The Second Secret

by Alan Lee

  “Only because you haven’t seen a real man wear one.”

  “I’ll buy you the outfit if you promise to model it for me. Privately.”

  Timothy August sighed. “Ah yes, this is the type of conversation a father dreams of overhearing.”

  “Could be worse,” Manny said. “Could be a señorita who isn’t Ronnie.”

  “Thank you, Manny,” she said. “I’ll buy you an outfit too.”

  “I’m inspecting a marijuana field tomorrow,” I said. “Want to go?”

  “Sí. Donde?” Manny said.

  “I’ll drive. But it’s conditional on you not arresting or shooting anyone.”

  “Que?”

  “Because we’re playing nice.”

  “Sounds like a bunch of old women knitting. But I’ll go.”

  “I’ll go too,” Stackhouse said over her shoulder.

  “The invitation was not extended to you, copper. This is outside your jurisdiction.”

  “An entire field?” she asked.

  “Glorious, no?”

  “I’d get my name in the papers for bringing in that much.”

  “You’re a noble-hearted public servant, no doubt. But ultimately not invited.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  “Oh dear,” I said. “Whatever shall I do.”

  She grinned and twisted in her seat to get a better look at me. “You think you can shake my tail?”

  “I could shake you in a phone booth.”

  “What are you working on? This is juicy,” she said.

  Ronnie shifted in her chair and remained silent.

  “Privileged information, Sheriff,” I told her.

  “Big Mack here got himself in thick with the Mafioso,” Manny said.

  Now it was my father’s turn to twist backwards. “The Mafioso? Perhaps further explanation is in order.”

  “Oh great. You told on me to my dad,” I said.

  “Lo siento.”

  Timothy asked, “What exactly is the Mafioso?”

  “The criminal underworld. It has many names. I’m not involved. A brief entanglement only.”

  “The entanglement is concluded?” Timothy asked.

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  Ronnie nodded approval.

  “Son.”

  “It will be concluded forthwith,” I told him.

  “Powerful people?” he asked.

  Manny nodded. “Muy ponderoso. But maybe not as badass as Mack.”

  Dad glanced at Stackhouse, who shrugged, and then he scrutinized Manny. “I’m his father. I worry. Should I be worried?”

  “Mack ain’t as feeble as he look.”

  “You’ll help? If he needs it?”

  I frowned. “Help? Who needs help?”

  “Sí, Señor August. He’s Tonto and I’m…the other one.”

  “The Lone Ranger,” I said. “And you’ve got it backwards.”

  Manny threw his hand into the air. “White people. So racist.”

  In the sixth inning, my perfect evening was marred by the discovery of Kristin Payne in the stands. Kristin Payne the Roanoke College professor, athletic coach, and sexual predator. She sat with a pack of friends throwing peanuts and laughing. Our luxury box was level with her seat.

  She’d seen me. That was apparent. Because soon after I spotted her we made eye contact. I smiled. She responded with her best effort and she waved and returned to the game.

  Next to me, Kix bounced happily on the lap of blonde long-legged sun goddess. Whom Kristin also would have observed.

  Luckily for me Kristin could separate the physical from the emotional. Or so she claimed.

  Ugh.

  It was going to end badly.

  It always ended badly.

  This was why you didn’t let college professors give you lap dances in their classroom. Everyone knew that.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Manny and I met Ruben Collier on a rutted nondescript dirt road in Franklin County. A chilly wind had blown in to remind us that early April wasn’t always daffodils and sunshine but Ruben didn’t seem to mind. He was a bald friendly black man, strong hands, large eyes and shiny dome. He’d dressed in heavy boots and a thick fleece-lined jacket that zipped to his chin, much warmer than Manny and me; we stamped and shivered as he led us deeper into the budding forest.

  “We’re walking,” Manny observed, intelligently. “Why do we walk?”

  “On account of that toy car of yours wouldn’t make it,” Ruben responded. “Only four-wheel drive trucks up here.”

  “Do you worry about police?” I asked. I ignored the crack about a toy car because I was impervious to verbal insults. And also complaining would make me look even more childish than my toy Honda.

