“Don’t be daft, girl. Not before my tea,” he groused with alcohol-fueled good nature before shooing her away.
Misdirection, Seamus thought to himself after Amy had gone, misdirection. There were a few in this town who wouldn’t complain to see an A-rab or a Paki (even a black boy or two?) sent up for the killing of the girl: perhaps an editorial to reflect this?
Over fifteen years, the darkies (in his assessment of non-whites, Seamus made no allowance for ethnicity; only skin tone) had settled in the community as if it were their own, accepting the service and farm industry jobs the locals didn’t want, importing their customs, their religion, their language and their food; even their smell, Seamus thought distastefully. They arrived through the late eighties and nineties, smothering the streets of his south-side neighborhood like a dune of shifting sand, occupying rooms in private homes that after the last recession had been converted to third floor walk-ups. Soon the streets of Seneca Falls would resemble the streets of New York, the home he had been forced to vacate prior to returning here.
The telephone rang, disrupting his further consideration of the problem and of a possible solution.
“Aye,” he croaked into the receiver. “Who? Why’re you calling me here, boy? I warned you never to do that.” Seamus listened patiently and almost hysterically said, “But I had nothing to do with it.” Even to Mcteer it sounded hollow.
After a minute, he replaced the receiver without uttering another word. “Stupid fuck,” he said, “what can you expect from a coon.”
“Were you speaking to me?” asked Amy. She’d entered the office unnoticed and unannounced, proffering Seamus his tea with an outstretched hand. He eyed her cautiously. “Another I’ll need to have an eye for,” he muttered, accepting his tea without thanks, eying her backside disdainfully as she left the office and firmly closed the door.
SENECA FALLS, SOMETIME IN THE SEVENTIES
ROOTS RADIGAN SNORTED. “Oink, oink,” he snuffled, submerging his face between the fleshy breasts of the young girl, “I’m a pig.”
“So am I,” she giggled. “’Ee haw, ‘Ee haw.”
“That’s a donkey, you ass.” At this, they both giggled, uncontrollably. “Baby,” Roots said, “fucking you is like fucking the Grand Canyon.”
Roots buried his hips more deeply between the girl’s thighs. He didn’t recognize her face, couldn’t recall her name, thought she might have joined them early in the summer, on the trip up from Saratoga Springs. She was young, no more than fifteen he guessed, and fleshy: fleshy breasts, fleshy belly, fleshy bum, fleshy bush. No matter, she was tasty, and Roots was glad for her company. After so long on the road, the other girls were beginning to bore Roots Radigan, to become tiresome with their complaints: Roots was too rough, or he fucked too long (as if it were possible).
Roots stopped snorting, but continued to thrust his hips. Forward and back, forward and back, forward and back, in a rhythmic motion that after a while even to him became redundant. Though he tried, Roots was unable to come. The drug he had taken earlier made him stiff as a baseball bat but relieved his erection of virtually all sensation. Though it was functional and impressive to look at, eventually it became painful for both he and his partner. Unable to enjoy the experience, Roots allowed his mind to wander.
He was annoyed with the rousting his group had received from the State Police over of the dead girl. Roots was concerned they might be asked to vacate the County, pull stakes from their secluded spot up river from the Bluffs. Since arriving in Seneca Falls early that summer, they had largely been tolerated, if not ignored. His small caravan had made its way north from Saratoga in a hiccoughing conga line of squealing tires and belching, blue smoke, fifteen persons strong; a dozen women shared among three men. Upon joining the group, Roots had assumed de facto leadership, owing in part to his status as senior member but more for his ability to link together more than three words consecutively at a time to form a coherent, if not always grammatically correct, sentence. Though his erudition hadn’t convinced the locals in Saratoga to grant an extension to their stay, in Seneca Falls, thus far, Roots had been successful in convincing the State Police of their good nature. He wasn’t sure his character could withstand the more thorough investigation that inevitably would follow on the death of the stupid girl.
