled the dresser drawers. None of Kurt’s clothes showed the slightest sign of wear, as though he mail-ordered a new wardrobe every few weeks.

  A picture began to form. Kurt had been preparing for his day, ironing his shirt, still in his pajamas, when…had Mavis called? Did she make Gonzalez’s man before he reached the house? Unlikely: Mavis and Junior had been killed in the early morning, somewhere between 2:00 and 4:00 a.m. And Mavis had been murdered in the kitchen, with no sight line to the driveway. If she’d seen the man coming, she could have raced out the back, run for the bunker.

  Still, Kurt had left the hotel in a hurry. He’d grabbed anything incriminating and vanished. Raney found no weapons, no ID, no dope, no ledger. Something had spooked him. What? When? His bedside alarm was set for 8:00 a.m. Raney crossed to the window, discovered a perfect bird’s-eye view of the Wilkins ranch. Only one scenario made sense: Kurt, standing at the ironing board, had spotted the sirens, the swarm of reporters. He fled, most likely in the Jaguar given to him by Mavis. He’d have traded it for something less conspicuous by now, would be on his way back to Boston with Jack’s coke in the trunk.

  But then who had tangled with the cartel boy?

  Maybe Wilkins’s buyer grew tired of the delay.

  Or maybe there was a third party, as yet unknown. Whoever shared coffee and wine with Mavis the night she died.

  Raney picked up the phone, called reception.

  “Hi. I’m in room seven thirteen, and I need to check out. I’m running late. I was hoping you could send someone up with the bill.”

  “Not a problem, sir.”

  “I might be in the shower, so if they could just slip it under the door, that would be great.”

  “You bet.”

  Meanwhile, he continued searching: under the bed, between the mattresses, inside the air ducts. Nothing. He picked up a pack of Gauloises from the side table and flipped open the lid. The cigarettes sat high in the box. He emptied them onto the table. A clump of tinfoil tumbled out. Raney unfolded it, discovered a small rock of heroin. He worked it back into its wrapping, left the pack as he’d found it.

  A sheet of paper came sliding across the carpet. Raney took it up. Adler gave a fake name, fake address. The contact number was a long shot. On impulse, Raney took out his phone and dialed. An automated message, no name given. Pique his curiosity, Raney thought.

  “Hello, this is Detective Wes Raney calling for Kurt Adler. I was wondering if you have any idea who killed your mother or where her drug stash disappeared to. You can reach me at this number, day or night.”

  He stopped at the bathroom, changed back into his own clothes. Clara had moved on to a different machine. She sat with her face inches from the screen, pupils dilated, mouth slightly open. Someone had given her a bucket that looked like a beach pail. Raney watched her transfer the coins from pail to slot.

  “Are you ahead?” he asked.

  “I won eighty-five dollars,” she said. “I almost can’t breathe. I’ve never won money before in my life.”

  “Then it’s a good time to quit.”

  “One last try,” she said.

  She slid in a nickel, pulled. Lemon, kiwi, coconut.

  “Come on,” Raney said.

  She stood, shook her head as though breaking a trance.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “Not good enough,” she said. “I want a full report. I earned it on this one.”

  “I’ll tell you in the car.”

  “All right,” she said. “But I’ll know if you’re holding back.”

  The hills below the reservation were steep. Raney kept one foot hovering above the brake, saw Clara’s legs lock at every bend. The blue sheen cast by the morning light was muted now; the landscape seemed duller, less alert. Storm clouds to the east, the sky overhead clear.

  “Well?” Clara said.

  He told her about the view from Adler’s window, his penchant for order, his closet full of salmon-colored shirts.

  “Makes sense,” Clara said. “He was in and out of prison his whole life.”

  Why hadn’t the thought occurred to Raney? Because understanding the psychology behind Adler’s wardrobe wouldn’t lead him to the missing coke? Or because fifteen years in the desert had slowed his faculties?

  “And now the hunt?” Clara asked.

  “Yes. Adler’s probably ditched the Jaguar, so we’ll have the marshals and troopers focus on junkyards and chop shops.”

  “While you…?”

  “Wait. We’ve got people checking hospitals and morgues for stabbing victims. Forensics is processing DNA from the house. Mavis’s computer is with the techs. Something will come back.”

  The country leveled off. Clara leaned against the passenger door, one elbow out the window.

  “I let Mavis down,” she said.

  “Let her down?”

  “She was there for us. I didn’t even realize she needed help.”

  “She kept big secrets,” Raney said.

