by Deforest Day
“And then you turn, and run, and run until you caint run no more. Because after a fight the winner always says, ‘you should see the other guy’. And that’s a pretty lame victory speech.”
Her breath came quick, and her green eyes flared. The physical contact had tripped a trigger that had been cocked long, long ago. She stepped against him. ”You forgot one.” She cupped his crotch with her left hand, squeezed firmly enough to let him know she was not without moves of her own. “The one my mom taught me.”
He chuckled uneasily, tensed. “Yes’m, there’s that, too.”
She put her right hand on the back of his head and pulled it down to her mouth. ”And then there’s the distraction defense,” she said, softly, and kissed him, hard.
His hands went to her waist, to push her away, but her hand remained on his groin, and after a moment he began to kiss her back.
She broke contact and said, her throat husky, “I’ve wanted to do that ever since we met, that day at Fort Campbell.” She felt him thicken and she hooked fingers in his belt and pulled him to the couch and threw the cushions on the floor and unfolded the sofa into a bed.
Their clothing swirled away like autumn leaves as they yielded to the moment, only interrupted by a brief hiatus when he said, ”Hey, I don’t have-”
“Don’t worry about it; I’m a good Catholic girl. I can count.”
The wild rapscallions from Tora Bora stood guard on her bedside table.
The morning turned to afternoon, and they lay, side by side, now sated, serene. She turned, explored his body. Touched him, there, here, there. “You look like Doctor Frankenstein’s experiment.”
“That bad, huh?”
“What’s this?” She fingered a constellation of small scars on his side.
“Uzbekistan. Shrapnel from an RPG, destroyed our helicopter. Davy got his share.”
“Here?”
“South Carolina. Broke my leg, night training jump.”
“And that?”
“Another souvenir; from Somalia. Got stupid, let a man with a knife get too close.” He put his hand over hers. “Forgot to run.”
“Some souvenirs! Most people bring home postcards and native trinkets.”
“Yes’m. Sure hurts less, too. But, enough about me.” He rolled to her, studied her freckled skin, so pale as to be translucent. The blue veins were shadows beneath the surface. He saw now what Davy meant, onetime, saying she was a bowl of skim milk, with corn flakes. He traced her clavicle to her sternum, to her mamilla, the areola, and ended with a delicate tease of the papilla, naming the body parts on the way. “Anatomy classes were never so much fun.”
She gave a little shiver, and looked down at his hand. “I wish I had breasts.”
He ran his fingertip around one, then the other, in a slow figure eight. “What are these?”
”Tits. I’d like to have jugs, hooters, bazoongas.”
“Bazoongas? You’re about perfect, just the way you are.”
“Nah; I’m too skinny.”
Justice lay on his back and focused on the ceiling. Sang, in a slow, low voice,
“I got a girl named Boney Maroney.
She’s as skinny as a stick of macaroni.”
Pen swung her leg over his belly, straddled him, her moist sex sliding against his skin. She grabbed his throat with both hands, choked him. Her long hair shrouded their faces, tickling his ears. Her green eyes blazed in the penumbra.
In self defense he played a tune on her ribs. She giggled, wriggled, released his neck, and used her elbows to push his hands away.
“My brother used to tease me with that song!”
“Where do you think I learned it?”
She rolled off him, snuggled close. He could feel her breath on his neck. “I had such a crush on you, in high school. I wrote you long, passionate letters.”
“I never got them.”
“I never sent them.”
“I hope you got over it. I’d hate to think a fine young girl, then woman, would go through high school and college, pining for a far away soldier boy. It sounds like one of those bad country songs.”
“Or a Victorian novel. I was forced to endure way too much poetry about unrequited love, in an English lit course. But, yes, sure I got over you. Thirteen is a good age for pining. After that, hormones take over. Although, in my case, the hormones fell short in the boobs department. And boobies seemed to be the main focus of adolescent boys. So I ran cross country, studied hard, and hung with the kids on the school paper and the debating club. But I’m boring you. Or, worse, embarrassing you.”
