Crow's Landing

by Brad Smith

  Virgil nodded. “Story I got—the cops raided you out in the river, Parson threw the cylinder overboard and then followed it.”

  “That’s it,” Dusty said. “Somebody ratted us out and the cops were waiting. Parson went over the side. Fucker could swim like an otter. I never learned.”

  “So you’re left holding the bag?”

  Dusty finished her beer. “Parson had it all planned from the start. There was no ex-wife, no pending divorce. He just didn’t want the boat in his name, in case things went sour. When the shit hit the fan, he went for a swim and I went to jail for three years.”

  “For what?”

  “They found a few ounces of coke on the boat. They decided I was trafficking, which I wasn’t. But they convinced the DA.”

  “Was it Parson’s dope? The stuff they found?”

  “It was our dope,” she said. “Purely recreational. It’s a long trip from the Bahamas to Kimball’s Point. A girl could get bored.” She half smiled. “What—you think you’re drinking with an angel here?”

  “I never thought that for a minute.”

  “You don’t have to sound so convinced,” she said. She stood up. “I need another beer. You ready?”

  Virgil nodded and watched as she walked across the room. He thought she looked good in her jeans and the man’s shirt, and the locals drinking at the bar thought so too. The guys were all watching as she walked by, but nobody got too close, and nobody spoke to her. She had a hands-off quality about her, a sort of built-in defense that made her unapproachable. She paid for the beers and carried them back to the table.

  “So there you go,” she said, sitting down. “Satisfy your curiosity?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “You never answered my question,” Virgil said. “I didn’t ask how you were involved. I asked why you’re still involved.”

  “Oh, that,” she said, and smiled, as if she thought she might have gotten away with something. “It’s simple. I’m on parole. If the cops find that cylinder and decide to connect it to me, I’m going back to jail. And for a lot longer than three years this time.”

  “How can they do that?” Virgil asked. “The thing was at the bottom of the river.”

  “Listen, you’re driving down a road, cops chasing you. You toss a bag of grass out the window. The cops find it, it’s your grass. It might not be in your possession, but it’s your grass. They might use the same argument here. They might not get a conviction but I can’t take that chance. I need to know what Hoffman plans to do with the shit.”

  Virgil sat back and looked around the room, pulling on the Budweiser. When he glanced back at her, she was watching him quietly with intelligent green eyes, waiting for the next question, which she had probably already anticipated.

  “Who’s the guy in the Mercedes?” he asked.

  “Cherry.”

  “Who’s Cherry?”

  “Cherry is Parson’s good buddy,” Dusty said. “He owns a gym in the city.” She paused for effect. “He’s also the guy who ratted Parson out to the cops. That’s why they raided the boat.”

  “Shit,” Virgil said. “And Parson doesn’t know?”

  “Cherry would be as dead as disco if Parson knew. I just found out myself.”

  “How?”

  “Brownie told me,” she said. “Once I got that fat fucker talking, he couldn’t stop. He was still on the force back then so he knew all about it. Apparently the cops suspected that Cherry was dealing steroids at his gym, to high school athletes looking to get noticed by the college scouts. But when they raided the place, they came up empty. So they hit him at home, and they got a big surprise. Cherry’s computer was loaded with pictures of naked little boys. He was selling more than ’roids. I got a feeling that Cherry could have handled the bad publicity over a steroid bust. Kiddie porn is another thing altogether. Especially for a conceited ladies’ man like Cherry. So he rolled over on Parson to keep things quiet.”

  “And now he found out that Brownie talked,” Virgil said.

  “That was my fault,” Dusty said. “I said something stupid at Parson’s the other day when Cherry was standing there listening. Looks like he figured things out.” She paused for a long moment. “He knows that I know. And he’s panicking, if he killed Brownie.”

  “So why not tell Parson?”

  “I almost did. I came real close. But if Parson didn’t believe me, I was in deeper than ever. Cherry is a fucking nut, and he’s always strapped. Always.”

