“I think he's gay. I thought you got that. I think he was Ramon's lover.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Hell, no.”
“That was mighty mannerly of you. And right now he controls this vast fiefdom?”
“He does, sort of. He can't inherit it. He's in charge of it until next Friday.”
“What'd you say it's worth?”
“All of it? Eleven and a half million and change, counting the land bought for the highway.”
“Oh my God, Addison! Eleven million?”
“Maybe more. Why?”
Veronica wrinkled her brow, then stood up and walked to a file cabinet in the corner of the room. She squatted and pulled the lowest drawer out as far as it would go. She took something from it and shut the drawer. When she turned around, she was holding a wooden box maybe ten inches long, a few inches deep, and about seven inches wide. Burned into the wood was the stylized “S&W” logo. She handed it to me with both hands.
“In the Fifties, my father got concerned about the neighborhood. White flight and all. He bought this. My mother hated it. I've always seen the common sense of having one in the house, but I want you to take it. Just until this is over.”
I took the box from her and opened it. “This” was a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver.
“It's called the M-15 Combat Master. He told me the FBI used them. There's a box of bullets, too. You know how to use it, I suppose?”
“I know what they're for. You expecting me to kill someone, Veronica?”
“No. But if you keep asking questions and causing trouble, I am expecting someone to take a shot at you. Promise me you'll shoot back.”
“Eh. Violence begets violence. A little is never enough. It's like ice cream.”
“I understand if you want to avoid it entirely. You may not get that choice.”
“We always have that choice. Not carrying a gun forces you to think harder and make better decisions.”
“For me?”
I couldn't argue with her, but more, I really didn't like the idea of her worrying about me. “Okay, Veronica. I'll take good care of it, I promise.”
“Promise you'll take good care of you. That's all.”
“I will. I promise.”
I hung out with her through dinner and a movie, until she ran me off so she could sleep. Back at my place, I smoked a bowl and gave the revolver another look.
For those unfamiliar with revolvers, your average cowboy's six-guns were .40, .44, or .45 caliber, meaning the slug was forty-five hundredths of an inch wide. In 1899 Smith and Wesson created the .38 caliber M&P model for our military and police. The earliest had longish six-inch barrels. You will see them being used by plainclothes cops in silent films. To better hide in those plainclothes, the barrel was shortened over time and the handle cut down to create the “snubnose” look, but this one, the Model 15, was designed with accuracy in mind, and along with a four-inch barrel, it has a full sized, checked walnut grip. It's not a hogleg like Dirty Harry's .44, but you can't carry it in your sock, either. Despite the fact that in today's high-powered handgun market, this antique delivers a medium load at a relatively slow speed, it is also one of the most accurate target and police pistols ever made, and its heavier frame lets it fire the heaviest grain loads available for its caliber.
What I would do with it I had no idea. I had no license to carry it. If I did take it to Sweeney County with me, where would I keep it? Would I carry it loaded? Would I carry it in the cab or locked up in the toolbox? The whole point to having one is being able to use it, which is why every dangerous nut carrying a loaded gun in his or her car carries it within arm's reach. It's illegal, but it's true. Ask a cop. Think about that the next time you're rude to someone in traffic.
I am not a gun nut, but as I told Veronica, I know what they're for. Guns have two purposes: to intimidate and to kill. But those who also carry guns are not intimidated. Those not intimidated, eventually, must be killed. That's my problem with being armed, you see: carrying a gun, to me, means I will use it, and that means a strong likelihood of killing someone. I'm not opposed to murder per se, but I'm trying to quit.
I reserve the right at some point in the future to change my mind, but right now all I feel like writing about my military experience is that I was in the Army, and I know how to kill people. Saying it doesn't make me feel cool or superior. It makes me feel kind of dirty, because I also know the lies told to turn organized murder of total strangers in their own country into defending our freedoms abroad. All of which is the most meaningless bullshit, of course, because in practice it comes down to a daily exercise in “your ass or mine”, and the only good reason for taking someone's life is to save your own, and in that situation, it's all the excuse or defense you need, but that doesn't change the fact that it's really an ugly business, all of it, and that's why I was happy to leave and why I have done my best to leave it behind. It's a tar-baby of immorality, and once you squeeze the trigger on another person you're stuck forever, and you're guilty no matter how wonderful or noble or panicked your motives, and that's the cold, hard truth about tough guys and their guns. If you're going to play at all, I guess it doesn't hurt to carry one of the most accurate revolvers ever made, but the truth was and still is that I would much rather think my way out of potentially violent situations. It's just safer that way for all involved.
I stared at the weapon. I picked it up. I thought of Tyler, nearly run into a ditch in Sweeney County, his house burglarized, then burned down. I saw Dick Polk's face and his goon squad exiting their green Suburban. I popped open the cylinder and began loading rounds into the chambers, two at a time. Just a trick I picked up from Dad. When it was full, I clicked it shut. From my bookshelf I took down a bottle of Crown Royal in its velvet bag. I removed the bottle from the bag, drank a shot, then I put the pistol and box of rounds inside the bag and pulled the drawstring tight. I would take it to Sweeney County, after all.
