by Matthew Iden
“Pay the man and you won’t have to regret this,” I said. I was panting and not nearly as strong as I once was but I wouldn’t be the one going to the hospital today if I could keep the odds down to one-on-one. “I’m serious. Slap a couple of fives on the counter and I’ll even help drag your buddy outside.”
The kid called me a bad word instead and moved in with the knife, using tight slashes and quick stabs to keep me from grabbing his arm. He was smarter or more experienced than I gave him credit for. Amateurs go for the big swing and find themselves with their wrist touching their shirt collar from the back or an elbow suddenly folding the wrong way. So, healthy, he might’ve been a problem. Not to mention, he was half my age and I wasn’t in what you might call the best shape of my life. But holding one hand to his chest put him off balance and that’s all I needed.
His tight swing became an exaggerated slash. I sidestepped, he missed, then his eyes bugged out for a second time as I doubled up my fore and middle fingers and jammed them into his throat, right at the divot where the collarbones dip to make the sternum. That divot made a handy guide for my fingers as they punched inward, hitting his larynx with a metric ton of force concentrated in an area the size of a quarter. The kid dropped the knife and clutched his throat with both hands, the universal response when one fears one is choking to death.
While he doubled over and made gagging noises, I picked up the knife and slid it into the gap between two drink coolers. Two twists and the blade snapped off. I tossed the handle behind the coolers, then walked over to the kid. I rolled him, unresisting, onto his belly and swatted him on the back a few times.
“You’ll be fine,” I said. “The choking is only temporary. There’s going to be some bruising and you’ll be drinking dinner for a while. In fact, a slushie would probably be just the thing. Hang in there.”
I frisked him, finding the keys to the Bronco and an impressive wad of bills for a rather unskilled thug causing trouble in the middle of nowhere. I peeled three fives off the roll, tossed the rest on the ground, and handed the fives to the old man behind the counter, who took it without blinking.
“You always have this much trouble around here?” I asked. I was a little dizzy and my hands shook, so I took a deep, steady breath and shoved my hands in my pockets. It wouldn’t be very heroic to pass out in front of the old codger. “I didn’t expect to rumble the second I pulled into Cain’s Crossing.”
The old man chewed on something before shrugging. “Brower boys making a mess of things lately. Paying kids like these two to rough people up. But jerks with too much money are still jerks.”
“Browers a local gang or something?”
“Yep.”
“They need better recruiting.” I pointed my chin towards the two bodies on the ground. “This bother you? Me stepping in like that?”
“Nope.”
“You got security tapes running?” I asked.
“Yep.”
“They erasable?”
“They are now,” he said.
I glanced towards the two tough guys. The fat kid was unconscious, bleeding onto the linoleum floor. “You might want to call an ambulance. I don’t think I did any permanent damage, but at least it would get them out of your hair.”
The old eyes slid over to the skinny kid, who was still bucking and wheezing. “I’ll try, mister. I don’t move as fast as I used to.”
Chapter Three
I stopped in front of a white-sided Queen Anne–style home on the corner of Beal and Market. It was a sprawling pile, with wraparound porch, octagonal tower, and meticulously carved gingerbread under the eaves. The knobs, pilasters, dentils, and other features that I’m sure an architect would have a word for were painted a slate blue with salmon trim, giving the whole thing a slightly silly, fairy-tale cast. A massive oak tree, planted before Sherman marched on Atlanta, shaded most of the front lawn and a portion of the house. Coupled with a slight breeze that rustled leaves and swayed flags, it almost made the August heat bearable. Mums, dahlias, and marigolds, kept in neat beds at the foot of the wraparound porch, were holding up bravely against the temperature; I wondered how they did it. Sunlight pierced the oak’s broad leaves, dappling the herringbone brick walk leading to the house. A glass wind chime tinkled half a block away.
