by Dan Taylor
She giggles while I contemplate the definition of ironic.
Then she says, “When the fighting had simmered down, and we’d told each other everything. Well, I didn’t mention hiring you. But still, we were really honest with each other. Anyway, I don’t feel right talking about our S-E-X life with you, but let’s just say we had make-up something. Great make-up something!”
“Okay. But Megan—”
“Jake, you’re a terrible listener. I haven’t gotten to the best part yet. Okay, so…” I hear Megan breathing rapidly, trying to calm herself down. Then she says, “He took me out to lunch afterwards. It was all really romantic. In between the entrées and the appetizers, he got down on one knee, and you won’t believe what he asked me.”
“I think I could maybe hazard a guess.”
“He asked me to marry him!” What Megan says next—my sassy, grounded Megan who I thought would see straight through this bullshit—nearly gives me a heart attack: “Eeeeeek!”
She goes quiet, then says, “Well, aren’t you going to say something?”
“Yay!”
Silence a second. “You don’t sound very excited.”
With how excited and drunk Megan is, and me not having concrete evidence that Julius both catches and pitches, I don’t think now’s the time to tell her what I learned. I’ll have to try harder to gloss over my lack of enthusiasm. I thought I’d nailed it with the ‘yay!’ but it’s time to pull out the big guns. I take a deep breath, close my eyes real tight, and then give my most convincing, “Eeeeeek!”
She’s quiet a second. I wait for her to respond, biting my fingernails.
Then she says, “Yay! I knew you’d be happy for me.”
“Over the moon. In fact, way past the moon and over…what’s the next planet along in our solar system?”
“Mars.”
“Yeah, over the Mars.”
“Okay, that doesn’t really work, but if you were here now, I’d give you a big hug.”
“And I’d hug the shit out of you right back, and even pretend to be interested in looking at your ring. I’m so excited.”
Someone stop me. Someone stop me, no matter what it takes.
“It’s time to get back. The waiter’s coming over with the second bottle of champagne. Wait a minute, why did you phone?”
“Mm, just to tell you that…there’s not much happening my end. With the investigation. Nothing, in fact.”
Silence. “You phoned to tell me that?”
“Yep. I phoned to tell you nothing. It’s kinda ironic when you think about it.”
She giggles again. “It is, isn’t it?”
“It definitely is the definition of ironic.”
She giggles yet again. I have no idea why. “So, Jake. Come on back to Hollywood and drop the investigation. We found out the truth, and in the best way possible!”
“Best. Way. Possible!”
Shoot me. Right in the forehead.
“When you come back, you can come and celebrate with us, if you’d like? You can meet my future ball and chain.”
“Flying asteroids, heading right over Mars, couldn’t stop me.”
“Hurry back now.”
She hangs up.
So that plan about leaving Hickston? Kinda out of the window after that revelation. And what makes matters worse, is that, in a way, I’m to blame for all this, for getting her involved. Who needs enemies when you have friends like Old Hancock?
But I get the impression—after seeing what’s ahead in the middle of the road, about a hundred yards—that I didn’t have a choice about leaving Hickston anyway.
29.
WAITING BY THE side of the road, and probably not because of a punctured tire, is the sheriff’s patrol car. And waiting, gun drawn, probably for me, is the sheriff himself.
Oh, boy.
I pull on to the road-side and the sheriff comes over and instructs me to roll down the window, despite my being able to hear everything outside the vehicle because of the busted window.
I do it anyway.
He says, “I’m going to have to ask you to step out of the vehicle, sir.”
Sir?
“Oh, hey, Sheriff. What seems to be the problem?”
“Just do as I said, sir.”
“Why are you pointing the gun at me, Sheriff?”
“It’s just a precaution, sir. Now step out of the vehicle.”
“Okay…”
I start getting out.
He says, “Raise your hands and bring your license and registration with you.”
“Raise my hands and then bring my license and registration?”
“Get your license and registration and then raise your hands.”
“Okay, but I don’t have the registration. This is a rental.”
“Just your license, then.”
I take it out of the glove compartment and do as he said. The game’s up for sure as soon as he looks at it. But funnily enough, that isn’t my greatest concern. That would be why the sheriff’s acting as though this is the first time we’ve met.
I’m standing outside the driver’s door, my hands raised, license in one hand.
The sheriff’s still pointing the gun at my face, despite having my whole body in view.
He takes one hand off the pistol and takes my license, and then says, “Lie on the ground while I run the license through dispatch.”
“Is that necessary?”
“It’s absolutely necessary, sir.”
“If you got your panties in a bunch about that bread comment, then I apologize.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now lie down, before I place you under arrest.”
“We just shared a drink. Well, we both had separate drinks. I don’t know why people say that.” I pause and sigh. “What I’m trying to say is, we obviously just met at the bar.”
“Are you saying you’re driving intoxicated?”
“Why are you acting like we’ve never met?” Then I realize something. I look at the sheriff’s car and wave for the camera. “Is it for benefit of the video?”
Sheriff wants to bring me in, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge knowing me, for some reason.