“It’s dry,” the girl beneath him complained, “and it hurts.”
Roots pumped harder, faster. He thought of returning home, back to Mineola, knowing it was too soon. His job as a bank security guard might be waiting but so too might be the cops. His brother hadn’t talked yet, but Roots could not say with certainty when he might.
Roots’ was busy pondering a solution to his dilemma when from the undergrowth he heard a loud snap. He turned. Roots saw a patch of what he at first thought to be a bright red autumn leaf protruding from the underbrush, as if suddenly the trees had changed color prematurely. It was midsummer; too early for the foliage to change. Roots stopped pumping, dismounted the girl, and, still naked, approached the trees. What he had thought was a leaf was a shock of bright, curly orange human hair.
“You,” he called, hands on hips, erection pointing like a divining rod. “You,” he repeated, “out of there.”
Cautiously, a timid Seamus Mcteer emerged from where he was hiding.
Roots moved swiftly, so quickly that Seamus had barely time to avoid his wildly swinging and swollen penis. Roots grasped him by his shirt collar, gestured and said, “I should smash your skull open against that fuckin’ rock.”
The rock was very large, gray and damp, and Roots appeared deadly menacing. But for all that, Seamus could not remove his eyes or his concentration from either Roots greasy looking penis or the girl. His head moved back and forth rhythmically as if it was attached by a spring.
The girl was on her feet now, no more than ten feet away. She observed the confrontation, which owing to the fact Seamus was cowering could hardly be termed a confrontation at all. She was naked except for a kerchief tied about her head to restrain her dark hair. Her body was plump, like a girl, breasts large and full like a woman, though she appeared to be only half way between either. Between her legs a dark triangle of pubic hair gleamed, small bits of grass and dry leave clinging to the curly tips.
“Manna,” said Seamus, under his breath. Despite his predicament, watching her now, Seamus could think only of one thing: that would bring me a fortune in Seneca Falls, if not in currency in self-esteem.
“How long have you been watching?” Roots demanded to know.
“Not long, only a minute,” Seamus said, as if this made it acceptable.
“Fuckin’ perv,” Roots said, nudging Seamus toward the girl. “A fuckin’ perv.” He spat.
Roots released his grasp on Seamus’ shirt collar, returned to his companion and reached to the grass for a package of cigarettes. He ignited for both he and the girl. Amazingly, Roots penis remained stiff, standing at a forty-five degree angle to the breeze. Had it been himself, Seamus thought, he would have wilted from the embarrassment and at the shock of discovery. Not once did Mcteer consider Radigan was neither embarrassed nor shocked. Beside Roots, the girl smoked, standing casually as if she were fully clothed.
Roots said, “Beatin’ off in the bushes, pal?” He released a smoke ring from between his lips, and into the air.
“No,” said Seamus too quickly, as if the thought hadn’t entered his mind.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we? Probably creamed all over the weeds,” Roots said to the girl. He smiled a crooked smile, as if not only his teeth but also his sense of humor was twisted. He walked to the place where Seamus had been hiding, returning with the flash camera in hand. “Pictures?” he said, referring to Seamus. “Pictures? What are you, a fuckin’ are-teest? What are you doing, kid, selling ‘em in town to bored housewives.” Roots approached Seamus menacingly. “You freak. I outta’ punch out your lights,” he said, for a second time threatening violence.
“No, no,” Seamus blurted. Before
he could restrain himself, he said, “I only sell them to my friends.”
“Friends?” Roots said, moving closer. “Friends?” He paused, processing this information. “You sell the pictures to your friends?”
Seamus did not reply.
“Tell me; do you have plenty of friends, kid?”
“I do now.” Seamus acknowledged with a nod toward the camera.
“How much are you getting?” Roots was curious. “Per picture.”
“Depends,” replied Seamus.
“On what?” asked Roots, absorbed with the conversation, though his penis continued to throb and twitch excitedly between his thighs.
