Still River

by Harry Hunsicker

I got a check out of my wallet and filled it out. “This is repayment of your retainer, minus a small amount for expenses.” I handed it to her. “I didn’t do a very good job of finding your brother. I’m sorry about Charlie, Vera.”

  She took the check and held it in her hand without looking at it. “Do you remember that night we got so drunk, back in high school?”

  “You and I?”

  Vera nodded and turned to the sink. She held a lighter under my check until it flamed, then dropped it. “Yeah. Prom night, junior year. Our dates flaked out on us both for some reason. We ended up at that park on Forest Lane, drinking and talking. I thanked you for looking after Charlie.”

  “He told you about all that?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded. “Charlie needed taking care of.”

  A vague recollection crept out of some dark corner of my mind. Prom night. I mentally shuddered. Ruffled dress shirts and baby blue tuxedos should be outlawed. Had that been Vera I’d gotten drunk with that night? “You shouldn’t have torched the check,” I said. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Yeah, I do.” She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills and placed it on the end of the kitchen table, next to a plate of something greenish covered in plastic wrap. “Do you think my brother killed himself?”

  I looked at the money, hesitating for a few moments, and then said what I really thought. “Not in my opinion.”

  “Do the police think he was murdered?”

  I looked at a worn spot on the floor. “No.”

  “They think he committed suicide, don’t they?”

  I nodded.

  “But you don’t and neither do I. So I want to pay you to find out who killed him.”

  “Vera, I’m not a cop. I’ve got some friends on the force who I can call. Maybe get them to look at this thing harder.”

  “You’re a private investigator, Hank. Fucking investigate it yourself.” I looked up and saw that she was crying, soundlessly, just the steady drip of tears running down her face. “For chrissakes, Hank, he was the only family I’ve got. ’Cept for a prune of an aunt out there and fucking Schwarzenegger in the garage.”

  I picked up the money but didn’t do anything with it.

  Vera walked over to my side of the room and leaned against the counter next to me. “Please, Hank.” She put a hand on my arm.

  I put the money in my pocket. “There’s a couple of people I can talk to. They may know something that—”

  The slamming of the door leading into the garage cut me off. “What’s going on in here? Am I interrupting anything?” The voice was pinched and nasally, not too far from a whine, and belonged to a five-foot-two-inch-tall, greased-up fireplug standing in the entranceway to the kitchen. The man was flushed and pumped from lifting, his scalp shining pink through the stringy comb-over that had been carefully arranged on the top of his head.

  Vera rubbed her eyes. “You’re not interrupting anything, Terry. What do you want?”

  “Protein shake.” The squat little man kept his eyes on me as he waddled toward the refrigerator. His muscles bulged so much he had to walk almost spread-eagled. “This sure seems like something.” Sexual innuendo dripped from his voice. I hated him instantly.

  “Nope,” I said. “I just stopped by to offer my condolences to Vera on the untimely death of her brother.”

  Incredibly, the man appeared not to have known about Charlie’s passing. He looked shocked, then confused, and mumbled something vaguely sympathetic as he got a plastic container out of the fridge. Still with a bewildered face, he started to speak again but clamped his mouth shut instead and disappeared back into the garage.

  “I’d better get out of here, Vera. Tomorrow I’ll start nosing around. I’m not making any promises, though.”

  “Thank you, Hank. You have no idea how much I appreciate it.” She leaned forward and gave me a hug at the exact moment the kinky-haired man from the beige Camaro stormed into the room.

  “W-w-what the hell’s going on in here?” the man said, spluttering protein shake everywhere.

  “See, Duane. See, I told you. Something’s going on. This dude’s in here hugging on your old lady. See. Just like I told you.” Terry stood behind the larger man, hopping from one foot to the other, the tone of his voice whinier and more subservient than I thought possible.

  “Hey, Duane.” I took a step away from the counter I’d been leaning on. “What was the estimate on getting the Camaro fixed?”

  Vera pointed a cigarette at her husband. “You told me Carlos from work trashed your car.”