“You’re clearly very confused, sir. Now lie down.”
“Okay, but my wife’s going to go apeshit when she sees I scuffed up the shirt she bought me.”
I lie down and the sheriff takes my license to his car. I watch the dude the whole time. He doesn’t phone it in or whatever, just sits ten seconds, looking at my license.
Then he comes back over, keeping a good distance.
Pointing the pistol at me again.
He says, “Okay, your license is clean, Mr. Hancock. But you’re driving a car that isn’t roadworthy.”
“The busted window? Does that affect its roadworthiness?”
“And the busted taillight.”
I think about that a second. “Okay, say I play along with this charade and pretend that I didn’t just meet you under false pretenses and under a fake name. Then how would you know I have a busted taillight? You haven’t even seen the back of my vehicle.”
“That isn’t important at this time.”
I speak slowly, as though the sheriff’s had a lobotomy. “Logic isn’t important at this time? If you want to make this arrest seem not born out of some personal bias, then I suggest, Sheriff Dale Constable, you play close attention to what seems logical and what doesn’t, because my attorney will. He’s a Harvard graduate. He kinda likes logic.”
Sheriff thinks for a second. I can see the cogs turning. Then he says, “Okay, stand up, Mr. Hancock.”
As I get up, I say, “Have you come to your senses and decided to give me a slap on the wrist, yet?”
He ignores me. “With your hands up, go around to the back of the vehicle. I suspect you’re driving a car with a busted taillight.”
I roll my eyes. “Logic, Sheriff.” I raise my voice for the benefit of the camera. “Why are you making me go around t
o the back of my vehicle to look at my taillight?”
“Just start moving, or—”
“You’ll place me under arrest. I got it.”
I walk around to the back of the vehicle, and the sheriff follows, pointing the gun at my back. When I get there, I theatrically play along. “Hey, I’ve got a busted taillight, which we both didn’t know about. What are the odds?”
Then why the sheriff made me go back here comes to me, or at least it would if I didn’t…
30.
GET COLD CLOCKED by the sheriff.
Everything goes black.
Someone wakes me by throwing water on my face. I always thought that was so dumb when I saw it in the movies. Some guy’s lying unconscious one second, but just tossing a bit of water on his face magically makes the dude conscious. But apparently it works.
I’m sitting on a chair, my hands tied behind my back and feet tied to the chair legs. When my vision’s cleared—after the water’s stopped running down my face—I see the sheriff on his haunches in front of me, with my wallet in his hands.
There’s no point in struggling, to try to get off this chair. The sheriff looks like a man that can tie a knot. There’s also a shotgun lying on the ground by his feet. I’m pretty good when it comes to deduction, which is why I’m able to assume that it’s his. If I were able to make it out of his solidly tied binds, which I can’t, he’d shoot me on the spot.
Me and my big mouth. Had I just played along, letting him bring me in by the book, I’d probably be sitting in the sheriff’s holding cell right now.
Whether in a cell or here, which I recognize as a barn after looking around, I’d still be contemplating the same question. Why am I here?
The way I see it, things turned sour as soon as Bill came over and mentioned the alleged rape.
The sheriff interrupts my thinking. “Jake Hancock of Hollywood. That’s a long way from Cedar Valley.”
“I’m impressed, Sheriff. You can read. It’s nice to see your high school had English in the curriculum as well as lassoing.”
He ignores that. “What I’ve been trying to work out, while you’ve been tied to that chair, is why in the world you were posing as someone called Giles Baker.”
“You should probably choose a new thinking position. That looks like it might be bad for your knees.”
Again, he ignores me, stares at the wallet as he says, “Of course, I had done some phoning around, found out you’re a registered private investigator in California.” Then he looks up at me. “Now why would a big shot private investigator come to my nice little town and start sticking his snout in where it don’t belong?”
I sit in silence, waiting for him to continue. Then I say, “Oh, you want me to answer that?”
Turns out he doesn’t. He continues thinking out loud: “And then I figured, any investigator that hides his name and wants to speak to the sheriff, off the record, has got to be up to no good. Which of course you were.”
“Just cut the bullshit, Sheriff. We both know what this is about.”
He stares at me for a good five seconds, eyes like slits, as though the sun’s in his eyes. “I got an idea, but I want to hear it—”
“From the horse’s mouth. Poignant, Sheriff.”
“So what are you doing here, Jake Hancock of Hollywood? And why is it you were sticking your snout where it don’t belong?”
“I was thinking of moving here, and wanted to get a decent idea if I’d get raped or not.”
Sheriff’s taken aback by that comment. He looks at me curiously. “What the hell you talking about, rape?”
“Oh come off it, Sheriff. Annabelle English. We both know I’m sitting here because of her.”
What the sheriff says next blows my mind. “Who the hell is Annabelle English?”
31.
IT’S UNCOMFORTABLE ON this stool, and really hot in the barn, so I figure I’d like to get this show on the road. Stop the sheriff from continuing with this false conjecturing, thinking-out-loud bullshit he was subjecting me to.