“On how much I show.”
“On how much you what?”
“You know, show. How much I show. The guys will pay more for bush, and a hard-on. Mostly, they’ve never seen anything like it.”
Roots thrust his hips forward to indicate his erection. “You mean like this? And that?” He referred to the bushy V between his companion’s legs.
Seamus said, “Yeah, especially like that.”
Roots seemed to consider this revelation. After a moment, he asked, “Do they like ‘em young? You know, little titty, little bum.”
“Never gave it much thought,” replied Seamus. Then, “But the eighth graders are pretty popular with the high school boys.” After a moment, he said, “Yeah, I suppose they like ‘em young.”
Roots extended a scrawny forearm over Seamus’ shoulder, bringing his face close so Seamus smelled his sour breath. He could see bits of food wedged between Radigan’s yellow teeth; what might be flecks of food, or simply decay. His hair was shoulder length, smelling of the earth, as if Roots had been sleeping outdoors for a very long time. Reinforcing this impression were the bits of stray grass, dirt, leaf and twig trapped in the tangled brown mass. Roots moved closer, making it impossible for Seamus to avoid contact with his still perfectly formed erection.
“As they say in the movies,” Roots quoted, “‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship’.”
With that, they walked together toward the collection of trailer homes and tents, neither the girl nor Radigan bothering to dress.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EVERY WEEK for almost thirty years, Roots Radigan traveled home to Mineola. For the first ten years, he made the journey over the desolate stretch of interstate in the battered nineteen sixty nine Chevy Bel Air he’d purchased on a weekly installment plan from McMaster Chev-Olds, a plan offered at the time only to employees and one for which the owner had high hopes.
Not much to look at, the vehicle nonetheless was reliable. Roots began the long drive each Friday evening after completing the day shift at the dealership. On the way he stopped only once: for food, for coffee, and to relieve himself. In Long Island, Roots stayed at The Mayfair Inn. Though the May-fair was anything but, its location between Mineola and Belmont Park Racetrack made it convenient, allowing Roots to conduct both business and pleasure expeditiously, Roots having a passion for the ponies. On these occasions, after spending two nights away, Roots returned home on Sunday evening, repeating the routine by stopping only once: food, coffee, and to relieve himself.
In nineteen eighty-two, The Mayfair was demolished to allow for the construction of an interchange passing from the Union Turnpike to Highway 25B. Thereafter, Roots stayed at the home of his younger and only brother, Dave. Though in many ways alike, in other ways Dave could not abide his brother’s preoccupations. He would never say or openly object to Roots weekly stopovers, because as their mother was still living, she appreciated the frequent visits from the son out of whose asshole she believed the sun to shine. Also, though Dave Radigan would never admit to it, Roots scared his little brother, shitless.
By this time, Roots was no longer driving the Bel-Air, which, in the year after the demolition of The Mayfair, had sparked its last plug midway over the Throg’s Neck Bridge. While Leland McMaster was pleased his top mechanic had for so long maintained the ancient vehicle in running order, he was happy to replace it with another. (On the same installment plan as the first, though by this time payments had been adjusted to monthly from weekly.)
By the early seventies, Radigan had settled comfortably in Seneca Falls, abandoning the caravan to occupy the second floor bedroom in a three-story semi-detached home belonging to Arthur and Mildred Mcteer. Their only son Seamus had recommended Radigan as a potentially agreeable tenant after the Mcteers were forced to sublet the spare room. Mildred had lost her job at the local Laundromat after being accused of pilfering loose change from the machines. Though she denied it, the stubborn owner had refused Mildred recourse to any appeal. For the Mcteers, the additional income would come in handy. For Roots—who in Seneca Falls was known now by his given name of Jeremy—the room was comfortable, cheap and located conveniently across the hall from Seamus. Meals were supplied and at Roots (Jeremy’s) request, Mrs. Mcteer consented to do his wash.
