by Brad Smith
“What’s your name?”
The little girl hadn’t taken her eyes off him since he’d arrived but now she looked away, her eyes on the cartoon show. “Maya,” she said.
“Please,” her mother said, but Hoffman held his hand up to silence her.
“Has your uncle been here?” Hoffman asked. “Has Soup been here? Do you call him Soup?”
“She calls him Trevor,” the woman said. “I told you he hasn’t been here.”
“He hasn’t been here,” the little girl said softly.
Hoffman stood watching her for a moment, wondering if she was lying, even at that age. It was inherent with these people. He turned back to the woman.
“Why do you want him?” she asked when he did.
“He took something that belongs to me. He stole from me.”
“Stole what?”
“None of your business,” Hoffman said. “Where would he go? I mean, say he was in trouble or something, and he needed a safe house. Where would he go?”
“I got no notion.”
“Yeah, you do. This isn’t the first time Soup’s been in the shit, major-league fuckup that he is. Where would he go?”
“Please watch your language.”
“Answer the question.”
“I have no idea,” the woman said. “I have no control over him. I’m just looking after my own.”
“Looking after your own,” Hoffman said. “What a fucking fantasy. You people couldn’t look after a kitten. And the cycle just repeats itself, doesn’t it?”
“Please don’t use that language in front of my little girl. Please.”
“Yeah—like she never heard that word running in the park.”
“This isn’t the park,” the woman said. “It’s my home.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Hoffman took a pad from his pocket and wrote his cell number on it. “Listen—Soup shows here, you tell him to do the smart thing and give me a call. Tell him—” Hoffman hesitated as he formed the words in his head. “Tell him that him finding me is a much better situation than me finding him. You understand that?”
The woman took the number reluctantly, like she was touching an object of shame, something filthy beyond description. She put it on the table without looking at it.
“Yeah,” she said. “I understand that.”
* * *
When Hoffman got back to the park, Yuri was no longer by the basketball court with his little circle of pothead friends. Hoffman did a walk-around and didn’t see him anywhere. He was getting worried and then saw the black pickup, parked along a side street off South Pearl. It appeared at first that there was nobody in the truck, but as he drew near he could see the soles of a pair of cowboy boots above the passenger window.
Yuri was stretched out across the front seat, his hat pulled low over his eyes. The truck windows were down—it would have been sweltering in there otherwise—and Hoffman stood quietly by the passenger door for a moment, looking at the Russian, whom he assumed was sound asleep. Even with that, though, he aggravated Hoffman; there was something arrogant about the fact that he was taking a nap in the midst of their search for Soup. And the cocaine.
“What are you staring at, copper?” Yuri said.
Hoffman started. He waited for Yuri to remove the hat from his eyes, but he didn’t. He did smile, though, that same insinuating grin that infuriated Hoffman, although he wasn’t sure why.
“I could smell you standing there,” Yuri said. The smile grew wider. “See? You even smell like copper.”
“Having a little snooze after dealing grass to the homeboys?” Hoffman asked.
Yuri sat up, thumbing the hat back. “I do not snooze. And I do not sell grass to those boys. Is free of charge. What—you are going to arrest me?”
“Let’s just stick to the job at hand,” Hoffman said.
“Remind me—what job is that?”
“Funny man. Were you a comedian back in Russia?”
“Hey, I am funny man,” Yuri said. “I could have been stand-up comedian.”
Hoffman was sweating bullets in the jacket. He took it off, opened the truck door, and threw it on the seat.
“You need to relax,” Yuri told him.
“I’m relaxed.”
“You have not been relaxed since first we meet. I think you need vacation. You need to go to camp.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No, I am serious. I know of a camp where you should go. I will go with you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“A camp that I have just heard of.”
“What camp?”
“Is called Pop’s.”
