by Nick Pirog
“Hiya, Gracie,” Jerry called out.
“Hi, Mr. Humphries,” she said with a big smile. She was probably twelve.
“You got any brats today?”
“Sure do. Just finished casing them a couple days ago.”
My eyebrows furrowed, and I whispered to Jerry. “They make their own?”
“Of course.”
I could smell the brats on the grill, and my stomach rumbled. I was the hungriest I’d been since being a hostage on a cruise ship.
“Are these pork brats?” I asked Jerry.
“Yeah.”
“And pork is pig?”
“Yes, Thomas, pork is pig.”
I’d eaten bacon on my BLT just the day before and thought nothing of it, so I wasn’t sure why I was hesitating now.
“Do you have any burgers?” I asked.
The little girl shook her head. “Just brats today.”
Jerry turned to me and whispered, “Don’t tell me you don’t eat pork or something. You don’t look Jewish.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.” He turned back to Gracie and said, “We’ll take two brats.”
She pulled two off the grill with tongs and slipped them into two hot dog buns. She handed one to me and said, “Ketchup and mustard are over there, and help yourself to a soda.”
Jerry handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.
We fixed up our brats and grabbed sodas. Barq's Root Beer for me and Pepsi for Jerry. I’d eaten many hot dogs, brats, and polish sausages in my day, but none had ever looked or smelled as divine as the one in my hand this second.
We made our way to the next tee box, and I said, “I gotta take a whiz.”
Jerry swallowed down a big bite of brat and motioned toward some trees. “Just go over there.”
I walked over to the trees and unzipped my pants. I didn’t have to pee. I pulled the brat off the bun and tossed it into the brush. I couldn’t eat it. All I could think about was Harold and May.
Little jerks.
I ate the bun, which still tasted pretty good from the brat juice, but it was a tease. I stuffed the last of the bun in my mouth as I returned and said, “Man, that brat was good.”
“Told you.”
We finished the last four holes. Jerry pared three and bogeyed one, shooting even par for the day. I got double digits on all four holes for a grand total of seven jillion.
I didn’t have any cash on me, but I promised to give Jerry forty-five bucks the next time I saw him.
“We’ll just run it back next time we play,” he said, then drove off. He was in a rush to get back to work.
I was in a rush too. I drove as fast as I could to Dina’s and sat down to a big fat burger.
When I returned to the farm, there was a package leaning against the front door. It was one of those orange-gold padded mailers. In lieu of my name, it simply read “Humphries Farm” in block lettering. The return address was Phoenix.
I tore the package open and pulled out the contents. It was a small notebook. A Moleskine. My sister had bought me a similar notebook when I started taking on cases with the FBI.
I thought back to what Mike Zernan said.
Give me three days.
Chapter Fourteen
There was a stain on the front cover of the Moleskine, which had saturated the bottom half of the notebook. I lifted the notebook up and sniffed. It smelled faintly of coffee. Mike must have spilled an entire cup. Maybe even an entire pot.
The notebook couldn’t have weighed more than ten ounces, but it felt heavy in my hand. Weighted by what was scribbled in the pages, which I was quite confident were all the notes Mike took over the course of his investigation into the Save-More murders.
My heart rate tripled as I flipped it open to the first page.
The page was filled with entries. Neat, block lettering. The first page was dated March 3rd, 2012. The top entry read:
Josh / Pacers / -3 ½ / $50.
There was a small “L” scribbled next to it that had been highlighted in blue.
If I were looking in a mirror, I would have seen my jaw hanging to the side, looking detached.
The notebook didn’t belong to Mike Zernan.
It belonged to a bookie.
I skimmed through the thousands of entries: names, dates, teams, odds, wagers, wins, and losses. Most of the losses were highlighted in blue, which I guessed meant the debt had been paid.
What was Mike telling me? Why had he sent me a bookie’s notebook? Was one of the victims a bookie? Who did the notebook belong to? Did Mike think someone other than the manager of the Save-More was the target? Was Mike even the one who had sent the package?
I was brimming with questions. If Mike had sent the package, had gone through all the trouble to send me the notebook, why not add a little sticky note? Why not give me some direction?
Then again, Mike was paranoid about doing anything that might trip someone’s alarm. Paranoid about doing anything that might get him killed. But Mike had done something that got him killed.
Was the notebook in my hand the reason he was dead?
If so, then there must be some evidence inside.
I picked up my phone and dialed Randall’s number.
He picked up on the third ring. “Hey, boss.”
“Hey, buddy.”
“I got us a great deal on a used tractor, $13,500. And he said he’d give us $500 for the old one. Whaddaya think?”
“Let’s do it.”
He updated me on a few more farm purchases, then I said, “Actually, I’m calling about something else.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s a game tonight, and I was hoping to get some action.”
He laughed. “I knew I liked you.”
“Is there anybody around here who runs a book?”
“There is.”
