A Dead Issue (16 page)

As I passed the registration desk, I stopped to thank Greta. She greeted me like an old friend and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I approached her desk. “I wanted to thank you,” I began.

“Not a problem,” she smiled and we fumbled with an awkward moment of silence.

“Maybe you could help me again,” I started. “My brother Dusty came in here last night. I was wondering how he's doing.”

She checked the clipboard and stared at me for an instant. “Dustin?” I could tell she was weighing the differences in our last names. She continued with a smile that had lost some of its warmth. “Tell you what.” She ran her fingers over the keyboard, “He's in room 319, bed B by the window. You can ask him yourself.”

Dusty was in the hospital?

I smiled a thank you and went through the emergency room door leading to the main building and managed to slip through the elevator doors as they closed. As I navigated my way through the maze of corridors to room 319, a small corner of my mind was busy trying to figure out why Dusty was in the hospital. I didn't like the theory that was forming in my head.

I found room 319 right on the other side of the nurses' station and my steps slowed as I approached. The bed near the door was curtained off, so I had to peek around as I entered the room, catching sight of Dusty's feet poking straight up under the white blanket. My field of vision widened as I rounded the corner of the curtain, and Dusty's face came in to view. My immediate and totally unprofessional diagnosis was that he had been hit by a bus. His face was swollen, bruised, and cut, and someone had given his face several generous coats of antiseptic that turned his skin an ugly orange. A bandage covered most of his left eye, a strap of tape covered his nose, and a bloody wick of cotton plugged his left nostril. Both eyes were shut.

“Jesus Christ, Dusty,” I said in an awed whisper.

His right eye cracked open a slit and he stared at the ceiling for a few seconds. Then, without moving his head, the eye moved in small jerks until he saw me. His left eye pried open.

“Run,” he said in a voice that sounded like he had been strangled. He took a deep breath. “You got to get out of town.” He closed his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“Stomp wants his money back . . . caught me last night and kicked the shit out of me . . . said we killed Stemcell.” He took several more breaths, getting his strength up. His eyes opened. “I told him you did it.”

He was silent for a moment. “I wanted to warn you, but he had to finish his beatdown. He was having too much fun.”

“It's OK, Dusty. You did what you had to do. I was next anyway.”

Dusty scanned the bruises around my eyes. “He caught you, too. You're alive. You paid him. Where'd you get the money? Your old man?”

“Cash did this,” I said pointing at my face. “Part of my severance package.”

A moan came from the other side of the curtain.

“Stomp paid me a visit this morning,” I continued.

“And you paid him?” There was hope in his voice.

“I brained him with a frying pan.”

Another groan came from the curtained bed and twisted into the sustained growl of a junkyard dog.

Dusty raised his head and looked at the curtain. We exchanged a glance and the low snarl stopped. A deep voice rumbled, “I hear dead people.”

Dusty's eye widened and we stared at the curtain in disbelief. His voice quavered, “Oh, shitbird!”

I grabbed a handful of curtain and swept it aside.

Trussed up in a tangle of wires, pulleys, and blue casts, Stomp glared at us, his lizard eye straining to keep focus on us. A wire ran from a counterweight, through a pulley, to the cast on his foot, elevating his left leg. His elbow was also in a cast, and his head was wrapped in a turban of bandages. He was totally helpless and posed no immediate threat.

“You fuckers are dead,” he rumbled, pulling himself off his pillow by grabbing the triangular trapeze hanging from the framework of tubing. Stomp was still a formidable figure even in a hospital gown and deep blue casts on half his appendages. I swallowed and both Dusty and I waited for him to try to roll out of bed. I would have given anything for my frying pan and glanced around the room for something to belt him with. He glared at us for a terrible moment and then his left eye swung away and he lowered himself to his pillow. His eyes fluttered shut.

Dusty and I watched him for a long time. Apparently he had gone to sleep, lost consciousness, or slipped into a coma. Death was too much to hope for.

Dusty whispered, “Ull-pay the ug-play.” When I didn't respond he repeated with more urgency, “Ull-pay the ug-play! . . . Pull the freakin' plug!” he whispered hoarsely.