TWENTY-TWO
Dusty’s sister lived outside the town of Cairo, about forty miles southwest of the city, and Virgil took Route 32 south. Dusty rode silently, still angry with Virgil for disabling her truck. For Virgil, it was an indication of how worried she was that she’d even gotten in with him. It seemed she was going to get her son out of harm’s way, first and foremost, and if that meant putting up with Virgil for a while, she’d do it. After that, Virgil wasn’t sure. But he doubted she was done with it, as she’d claimed back at the apartment.
Travis seemed unaware of the drama surrounding him. He’d brought his glove and ball with him, and he sat between Virgil and Dusty, popping the ball in and out of the glove.
“Do you play baseball?” he asked Virgil once they were out of the city.
“I used to.”
“Hardball or softball?”
“Hardball.”
“That’s what I want to play,” the boy said. “What position were you?”
“Catcher.”
“Awesome.” He thumped the ball into the glove again. “I want to be a shortstop. Like Derek Jeter. Some day we’re going to Yankee Stadium to see a game. Right, Mom?”
“That’s right.”
“You should come with us,” Travis said to Virgil.
Dusty made a noise at that, something between a snort and a scoff. Travis glanced at her and then at Virgil, as if he was trying to figure out what was going on between them. After a time he put the glove and ball on the seat beside him. He kept watching Virgil as he drove.
“What happened to your arm?” he finally asked.
Virgil started to tell him the hay mow story but he stopped. Kids get lied to enough in this world.
“I got beat up,” he said.
“Wow,” the boy said. “By bad guys?”
“Yeah.”
“You going to get them back?”
“I’m not sure. You think I should?”
“I would,” the boy said. “I’d zap them with a laser rocket.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Virgil felt Dusty’s eyes on him. When he glanced over, she looked away. They were well out of the city now, passing through farm country. In fact, when they reached Cairo, they would be fifteen minutes or so from Virgil’s farm.
“My uncle Dave’s got a race car,” Travis told Virgil.
Dusty turned to her son. “Travis, are you never quiet?”
“I’m just telling Virgil,” the boy said.
“What kind of car?” Virgil asked.
“Um, I’m not sure,” the boy admitted. “It’s got mag wheels, though. I help polish them sometimes. Did you ever drive a race car?”
“Never,” Virgil said.
They rode in silence for a time. Presently they came to the turnoff for Kimball’s Point. There was a large sign with an arrow on it, and the name of the town. Virgil watched as Travis straightened up, his lips moving as he sounded out the lettering.
“Hey, Mom, it’s Kimball’s Point,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said.
Travis turned to Virgil. “My mom used to work there. She helped build boats.”
Virgil could practically feel Dusty stiffen, even though she was on the other side of the cab. After a moment she glanced over at him. She was not happy, her expression warning him to leave it alone. T
hen she looked at her son.
“And to think I was so proud when you first learned to talk,” she said.
Nobody said much else for the rest of the trip. Dusty’s sister had a house on a paved country road a few miles east of town. It was a brick ranch-style wedged between a patch of pine forest and a field of alfalfa. The place had a huge yard and a separate garage that sat off to the side behind the house. When Virgil pulled in, he could see the dragster Travis had mentioned, parked inside the garage. Virgil drove up to the house and when he shut the engine off, a woman walked out the front door, as if she’d been watching for them. She looked like a slightly older, slightly heavier version of Dusty. She gave Virgil a wary look; she’d obviously been expecting just Dusty and the boy.
Dusty grabbed Travis’ backpack and they both got out. Virgil hesitated, not knowing how long they might be there, and then he got out too and stood by the truck. Dusty somewhat reluctantly introduced him to her sister.
“My sister Julie,” she said. “This is Virgil.”
Julie didn’t seem particularly enthusiastic about meeting Virgil. When he said hello, she gave him another critical once-over, no doubt taking note of his battered appearance this time, and turned back to Dusty without saying a word. It seemed she wanted to ask her sister something but wouldn’t in front of the boy.