To one side of the house was a carriage-style garage with two stalls. Both doors were raised. The gleaming chrome grill of a mint ’71 Coupe de Ville grinned at me from one of the stalls. A man in denim coveralls and a dirty t-shirt swept out the other. As I watched, he leaned the broom against the wall and disappeared into the dim recesses of the garage. He reappeared carrying something in both arms. I blinked when I saw the “something” was the better part of an engine block. He crab-walked the two or three hundred pounds clear of the garage and placed it on the driveway pavement carefully and without apparent effort. As I followed the path to the front door, I had the impression the man sensed I was there, but he turned and disappeared between the house and the garage without once looking at me, leaving the engine block looking abandoned and lonely in the driveway.
The door opened as I scuffed up the steps of the porch. Peering around the door, as if using it as a shield, was a lady in her mid to late thirties. From what I could see, she had honey-blonde hair to her shoulders and brown eyes. Artfully applied makeup made the most of a face that was round and a little heavy.
When she didn’t say anything, I figured the opening gambit was up to me.
“Ma’am.” If I’d had a hat, I might’ve tipped it. “I’m Marty Singer. I called earlier.”
She continued to say nothing. I waited. The sour look on her face seemed to belie the much-vaunted tales of Southern hospitality. I took a step back and craned my neck to check on the house number.
“You’ve got the right place,” she said. “I just don’t know if I’m interested in letting you in.”
“Mary Beth, I presume?”
“Yes.”
I tilted my head. “If you didn’t want me to come, why’d you give me your address?”
“I don’t know. It seems like a mistake, now.”
I held her eyes for a moment. “Look, Mary Beth, I understand why you might hate my guts, but that billboard out on 29 must be costing you a bundle. And since you bothered to give me your address, I’m guessing no one else has knocked down your door. Seems like it might be a good idea to at least talk to me about J.D. for ten minutes. If you don’t want my help after that, I’ll go away.”
The sour look didn’t go anywhere, but she backed away, opening the door wide enough to let me in, and no more. I entered into a foyer, cool and smelling of polishes and oils, aging wood and stone, the scent of age that hovers somewhere between comforting and decrepit. I let my eyes follow the walls up to the ceiling and back down. Dark hardwoods dominated, giving it a ponderous, Old World feel. A mahogany sideboard, ornate silver mirror, and umbrella stand fit the setting like a glove. The ceiling faded into darkness above me. It was like a museum.
I turned my attention to Mary Beth. Now that she was out from behind the door, I could see she was about five-seven, with a figure that was more lithe than her face would’ve suggested. She wore a snuggish dress with a large floral pattern on it that stopped just above her knees. The neckline was conservative, though a strand of pearls added a dash of style. She looked ready for cocktails or afternoon theater.
She said nothing about my inspection, only saying, “Mother is waiting in the sunroom.”
She closed the door and led the way, her dress making a whisking sound as she walked. I followed, admiring both the hips that made the whisking sound as well as the finely appointed parlor we passed through.
The sunroom was a greenhouse of floor-to-ceiling glass panes. Small windows of stained glass decorated the middle break where the walls stopped and an angled ceiling began. The place was filled with flowers: hydrangeas, orchids, and a dozen others I couldn’t name. The air sat humid from the heat trapped by the windows and the scent
of rosewater perfume. A prickling sensation along my hairline and upper lip warned me I was going to be sticky and uncomfortable in this part of the house. I fought an urge to sprint back to the gloomy, cool corners of the foyer. Or even the summer heat of the front lawn, where at least there was a breeze.
Sitting at a glass-and-wrought-iron bistro table, staring out one of the windows, was an old woman in a full-length lavender dress. Her hair, the color of tarnished silver, was wound on her head in a complicated fashion. Both hands, bumped and gnarled with veins, rested in her lap. She pinned me with a disdainful expression as we came into the room.
“Mother, this is Mr. Singer,” Mary Beth said.
“So I guessed,” the old woman said. Her voice was stronger than I’d expected.
“Mr. Singer, this is my mother, Dorothea Hope.”
“My pleasure,” I said, though I wondered.