  “Naw. There’s ten thousand dirt roads like this within twenty miles. Them good ol' deputies don’t care. Hell, half of them smoke up. Maybe all of them.”

  “I miss smoking la mota,” Manny said.

  “Why you quit?”

  “The white guy. He’s got principles.”

  “You fellas gay?” Ruben asked.

  “He wishes,” I said.

  “Not that it matters none.”

  “I was gay, I’d pick someone snores less,” Manny said.

  Ruben led us through a ten-foot high chicken-wire fence (used to prevent deer from getting high) to the field I’d glimpsed yesterday. I’d only glimpsed it because of Ruben’s shotgun. He’d called Summers and then told me I’d get the tour tomorrow. The field was a mile off the road and a little anticlimactic. A mere plot of dirt with tender shoots stretching in infancy. Not sure what I expected. But something other than a couple acres of tilled farmland. This didn’t strike me as sinister.

  “Ain’t she beautiful.” Ruben grinned and stretched both arms wide.

  “I thought marijuana was usually grown in a greenhouse,” I said.

  “Can be. But that’s when folks worried about being seen. Don’t worry that here. Here, I do it right. I prep the soil. Turn the dirt with lime. Sow with a good auto flowering strain and keep’em moist. Cover this whole patch with a tarp, a frost comes.”

  “Is Virginia a good climate for growing pot?”

  “Not the best. It’s fine. Can’t use some of the nicer strains. Wish I could use a nice haze seed to get better yield but they won’t hold up.”

  “You’re a pro,” I said.

  He accepted this with a royal nod.

  “How much money will this crop make?” I asked.

  “This patch pays my bills for the year. Got another patch puts my kids through college. Got a third smaller field sends me and the wife to Hawaii each winter.”

  “Is Calvin Summers the owner?”

  He grinned. “Gets tricky. Farmer owns the land. Somebody rents it. Somebody else hires me. Somebody else moves it. All under the table. I don’t ask no questions. But Mr. Summers, he the chief.”

  “And Wayne Cross?”

  “Wayne comes take his cut. He gets the leftovers. Cheap stuff, couple seasons old I keep stored.”

  “He doesn’t get the good stuff.”

  “No sir, good stuff goes somewhere else. Don’t know where. Ain’t my job. Be my educated guess, though, Mr. Summers don’t do much distributing. Man don’t much like getting his hands dirty.”

  Manny nodded. He hated dirt. Wouldn’t even help with my flower beds.

  I turned in a circle, examining where I stood. In a literal sense. It was as though we were on a different continent, far removed from Roanoke city. It only took sixty minutes driving to reach Ruben but it felt like another time zone. I was out of my element. Didn’t know what questions to ask the man.

  “Do you help with the moonshine stills?” I asked.

  “No sir. I’m a farmer. Don’t know about liquor.”

  “Calvin Summers was incarcerated. You knew about that?”

  “Sure. We all did.” He crouched and began rearranging the dirt around a few of the green saplings.

  “I’m a consultant, hired
to improve his enterprise. What would your suggestion be?”

  “My suggestion? Not a learned enough man for that.”

  “That’s—”

  “But if I did have an opinion on it, I’d say there’s one too many hands stirring the soup.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He stopped smoothing the dirt. Didn’t look up. “Summers is a man who don’t micromanage. Sets up the system, trusts his people, likes seeing the money come in. But maybe some people shouldn’t be trusted. He’s got the farmer, he’s got me, he’s got wholesale buyers and movers, he’s got Wayne, and all the other stuff he’s got. Just lets us work. You know how much oversight I got? None. Easy to skim. Easy to keep extra profit. I don’t. You understand me, I don’t. But it gets mighty tempting. Maybe some people don’t fight the temptation.”

  “Zero oversight.”

  “None, no sir.”

  “Hombres in Los Angeles,” Manny said. “The guys moving money and drugs and guns and girls, they got safety measures. Triple checks. You skim? They know and they kill your kid.”

  “That’s right. Triple checks? Mr. Summers don’t have double checks. Or any safety measures. He too rich to care if a shipment makes ten grand or eight,” Ruben said.

  “Too rich or too stupid.”

  He grinned at Manny. “Well. You said it. Not me.”

  “So people steal from Calvin,” I said.