“Virgil got his arm broke by some bad guys,” Travis announced.
That didn’t help matters.
“What’s going on?” Julie asked, still looking at Dusty.
“Nothing,” Dusty said. “Travis, take your backpack inside.”
Julie watched as the boy trudged through the front door and into the house before turning to Dusty. “You in trouble?”
“No.”
“Don’t lie to me.” She indicated Virgil. “What’s this guy’s story?”
“Well, he’s not deaf,” Dusty said. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I really don’t care,” Julie said.
“My truck broke down. He’s just giving us a lift.” Dusty glanced at Virgil, then back to her sister. “There’s something I got to do. Can you just keep him for the weekend, Jules?”
Julie glared at Virgil once more but seemed to resign herself to the fact that that was all the information she was going to get. Maybe she was used to it, but being used to it and being happy about it were two different things. “All right,” she said. “You know I’ll take him anytime. But I don’t like the looks of this. Why don’t you both stay here for the weekend and let the train wreck here take care of whatever it is.”
“Because it’s not his to take care of,” Dusty told her.
“Next time I just might stay in the truck,” Virgil said.
Dusty almost smiled at that, but her sister didn’t come close. Travis came out of the house again, carrying his ball glove. “Aunt Julie, do you have any neats oil?”
“What?”
“Neatsfoot. I’ll buy you some,” Dusty said to the boy. She glanced at the house, then turned to Julie. “Where’s Dave?”
“Took the boys to town.”
Dusty nodded. “I have to use the bathroom.”
She went inside, leaving Julie and Virgil standing awkwardly in the yard. When Dusty came out a few minutes later, her expression was tight, and she was moving quickly. She wouldn’t look at her sister. She leaned over to kiss Travis and when she did Virgil saw the hard bulge beneath her shirt at the back.
“Okay, dude,” she said. “See you in a couple of days. You be good.”
The little boy pulled away from her kiss. “Okay,” he said. “Bye, Virgil.”
They drove away in silence, Dusty staring morosely out the passenger window as they headed back to the main road. It was obvious that she was upset about dropping the boy off or, more accurately, about the circumstances that had led her to do it.
“Don’t be mad about the boy mentioning your connection to Kimball’s Point,” Virgil said finally. “I know about the boat. And about Parson, and the cocaine.”
“And you’re still hanging around? Man, you really are stupid.”
“Beginning to look that way,” he said. “Although I had decided earlier today that cut-and-run was the smart move. So what about it? I will if you will.”
“No.”
“Why not?” Virgil asked. “Is it about the money?”
“Got nothing to do with money,” she said without hesitation. She was quiet for some time, shaking her head, as if having a conversation with herself, considering what more to tell him. “All right,” she said at length, “I’ll tell you my sad little story, farm boy. Or at least as much as you need to know. And when I’m done, we’ll find an auto parts place so you can buy me a new rotor for my truck, and then you can drop me off and head on back to the country. You good with that?”
“Depends on the story.”
“Depends on the story,” she mimicked. “Well, I only have the one, so like it or not, that’s what you get.” She exhaled, running her fingers through her short hair. “Shit, if I’m going to spill my guts, I need a drink. Let’s find a bar or a roadhouse or something.”
They came upon a place a few miles farther on, a stucco building with faux palm trees out front and a smiling Mexican wearing a sombrero on a sign on the roof. The bar was called Pistolero Pete’s. Virgil drove around back of the place and parked against a freshly painted plank fence.
“I can lock the truck,” he said. “If you want to leave that gun in the glove box. Unless you’re figuring on robbing the joint.”
She gave him a sharp look, and she held it for a few moments, as if challenging him. Then she leaned forward to pull the revolver from the back of her jeans.
“No, I’m not figuring on robbing the joint,” she said. She opened the glove compartment and put the gun inside.