By then, his hair was no longer shoulder length. Despite an effort to brush weekly, his teeth remained desperate. Within days of abandoning the temporary colony by the river, Radigan had secured a permanent address and not one, but two steady sources of income. Without intending it, Roots Radigan had become respectable, though in a way no one other than he would recognize.
Lying in bed on the day after Missy Bitson was killed, Jeremy adjusted the bed sheet. He examined his penis: swollen slightly but nicely, and of its own free will becoming hard. (Or was this wishful thinking?) Jeremy recalled fondly his days by the river; endless hours merging seamlessly into days full with drugs, drink and sex. Meeting Seamus Mcteer had proved fortuitous, allowing him to revive his contacts in Mineola with more provocative material. To look at him, who would think such a clumsy fart as Seamus would have such a way with kids?
Covering himself, Radigan reached for a cigarette. After nine: too late now to pop the little blue pill. Marie was busy preparing for a morning class and Missy was dead (he thought of her only fleetingly, and even then only in terms of how her death would affect his income).
For Jeremy, sex was less an ordeal these days than it had been prior to the creation of the little blue pill. Before the prescription, on-again, off-again EDD (Erectile Dysfunction Disorder, to Jeremy a better sounding word than impotence) had left him feeling frequently frustrated and embarrassed. For Jeremy, humiliation could lead to anger, anger inevitably to violence.
Jeremy confessed to being many things, but a violent man he was not. He was a lover, not a fighter: anyone who had ever challenged him to a barroom brawl could attest to it. But when his equipment failed to respond, as prior to the days of Viagra it often had, Jeremy became downright ornery, lashing out at whatever or whoever was near at hand. (Funny how a few ounces of viscera could cause such grief.) But he’d always made up for it afterward hadn’t he, with gifts? Yesterday, the spirit had been willing but despite a dose of the good stuff, the machinery had not. He’d reacted poorly, desperately, and, he worried, irrevocably.
Waking this morning, Jeremy was aware the consequence of his behavior would not be so easily forgiven through the purchase of a gift, no matter how precious or rare.
Radigan retrieved the converter from the tangled bed sheet, switching the television to CNN. A video showed a group of disorganized men running through the desert, waving AK47s, Kalashnikov’s—or whatever the fuck—in the air and shouting in a language he did not understand.
Nuke ‘em, thought Jeremy; bomb the fuckers back into the Stone Age where they belong. Jeremy didn’t vote, had never had the inclination, but he was nonetheless fully supportive of the Administration’s recourse to violence as a desirable diplomatic alternative and occupation as a legitimate foreign policy objective. After 9/11 and two long, drawn out wars, who wouldn’t be?
After repeating herself for a third time, Jeremy decided Erin Burnett had little in the way of new information, even if she was hot and, he decided, he’d like to squeeze her tits. He switched off the television. Still naked,
Jeremy moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, relieved himself, shaved carelessly, and neglected to shower or to rinse his teeth before dressing.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“MY CONDOLENCES, Maggie,” was all Kubiak offered, arriving that morning at Missy Bitson’s home to question the family. He couldn’t say, “I’m sorry”. Not knowing the child well, he wasn’t.
Maggie Bitson regarded Kubiak with indifference. He was an unwelcome yet necessary intrusion and but for her daughter’s death would not be here at all, a painful reality lost on neither the victim’s mother nor he. Maggie smiled without warmth, her greeting a hollow salutation.
Together with Pridmore, Kubiak arrived shortly before nine on the morning after the body was discovered, about the time Missy was being removed from a basement cooler to the autopsy room at the hospital morgue thirty-five miles away.
The sky was now blue, without trace of last evening’s rain, the day clear with only a hint of malingering fog. It remained like fluffy pillows in the isolated dips and low-lying areas where the sun’s warmth had yet to penetrate. Glittering crystals of morning dew shivered like tear drops on the ground, clustering in shallow puddles on the Bitson walkway and front steps.
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