  “Which is why you borrowed the gun.”

  She half smiled. “Just trying to level the playing field.”

  “Sounds like you’re enjoying this.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not. I go back to jail and I lose my son, I lose the most important thing in the world to me. There’s nothing even remotely enjoyable about that. You understand?”

  Virgil watched her for a moment, how earnest she was in this, then nodded. “So what next?”

  “I told you. You drop me off and go back to your chickens.”

  “I don’t have any chickens.”

  “You know what I mean. Go home. I’m going to try and find Hoffman, and this Russian cowboy and Scoop, or whatever his name was. If I can set something up between them and Parson, maybe they’ll leave me alone. And it would eliminate any police involvement. All I want to be is clear of it.”

  “What about Cherry?”

  “I don’t know about Cherry,” she said after a moment. “If he killed Brownie …” She hesitated again. “I’m hoping he’s smart enough to realize I haven’t told Parson. But I don’t have a lot of faith in Cherry’s intelligence.”

  “All right,” Virgil said. He finished his beer and stood up. “Let’s find Hoffman.”

  “You’re not coming along. Why would you get involved in this?”

  “Sonofabitch stole my boat.”

  “That line worked the first time I met you. Not anymore. This isn’t your business, Virgil Cain.”

  Virgil displayed his cast. “They made it my business. So I’m involved. You might as well get used to it.”

  “Go home, farm boy,” she said. “This isn’t your thing at all. I got no choice but to do this. For fucksakes, go home.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  Dusty got to her feet. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a stubborn bastard?”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  They went outside and got into the truck. As Virgil was backing up, he had a sudden thought and he stopped. “Soup,” he said.

  “What?”

  “It wasn’t Scoop. It was Soup.”

  Dusty looked over. “Tall skinny dude. Missing a front tooth?”

  “Tall and skinny as a rake. He could have been missing a tooth. Things were moving pretty fast.”

  “Soup Campbell,” Dusty said. “From the park. Used to be a basketball star until the pipe got him.” She sat thinking. “What would he be doing with Hoffman?”

  “He knows you then?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember I told you he hid the paper with your number on it?” Virgil asked. “That explains it.”

  “Still doesn’t explain what a guy like Soup would be doing with Hoffman.”

  “He really didn’t look like he was having much fun.” Virgil laughed. “Come to think of it, I haven’t had much fun with Hoffman myself.”

  She looked at him a moment before smiling. “Now who’s the one enjoying himself?”

  Virgil hit the gas. “See if we’re still laughing when it’s over.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  It was nine o’clock by the time they got back to the city. Dusty gave directions and they headed straight for Jefferson Park, driving through the heavy Friday-evening traffic. They left the truck on a side street off Grand and walked the two blocks to the park.

  “Why do you think he’ll be here?” Virgil asked.

  “I don’t,” Dusty said. “But I got no idea where else to look.”


  The park was emptying out of joggers and walkers and people tossing Frisbees. Obviously it was a different place after dark, and one element was departing just as another, different, one appeared. Several people spoke to Dusty, mainly down-and-out types, sitting on benches or just shuffling along on the grass. She asked after Soup, but it seemed as if nobody had seen him for a few days.

  “Let’s take a walk down South Pearl,” Dusty said. “There’s some diners and bars we could check out.”

  As they started to leave, they saw a woman moving along the sidewalk that angled through the park, pushing a peanut cart slowly, as if weary after a long day. The woman was huge, with reddish dreads and a scarred face.

  “Shell,” Dusty called but the woman didn’t hear, or chose not to.

  They caught up to her as she pushed the cart onto the walkway that led out of the west end of the park. This time she turned when Dusty called to her.

  “Dusty,” she said. “You here again?”

  “Hey, Shell,” Dusty said.

  The big woman looked past her to Virgil, suspicious. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “You seen Soup Campbell around?”