  Duane looked at his wife and said, “Shut the hell up, willya?” To me: “Suppose you tell me ’xactly who the fuck you are?”

  Something about the tone of his voice and the way his corded muscles bunched in his shoulders made me think of Ketch Wesson, Vera’s abusive stepfather. I felt sad and tired suddenly and wondered about the dark things fluttering around in the back of Vera Drinkwater’s mind. “Your wife has hired me to investigate the death of her brother.”

  He balled his fists. “Bullshit. Y-you’re in here, coming on to my wife, a-and—”

  I held my palm out in a conciliatory gesture. “Duane. Ease off. In case you haven’t noticed, your brother-in-law died. Your wife’s upset. Let’s think of her right now, okay?”

  I’m guessing here, but I think somewhere deep down a tiny spark of humanity came alive. He hesitated a moment, then took a step back and let out his breath. “Yeah, you’re right. Damn shame about that little fucker. Wasn’t a bad dude when he was sober.” He paused and took several deep breaths, a troubled look on his face. Finally, he turned to his wife. “S-s-sorry, Vera.”

  Vera rolled her eyes as she shook her head, but didn’t reply. She pulled a cigarette out of the fresh pack and busied herself getting another glass of water.

  Terry hopped around his alpha male. “Whaddya talking about, Duane, this shithead’s fucking around with your wife and you’re just gonna let him walk? I say let’s pound him.”

  Duane didn’t say anything but I could see his face darken and his eyes frown. It wouldn’t do to look like a wuss in front of your people, however smarmy they may be. He bowed up again and said, “I think you better get your ass out of here ’fore me and Terry decide to have a little fun.”

  Vera piped up from over by the sink. “Oh, shut the hell up. Can’t you lose the macho weight lifter bullshit for three seconds?”

  Duane turned to his betrothed. “Listen here, woman, I’ve had enough of you already today. Don’t make me shut you up.”

  “You ain’t got the balls to handle a real woman.” Vera waved her cigarette at the man she promised to love, honor, and cherish. The conversation degenerated from there, a verbal slugfest reminiscent of some reality cop TV show. They were following a well-worn groove in the record of their marriage, each playing a part he or she knew intimately. I wondered if Duane had ever struck Vera. Probably not. Yet.

  I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled, getting everybody’s attention. “Vera. Shut the hell up.”

  She looked startled but complied.

  I turned to her husband. “Duane, don’t ever, ever, I mean ever, threaten her again. Don’t even think about it. You threaten her again or lay a finger on her, I’ll come back and break your legs so bad you’ll never walk again without crutches. Forget about the Mr. Universe competition.”

  Duane laughed and clenched his fists. “You sonuvabitch, I’ll—”

  I held up a finger and wagged it. “Quiet now. Listen closely, Duane, and everything will be all right.”

  He flexed his pecs. “Don’t you tell me what to do. You come in my fucking house, acting like you’re a tough ass, and—”

  I shrugged. “Duane, buddy. Work with me here, okay? I’m trying to help you out.”

  “Help me out of what?” He frowned.

  “Keep you from getting hurt, okay?”

  He laughed. “Whaddya talking about? You know how much I can dead-li
ft?”

  I scratched behind my ear. “You pump iron for a living. I take down people who do that. Every day. It’s my job.”

  He furrowed his brow in concentration, and I could imagine the wheels turning in his mind. After a few moments he nodded. I figured he finally realized his ability to bench-press a Toyota did not necessarily mean he had the skills to win in a dirty street brawl.

  Terry, the muscle-bound midget, hadn’t seen the light yet. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him charge, head down, arms out. I tried to step out of the way but the food-laden table and the kitchen counters conspired against me, and I took Terry’s combed-over head in the solar plexus. We crashed to the floor, me gasping for air. He might have done some damage if his short, stubby, overdeveloped arms could’ve gotten some room to swing. As it was he got in two short stabs, both hitting my ribs painfully, before he rolled away and got to his feet. A pair of nunchucks—two sticks held together by six inches of chain—appeared in his hand out of nowhere.

