Red Means Run

by Brad Smith

  A little before ten, the front door of the bungalow opened and a man walked out. He was tall, with a considerable paunch, and had a full head of white hair, carefully combed. Jeans and a leather jacket. He walked to the Cadillac, got in, and drove off.

  Virgil followed in the pickup. The Caddy made its way downtown and parked on a side street around the corner from the courthouse, the same courthouse where Virgil had appeared before the judge a couple of days earlier. The man who was quite likely Buddy Townes got out and walked around to Front Street and went into the bar Fat Phil’s.

  Down the street from the bar was a mini mall with a market and a liquor store and several other smaller shops. Virgil pulled into the parking lot there, shut the truck off, and sat looking at the drinking establishment up the street. He had been in Fat Phil’s several times over the years, usually for a beer or two when he was in town picking up groceries or something for the farm. The last time he had been there, he had mentioned within earshot of Mickey Dupree that somebody ought to blow Mickey Dupree’s head off. People had evidently taken notice. So even if he wasn’t exactly a regular at Fat Phil’s, it didn’t seem like a good idea to walk in there tonight.

  So again he would wait.

  About ten minutes later, headlights swung across his rear-view mirror and he looked up to see a red Honda CR-V wheeling into the mall parking lot. The driver pulled up in front of the liquor store, cut the lights, and killed the ignition.

  Claire Marchand got out.

  Virgil grabbed his cap, pulling it low, and slumped down in the seat, watching her in the side mirror. She walked around the car and started for the store. She was wearing jeans and a cream-colored V-neck sweater, a navy ball cap on her head, her hair in a ponytail beneath the cap. She looked good in the jeans.

  Virgil thought for a moment about starting the Dodge and driving away, but that might be more conspicuous than staying put, particularly if she was to walk out just as he was leaving. As it was, she was inside for only a couple of minutes. She came out carrying a paper bag and got into the Honda, backed out of the parking spot, and drove out the same entrance she’d used when she arrived.

  Virgil straightened in the truck, exhaled. He glanced across the street to Fat Phil’s and then got out of the truck and walked over to the liquor store and went inside. The guy behind the counter was watching the Mets and the Braves on a small screen on the counter. Virgil picked up a pint of bourbon and carried it to the front.

  “I think I saw my friend Claire leaving when I pulled in,” he said.

  The man kept his eyes on the game. The Mets had the bases loaded. “Yeah, she was picking up some wine.” He glanced at the pint. “Be eight and a quarter.”

  “She still drinking the French stuff?” Virgil asked, giving the man a ten.

  “She bought that Argentine Malbec,” the man said. With a sideways jerk of his thumb, he indicated a display without actually looking at it. “Christ! I can’t believe this.”

  Virgil looked at the screen, where the batter had just hit a ground ball to the second baseman. Double play, inning over. He gathered his change and left.

  Walking back to the truck, he passed a convenience store and considered going in to buy cigarettes. He hadn’t had a smoke since his escape from the tin can in Kesselberg. He couldn’t decide if this was a good time to quit smoking, or not. In the end he kept on walking, got in the truck, and cracked the seal on the whisky. He took a sip and waited for Buddy Townes to emerge.

  It was ten minutes to midnight when he saw the crop of white hair in the entranceway of the bar, and then the man himself walked out the door. When he headed for the Cadillac parked around the corner, Virgil got out and followed.

  The Caddy was running and Buddy Townes was lighting a cigarette when Virgil approached the passenger side and rapped on the window. Buddy gave him a look and then powered the window down. Earlier Virgil had tucked a fifty-dollar bill in his shirt pocket, and now he offered it through the window.

  “You got ten minutes?” he asked.

  Buddy looked at him for maybe five seconds before reaching over to take the money. He unlocked the door and shut the engine off as Virgil got in. Buddy was smiling, looking at the fifty in his hand. He put it in his pocket.

  “Shit, all I got from the cops was a cheeseburger and fries,” he said. He had a voice like a rasp running across a rusty hinge. He appeared to be slightly drunk.

  “You know who I am?” Virgil asked.