  “Why the fuck everybody looking for Soup today?” Shell asked. “He America’s Most Wanted or something?”

  “Who else is looking for him?”

  “Piece of shit not worth talking about.”

  Dusty shot Virgil a look before turning back to Shell. “What’s going on? What’s Soup been up to?”

  “Same thing he always been up to, I expect. But I ain’t seen him in a week or more. That boy’s been in a bad way for some time. And now it look like he’s running with the worst.”

  “Who was looking for him?”

  “Scumbag cop name of Hoffman.”

  “Today? Hoffman was here today?”

  “A few hours ago. And he’s hot to find Soup. Not your regular shit neither, you ask me. Something else going on with that fucking Hoffman. Threatened my ass, said he would get me thrown out the country.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Shell’s hands on the cart handles were clenched, the muscles in her large forearms twitching. “Told him what I had to, to get shed of the man. Told him that Janelle might know.” There were tears forming in her eyes. “I must be getting weak. But I told the motherfucker what he wanted to know. I ain’t proud of it, girl.”

  And she walked away, pushing the heavy cart before her.

  * * *

  For a moment Virgil thought the woman, Janelle, was going to tell him to wait in the hallway. She didn’t seem overjoyed to see Dusty either, but after some deliberation she let them both in. She was thin and attractive, with long straight hair. Maybe thirty-five. There were toys scattered about the small apartment, and finger paintings pinned to the fridge, but there was no child in sight. The woman had been stirring a pot of macaroni when they arrived, and she turned it off to talk to them.

  “I’m starting to get nervous now,” she said when Dusty asked about Soup. They were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. Virgil hung just inside the door.

  “You seen him?” Dusty asked.

  Janelle nodded. “He was here last night. High as a pine. And running scared, though the dope took the edge off that. But I could tell. Never seen him like that before, about to jump out of his skin.”

  “Who’s he scared of?”

  “He didn’t say. You know Soup, he isn’t much for sharing his load. But all he talked about was getting out of the city. That boy never leaves the city. But he was carrying a backpack, like he was fit to travel. Where would he get a backpack?”

  “Was Hoffman here?”

  Janelle took a long moment and she nodded again. This time she didn’t elaborate. Virgil, leaning against the door, could see the contempt in her eyes, just hearing the name.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t tell that prick nothing.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Claiming Soup ripped him off.”

  “Oh shit,” Dusty said. She glanced at Virgil.

  Janelle followed her eyes, staring at Virgil for a long moment before looking back at Dusty. “What’s going on here, Dusty? You haven’t been around here for years and now you’re back asking into this. Where have you been?”

  “On the straight and narrow, Janelle.”

  “Doesn’t look to me like you’re not walking any straight and narrow today. What’s Soup got himself into?”

  “A lot of trouble, if he ripped Hoffman off,” Dusty said. “We’re not talking a couple of grams here, Janelle. This is big-time.”

  “Soup doesn’t do big-time. Never has.”

  “Well, he may have moved up,” Dusty said. “And that’s why he’s scared. Where would he go, Janelle?”

  “I don’t know. And that’s the truth. You know how he is, and it’s a big enough city. If he’s flush, no telling what he might do.”

  “You said he wanted to leave though.”

  “Crack talk. He’s got nowhere to go. Like I say, he’s never been out of the city. The only time—”

  She stopped herself from talking then, pulled back within herself, shooting Virgil that look again.

  “What were you going to say?” Dusty asked.

  Janelle got to her feet and walked across the room to the stove. Even though the burner was off, she removed the lid from the pot and give the macaroni a stir. When she turned back, she fixed her stare on Dusty. “How do I know what you’re up to, Dusty? You haven’t been around here all this time and now you show up with some dude, got a broke arm and a bashed-in face, and I’m supposed to tell you everything I know? Seems like Soup’s a hot commodity these days. Well, I can remember you puffing on that same pipe, and we both know where it took you. So how am I supposed to know you’re not going to do him harm?”

