Alf shrugged. “Only behind the tables, although as they got older I let them do some shooting as well.” Alf shook his shaved head as if to bring himself back into the land of the here and now. “Leo called me last Thursday.”
Bonnie sat upright and gave Alf her full attention. “How’d that go?”
“I was an asshole, as per usual. I handed the phone over to Oscar, one of my managers.” Alf slammed a meaty paw down on the desk. “I should have spoken with my boy.”
You poor bastard. A prisoner of your own persona.
Bonnie remembered the slip of paper in Leo’s pocket. “What did Leo want to talk to you about?”
Alf blinked at her and slowly shook his head. “He wouldn’t tell Oscar over the phone. Said he was coming by”—the big man paused as if a thought had struck him momentarily insensate—“today. Even with me acting like I had a stick up my ass, Leo was coming by to talk to his knucklehead of an old man. Would have been here today.”
Now the big man’s breathing was coming in short rasps.
Any moment he’s going to lose it.
To her shame, Bonnie wanted no part of Alfred Rattlesnake Quinn’s breakdown. She groped for something to say. “I think Leo meant to get a hold of me as well.” She told him of the paper in Leo’s pocket, successfully avoiding how she obtained this information or how Leo died.
Alf stared as if he were looking right through her. “I think it was a nine millimeter.”
At first Bonnie had no idea what the man was referring to. Then she understood what he was seeing with that glassy stare. “You mean the shots …” Bonnie couldn’t finish the sentence.
“That killed him.” Alf nodded. “Three to the heart. They were only going to let me see his face, identify who he was, but I made them show me his wounds. Tight pattern. A steady hand.”
Alf stretched out his arm, eyeing his own hand, which wasn’t nearly so steady. He crossed the room and drew a pistol from a holster hanging on a coatrack.
“Whoever killed my boy, he was just like me.” He smacked the barrel of the pistol hard against his chest. “Knew his way around a gun.”
He pulled back the barrel, feeding a round into the chamber. “Did they really think it would be that easy? Kill my boy and then just waltz away?”
Time to go, boys and girls. “Listen, Alf. I’ve got some errands—”
“Not yet.” The big man looked at the pistol in his hand as if someone else had placed it there.
“Sorry.” He placed the gun on the desk. “I need to ask you something.”
Bonnie’s mind raced, wondering what this giant Looney Tune of a man wanted to quiz her about. She hoped to God she knew the right answer.
She had to swallow before she could speak. “Yeah?”
“Leo’s funeral is the day after tomorrow. It would mean a lot to me if you would give the eulogy.”
CHAPTER 4
THE EULOGY? BONNIE TURNED ONTO HIGHWAY 84. There’s a land mine waiting for someone to trip over. A land mine with Bonnie Pinkwater spray painted on the side.
What bothered her most was Alf’s choice of a minister—Harold T. Dobbs. No one ever suggested the T in his name stood for tolerance.
Truth be told, the pastor of the Saved by the Blood Pentecostal Tabernacle had a burr under his saddle when it came to homosexuals. Last spring, he’d led a contingent of the SBTBPT faithful to a Colorado Springs high school when that errant learning establishment had the temerity to consider a gay student club.
Standing with bullhorn in hand, Harold had put in a full day lambasting students and faculty alike.
“Fags go to hell!”
“God hates homosexuals!”
“An abomination in His eyes!”
“Gays are godless!”
Bonnie, who had taken a mere half day off from school to view the spectacle, had to admit the alliteration in Gays are godless had a catchy, almost hip-hop ring to it.
I’d give it an eighty-six, Jerry. You can dance to it.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to remain a spectator for long. She’d challenged the good pastor on his Jesus’ compassion coefficient. She and Harold then enjoyed a major skirmish—even had their ten seconds of fame when the Colorado Springs/Pueblo news station, KCOL, aired the two of them, both red-faced, shouting at one another.
And damn, I certainly hadn’t extended any olive branches when I sent Harold that gold-engraved invitation to the Gay Pride Parade in downtown Colorado Springs.
Now she was supposed to share a podium with the damnable, stick-up-the-rear end, son of a buck. Every permutation she could imagine of that eventuality played out as a disaster.