“Not at all. I’m discovering a side I never learned from Davy.”
“There’s some things a brother doesn’t need to know. But what about you? To begin with, why aren’t you married?”
“Not a big selection, in places like Afghanistan and Somalia. And the choices at stateside bases ain’t much better. The divorce rate in the armed forces is way higher than civilians.” He turned toward her, gave her a sly smile. “Besides, I was saving myself. For you.”
“Get out!” She poked him in the side. “Good looking guy like you, with that hillbilly voice that could thaw a lawyer’s soul, I bet you left a trail of broken hearts across the planet.”
“Not so much. It’s hard to get serious with someone, when you know that the next day you’re liable to be in a Starlifter, heading for a HALO jump over hostile territory. So, yep, I hooked up with ladies, now and again. But we both had our eyes wide open.”
“Poor baby. You’ve never been in love.”
“I didn’t say that. I was in love, all through junior high and high school.”
“Oh, so you did have a sweetheart. Why didn’t you marry her?”
“Because she was about ten different gals.”
“Why, you, you Lothario.” Pen grabbed his ears and pulled his mouth against hers.
It was becoming clear to him that the girl liked to take the lead, liked it rough, and it stirred him. He rolled her back on top, and let her have her way.
They showered separately in the too-small stall, then dressed together, and had a second go at the dried soup mix. “We keep this up, I’ll have to buy some actual food,” she said. “I eat lunch at school, and then pick up something for supper at the supermarket salad bar.”
“Second date, if the first one works out, I usually take the woman out for dinner.”
“You have the same wise ass mouth as my brother.”
He put his arm around her slim waist and pulled her to him, kissed her briefly on the lips. Their foreheads touched. “I’m going to go pay a visit to the local police, then talk to the bartender at my hotel.”
“Will I see you later?”
“Better believe it. You’ll have to sweep me off your stoop.”
Chapter 41
Baer heard the crunch of tires on gravel, and moved to the kitchen window. A car rolled to a stop between the house and the barn. He pulled the yellowed lace curtain aside and peered through the wavy pane. A woman headed for the front door.
The place gave him the creeps; a Bates Motel, without the charm. If he decided to stay in Shaleville, it wouldn’t be here.
It was the real estate agent, Cynthia something. Cross. Cynthia Cross. What the hell did she want? She’d made it pretty clear, the other night, what was on her mind. He hoped this wasn’t Round Two. Women were like spiders; every encounter meant more entanglements. Give ‘em a jump, they want a snuggle. Give ‘em a snuggle, they’re picking out china. He met her at the door, and filled it. Made it plain he wasn't interested in whatever she had in mind.
“Hello, Mr. Baer. Curtis, if I may. I just dropped by to check if everything was OK. Did the electric get turned on?”
“Yes, it did, thank you. I’ll need to pick up some light bulbs.”
“It’s always something. Did you know there’s a dead cat in the driveway?”
“Must have been hit by a car last night.”
“Oh, hey! Speaking of dead, yo
u moved out of the hotel just in time.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“You didn’t hear? They found a guest there, dead in his room.”
He felt his blood pressure spike, and his ears popped. Followed by a sick feeling in his gut. He turned away from her, put a steadying hand on the hall table, and took a slow, deep breath through his nose, let it seep out through his mouth.
Back in control, he said, “And I thought I was the only one registered in that mausoleum.” He turned toward the kitchen. “If you know how to use an antique coffee pot we can have a cup while you tell me more.”
Later, after she left, Baer let his rage out of its cage. He drove his fist into the refrigerator door, leaving a large dent. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” He put his foot through the bottom panel of the back door. Shaleville was turning from a mistake to a disaster.
He called Pederson, goosed the lawyer into earning some of his retainer.
Chapter 42
Justice grabbed the stainless steel handle of the glass door and entered a claustrophobic vestibule. A message board displayed a handful of FBI Most Wanted posters. Flight to Avoid Prosecution. Bank Robbery, Interstate Fraud. Identikit renditions that could be almost anyone with dark hair and a flat face. They competed with a flyer for the fire company bake sale, and a Safety First! poster reminding the populace to stop when the school bus did.