“Can you put me in touch with them?”
“Could take me a couple minutes. I’ll text you.”
“Sounds good.”
“Another weird question, just something I heard. Did one of the guys killed in those murders a few years ago, did one of them run a book?”
“Actually, yeah.”
“Which one?”
“Will,” he said. “Will Dennel.”
I thanked him and hung up.
A couple minutes later, I received a text with a name and a phone number, though to be honest, I wasn’t interested in who the current bookie was. At least not yet. I was interested in the former bookie, Will Dennel, who I was nearly positive had been the owner of the Moleskine notebook in my possession.
I flipped to the back of the book. There was a list of names, then amounts. Most had a line through them, which I guessed meant that the debt had been paid. However, there were five people with names and amounts that had not been crossed off.
Josh owed $440.
Ben owed $33.
Nelson owed $125.
Uncle Robbie owed $246.
And one more.
Fuzz.
Fuzz owed $83,000.
In all my years, I’d only heard Fuzz referring to one type of person.
A cop.
Which meant that someone from the Tarrin Police Department was into Will Dennel deep.
Maybe even deep enough to have him killed.
“This is our latest and greatest,” the young man at the cellular kiosk inside the Mexico Walmart said. “Samsung Galaxy S7 Edge.”
He spent the next couple minutes telling me about all the cool stuff it could do.
“I don’t think I need anything quite that fancy.”
Although the virtual reality headset sounded pretty cool.
Hello, Kate.
“All I need is to be able to get on the internet.” I almost added, “And I don’t want the pesky cops three towns over to know what I’m searching.”
He pointed to an aisle with a bunch of different phones and purchase cards—TracFone, NET10 Wireless, Virgin Mobile—and sa
id, “Pretty much any of these phones are good for that.”
He helped me pick out a phone—a low-end Samsung smartphone—then set it up.
I picked up a bunch of necessities while I was there, plus some fruits and veggies for blending. I also purchased some dumbbells. Then I spent the next twenty minutes at a copy center in the same complex.
Back in the car, the first search I did on my phone was for Thai food.
The second was for Will Dennel.
I could see why Jerry and friends periodically drove the twenty-five minutes to Mexico. The Thai was some of the best I’d ever had, albeit a bit spicier than I expected. My eyes watered after each bite, but I couldn’t stop shoveling the noodles and chicken into my mouth.
There were over twenty thousand hits for Will Dennel—which wasn’t surprising as it was a common name—and I searched “Will Dennel Save-More.”
I clicked my way through a dozen results before discovering what I was looking for.
Will Dennel had a sister.
Bree.
There were several Bree Dennels on Facebook, but only one who lived in Missouri. Her profile picture was of a purple-haired girl holding a large cat. Her job was listed as graphic designer, and there was a link to a website. I clicked around her site, scrolling through her portfolio. Her stuff was above average, but not groundbreaking. Still, she appeared to be successful.
Her email and phone number were listed under the Contacts tab, and I punched her number into my phone.
She answered on the second ring.
I didn’t beat around the bush. “I need to talk to you,” I said, “about your brother.”
She said she would come to me. She said she had to pick up some things in town anyhow. We agreed to meet at a small coffee shop in the same complex as the Thai restaurant.
While I waited for her to show up, I searched the internet for surveillance footage from the Save-More murders. There was none. Nor was I able to find any crime scene photos or the 911 call that Victoria had allegedly made. There were a few more articles about the murders, but I didn’t learn anything that I didn’t already know.
The web search for the Save-More murders a bust, I turned my investigation to Officer Matt Miller and his fledgling UFC career. There were several pictures of Miller with his shirt off and the guy was shredded. Not an ounce of fat on him. I watched three of his fights on my phone, cringing when he knocked out a guy with the same spinning back kick that he’d used on me.
Twenty-five minutes later, a young woman walked through the door of the coffee shop. She was clad in yoga pants, a small tank top, and now blue hair cut to her shoulders. I put her in her early twenties. She dropped a laptop bag on the chair opposite me and asked, “You want anything?”
You would never suspect she was meeting with a stranger to talk about her dead brother.
“I’m good,” I told her.
She shrugged with one shoulder, then returned a few minutes later with a tall brown drink with extra whip cream. She took a big swipe of the whip cream with her tongue, then raised her eyebrows twice.
I think she was one of those rare breeds who felt so comfortable in their own skin that you couldn’t help but admire them.
“So my brother, huh?” she said, plopping down in her seat.
I nodded.
“Out with it,” she said. “I mean, you’re handsome and all, but there’s a guy at the Walmart who I’m dying to go hang out with.”
“Is it Carl in electronics? Because I just hung out with him and let me tell you, he’s something else.”
“No, it’s Billy. He’s a checker. Works on Tuesdays.”
“You’re serious?”