Still, she could halfway see Alf’s logic in choosing Harold. The pastor’s son, Jason, had been Leo’s best friend all through high school. Point guard to Leo’s forward. Leo and Jason had double-dated at the prom.
Last Bonnie had heard, Jason was running the summer Bible camp for the Saved by the Blood folks. She couldn’t imagine Jason’s calling mixing comfortably with Leo’s revelations.
Would Jason even come to the funeral?
She reached for her phone. Armen could get her thinking of something other than funerals and maniacs. She hit his number on her speed dial.
Busy.
Damn.
Since she had the phone out already, she called up Lloyd on the speed dial. Even as the phone rang, first one then two times, she could picture her good friend sitting in a dark room, maybe drinking, deliberately not picking up. His answering machine kicked in. Marjorie’s melodic voice encouraged Bonnie to leave a message.
“… we promise we’ll get right back to you.”
As soon as the beep finished, Bonnie said, “I know you’re there, Lloyd. This is Bonnie. You can either pick up, or I’m coming by. I’m not five minutes from your house.”
When there was still no answer, she turned Alice’s nose toward Lloyd’s place.
Two minutes later—she’d sped just a tad—Bonnie found herself staring with halfhearted satisfaction at Lloyd’s truck.
At least the man’s vehicle is in residence.
Bonnie quick-stepped to her principal’s front door and gave assault—rapping hard five times and after a two-second interval having at it again. She stepped back to see if perhaps Lloyd was peering at her from behind a side-window curtain. Sure enough, a jaundiced eye met hers.
“You might as well let me in, Lloyd. I’m not going away until we talk.”
She could swear she heard a groan as the small aperture in the curtain closed. An eternity later, the front door opened a crack. “Bonnie? What in God’s name are you doing here?”
“Lloyd Whittaker, are you going to just let me stand here like some sort of salesman? Invite me in, for Pete’s sake.”
With a reluctance you couldn’t cut with a Ginsu, Lloyd opened wide the door.
“Forgive the mess,” he grumbled.
A mess hardly described the family room. Pizza boxes, most with hard-curled slices stuck to their bottoms, were stacked in high, random piles. Empty, ripped-open cardboard twelve-packs of Coors and Bud—mute testimony of Lloyd’s impatience to sample the contents—were everywhere. Crushed cans, like aluminum commas, punctuated the remaining space.
Bonnie tiptoed through the rubble and began collecting the dead soldiers.
Head down like a child caught reading a dirty book, Lloyd followed behind doing the same.
In the kitchen, Bonnie located a box of large garbage sacks. With an efficiency born of practice, she popped open a bag, dumped her burden, and held the sack for Lloyd.
Her longtime friend refused to meet her eyes as he unloaded his armload of boxes.
Bonnie wrinkled her nose. “You, sir, stink. Go grab a shower. I’ll finish cleaning up and then we can talk.” She took his elbow and walked him to the bathroom.
Without complaint, Lloyd let himself be led. At the door, he turned back, leaning on the jamb. “Thanks, Bon.”
She reddened at the naked gratitude
in her friend’s face. “Yeah, yeah, just don’t forget to shave. You look like a Santa Claus wannabe.”
Lloyd smiled for the first time since her arrival. “Woman, you’re not one to pull punches, are you?”
She returned the smile. “You’ve never been someone who’s needed me to. Now get. You’re giving smelly a bad name.”
He shut the door.
Twenty minutes later, as she was tamping down the last of the pizza boxes in the fourth garbage sack, Bonnie heard the squeak of the bathroom door. She was tempted to take a gander, but resisted. The last thing Lloyd needed was to be caught bare-assed scurrying from his own bathroom.
By the time she’d returned from tossing the sacks, Lloyd was dressed and sitting on a raggedy overstuffed chair—a twin of the one in his school office. He’d even combed his hair.
He licked his lips, obviously ill at ease. “I suppose you’ve heard.”
Bonnie nodded. “I had a confab with Marcie. I’d hoped it wasn’t true.”
“It’s true.”
She crossed the room and took Lloyd’s hand. “How you holding up?”