  “I got a pretty good idea. Take that Mud Hens cap off and shave that half-assed beard and you’d look a lot like the guy whose mug shot I’ve been seeing on my TV all week. I thought you were in Canada.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  Buddy took a long pull on the smoke. “You’re not in Canada. You broke out of jail but you’re not smart enough to take a powder. William H. Bonney did the same thing, you know that?”

  “William H. Bonney was Billy the Kid.”

  “Yeah. He broke out of the Lincoln County jail and for some reason he just stayed in the area. He could’ve gone to California or Mexico, anywhere. Those days, they never would’ve found him. But he wouldn’t leave. You know what they did to him, right?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Shit,” Buddy said, looking at Virgil as he tried to figure the angles. Then he laughed. “You didn’t do it. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “And you want me to tell you that I might have a theory who did.”

  “Something like that.”

  Buddy took another pull on the cigarette, the end burning brightly in the dim light. “Well, I can tell you that until a few seconds ago, I had you pegged as the guy. It works from a motive standpoint. And then the great escape.”

  “So who else had motive?”

  “I’d have to stand back and take another look at this thing,” Buddy said. “See, all anybody’s talking about is who had it in for these guys. Who would want them dead? And you’re the perfect fit for that. On both counts. But now . . . well, there are always other possibilities to consider, when it comes to murder. First off, there’s the nut job who’s killing people for no reason. Or for reasons that only make sense in his distorted brain. He’s the toughest guy to catch because there’s no logic behind it. I don’t see that being an option here. Secondly, there’s the popular theory, that you—or somebody like you—killed both these guys out of a sense of revenge, or vigilante justice, or whatever you want to label it. Comstock killed your wife and got off because of Mickey Dupree. So you did them both. From a human nature standpoint, that’s very feasible. Everybody has those feelings, whether they admit to them or not. But nobody’s talking about the third possible motive. And that is, who would stand to benefit from the demise of either of these two guys? Or both? You see where I’m going?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not saying that’s it. Could be a grudge thing after all.

  Both these guys rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. Not just you. But you have to look at everything. When Mickey was killed, I went over it. Now I probably know more about the man than anybody alive, I been working for him off and on for almost twenty years. So who would benefit from his death? You can forget about anybody making any money off it. Mickey was broke, year in and year out. If he made a million dollars, he spent a million and a half. He owed money all over the place and he was a lousy gambler to boot. He never once paid me on time for anything, still owes me fifteen hundred I’m never gonna see. He had two ex-wives he paid alimony to. I can tell you they’re in mourning because they’re toast now. All he left is debt. He would have had life insurance but they’re not getting a nickel of that. His kids will get it. I guess you could argue that they’d benefit but they’re both in college and I’m pretty sure neither of them came up here and drove a golf club through their old man’s heart.” He paused, then raised an index finger for emphasis. “Although I can’t figure why there was no struggle when that went down. I’d have fucking struggled, man.”

&nbs
p; “So you’re saying it had to be something personal.”

  “With Mickey, it seems likely.” Buddy finished the smoke and slipped the butt out the side window, which was lowered maybe an inch. “Now look at Comstock. And I did take a long look at him when he was on trial for killing your wife. Who’s going to benefit from his murder? Man had no will, you know that? Worth what, a couple hundred million, and he wouldn’t make a will. He’s got a daughter in the southwest, she’s flakier than a blue ribbon pie crust. He sends her money every month so she’s able to stay that way, I guess. I don’t see her being a suspect. The wife, well, the wife gets everything, but then the wife already had everything. The properties are all in her name, for instance.”

  Buddy paused, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while he thought. The inside of the car was as dirty as the exterior; the vinyl dashboard was grimy and empty cigarette packs and crushed cardboard coffee cups were strewn everywhere.