Vinyl tile floor, buffed to a shine that threatened the modesty of ladies in skirts. Block walls with a fresh coat of pale green enamel, cold fluorescent light from a suspended ceiling. Like every First Sergeant’s office he’d ever entered.
A young woman in a gray shirt, corporal’s stripes, a brass name tag that said CLARK, slid the glass window aside. “Help you, sir?”
“Name’s Justice. I was a friend of the man that was killed yesterday, at the hotel. Davy Driver? I’d like to talk to whoever is in charge of the investigation.”
A radio crackled to life, a metallic voice said something about a code 11-80; truck and a car, followed by more ten-hundred code he did not know. 11-80: Accident-major injuries. That was one code he was all too familiar with, and he felt that old fire horse jolt; grab your gear and get to the scene.
Clark held up a finger, swiveled to the radio console, answered the call in equally unintelligible phrases. She slid off her chair, buzzed him in, opened another door, stepped into the hallway, and used her index finger to signal ‘follow me’.
The first door, past the soda machine, past the candy machine, past the water cooler, was ajar. It bore a polished brass plate that said CHIEF RUSSELL SCHMIDT. Clark rapped twice and pushed it open. “Man about the deceased individual, Chief,” she said, then stepped aside.
The Chief was at his desk, its plate glass over varnished oak clear save for a telephone, a manilla folder, and a gray hat with a silver shield center front. “You have information about David Driver?”
“Nosir. I’m lookin’ for some. Name’s Justice. Davy’s sister called me yesterday, and I come up here, see if I could be of some help. What that undertaker man said, the auto sex thing, made no sense a’tall. Besides that, turns out Davy’s neck is broke. I’d like to know what progress is being made on the case.”
“Progress on the case. You a police officer, Mr. Justice?”
“Nosir.”
“You a doctor?”
“Nosir.”
“Well, Mr. Justice, you’re not a doctor, your not law enforcement; just what are you?”
“Like I said, a friend. Lookin’ after his sister’s interests.”
“Well, friend, The coroner contacted me with your suppositions. And we are looking into it. Meanwhile, I’d advise you to mind your own business, not be interfering with a police investigation. Maybe go back down to Dixie, where you came from.” He paused a beat. “Or New Jersey.”
Justice stood in front of the desk. Looked at the Chief’s hat, just left of center on the glass top. So that’s how things are done up here. No, that’s unfair; it was not just ‘up here’. If Davy’d died in Little Rock or Shreveport the reception of a nosey friend would most likely be the same. You want something done, looks like you’d best take on the chore your own self. He raised his eyes from the hat to its owner. “In the cowboy pictures, the bad guys wear black hats, and the good guys wear white ones,” he said. “That’s how you can tell ‘em apart.” He executed a smart about-face, and marched out.
Chief Schmidt watched the hillbilly stop at an older pickup truck, lock it, and cross the green, to the hotel. The man first appears in Shaleville behind the wheel of a vehicle owned by a couple of pole smokers. Then shows up at the funeral home and plays touchie feelie with the dead man’s dick.
Followed by a visit to Danny’s, where he buys a shovel, backpacks, tarps, and a topo map of State Game Land. To bury a body, according to Danny’s over-active imagination.
Driving Tennessee plates and seems to know the new school teacher. Whose brother had a Class A uniform hanging in a hotel closet. With a Ranger tab on the shoulder, and a friend who looks another member of that tribe.
He’d encountered the Air Force version over the years, and they scared him shitless. Recon Marine, SEAL; every branch of the service had their edition of the caged beast. Do Not Feed. And, for Christ’s sake, do not poke a stick in their cage! Holy Mother of God, but this was getting complicated.
He opened the folder, labeled Federal Crime Statistics. Shaleville Pennsylvania. Last year’s printout was the top sheet of 20 earlier ones.