A flicker of indecision passed over Lloyd’s craggy face—the possible consideration of a lie. “Crappy pretty much covers it.”
“I’ve never been a huge fan of crappy myself. You got a recovery plan that doesn’t include barley, malt, and hops?”
Lloyd stared mutely up at her.
She squeezed his hand. “I’ll take that for a no.”
Using her other hand for leverage, Bonnie hoisted Lloyd to his feet. “You’re coming with me.”
Bonnie pulled up at her house. She’d fully intended to give Lloyd her full attention, to hear the Marjorie story in its entirety and be appropriately supportive. But when she mentioned Leo and realized Lloyd, who’d been holed up like a hermit, knew nothing of the boy’s death, the floodgates opened. She was just beginning to tell of the trip to Rattlesnake’s as she shut down the engine of Alice, The-Little-Subaru-That-Could.
“I’m sorry, boss. This was supposed to be your time.”
Lloyd shook his head. “Fact is, I’m not anxious to bare my soul just yet. I’m going to need to work up to it. But I am grateful for a chance to think about something else besides me and Marjorie. I can’t believe Leo is dead. I remember that graduation like it was yesterday.”
“I know what you mean.” She snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot.” She told him of Wednesday’s funeral, the eulogy, and the Reverend Harold T. Dobbs.
Lloyd whistled. “That should be good. As I recall, you and the good pastor got a bit of history.”
Bonnie popped open her door. “I’m glad you think it’s so funny. Me, I’d rather be bent over a pool table and spanked with a rusty colander than face that man again.” She led Lloyd through her garage into the house.
“I’ve never seen you play duck and cover with anyone. I’ll bet there’s a part of you that can’t wait to mix it up with old Harold.”
Bonnie turned on the bank of houselights. Immobile as an Egyptian statue, Euclid sat in the long hall.
Lloyd leaned close to Bonnie. “Don’t take this wrong, Bon,” he whispered, “but that cat gives me the creeps.”
Bonnie scooped the Burmese into her arms and rubbed her face into his ebony fur. “Don’t listen to the mean old man, Euclid. He just doesn’t understand royalty.”
She pointed with her chin. “Go ahead into the kitchen, Lloyd. I’m going to let the dogs in.”
Still holding Euclid to her face, she opened the wood and aluminum door to the dog run. Almost knocking her down, her three canine housemates bounded into the hall. Hopper, the black lab, and Lovelace, the border collie, ran past with scarcely a backward glance. Hypatia, the golden retriever, stopped and licked an offered hand.
“I love you, too, sweetie.” Bonnie scrubbed her fist across the dog’s head, stopping to softly stroke the pink scar behind the right ear.
In the kitchen, the collie and lab had surrounded Lloyd. They had him backed up against the breakfast island, each demanding a fair share of his affection and perhaps any food he might have hidden on his person. For his part, Lloyd was administering rough love in the form of gentle and not-so-gentle slaps to the dogs’ jowls. He looked up from his play.
“You got a message.”
The red light on the phone by the microwave was blinking. Bonnie set the cat on the breakfast island, crossed the room, and punched the message button.
After the whirr of the tape, she recognized Armen’s voice. “Bon, I’m going to need to beg out of our date to the fair. Something has come up.” Abruptly, he signed off.
Bonnie stared at the phone, more disappointed than she wanted to admit. Doggone-it, he sounded strange.
A red-faced Lloyd Whittaker tried to pretend he hadn’t been eavesdropping.
“No big deal,” Bonnie said. “We were just going to the El Paso County Fair.”
Lloyd’s expression carried just the right mixture of sympathy and casualness. He shrugged. “I ain’t been to the fair yet this year. How ‘bout we go together?”
Bonnie exhaled and released an increment of the tension she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She nodded her acceptance. “I would be honored, kind sir.”
Bonnie slid off the camel and took back her cotton candy from Lloyd. “Now that’s something you don’t get to do every day. You should give it a try.”
Lloyd took her elbow and led her past the petting zoo. “So is peeing on an electric fence, but I ain’t got a hankering to do that, either. Besides, the dang things spit.”
“Chicken.”