  They crested the summit of a hill on the outskirts of town. Main Street came into view. There was activity now: a cluster of pickup trucks in the megastore parking lot, a scattering of sun-beaten faces strolling between shops.

  “Where do you eat around here?” Clara asked. “I can’t imagine they feed you at that hotel.”

  “The diner, mostly.”

  “The diner? That place fries everything in lard. Why don’t you let me fix you a real dinner tonight? Daniel has an open invitation with Mrs. Hardin.”

  Raney hesitated: Clara wasn’t a suspect, was at most a material witness.

  “Sounds good,” he said.

  “Great. Pick me up at seven.”

  “Pick you up?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Staten Island, May 1984

  17

  An old-timer was playing solo piano on the stage at Dunham’s club, tunes Raney recognized from his childhood—“Moon River,” “I Can’t Give You Anything but Love”—songs from albums his father used to play. How long had it been, he wondered, since he’d visited his father’s grave? A year, maybe more. It seemed all the images he could conjure of the man came from photos instead of real life.

  “This guy’s eighty-four fucking years old,” Dunham said. “He played Minton’s. He sat in with Miles. Miles fucking Davis. Can you believe it? A living legend. And listen to him now. His fingers may have slowed a little, but he can still kill a ballad. I’ll be happy to wipe my own ass at that age.”

  You won’t live to that age, Raney thought.

  The tables were empty; the legend played for Dunham alone. A thousand-dollar check lay in the tip jar.

  “Listen,” Raney said. “I shouldn’t come along on this one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I told you. I fought Mora in the amateurs.”

  “You win?”

  “Once by TKO, once by split decision.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “He knows who I am.”

  “Yeah? I bet he knows who I am, too. Don’t worry, we’re going to play nice.”

  “A payoff won’t do it. Mora only cares about one thing.”

  “His fifteen illegitimate kids?”

  “A shot at a title.”

  “You kicked his ass twice. Maybe it’s time he moved on to a different dream.”

  “He won’t see it that way.”

  “Enough, Deadly. Take a fucking benzo. And go see if Pierre is done. I had him cook us up something for the road.”

  They crossed the bridge and drove up 4th Avenue into Sunset Park, Dunham at the wheel, Raney holding a paper bag filled with potato gnocchi, sautéed asparagus, a double portion of tiramisu. Pierre even threw in a bottle of wine.

  “How do you know Mora won’t already be there?” Raney asked.

 
“He works the day shift at a pet-food plant in Red Hook. He’s the forklift guy. Then he trains at Gleason’s from five to nine. The poor bastard must be dead in his skin.”

  “When does he fight Malone?”

  “Six weeks. Atlantic City, you and me, front row.”

  Six weeks. Rousting junkies was one thing; tanking Mora’s career was something else. He remembered Ferguson’s injunction: If you see an opportunity, take it. But then Meno would just send someone else. That had been Stone’s point all along: Dunham was a cog. Remove him prematurely, and the machine would keep churning.

  None of which would matter once Mora saw his face. Raney would have to arrest Dunham right there, call for a squad car, tell Stone to postpone his mayoral run.

  They parked in front of a square brick low-rise off the avenue on 43rd Street.

  “Looks like the box some other building came in,” Dunham said.

  An elderly Hispanic woman sat on the stoop, separating a cart of whites and colors into two baskets. It was the laundry that made him think of it. He popped the glove compartment, pulled out the ski masks—casual, as though he assumed they were part of the job.

  “Nah, we don’t need those,” Dunham said. “They won’t have cameras in a dump like this. Besides, I hate those fucking things. Sweat gets stuck in them and then your head stinks like a cunt.”

  “All due respect,” Raney said, “but there’s no way this guy doesn’t make me.”

  Dunham slapped the steering wheel.

  “Don’t be such a pussy. Mora can’t do shit. We’ve got him over a barrel. But if you want to wear the mask, then wear the fucking mask. Just wash your face after.”

  They started for the building. Dunham nodded to the old woman.

  “Buenos días,” he said.

  “I speak English, asshole.”

  “Yeah?” Dunham said. “And I bet you’ve got a few cats, too.”

  Someone had propped open the lobby door with a Spanish-language Yellow Pages. Dunham tapped it with his foot.

  “This is what the spics call a doorman building.”

  A bank of rusted mailboxes took up an entire wall. Dunham searched for Mora’s name, pulled a small nail file from his wallet and picked the lock. Inside, a coupon flyer and three envelopes with plastic windows.