“Dusty, he doesn't have a plug. He's . . .” I groped for the right words, “in traction.”

“Then smother the fucker!”

We studied him for signs of life. He was breathing, but ignoring us, or maybe he was out. Dusty's head was turned uncomfortably toward his roommate. “You think he can get up?” he asked in a whisper.

“Not with his foot chained up in the air like that.”

“I gotta get out of here,” Dusty continued and allowed his head to roll back so that he stared at the ceiling. “I feel like one of those crickets they throw in with the lizards at Pet World—it's only a matter of time. Holy shitbird.”

“You'll probably be out of here before him.” I tried to sound confident.

Dusty closed his eyes. “They said today. They kept me overnight for observation. They just brought him in a little while ago. If they keep him overnight, I can be in Brazil or someplace.”

There was a long silence. Dusty finally said, “When he gets out of here, you're going to wish he had a plug. He's not going to forget this.”

Dusty was right. Even if they gave him heavy jail time, I could expect a visit from Stomp someday.

“Dusty,” I said, “get some rest. Call me when they discharge you. I'll pick you up. Right now, I've got to go.”

“Don't blame you, bro.”

I touched his shoulder as an expression of compassion and then turned to leave. I stared down at Stomp for an instant and then drew the curtain between the lizard and the cricket.

CHAPTER 29

As I returned to my apartment for perhaps the last time, I thought about Dusty and Brazil. His solution to life's problems was to jump on a plane and start a new day—leave everything behind. I couldn't do that. I felt an unaccountable need to fulfill the bargain I made with my father to crawl back into the family nest—and maybe drag Dusty into the family circle as well. I also wanted a future that did not include McDonald's or looking over my shoulder for Devereaux, Stomp, or Cash Williams. I needed to stick around and work myself out of this mess.

Climbing the stairs to my apartment, I found myself pounding heavily on each step the way Detective Devereaux, Cash, and Stomp had on each of their last visits. The rat was still at the door. A faint odor of death swept across the porch and into my face—and I was stunned by a sudden thought. When Devereaux checked with Cash Williams, the story I told would smell worse than the rat—unless Cash confirmed my story. I had to call him.

I punched in the number for McDonald's and Cash picked up on the second ring—at his desk working on his crossword puzzle.

“Cash—” I began.

“Who is this?”

“Mark,” I said, and I felt the insecurity in my own voice. I was now afraid of him. He was capable of doing unspeakable things, and now I needed him to back up my story.

“Mark who?” The bastard. Toying with me.

“Mark Cameron. Cash, I—”

“Don't know a Mark Cameron. I may know a Mark Moron . . .”

“It's Waldo,” I said.

His voice suddenly energized. “Waldo! Now I remember. There you are—lost in an identity crisis.” There was a little pause. “Say, listen. I think I left four fifties at your place the other night. That what you calling about?” He was jubilant. I was groveling.

“I need your services,” I said with as much business-like tone as I could muster. There was a longer pause. I pictured his lips parting slowly, shark teeth gleaming and his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Go on,” he said.

“Have you seen Devereaux?” I asked, getting right to the point.

“You mean today? No. Last time he talked to me he asked about your time card.”

“Listen. He's probably on his way over . . . if not now, tomorrow. I told him a lie and screwed up. I . . .”

Cash chuckled into my ear. “Master criminal at work.” I could see him shaking his head. “Don't tell me—you handed him a turd and now you want me to polish it.” He chuckled again. “Christ!”

“I just want our stories to match . . .”

“Our stories?” Cash became serious. “Devereaux isn't interest in our story. He's interested in your story. He wants to check it against the facts . . . I'm the facts.”

“Maybe we shouldn't be doing this over the phone,” I suggested.

“You're right about that,” Cash said, “but this time . . . maybe we should make an exception. Devereaux just pulled into the lot.”

Fuck!

“Better be quick. What did you tell him?”