She took a long sip of her drink. “Fuck yeah. I’ve been stalking him for like eight months now. I think he and his girlfriend are on the outs.” She glided her hand away from her body and added, “Time for Bree to slide in.”
I smiled. She reminded me of Lacy.
“How long was your brother a bookie for?”
“I think he started in high school. Just taking bets from his friends and stuff. Then he went to community college, here in Mexico, actually, and he started getting into it more seriously. He quit after a couple years—school, not bookmaking—then he moved back home and got a job at the lumberyard.”
“Did your parents know he was a bookie?”
“My dad was one of his best clients.” She laughed to herself, then said, “If my dad lost, he would pay up, but if he won, he wouldn’t make Will pay, he’d make him come mow the lawn or do something else.”
“To work it off?”
“Yeah.”
“He ever have any trouble with other people not paying?”
“I think most people paid. But if they didn’t, Will wasn’t the type to go breaking kneecaps. He just wouldn’t let them bet with him anymore.”
I thought about the nickname Fuzz. “What about the police? Did they know he was the town bookie?”
“Yeah, everyone knew.”
“They ever do anything about it?”
“Shit, no. Do you know how easy it is for someone to bet online these days? If you’re gonna bet, you’re gonna bet.”
“So he was never arrested?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You know if any of the cops bet with him?”
“Not sure. He didn’t talk to me much about it.”
“Were you guys close?”
She puffed out her cheeks.
“It’s okay,” I said.
She wiped away a tear and said, “He was just such a nice guy. He didn’t deserve to get murdered.”
I reached out and grabbed her hand. It wasn’t premeditated, it was just what I would have done if Lacy was sitting across from me.
Pulling back my hand, I asked, “Do you think it’s possible that your brother was the target of the murders?”
“No. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time when that wacko Lowry came in.”
“Did you know Lowry?”
“I knew of him, but I didn’t know him.”
“How old was Will?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Did he know Lowry?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So he didn’t bet with Will?”
“I think that would have come up.”
“Come up?”
“With the cops. You know, during the investigation.”
“Right. How many times did they interview you?”
“A few times.”
“The Tarrin Police Department or someone else?”
“I only talked to the locals.”
“You remember the name of the guy?”
“Uh, yeah.”
I already knew.
Matt Miller.
“He’s so hot,” she said, waving a hand at her face.
“He’s like five feet tall.”
“I like the dimple in his chin.”
“It’s called an ass chin.”
“Yeah, I like his ass chin.”
I rolled my eyes, then asked, “You talk to anybody else?”
“Yeah, there was another guy. But it was like six months later.”
“Mike Zernan?”
“Maybe.”
I described him.
“Yeah, that was him.” She sat up in her chair. “Wait, isn’t he the guy who was just murdered?”
I nodded.
“Wait, do you think his death is connected to Will’s?’
“I’m not sure.”
She took a drink, and I said, “Can you like not tell Billy the checker about this?”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
I told her.
When I was finished, she said, “I want, no, I need to play with your piglets, like ASAP.”
“I might be able to make that happen.”
She finished her drink, and I told her to follow me to my car.
“We gonna have a quickie?” she asked, giving my butt a little slap.
<
br /> “What would Billy think?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.”
I opened the passenger door and reached into the glove compartment.
“I think you should have this.” I handed her the Moleskine.
I’d spent twenty minutes copying every page of it at the OfficeMax. I didn’t need it anymore.
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around me. She sniffed a couple times and said, “Thank you.”
Graham, no last name, was big and red. He had a cut-off T-shirt revealing muscled biceps, one of which had a barbed wire tattoo encircling it, which he must have had done when such things were still chic. A thick red beard, easily six inches long, engulfed his face and neck.
He was sitting at one of the outdoor tables at the Sonic Drive-In. He wiped his arm across his mouth as I approached.
“Heyya,” I said.
Without saying a word, he pulled an envelope from his camo cargo shorts and handed it to me.
I flicked it open with my thumb.
Inside were five twenty-dollar bills.
“Nice bet,” he said.
The previous day, I’d bet a hundred dollars on Game 3 of the NBA Finals. I’d bet on the Cleveland Cavaliers to cover the spread, which they’d more than done, winning by thirty points.
“Thanks,” I muttered. “LeBron played pretty well.” I hadn’t seen the game, but I’d checked on my new phone earlier and he’d scored thirty-two points.
“Yep,” Graham replied, then asked, “You want any action on the next game?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said, waving the envelope at him. “I might just enjoy my spoils.”
He shrugged and tossed back a few fries.
It appeared we were done.
I turned to walk away, then swiveled back.
“Hey,” I said, “I got a question for you.”
He was unwrapping a burger and gave me a slight nod.
“Any cops ever bet with you?”
His beard cocked slightly. “Cops?”
“Yeah, you know, any Fuzz.”
He chuckled lightly, then unfolded himself off the bench. He was far more imposing standing up than he’d been sitting down.
A red hulking Hillbilly.