  Dusty sat back in the chair. “I don’t know how to answer that,” she admitted. “But I wouldn’t hurt him, Janelle.”

  “How about this?” Virgil said. Janelle turned to him. “I got this arm and this face from Hoffman and his buddy. Now they’re looking for your brother, and so are we. So I guess you have to pick your poison. Who would you rather have find him?”

  “How about neither?” Janelle asked.

  “I can’t see that working for Soup,” Virgil said.

  Janelle didn’t look at either of them then, just dropped her eyes to the floor as she considered it. “Only place I can guess is Pop’s Camp,” she said. “And that’s nothing but a wild guess. He never said anything to me about any place.”

  “What’s Pop’s Camp?” Dusty asked.

  “Place up in the Adirondacks,” Janelle said. “You remember—old dude named Pop Chamberlain worked at the Y here, lot of years. He had a camp up north, used to take kids from the neighborhood there every summer. It was a basketball camp, but they had swimming and fishing, all that stuff. Soup loved it there. He even worked there a couple summers when he got older, helping out with the younger kids. He kept in touch with Pop all the years. One time Soup was a teenager, maybe fifteen, sixteen, he ran away from home twice. That’s where he went both times.”

  Dusty looked at Virgil.

  “I’m saying it’s a long shot,” Janelle said. “But I don’t know where else he would go, not outside the city.”

  “Where in the Adirondacks?” Dusty asked.

  Janelle thought. “I can’t remember. One of those little lakes up there. I was never there though. It was just for the boys.”

  “Would Pop take him in?” Dusty asked. “Would he take him in if he’s using?”

  “Pop’s been dead for years. For all I know, the place isn’t even there anymore.”

  * * *

  “You ever been up in those mountains?” Dusty asked. “There’s like a thousand lakes up there. How the fuck are we supposed to find a place called Pop’s Camp that might not even exist anymore?”

  They were walking back to Virgil’s truck. It was full dark now
and the street had taken on a different atmosphere. Dusty was glad that Virgil was along. She had never been concerned walking the neighborhood back when she was living there, but things had changed so much in the past few years. The faces were different; the vibe was different. She didn’t feel part of it anymore. Lately, she didn’t feel part of anything.

  “Like the guy lost out in the country who asks the old-timer for directions,” Virgil said as they walked, “and the old-timer says, ‘Drive along this road here and turn left where the old maple tree used to be.’”

  “Is that supposed to be helpful?” she asked.

  “I can do better.”

  “Yeah?” she asked doubtfully.

  They were at the truck now. Virgil smiled at her over the roof as he unlocked the door. When she got in, she was still waiting.

  “I said yeah?” she repeated.

  “I can tell you where Pop’s Camp is.”

  “Where?”

  “Place called Crow’s Landing.”

  “And how would you know that?” she asked. Still skeptical.

  “You recall me mentioning a boat?” Virgil asked.

  “Only about fifty times.”

  “That’s what was written across the back of it. I remember because it took me most of a day to sand it off. So, unless there’s more than one Pop’s Camp in the Adirondacks, I’d say that’s the place.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “It’ll have to wait until morning now. I’ve got chores to do.”

  “Shit,” Dusty said. She sat staring out the windshield as Virgil checked the rearview mirror for traffic. “Soup’s probably not even there.”

  “His sister said that’s where he used to go when he was on the run. Besides, you got any other ideas?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Then we might just as well chase this one down,” Virgil said. “You want me to drop you at home?”

  She hesitated and he knew she was thinking about Cherry.

  “Might be better if you slept at the farm,” Virgil said. “That way we can get an early start. I got room.”

  She still wouldn’t look at him, and he could tell she was a little pissed that he was trying to save her again. But she also seemed a little grateful at the same time. “How do I know this isn’t part of a master plan to get me alone out there?”