But what the sheriff asked—and he seems genuine about his question—has blown my theory out of the water. The one where he knew I was looking into his cover-up of a rape allegation.
He asks the question again.
Then I say, “So you really don’t know who Annabelle English is?”
“No.”
“Huh, then I have no idea why I’m sitting here.”
He takes the photo of Julius Collingwood out of my wallet. He holds it up for me to look at. “You’re sitting here because you were down at the mall, asking questions about this guy and the other guy he was with. I knew it was you as soon as I saw the shirt. Geoffrey described you real well, and said you came into his jeweler carrying a shopping bag from Hughie’s.”
“Oh that.” I think a second. “What’s that got to do with you?”
I’ve lived in Hollywood many years, so I can spot bad acting when I see it. Sheriff shrugs and shakes his head as he says, “Nothin’.”
Now I’m really confused. I believe the sheriff that he doesn’t know who Annabelle English is. As you know, I suspected Annabelle was lying about her rape story. But what I don’t know, is why my asking questions about Julius Collingwood would concern the sheriff enough for him to A) try to arrest me by the book to seemingly stop me from leaving Hickston, and B) knock me out and bring me to this barn and tie me to a stool.
I realize something. “You were behind that guy firing the rifle at me and busting my taillight.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Again, the bad acting. He rolled his eyes while he said it, and busted out his shoulder shrug again.
Then I come to a conclusion. The only conclusion that explains why the sheriff would be so concerned about my asking around about Julius Collingwood. Because it isn’t my interest in Julius he’s interested in.
32.
I SAY, “THAT guy was with your son at the jewelers, wasn’t he.”
It all makes sense: Geoffrey’s reaction when I asked if the two guys seemed like they may have been partners; he must be buddies with the sheriff. The mullet-wearing hick turning up with the rifle, busting my taillight, just in case the sheriff needed to keep me in town. And my sitting here, tied to a chair. And it definitely explains the sheriff’s next reaction.
The sheriff goes apeshit. He gets off his haunches and comes at me aggressively. I think he’s going to hit me, but he stops a foot away, and screams into my face, “My son ain’t gay!”
After I’ve blinked the spit out of my eye, I say, “Yeah he is. And he was dating that guy in the photo.”
The sheriff puts his fingers into his ears, closes his eyes, and says, “La la la la la!” Refusing to hear what I say.
I wait for him to finish, feeling a little sorry for the sheriff, not because his son’s gay. That’s cool with me. But because he’s taking the news hard.
Back at the bar, I’d expected the sheriff to trip himself up, to say something that would indicate he knew more about Annabelle’s rape allegation than he was letting on. He passed that test, because he genuinely doesn’t know anything about a rape allegation. But this time he didn’t. He confirmed my suspicion as soon as he said, “My son ain’t gay!”
The sheriff jumped to a conclusion about what Julius and his son were doing together, because he wasn’t jumping to a conclusion at all, if that makes any sense. Before I came to town, he knew his son was gay. He just didn’t want anyone else to know about it.
And my sitting here is part of his cover-up.
He stops saying “la la la la!” and falls to his knees, starts blubbering and muttering to himself. Then he falls over onto his side and hugs his knees into his chest.
That concrete evidence I was looking for? I’m tied to a chair in some horseshit-smelling barn, an Acme Acre-style lump protruding out of my head, and the dad of the guy who Julius Collingwood visited muttering to himself “My son ain’t gay” over and over as he lies in a fe
tal position.
After ten seconds of this, I say, “Sheriff?”
He looks up at me. Snot has dribbled onto his upper-lip, looking like a Hitler mustache. With his eyes watery, he asks, “Yeah?”
“You’re going to have to let me go, you know that, right?”
“Do I?”
He starts crying harder.
I say, “You do. There are at least two people who know I’m in Hickston. I go missing, first place the LAPD come looking is here.”
“Are you going to tell anyone about my son…about my son—”
“Being a fine homosexual man? No. And I had no intention of doing that when I’d put the pieces together at the jewelers.”
He wipes the snot away with his shirt sleeve. “But I thought you were here to expose him. That someone from town had hired you. Maybe an enemy of mine wanted concrete evidence for something he’d long suspected.”
So that explains the sheriff’s seemingly irrational reaction to my being in town.
“I was sent here by a friend of mine. She’s engaged to the guy in the photograph.”
“The guy in the photograph likes women too?”
“That’s right. In his world, penguins live at both the North and South Pole.”
The sheriff gets up, wipes the rest of the mucus and saliva off his face, which has barn floor dust sticking to it. Then he dusts himself off the best he can. Now that he’s gotten a hold of himself, he starts untying me.
“I hope you can accept my deepest apologies for all the wrong I’ve done you, Jake,” he says.
“Don’t be silly. I completely understand.”
“And I’ll pay for the taillight to be fixed. And the passenger window.”
“It’s a rental. I’ll send you the bill when I get it.” I think a second. “That guy you sent to shoot the taillight, he vomited in the front passenger seat footwell, too.”