Thinking of Sweeney County made me think of Ellie. Veronica's caution notwithstanding, I wanted her more than ever. I wondered what her husband's secret might be. Ellie was beautiful, brilliant, and sweet. Whatever was taking him away from her, it had to be spectacular. There was always the nurse/ assistant/ receptionist from his practice as a possible partner in an affair, but he taught at the medical college, too, which opened up another possible pool of professors, students, and assorted coworkers. I thought of tailing him for a day, and immediately the film noir tableau made me chuckle out loud. Snooping on a cheating husband whose wife I was banging would definitely require a slouch hat and trench coat. If I fell into that nonsense, I should go on and get a private gumshoe's license. I already had the gat.
I took another shot of Crown Royal and leaned back. The real question was what the hell Dick Turd thought Tyler had in his possession. What would he fear? Exposure... scandal... any family with a history of banking is good for possible financial scandal... I sparked my lighter for another hit... Family scandals involve illegitimacy, and Southern families are known for keeping secrets... could Polk be a bastard? Secretly a Conley, some years back? That would throw a wrench into things. On the one hand, he would embarrass the Polk family name, but at the same time, it would entitle him to the Conley land. Of course, these days a simple DNA test would trump any document, but none of that made any sense. Being a secret Conley bastard wouldn't get him anything he couldn't get simply by making sure there were no Conleys, period.
Then a thought occurred that hadn't before: what if the missing document were a birth certificate? What if Ramon Burroughs fathered a child in Sweeney County? “Help the boy” could refer to Ramon's son. “Get him in here” could mean find him and connect him with his inheritance. It was certainly possible. Weirder things have happened than a gay man fathering a child, especially in his youth.
Or perhaps Ms. Elizabeth's scrapbooks contained clues to Willie's fate. Perhaps somewhere in those books was a birthday card for Aunt Elizabeth from one of Will
ie's children. But if that were true, they would have been included in the will, wouldn't they? Or was there some other reason Willie and his descendents were overlooked?
Secrets... lies... mostly lies of omission, truths hidden, covered up, poor memory abetted by intentional disinformation. What was it Ellie said? “Sometimes the uncertainty is manufactured.” Dick Turd a bastard, Ramon a father, Willie a grandfather, but written out of the will... I had multiple scenarios running through my head and too little information. I was actually looking forward to reading an old lady's diaries. I dozed off and awoke on the love seat, so before I got stiff and achy, I put myself to bed.
I was standing in a large white foyer. Somewhere, a clock ticked loudly, the only sound in an otherwise silent world. To my right, an open pair of French doors invited me to enter the large ballroom that was a cherished feature of all the best antebellum homes. I knew I was in the Conley house. On the wall to my right was a large portrait of Robert and Bessie Conley in their best formal wear. Ahead of me on a bier was a black lacquered coffin, open for viewing. Inside, as I expected, lay Elizabeth Conley Burroughs.
Except she wasn't eighty-three years old. She looked maybe twenty-five or so, a beautiful strawberry blonde whose hair lay in loose ringlets and cushioned her elegant ivory neck. She was beautiful in a very feminine sense, yes, but something about her face was too strong, too independent, too resolute to have succumbed to anyone, and Death least of all. She not only seemed to be sleeping, I expected her to open her eyes and speak.
Then I wasn't alone, and I moved to let other pay their respects. I turned to see who it was, and Isaac Cooper stood behind me, gazing into her casket.
“I loved her like my own child,” he said. “Like my own child.” He looked at me. “Now you gonna help me?”
I couldn't speak, but I followed him out of the room, through another room and out the back door. He stopped and picked up an ax, which he handed to me. I took it; he picked up another and kept walking. I followed him. I knew where we were going. We had to go cut down that damned tree. You could see it easily. There was no forest outside, only cotton in every direction. The tree stood alone next to a dirt road. Arriving at it, Isaac spat on his hands, gripped the ax, and began chopping away at a fat root just where it went into the ground.
I picked out a root, raised the ax high over my head, and let it drop. The ax was sharp, and the first blow spurted blood right back in my face. I expected that; I also expected the pressure to drop as I kept chopping. I know how to use an ax, and pretty soon large bloody chunks began flying from the wound as I chopped and chopped. I looked over at Isaac, similarly engaged, similarly soaked in bright crimson. Pretty soon I had chopped through one root. I picked out another for the same treatment and was rewarded with the same spurting fountain. Chop, chop; the pieces flew. I heard a sound like a low moaning, a sound like wind in telephone wires that quickly grew in volume and dropped in pitch until it became a growl, then a roar, and I realized the tree was screaming in rage and anguish. Isaac and I wiped the blood from our eyes and kept swinging, killing that evil bastard one root at a time.