  I didn’t waste the time it would take to get up, opting instead for one quick kick at Terry’s knee. My steel-toed work boot connected with the target, producing a crunching sound. Terry shrieked and fell face forward onto the table, scattering covered dishes and utensils everywhere.

  I jumped up. Vera and Duane had not moved; both stood still watching the screaming man as he rolled around on the kitchen floor, covered in tomato aspic and green bean casserole.

  “W-w-what the hell’d you do to him?” Duane said.

  “I kicked his kneecap because he was trying to tear my head off. You gotta problem with that?” It had been a long day and my patience was growing thin. My ribs hurt, as did my cheek where I had hit Carl Albach’s head the day before.

  “You broke his leg.” Duane couldn’t decide what to do, help his little buddy or take a swing at me.

  “Yeah … maybe. That’s for a doctor to decide. You wanna get some of that, Duane? Maybe take a header into the macaroni salad?” I made a move toward him but he stepped away, hands out.

  “No. No. Back off, dude. It’s cool. We’re cool here.” Duane moved away from me and knelt by his moaning friend. “Everything’s cool. I’m just gonna take care of Terry, and everything’ll be fine.”

  “Cool,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Cool.” He began wiping green beans off the top of his partner’s head.

  Vera ran water over the glowing end of her smoke. She pitched it in the trash can and turned to me. “I’ll walk you out.” She ignored the two men kneeling in the pile of food in her kitchen. I followed her through the door leading into the living room, scattering the cluster of eavesdropping old women like dandelions in a tornado. She ignored them, ushering me to the front door. Once there, she kissed me on the cheek and said, “Thanks for everything, Hank.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “A-a-after I bury Charlie, I want you to tell me the name of a good divorce lawyer. It’s not supposed to be this way. Even I know that.”

  I left her there, crying softly in the doorway of a home filled with bitter old women, an egotistical, abusive husband, and one musclehead with a Napoléon complex, currently cleaning tomato aspic out of his ears. I went home to my little house and mean dog in East Dallas, grateful for the small things in life.

  The next morning I hit the office early, meeting Nolan there. We started the search for Fagen Strathmore, the man I regarded as our best lead to date. One full hour of telephoning and networking yielded a lot of promises to call back but no solid information. Strathmore maintained an office at his namesake company on McKinney Avenue but the owner of the janitorial service who cleaned the place, who owed me several favors, said that the man was rarely there, and that his secretary had indicated he was on vacation all week anyway.

  We were stuck until someone called back.

  That left the only other option, a weak one at best, Aaron Johnson, the owner of the house where Charlie Wesson had been found. I dug his card out of my wallet, and Nolan and I piled into my truck.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Due east from downtown, almost on the exact opposite side of the city from where Charlie Wesson took a bullet, lay the nightclub district clustered along Elm Street, better known as Deep Ellum. In the latter part of the nineteenth century the area had been home to the city’s brothels, gambling houses, and opium dens as well as a series of narrow clubs and taverns, long-since-forgotten places where the black men of the day had come to hear their music, the blues, played with smoky authenticity by people like Blind Lemon Jefferson, Robert Johnson, and Leadbelly Ledbetter. Elm Street ended a few blocks from the entrance to Fair Park, the 277-acre, art deco wonderland that hosted the Texas State Fair every year and was home to the Cotton Bowl.

  Aaron Young kept his office on Second Avenue, on the south end of the fairgrounds. We skirted the edges of downtown, made our way down Elm Street, passed the neon of the bars darkened by daylight, and approached from the west, on MLK Boulevard, following the edge of the fair. The monstrous Ferris wheel that dominated the midway cast a long shadow across the road. I took a short cut through a residential section, the houses small and wood-sided. The only faces I saw on the street were black.

  At Second, I turned south into Aaron’s neighborhood. The buildings on either side were old and brick, worn but maintained, and most were painted or decorated in some flamboyant fashion. Someone had made a lot of money selling neon-colored pennants this year. Every third storefront promised to have the best barbecue in Dallas. The rest housed dusty bars and narrow shops selling secondhand appliances or used tires. Old men sat in lawn chairs, leaning against the sides of buildings, smoking and visiting as children dashed down the crowded sidewalks, threading between the adults who made a slow promenade in the June sunshine.