  “My guess? Lotta people do.”

  “He has a dairy farm. But doesn’t care about it. Calvin never visits, never inspects it. He pays the bills, the milk gets made, milk gets bought, and he gets a check at the end of the month. He sees a profit, he’s happy,” I said.

  “Yes. That’s it. Same with the marijuana. He gets money. Stays in his fancy house, stays in his fancy car and fancy suits, doesn’t worry. Lets me do my work. Lets folk steal.”

  “You think Calvin knows? That people steal?”

  Ruben said, “Would guess so. Comes with the territory. He knew how much, though? He wouldn’t like it.”

  Ruben was thorough. I scrutinized the surrounding forest but couldn’t see any trapping of farm work. No toolshed. No tractors. No bags of fertilizer. The man was fastidious.

  I asked, “Do you know Boyd Hunt? The dairy farmer?”

  “I know Boyd. Good man. Man doesn’t skim.”

  I nodded. “That’s my impression too.”

  “His wife, on the other hand?” Ruben shook his head. “Angry woman. Angry at her husband, angry at Mr. Summers for buying their farm. Not so sure about Mrs. Hunt.”

  Manny was examining the bottom of his shoes, eying the mud with distaste. “I like Señora Hunt. Anger is good.”

  “How much of your last harvest did you move?” I asked.

  “Nearly all. Say, ninety percent is gone. Wayne will get most what I got left next few months, before this crop’s ready.”

  “You keep last year’s remainder here, on the premises?”

  “Yes sir. Got it insulated below ground. Animals can’t get at it. Most folks who don’t buy it fresh don’t care about the oils drying out. The buyers who care, they buy it freshly cured. I pack it in jars for them. Keep it out the sunlight till they pick it up.”

  I asked, “Do you know anyone who doesn’t like Calvin?”

  “No, everybody likes Mr. Summers. Who don’t like a boss keeps his nose out your business? Mr. Summers set up a system that keeps us fed. He don’t hassle us and he don’t care if we steal.”

  “We?” I said.

  “Well.” He winked. “Not me. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

  Manny shot me a knowing look. “Good advice, you ask me, amigo.”

  * * *

  Manny and I returned to my toy Honda and made it half a mile before two squad cars fell in behind us and hit their lights.

  “What a strange coincidence,” I said.

  “Must be a mistake. Because there’s no way the local fuzz would be upset with you. You, such a pleasant gringo.”

  I pulled over on a particularly desolate stretch of country road. Turned on my phone’s microphone and slipped it into the pocket on the chest of my jacket. A deputy stepped out of each car and approached on either side of mine. I buzzed down the window.

  The man on my side, a younger guy, barely old enough to shave, said, “License and registration.”

  I complied.

  Deputy on the other side knocked on Manny’s window. He lowered it.

  “Hola.”

  The deputy didn’t respond immediately. He was older and heavyset. Pot belly and thick neck. His shirt was placing a staggering amount of pressure on the buttons.

  “Hablas ingles?” Manny said.

  “What I want to know is,” the heavy deputy drawled, “what a fucking spic and a nosey cop for hire are doing out here in God’s country?”

  “We’re gay,” I said. “Moving in pronto and bringing all our gay with us.”

  The heavy guy stepped back. “Out of the car. Pronto.”

  Manny glanced my way. “We playing nice?”

  “At least for another minute.”

  We got out. They arranged us side by side, hands on the roof of my car. They stood behind us. “Don’t be jealous,” I said. “I have to do a lot of squats to look this good in jeans.”

  No response.

  I said, “Something wrong, deputies?”

  “Yeah. Something’s wrong. Saw you here the other day, faggot. And seen you around Happy Hills.” It sounded like he was wrestling to keep his belt up, the poor thing. “And I want to know why.”

  “Sightseeing,” I said. “I’m enjoying the farmland and Appalachian rot.”

  “Not what I heard.”

  “What’d you hear?” I asked.

  “Heard you’re looking into things you shouldn’t be. Couple’a queers should mind your business.”

  “You strike me as a man who’s best buddies with Wayne Cross. Am I right? I’m totally right.”

  “Don’t matter. What matters is you stay away. You get me?”