I awoke. It took a moment to figure out where I was and to realize that what had just passed had been a dream. I wasn't soaked in blood. That was good. I remember thinking that if I ever figured out how to help the boy, these damned dreams would stop, and that would be good, too.
I next awoke to gray light and rain on the roof. I also heard someone calling my name.
“Addison!”
It was Veronica's voice. I got out of bed in boxers and shuffled to the window. It was already open at the bottom, but I pulled it up and leaned on the sill. Veronica stood at the kitchen door.
“Good morning!” She shouted. “I'm in the mood for pancakes. You want pancakes?”
“Sure!” I shouted in return. “Got coffee?”
She nodded. “Hell yeah!”
“Be right there!” I shouted, then closed the window as she stepped back inside.
The pancakes were sweetened with malt, just like restaurant pancakes, served with link sausage and real Vermont maple syrup. The coffee was fresh-ground and hot, but I soon discovered that making sure I got a good meal at a reasonable price wasn't Veronica's only motive.
“I've been waiting all week to talk to you. It's about my will and my estate, and if you'll give me a few minutes, it shouldn't take long.”
“Okaaaay...”
“Oh sit tight. Want some Irish in that coffee?”
I glanced out the window at the rain. “Hit me,” I said, and she did. I tasted it: perfect. “Please continue.”
“Quick story: when I was a little girl, I had a best friend named Janice Parker. She lived with her two brothers, a sister, and her parents in a house over on Springdale.”
“Nice neighborhood,” I commented. The homes there represent the epitome of luxury homebuilding during the Teens and Twenties. All are two or three stories high, thousands of square feet apiece. They range from Italianate to Georgian to English Tudor in style, but each and every house is a gem.
“Nice neighborhood,” she agreed. “When I was a girl, they had the most fabulous house. I loved our house until I saw her house. We have a lovely staircase, but they had a grand staircase with a fat carved rail that shined so you could see your face in it. She had her own room up in the attic, and she and her siblings even had their own bathroom. They had a flower garden out back, and a small yard with a patio, and I just loved being invited over there. You've seen the house, I'm sure. It was right there on Springdale next to the private school on Ponce.”
“That wreck?”
Veronica nodded. “Her dad died, then her mom, and she and her siblings couldn't agree on what to do with the house, which had been left to all four of them. The only sibling who wanted to live there, youngest brother Horace, was a drunk who fancied himself a Bohemian and couldn't pay his bills. Nobody wanted to kick him out, so they decided to just wait until he came to his senses, or needed the money, and was ready to sell. He stayed there month after month, then year after year. He had a few brief runs at stability, but eventually he lost electricity, water and gas service--”
“Milk and newspapers,” I added.
“All of it. He cooked out on a grill, people told me. He dug a latrine out back, I heard. Disgusting. He started using the fireplaces and candles all the time... and did I mention he was a drunk? He burned the roof off the house, and then the other siblings discovered he had let the insurance slip, too. The house sat empty for the longest time before they sold it to the school--”
“Which tore it down and put a new building in its place.”
“You get the point of the story?”
“I do.”
“Because if you're not going to take care of my house, I'd just as soon burn it down myself.”
“Hey, hey,” I said. “Has this been a tough week for dealing with your kids?”
“They just have no appreciation for anything of real value. They measure success by the size of the debt they service on the things they can't wait to replace. What kills me is thinking that somehow, that's my fault as their mother. How did they become so shallow and insensitive?”
“Are you kidding? It's the new cult: worship of the golden calf. It's not your fault. I'm sure you tried to give them a sense of what's real.”
“Hah,” she scoffed. “They're starting to accuse me of being unrealistic. The next thing you know, they'll be telling some judge I'm delusional. You know what happens then. Well, I won't have it.”
“Relax, Veronica.” I leaned across the table and took her hands into mine. “I'll take care of your house. I'll take care of it as well as you do, and when I'm too old, I'll hire youngsters to take care of it.”
“But you can't be here alone, either. This house needs a family.”
“It will have one, I promise,” I assured her. “Don't worry about the house. If you leave it to me, make the bequest ironclad, so your kids can't contest it. I'll put a family in
it. I promise.”
“Good. Now about my living will.”
“What about it?”
“Everything's written down and notarized in my top left desk drawer. If I wind up in a coma or otherwise unable to communicate, get it out, and make sure it's followed.”
“I'll do my best.” I didn't know what to say next, but she had piqued my curiosity. Hell, I didn't bring it up in the first place. “Can you summarize for me?”
“I'm not interested in hanging around. I have too many old friends I could be seeing. No feeding and watering me, measuring my pee and poo output, some ongoing science experiment designed to test how long you can keep a person in a persistent vegetative state alive. No thanks. You got me?”
“I got ya, Veronica. Don't worry.”
“Don't worry? Do you watch the news? It's the twenty-first century form of live burial. Give me a damned bell to ring with my nose, and if I ring it, pull the plug. I'm counting on you.”
The Dead Hand of Sweeney County Page 22