Her principal shook his head. “Nope. Now, there’s a chicken.”
Behind a wire-mesh fence a gigantic rooster with a red cocks comb that covered most of its face stared malevolently.
“My God, the thing looks possessed.” She dipped her head and took a sticky bite from her cotton candy.
“Keep your voice down,” Lloyd whispered. “That critter is some little girl’s pride and joy.”
Sure enough, a chubby girl in long braids and flowered overalls gave Bonnie the evil eye. She grabbed Lloyd’s arm and quick-stepped into the dusty throng of the fair. Soon they’d lost themselves in the crowd surrounding the twin lines of booths.
Her guilt monitor hummed, albeit subsonically. She knew she should be feeling at least a little bit melancholy. After all, a former student was dead and Lloyd was in the process of losing his wife of thirty-four years. The truth was, the only regret she owned at the moment was wishing she’d bought a funnel cake.
As far back as she could remember—and for her that meant almost into the womb—she loved county fairs. And for some reason, the El Paso County Fair never failed to make her positively giddy.
She’d checked the schedule at the gate. Besides the rodeo, this week the fair promised a demolition derby, a greased-pig competition, a pie-eating contest, bad hair and bad Hawaiian shirt judging, a wiener dog race, and a vintage car display.
The only problem was the heat. Bonnie’s tie-dyed T-shirt—ALGEBRA: AN UNDERGARMENT FOR A MERMAID—clung to her like a second skin. Ye gods, it’s almost seven and still the temperature has to be close to ninety. How come these cow and horsey thingees are always so damn hot?
“And how come you’re not sweating?” she demanded of Lloyd.
“I’m an administrator. We don’t sweat.”
“Bull crap.” She took a quick look-see to make sure no one in the crowd was listening to their conversation. “I’ve seen The Divine Pain in the Ass dripping like a cheap faucet. And he’s the bull-goose administrator in these here parts, hombre.” She dropped her chin, doing her best John Wayne.
Lloyd shook his head in mock frustration. “One of these days you’re going to push that man too far and then—”
“And then what?” She giggled maliciously, remembering what she had called Superintendent Xavier Divine—to his face—when they’d last locked horns. “Will all the king’s horses and all the king’s men forget how
to put that potato head back together again?”
Lloyd gave her a dirty look before his face broke into a full smile. “You got a mean streak, Pinkwater.” He gave her a wink.
“You better believe it. Want a bite?” She offered the cotton candy.
“No, thanks.” Lloyd shook his head. “You have a glob of purple stuck to the tip of your nose.”
She made to wipe it off, then thought better of it. “I’ll bet it makes me look adorable.”
He squinted at her. “Adorable—you took the word right out of my mouth.” Using the sleeve of his shirt, Lloyd wiped off the offending smear.
The act was so like something Ben, her dead husband would have done, it stopped Bonnie in her tracks. She studied Lloyd over the top of her cotton candy. What had this darling man done to make his wife take to the hills?
“What?” Lloyd asked.
“Nothing.” She pointed with her nose toward the open-sided pavilion holding the vintage cars. “Look there.”
A crowd of people—many wearing NASCAR and Pennzoil baseball caps—were gathered. In their midst stood Alf Rattlesnake Quinn holding court over a group of teenagers. At one point he slapped a tall man in a straw cowboy hat on the back. Both he and the man roared with laughter.
“Want to say hello?” Lloyd asked.
Bonnie thought only a moment before she shook her head. “I don’t think so.” There was something unsettling about Alf’s laughter, something forced and artificial.
“You recognize the gent Rattlesnake’s talking to?” Lloyd asked.
“I can’t make him out from behind.”
“Moses Witherspoon. The Spoonmaster himself.”
Bonnie took a closer look. “Oh, my God. It is him. It’s a wonder I don’t have that young man’s silhouette burned into my brain, considering all the crap he gave me over the years.”
“He was a pistol, that’s for sure.”
Bonnie scanned the crowd, fully expecting to see Dwight Furby in attendance. That young scalawag, who had been Witherspoon’s shadow all through high school, was nowhere to be seen.
I guess the old Spoonmaster is flying solo tonight.
Irrational Numbers Page 4