  “Stay away from what?”

  “From here. Stop trying to be smart.”

  “Stay off this road?” I said. “What’s wrong with this road?”

  “This road ain’t for you.”

  “I like this road. I’m definitely coming back here, to this road,” I said.

  “You are.”

  “I am. How’d you know where to find us?”

  “I know. I know everything,” he said.

  “Oh yeah? How do you spell cognitive dissonance?”

  “Think twice about your mouth, boy. Gonna get you in trouble. You think I can’t run you over? You think I can’t tie you down and run you over with your own fucking car?”

  In the window’s reflection, I saw him remove the nightstick from his belt.

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “Think twice, Mr. Fat Officer, before doing something stupid. Feel my muscles first. They’re enormous. And there’s two of us, only one of you.”

  “You blind, queer? Two of us. And we’re the law.”

  “Yeah, but your young friend won’t join in. He’s too young. Not used to confrontation yet,” I said. “Not angry enough.”

  “Smart-ass, a beating’d be good you, fucking faggot.”

  “Oye, policia,” Manny said. “He was joking. About the gay thing. Go easy, amigo, else I floss your teeth with the nightstick.”

  “Before we visit violence upon your corpulent body, Deputy, mind telling us who sent you?” I asked.

  Poor Fat Officer had enough. He cracked Manny in the temple with the stick. Or he tried to, at least. Manny raised his arm and caught it inside his fist, near his ear. He twisted and brought the deputy crashing into the side of my Honda, hard enough to break the man’s ribs. The deputy slid to the ground.

  I turned and gathered the collar of the younger deputy. Held him close. “Relax. All right? Don’t do anything stupid. He got you into this and now he’s paying for it.”

  The kid’s eyes w
ere wild. Didn’t know what to do. Deputy sheriffs shouldn't let two guys like us boss him around, right? Should he be a hero?

  I said, “I’m former Los Angeles police. Manny there is a US marshal in Roanoke. Just relax.”

  Manny slapped Fat Officer hard across the mouth. “Hit me with a stick? Hit me with a stick, pendejo?” Manny pulled out his pistol and pressed the barrel firmly up the man’s nostril. “Call me a few more names.”

  I asked the young deputy, “Who told you to rough us up?”

  The kid’s voice squeaked. “I…I don’t know. Yopp told me to follow his lead. Said we needed to run off a couple’a troublemakers.”

  Yopp got his head kicked by Manny. His skull rebounded off my tire.

  “Manny,” I said. “I think your point has been made.”

  “Maybe,” Manny said. He delivered another kick, this one to the man’s ear. Manny’s chest was rising with deep breaths. “I get mad. Muy loco, amigo.”

  “I know. But he’s bleeding from his ears and nose. We’re good.”

  Manny walked away, his boots crunching on gravel, to remove himself from temptation.

  “Hey. Yopp. You hear me? Who told you about us?” I called.

  Yopp groaned. Uselessly.

  I asked the kid, “You know Wayne Cross?”

  “Sure.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Sure, I know Wayne.”

  “You’re wondering what happens now,” I said. “I got an idea. Nothing happens now. I recorded this encounter. I got Yopp cursing at us and telling us we needed an ass beating. He won’t report us because he’ll get fired. So you don’t report us either because you watched your friend get smacked around. An officer of the law doing nothing? No good. Don’t let anyone see the camera footage from your car. This goes away. Yopp learns a lesson. Right?”

  The kid gulped again. I released him.

  “Yopp had this coming,” I said.

  “Yeah. Yeah he did.”

  “Yopp gives you any trouble, punch him in the nose. He’ll learn quick. Right?”

  “Yeah.” The kid laughed uneasily. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Manny? You know why I’m the Lone Ranger and you’re not? I drive. Let’s go.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I sat in my office, sneakers crossed on the desk, bouncing a Nerf ball off the window. The windows had been installed sometime during the Roman empire and the pane rattled threateningly. My coffee had gone cold and the last piece of bacon beckoned from my desk but so far I’d abstained. Bacon got even better the more you wanted it. My fantasy baseball stats were displayed prominently on the screen of my laptop and ‘90s alternative music came from the bluetooth speaker. Green Day at the moment.