*0 murders (0.0 per 100,000)
*0 rapes (0.0 per 100,000)
*6 robberies (106.2 per 100,000)
*5 assaults (88.5 per 100,000)
*30 burglaries (531.1 per 100,000)
*70 larceny counts (1239.2 per 100,000)
*17 auto thefts (300.9 per 100,000)
*City-data crime index = 161.1 US average = 330.6)
Shaleville might be a dying town, and a boring one, but it was a safe place to live. And he had every intention of keeping it that way.
The last murder had been six years ago, and the perp had confessed at the scene of the crime. Chief Schmidt wasn’t about to have another case opened. Not with no motive and no suspect. It was the death of a transient, by misadventure. Case closed.
Chapter 43
Justice headed down the dim hallway, passing faded rotogravure prints capturing great moments in sports. Firpo and Dempsey, Citation and Man O’ War, DiMaggio and Mantle. Each surrounded by flowery artwork advertising a St. Louis brewery. If there was a theme, it was lost on him. Maybe Papaw would see it. Everybody has a heap of trash tucked away in the corners of their mind. How many people could name more than one famous sniper, if that; let alone argue their merits?
He was looking for information, and not on snipers or sports or any other piece of ancient history. He was looking for fleeting wisps still floating in the memory banks of unknown witnesses to recent occurrences. Who killed Davy? And why? He pushed through the swinging doors. Probably got that bass ackwards. Figure out the why, and most likely it would point to a who.
He didn’t see the girl, Pudge. he looked behind the bar, saw a trap door and steep stairs. Light and sounds drifted up.
“She’s down cellar, tapping a fresh keg.” The voice was deep, raspy, had an angry edge to it.
Justice turned. Her grandfather had silently wheeled up behind him. “You want a bottle, help yourself. Draft, you gotta wait.” Like it was somehow her fault a keg ran dry. Maybe it was; Justice had no idea. Of how to run a bar, of what the relationship between the old man and his granddaughter was. Maybe it was as simple as she had legs and he didn’t.
“Neither, for now.” He might be crippled, but his ears seemed to work. “The girl, Alice, told me you own the hotel.”
The man offered his hand. “Buck Talbot, but I answer to Pops. Yeah, I own this dump. Since eighty-three. My uncle left it to me; I guess he felt sorry for the crip.” He spun his chair and wheeled himself to the center of the room. “Go ahead
. Ask.”
A cantankerous old man. Justice had seen his share down home. Pissed off at the world for no good reason. Not when there were others in worse shape with better outlooks. He remembered something his Meemaw had taught him, when he’d given voice to some childish complaint. ‘I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man with no feet’. So he came right out and asked, “How’d you lose your legs?”
“Good man; say it straight. I need me a T-shirt. ‘I went to Viet-F’in’-Nam, and all I got was this chair.”
“When was you there?”
Buck looked at him. “You’re too young to have done a tour, but that’s the question every Viet Vet asks another. You served?”
“Yessir. Twelve years.”
“Thought so. I was there, forty-seven goddamn hours. The year don’t matter. Had a wife, a good job. And a low draft number. I worked for the phone company, lineman, in civilian life, so of course they made me a cook. Rode a Huey to a forward fire base. Pigs, Howitzers, One-Five-Fives. Why they wanted a cook didn’t make any sense, since there wasn’t no field kitchen. I was the FNG; that night they put me on the wire, said, ‘you see something, shoot at it’.
“Oh dark thirty there’s hollerin’ and gunfire. Green tracers comin’ in, I start shootin’ back out. Gun crews pour out of the hootches, grab the clackers, set off the Claymores. How was I to know one of Charlie’s favorite tricks was to crawl up before an attack, turn the sumbitches around? Next thing I know, I’m on a slick with a bunch of other wounded. First stop is a hospital in Saigon, second stop Hawaii, third is Washington. Two months later they give me a purple heart and a wheelchair, sent me home.”
“All things considered, you was lucky. My daddy went over there, second tour, didn’t come back.”
“Second tour? What, he enlisted?”