  “Pretty strange couple,” Buddy said then. “He came from a rich, established family, old Philadelphia money, and became a hippie music producer. A rich hippie, but still. She’s the flip side, starts out a hippie, Haight-Ashbury and all that scene—man, she had some connections would blow your mind—and she becomes a wealthy society dame. Patron of the arts, loyal Democrat, all that. So there’s nothing there that I could see. Who else? Well, Comstock has had more feuds over the years than the Hatfields and the McCoys. Keith Richards threatened to kill him in 1979; Dolly Parton pulled a gun on him in the studio in ’86, said she was going to make him into a gelding. Courtney Love threw a bowie knife at him. Where the fuck would she get a bowie knife? You can add in a half a dozen fathers who wanted to kill him for making moves on their aspiring singer/ songwriter daughters. That’s why he was such a gun nut. I hear he was loaded for bear the night he was killed, not that it did him any good. Thing is, there’s a lot of people who wouldn’t mind seeing him dead, but I doubt any of them actually did it. It would be entertaining as hell to slap subpoenas on Dolly and Courtney but I don’t think it would get you anywhere.”

  “I’m starting to believe that maybe I’m the guy after all,” Virgil said.

  Buddy laughed. “Well, I’m starting to believe that somebody set you up to look like the guy. Maybe he only wanted one of them dead but did them both to make it look like you. You gotta admit, you’re tailor-made for this. What do you know about Joe Brady?”

  “Other than he’s not the president of the local Mensa chapter?”

  Buddy nodded his head. “No shit. Well, Mickey Dupree made a habit of bitch slapping Joe in the courtroom over the years. And Joe hated Mickey for it. In fact, Mickey made his bones off Joe’s incompetence. Mickey’s first murder case—a cokehead named Ronnie Dillard who was as guilty as O. J.— ended up walking because Joe produced the wrong gun as the murder weapon. Dillard had a thirty-eight with the front sight filed off—these kids do that so the gun doesn’t get caught when they’re yanking it out of their sweatpants, fucking idiots—but when the prosecutor presented the gun as evidence, the front sight was there. Well, they don’t grow back. Wrong gun, the ballistics didn’t match. See you later. Mickey worked Joe over pretty good on the stand, made Joe look like a fucking moron, which isn’t real hard to do. And he’s done it a few times since, most recently during Comstock’s trial. But you saw that.”

  “Yeah, I saw that,” Virgil said. “I have a feeling Brady has his heart set on me for this thing. I doubt he’s out looking for anybody else.”

  “Claire Marchand is.”

  “What?”

  “That’s who bought me the cheeseburger and fries today,” Buddy said. “She was asking the same questions you’re asking.”

  “Did she come to the conclusion that I’m the guy?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Buddy took his cigarettes from his coat, shook one out, then offered the pack to Virgil. He declined. “Of course, I have one piece of information she doesn’t. She doesn’t know you’re hanging around.”

  “Like Billy the Kid.”

  Buddy laughed again. He was having a good time. “Yeah, like Billy the Kid.” He lit the cigarette. “But you must have made an impression on Claire in the interrogation room that day. She told me you were smart.”

  “She did?” It seemed she hadn’t mentioned the phone call. Not to Buddy Townes anyway.

  “Yeah.” Buddy exhaled and squinted through the smoke at Virgil. “She’s a piece of ass, isn’t she?”

  Virgil thought of her earlier that night, in the jeans and the V-neck. The way she moved across the parking lot. “I never really noticed.”

  “You’re full of shit,” Buddy said. “You might like to know that she’s basically the polar opposite of Joe Brady. She had a tough go of it on the home front for a while but she’s getting it together now.”

  “What kind of tough go?”

  “Oh, she was married to this fucking twit. Your classic ten-cent millionaire. He owned a car dealership. He had a million-dollar house, he had a cottage, he had a boat, he had a new Escalade. He didn’t have a fucking nickel. He had this image of himself as a wheel, and everybody knew he was a joke. I’m sure they lived off Claire’s salary. It took her about fifteen years to figure things out. She divorced him last year. Probably paid for everything herself.”

  “What happened to the husband?”

  “He’s still around, still playing the game. Guys like that don’t change. He sells flooring now. Bought another house, married some chick with fake tits from Montreal. The chick is from Montreal, I don’t know where the tits are from. If she’s not an ex-stripper, I’ll eat that dashboard.”