“He asked about my face—the bruises. I said we had a fight. You gave me a loan to fix my car and you delivered my check so you could collect. Then you said I owed you another two hundred . . .”

“Now you makin' me out a loan shark.” He feigned indignation.

“I wouldn't pay and we had a fight . . .”

“Here comes the turd,” he said.

“I kicked you in the balls and you left without your money.”

“Oooh, I guess you did lie,” Cash laughed.

“And you sent this guy Stomp over to collect the next day.”

“Stomp?”

“You know him?”

“Big son-of-a-bitch. Biker from Easton. Wild eye. If looks could kill we'd all be dead.” He paused, “Is Stomp on your ass?”

“I'll explain later,” I said. I wanted to get the story straight before Devereaux cornered Cash.

“Better get yourself a gun,” Cash warned, genuinely concerned. He dropped to a whisper. “Devereaux just came in.”

Shit.

“Do you know what to say?”

Cash's voice came up to a natural, conversational tone. “Oh, yeah. I know what to say. I just don't know whether I'm going to say it.”

“Why not?” I asked, my voice cracking into a plea.

“We haven't agreed on my fee,” he said calmly and let the matter hang while I imagined Detective Devereaux lumbering up to him. “I'm thinking five hundred.”

When I didn't respond, he continued casually, “You know. General turd polishing . . . withholding evidence . . . obstructing justice . . . lying to a fuckin' cop!”

“OK. OK. Five hundred.” That sum would clean out my father's cash advance.

“And, Waldo . . . no fifties.”

CHAPTER 30

I stood in the middle of my bare kitchen, taking a last look. It was simply a matter of closing the door and turning the key, but I stood there reliving the visit by Stomp and the beating by Cash. His words still echoed:
And then, you're too damn easy . . . you'll fall for every con they run at you.

Son-of-a-bitch. He had done it again. I'd bet anything that Devereaux wasn't really at McDonald's. I fed Cash that idea, and he jumped on it, knowing I was near panic—tweaking the scene into some easy money. The bastard scammed me without missing a beat. The only thing keeping me from smiling was my anger for being such an idiot.

I called a cab, made a quick tour of the apartment, and threw some worthless crap into a cardboard box and stared at the kitchen again. Leaving my apartment should have felt like starting a new life, but it felt more like returning to an old life. I decided to live in the guesthouse rather than the mansion my father built—a mansion with the bedroom I had left several years ago that was still preserved like a museum.

An enormous puddle of blood, now a sticky brown, marked the spot where Stomp had landed on his head. I skirted around it to give my car one last chance to start before the cab came. I slid the key into the ignition, but it was dead, no electric buzz, no click, no courtesy lights—nothing. I left the key in the ignition for the driver of the tow truck. For the next day or two, I'd use one of my father's cars and try not to get too comfortable driving a BMW and living at the Cameron estate.

My father inherited a thirty-acre plot of land on Route 212 seven miles outside of Fannett Meadow. That is where he started a small machine shop that grew into Cameron Industries. As his business expanded, he bought
surrounding properties until he had 643 acres—more than
one square mile of land. He restored a crumbling farmhouse on Old Belhaven Road and lived in it while the main house was constructed on the highest point of land in the range of hills.

To the east, the house looked down upon a pastoral scene—the quaint Farmhouse, now anointed with a capital F, and immaculate outbuildings in the valley below. To the west, at the back of the house, was the industrial campus—the money factory that made all of this possible. From his perch on high, my father could survey his whole kingdom.

The cab wound its way up the paved lane, past the Farmhouse, and dropped me off at the Crow's Nest, the main house high on the hill with its four-car garage. My first job was to pick out a car to use while my Saturn was in the shop. It was a hard choice. The white BMW M3 had class. The Navigator was rugged, and the Lexus was sporty. I'd run them each at least once a week to keep them in shape—as part of my new position. I picked the BMW for the short drive down to the Farmhouse where my second job was to park next to Devereaux's car sitting in the driveway.

I put it in park and nodded a greeting to Devereaux. He dipped his head once and struggled out of his car, looking like a giant bird emerging from a metallic egg.