It was Friday evening and the roadhouse was a busy place. The Mexican atmosphere inside was every bit as genuine as the fake palm trees out front. The drink specials were listed on a blackboard above the bar and featured, among other choices, a thirty-two-ounce margarita. Virgil and Dusty got a couple of Buds and found a corner that was somewhat out of the earshot of the loud camaraderie of the drinkers up front.
“What’s your brother-in-law going to say when he finds out you stole his gun?” Virgil asked.
“I’m hoping to put it back before he does.”
“Why do you think you need a gun?”
Dusty shrugged. “Better to have it and not need it than the other way around.” She tipped the bottle back. “Would have been good advice for Brownie. Right?”
“You saying that whoever killed Brownie might come looking for you?”
“How can I answer that when I don’t know who killed Brownie?”
“Maybe you don’t know,” Virgil said, “but I’m guessing you have a theory.”
“Theories are for mathematicians.”
“Talking to you is frustrating.” Virgil glanced at the drinkers at the bar. Many looked to be farmers, or construction workers who hadn’t gone home after getting off work, still wearing dirty jeans and work boots. “So you know how to use a gun?”
Dusty laughed. “A little. I belonged to a … I guess you could call it a social club. Jefferson Park, back in the day. We were firearm enthusiasts.”
As she talked, she was taking in the room around them. She was looser now than she’d been earlier. Virgil wondered if it was because of the gun, if she felt more at ease now that she could protect herself. Thinking about it, though, he realized it wasn’t that at all. It was because she’d dropped the boy off. Whatever else happened, her son was safe. She took a long pull on the beer, then set her bottle down and glanced over to see him watching her.
“All right,” she said, as if resigning herself to an unsavory task. “Remind me again what you want to know.”
“Why you can’t leave this alone.”
“Oh yeah, that.” She looked around again. “Fuck, I could use a smoke.”
“You smoke?”
“No. I quit when I was pregnant with Travis. I miss it sometimes. Days like this, I miss it a lot. But I can’t go back to it.” She smiled. “Kids ruin everything, you know that?”
“Tell me the story,” Virgil said.
“All right, you asked for it.” First she tipped the Bud back again, as if gearing herself for the telling. “I grew up in the city. Typical story, my old man left when I was a kid, there was no money, I hung out with the wrong people, all that shit. I was in a half-ass gang, did some time in juvie, probation, blah, blah, blah … I’m just going to fast-forward through all that, okay? Summer I was twenty-one I got busted for dealing hash. I had an uncle in Kimball’s Point—well, technically a guy living with my aunt, name of Big Jim Cunningham—who told the courts he’d take me in, put me to work in his boatyard. I wasn’t into it but it kept me out of jail. Turned out I loved it. That’s what started me with the carpentry.”
“I wondered about that,” Virgil said.
Dusty nodded. “Big Jim restored older boats sometimes and once in a while he’d buy one down in Florida or the islands and we’d sail it up through the intercoastal, from the Gulf or the Caribbean all the way to Kimball’s Point. I got to know that trip pretty well, could run it on my own if I needed to.”
She hesitated then, smiled as if to herself.
“Okay,” she said. “One weekend I met Parson at a regatta, up near the city. We, um … hit it off, lack of a better term. Fast-forward again. Ended up moving in together. All I knew about him was that he owned some buildings in the city. And he had money. He gave me the twenty-carat treatment. You know? All that stuff a girl dreams about.” She gave Virgil a look. “Well, maybe you don’t know about that.”
“I’ll use my imagination.”
“So, seven years ago—we’d been together a little over a year—we took a vacation to the Bahamas. One day we’re in some little marina and Parson finds this forty-four-foot Chris-Craft called Down Along Coast. Just stumbled on it, or that’s what I believed at the time. Beautiful boat—completely restored, all polished mahogany and brass. He wants to buy it. He was going through a divorce, though, or so he claimed, and he didn’t want his wife to claim half of the boat. He convinces me to put it in my name, temporarily. And we sail it home. Apparently you know what happened next.”