Mary Beth took up a position behind and to the left of her mother, leaving me feeling distinctly outnumbered. “Mr. Singer saw the billboard.”
Dorothea sighed extravagantly, like something you’d see on an old soap opera. “That damned thing. Why are you even paying for it, Mary Beth? If this is who it brings in, of all people.”
“We’re not getting anywhere with the police, Mother, and I can’t stay here forever. We need to make some kind of headway before I leave. We need an answer.”
“Perhaps if you’d chosen to live in Cain’s Crossing, we could get one.”
Mary Beth colored. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“Well, we’re not going to get any satisfaction from this man.”
I cleared my throat. This man would like to say something.
Dorothea arched her eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I wanted to say that I’m sorry to hear about J.D.”
“Really? I would’ve thought you would’ve been overjoyed at the news.”
“I never wanted anyone I arrested to die a violent death, Mrs. Hope,” I said, stretching things a bit. “J.D. served his time and had every right to a normal, fulfilling life. If he stayed clean, of course.”
“And if he hadn’t, he deserved what he got?” Mary Beth asked, color high on her cheeks.
“Deserved is a strong word,” I said. “Expected would be more in the ballpark.”
“So you expected him to be killed, is that it?”
I took a deep breath. “Look, maybe J.D. was president of the Kiwanis Club and got the key to the city. Or maybe he picked up where he left off in DC and got right back into trouble in his hometown. I don’t know and I don’t care. I saw the billboard and called the number.”
“Why are you here, Mr. Singer?” Dorothea asked.
“I just told you.”
“No, you said what you did, not why. Why would the man who put my son in jail for the twenty best years of his life want to lift a finger to help solve his murder?”
“One action doesn’t preclude the other.”
“Theoretically, perhaps not,” she said. “But theory, in my experience, has very little to do with life. I ask you again. Why do you want to help find J.D.’s murderer?”
Her eyes, tucked deep in folds of skin, glittered shrewdly. I felt very close to telling the truth then, but something inside of me wrenched the possibility away, and I settled for a half-truth, instead. “When I arrested him, J.D. was mixed up in all the wrong things. But he was unlucky and, I think, honestly trying to reform himself.”
“You don’t think he was guilty?”
“He was,” I said. “But the way in which he arrived there was unfortunate.”
“I’m sure most convicts feel that way.”
“They do,” I agreed. “But after he got put away, J.D. seemed to recognize that he had a choice. Had always had it. He realized he’d screwed up badly enough to get put in jail, but that it didn’t mean he had to keep screwing up. The realization came a little late, maybe, but he seemed to understand he could be something better, right then.”
“The crook with a heart of gold,” she sneered, “and the noble reformer. Did he look up to you, then, Mr. Singer?”
“I’m sure he hated my guts,” I said. “But I think he probably deserved better from the system. And life.”
That gave her pause, but only for a split second. “So, you’re here to make amends?”
The wrenching feeling returned, twice as strong. I fought to keep my face impassive. “I saw your sign, I made a snap decision, I called. Maybe I’m terminally curious. Maybe I just want to see justice served. I don’t know that you want my help or even if I can help. Hell, at this point, I don’t even know if I want to help. But, if it makes a difference, I’m here.”
She sat back in her chair, still staring at me with a frosty gaze. We were quiet for a moment. Water dripped somewhere nearby, a plant recently watered or condensation gathering into drops and falling. I heard the sound of a door opening deep within the house and a moment later the man I’d seen working in the garage appeared from behind a plant. He was mixed race, with latte-colored skin and short, wiry black hair. A lack of wrinkles and hair kept me from pinning his age. Thirty? Sixty? The features of his face were at odds with the rest of him—a fine, almost feminine pointed nose and small eyes, but massive shoulders and arms corded with muscle. His hands were scarred and chalky from work. The smell of motor oil and sweat rolled off him.
The man didn’t look at me, staring instead at Dorothea. The matron smiled slightly and said, “Are you all done with the garage, Ferris?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. His voice was mellow, but not deep.