  Virgil thought about Claire, the way she’d talked to him on the phone that night. She was flirting with him, no doubt, to keep him on the line. But still. He was glad to hear she was single, but he couldn’t say why. There was nothing in it for him, with two murder charges and an escaped custody charge to consider.

  “All right,” he said, putting her out of his mind, at least for the moment. “Let’s get back to Dupree. You said he owed a lot of money.”

  “He did.”

  “Isn’t that a motive?”

  “Not as a rule,” Buddy said. “Look, somebody owes you money, you don’t want him dead. If he’s dead, he’s probably not going to pay you back. The people Mickey owed, they all knew he made a lot of money, so chances were they’d get paid eventually. Now, if they had found Mickey in that sand trap alive but with two broken legs, I’d say it was absolutely debt related. But not this.”

  Virgil nodded. After a moment, he reached for the door handle. Buddy Townes had given him a lot of information but really hadn’t told him what he wanted to hear. What had Virgil expected, that Townes knew who the guilty party was and would be willing to spill it for fifty bucks?

  Buddy smiled. “Hey, I just thought of something. You got Joe Brady on your trail. Billy the Kid had William Brady. You figure that’s an omen?”

  “If I’d known you were going to enjoy this so much, I would’ve only given you twenty.”

  “I would’ve taken it.”

  Virgil looked around to see if anybody was in the vicinity.

  “One more thing,” he said. “You going to make a phone call when I leave?”

  “And turn you in?” Buddy smiled and pulled his left hand from his coat pocket. In the hand was a snub-nosed revolver, which he pointed straight at Virgil. “I was going to do that, I wouldn’t turn you in. I’d take you in.”

  Virgil looked at the gun, maybe eighteen inches from his face. He could see the perfect circle of dull gray slugs in the cylinder. Buddy put it back in his pocket.

  “I wish I knew what the reward money was on you,” Buddy said. “Might change my mind.” He exhaled slowly, almost a sigh. “I’m tired of this nickel-and-dime shit. All I want at this point in my life is a million dollars and a little shack in the Keys. And a boat so I can fish every day. Nothing big, maybe a thirty-footer. I was a half-assed cop and now I’m a half-assed investigator.
But I got a feeling I could be a top-of-the-line retiree.” He sat looking out the windshield, maybe imagining that shack, early mornings out in the Gulf. Cold beer in the cooler and that night’s supper in the hold. Then he glanced over at Virgil.

  “Whatever you’re worth, it’s not a million.”

  “You’re right about that,” Virgil said. He was happy not to be looking at the muzzle of the gun anymore.

  Buddy was looking at Virgil’s right hand on the door handle. The knuckles were swollen and the skin on the index finger was peeled back.

  “What did you do to your hand?” he asked.

  “I fell down.”

  Buddy shook his head, not believing it for a second. “You watch reality TV?”

  “I watch baseball,” Virgil said. “And the news. The weather occasionally but it tends to piss me off.”

  “I hate reality TV,” Buddy said. “Sometimes I think it’s the worst fucking thing ever to happen to this country. Nothing worth watching on television anymore. So I’m bored most of the time and I hate being bored. But you, you’re entertaining as hell. I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to or what you’re going to do next, but I’m going to keep watching.”

  TWENTY

  When Claire got to the station the next morning, Joe was there ahead of her. That in and of itself was unusual. But Joe was wearing his dark-brown suit, his Brooks Brothers, the suit he normally saved for court. Claire assumed he was on his way there this morning. But he wasn’t.

  “I’m heading up into Canada,” he told her. “To talk to the Mounties.”

  He made the announcement as if he were Meriwether Lewis and Canada was the great unknown expanse west of the Mississippi.

  “Do us proud,” Claire told him.

  “I need to know what they’re doing up there,” he said. “We would have had this man in custody by now.”

  Claire knew it was futile to point out that they did have this man in custody once. “I’m sure they’re doing all they can,” she said. “I have a feeling this Cain is a little on the unpredictable side.”