  I drove below the speed limit so as not to miss Aaron Young’s office. It also helped to avoid potholes and the children on bikes careening down the avenue. Nolan spotted it first. “There. On the left.” The place was the newest on the street, a one-story, shiny redbrick strip of a building, half a block long. Young Enterprises occupied the south end. A daycare center and a beauty shop rented the northern spaces. I eased the truck into the parking area and turned off the motor, leaving the keys in the ignition.

  “What do you want me to do?” Nolan said.

  “Stay out here. I don’t want to overwhelm this guy.” Truthfully it would have been better to have two sets of eyes and ears during the interview. In reality, I was used to working on my own, even though Ernie and I were partners. The other part of the equation was that the interview was a long shot, but until I found the whereabouts of Fagen Strathmore, it was the best I could do. Plus, I didn’t want to hear that Young had narcissistic sexual hydrophobia or whatever the psychosis of the week was.

  “Keep an eye out for Coleman Dupree.” I said the last in jest. Even if we were in Dupree’s part of the world, it was a sunny morning with people on the street. His kind favored the anonymity of the night. Besides, we didn’t know what he looked like, and only I had seen his chief enforcer, Jack the Crack.

  The front door to Aaron Young’s office was metal, painted to look like wood. I pushed it open and entered the reception area, enjoying the blast of cold air that hit me in the face. Parquet flooring and beige walls dominated the small but well-appointed room. A navy sofa and two wing-back chairs formed a small sitting area to the left. To the right was a receptionist desk. A conservatively dressed woman in her fifties sat behind the desk. She was sorting a stack of papers when I walked in, and did a half-second double take when she saw a white man in an untucked denim shirt with a bruised cheek enter the office.

  “May I help you?” Her tone was courteous but clipped.

  I tried to smile, but it hurt my face so it probably ended up as a grimace. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Young. My name is Hank Oswald.” Definitely a grimace because she peered at me, eyes narrowed into a frown. Finally she arched one brow. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  I nodded and she punch
ed some numbers into the phone beside her. As she spoke into the receiver the door opened behind me and a young woman with a group of children entered. There was a blizzard of activity—talking, teensy arms and school bags flurrying about. The swarm stopped when they saw me standing there. I nodded hello and tried to smile. The woman smiled back and corralled the children over to the sitting area, shushing them. She was in her late twenties and pretty.

  The door behind the receptionist desk burst open and Aaron Young swept into the room. He breezed by me, touching my elbow for a moment before embracing the woman on the other side of the room. “Coleeta, my dear, how are you? It’s been too long.”

  “I’m fine, Aaron.” She pulled away and gestured toward the children. “I wanted to show you what some of my pupils have done. Children, this is Mr. Young.”

  A chorus of small voices said, “Hello, Mr. Young.”

  Aaron Young beamed. “Hello, children. Sit down and tell me what you’ve done.” He plopped down on the sofa and gathered the youngsters around. At Coleeta’s prompting, they took turns reciting their accomplishments, a piano recital well played, a good grade in a hard subject, a difficulty overcome. Aaron listened and nodded appropriately to each child. When everyone had their say, he produced a wad of five-dollar bills from a pocket. Amid the squealing he doled out one bill per child.

  Coleeta kept her attention focused on me, her expression somewhere between curiosity and hostility. After the noise from the children died down to a low hum, Young and Coleeta herded the group toward the door. She kept looking back to me as the children shuffled out the door.

  Calmness returned to the office as the door closed. Aaron turned his attention to me, the thousand-watt smile never diminishing, just changing hue from juvenile to adult. “Well then, Mr. Oswald. I’m not surprised to see you here. You have the look of someone who doesn’t give up easily.”

  “That’s me, Mr. Stubborn. I had a few more questions.”

  “And I may or may not have answers; we’ll see.” He gestured to the door. “Why don’t we talk about this in my office.” Before I could respond, he strode out of the reception area, leaving me to follow. The receptionist frowned as I walked by. I winked at her and shut the door behind me.