“Would you mind terribly if I asked you to trim that crab apple tree in the back? I’m afraid it’s going to fall on the potter’s table one of these days.”
“No, ma’am,” Ferris said. His eyes flicked to me, then he turned and left the way he’d come.
“A man of few words,” I said after he’d gone. “And large muscles.”
“Ferris has been helping Mother for years,” Mary Beth said sharply. “She pays him a very good wage for keeping the house.”
“I’m sure,” I said, though I wasn’t.
“My daughter is afraid you’ll think we’re some kind of Confederate holdout, pining for the days of Dixie.” Dorothea sniffed. “Ferris isn’t a slave, Mary Beth.”
“I don’t want Mr. Singer to get the wrong idea,” Mary Beth said.
“I don’t give a damn what Mr. Singer thinks and neither should you.”
“Look,” I said. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. I understand, you hate my guts for putting J.D. in jail. But your son was murdered, Mrs. Hope. And I’d like to help you find his killer. I’m good at that kind of thing. It’s what I used to do for a living, after all.”
“What if we don’t want your help?”
“I’ll do it myself. I owe him, or his memory at least, something.”
“Goodness. You really do want to make amends, don’t you?”
“I don’t give a shit what you call it,” I said, my patience finally starting to unravel. “Are you going to tell me what happened or not?”
Dorothea’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
I blinked. “No?”
“Mother,” Mary Beth said, protesting.
The old woman plowed on, ignoring her daughter. “I’m not in the business of handing out forgiveness to those who have harmed me or my family, Mr. Singer. If you want redemption, you’ll have to find it yourself.”
“You’re passing on the only help you’re likely to get?”
“If yours is the only aid that comes to us, we don’t want it.”
Mary Beth looked like she wanted to interrupt, as though she might’ve accepted my help after a certain amount of bloodletting and browbeating, but in the end she stayed silent, and I soon found myself back out on the herringbone walk with the slight breeze and the tinkling wind chime, bemused, and certainly none the wiser about J.D. Hope’s death.
Chapter Four
I’d planned on anger. Insults. Snide commen
ts. I hadn’t planned on being refused.
It left me with a decision to make. I could hit the road and be back to my slice of suburban heaven by suppertime. Or I could stick around and satisfy my curiosity. It might not even take much. Poke my nose in a few places, make a couple of calls. Maybe even gather the tattered rags of my charm to assail Mary Beth and Dorothea’s mountain of frigid disapproval again. The idea made me almost giddy with pleasure.
I pretended to weigh the two options but, in the end, there wasn’t much to decide. I’d lied to Mary Beth about turning around and leaving. There were things I hadn’t told the two women that meant I had to look into J.D.’s murder. Their approval or help or even just a little bit of information would’ve been a nice-to-have, but my sticking around didn’t have anything to do with what they wanted. Or, hell, what I wanted.
I drove back towards the spire-like white church steeple, figuring it marked the historical area of Cain’s Crossing, hunting for a place to stay. I could’ve headed back out of town, trying to find a cheap, cookie-cutter hotel, but the stiff courtesies and plastic culture of chain hotels squatting just off highway exits made me feel like my life was being sucked away. Expense was a minor issue. I’d stayed with friends on my pleasure trip and, combined with my pension and natural penny-pinching ways, I could afford to spring for modestly-priced digs for a short time. I didn’t need the Ritz. A bed-and-breakfast or a fading, family-run hotel with a little bit of character would work, too.
The Mosby’s Arms was close enough. It was a three-story brick square with a Georgian front sitting proudly at the corner of Main and Market. It was a building with history and personality, an edifice with a chipped, dignified exterior. The windows badly needed painting and the shrubs and flower beds out front were overgrown in some places, brown and dead in others, but the front stoop was marble and the windows were triple-sashed and stately. Regal yet humbled by age. It was a look I could identify with, though I tried not to take the analogy too far, since in most towns and cities in America the Mosby would’ve been demolished by now to make room for a sparkly new bank, drugstore, or car wash.
