A Dead Issue (17 page)

“Settled in?” he asked and stuffed his fists into his pockets, ending my indecision about whether or not to extend a hand of greeting.

“Just got here.”

“I dropped in to see if you were all right.” He paused, and the look he gave me told me that this wasn't a friendly visit to see if I needed help carrying boxes. “I've just come from the hospital. Saw your buddy, Dusty. Looks like he fell down an elevator shaft.”

My mind swirled with thoughts. He had visited Dusty in the hospital with Stomp in the next bed. He couldn't miss him—he knew his last name. Then it hit me. It was the other way around. He went in to question Stomp and was surprised to see Dusty. They talked—Stomp lying about everything to keep out of trouble. Dusty lying because he's Dusty. Devereaux was here to check the facts.

I froze for a moment and then decided to push all the bullshit aside. “I can't believe they put them both in the same room.” I shook my head, looking at the ground. I felt his eyes boring into me. I had torpedoed any plans he may have had to toy with me and trip me into appearing evasive—looking guilty and giving him reason to pry further.

He waited until we made eye contact before saying, “So, Stomp paid him a visit, too?” He studied me closely.

“Caught him without a frying pan.”

“Was it about the money?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation and knew instantly that I had stepped into a briar patch of thorny issues.

“This money,” Devereaux continued. “I just don't get it. Why would Stomp bust up Dusty for money you owe?”

He shook his head and made a face to advertise his confusion. My scalp tingled and my knees grew weak. He had torpedoed me this time, and my story exploded with huge cracks and was about to fall apart all around me. I needed another lie.

“Dusty was supposed to pay Cash,” I began. “I gave Dusty the money to give him, and he must have forgotten. That's what I told Cash last night, but he didn't believe me.”

“He believed you enough to send Stomp after your brother.”

“Maybe he was just being thorough.”

Devereaux gave me a look. Then we were silent for a moment.

“Stomp and Cash,” Devereaux said almost to himself. “That's quite a pair. They're both hardcore, but I don't see them hanging out, doing business. I wonder what the connection is.” He shook his head. “Cash denies knowing him . . .” His voice trailed off, leaving my head spinning. So Devereaux had been at McDonald's. He brushed his nose with his fingertips and continued, “But then again, he'd have to be a real asshole to admit to that.”

Another bomb. Cash never backed up my story about the money.

Devereaux chewed on his lower lip and finally shook his head, apparently dismissing the matter for the moment.

“But that's not why I came over here. What I wanted to tell you—Stomp slipped out of the hospital before I could talk to him. If I had to guess, I think he'll be coming to see you, and I don't think it'll be about money this time. You want to be very careful.”

I swallowed at the prospect of that visit, but I needed to know if Dusty had said anything.

“Is Dusty OK?” I pictured Stomp dumping him out the third floor window before leaving.

“Yeah. I tried to talk to him, but he was out of it—still medicated. Kept mumbling something about a shitbird.”

CHAPTER 31

My plan to live in the Farmhouse changed now that I knew Stomp was on the loose. The Farmhouse became my decoy—a few beer cans on the picnic table, a kitchen towel draped over the deck rail, garbage waiting to be taken to the road, a radio playing somewhere deep in the house. A few lights on timers set at different intervals luring him inside. And when Stomp came to visit, alarms would sound, sirens would wail, and I could look down from the Crow's Nest and watch Stomp being led away in handcuffs.

For the first two hours at the Crow's Nest I did nothing but look down upon the Farmhouse through a pair of binoculars. Days could pass before Stomp found my new home. I was about to take a break when a car drove up Cameron Lane and turned into the driveway of the Farmhouse—a GTO. Cash had found me first.

I jumped into the BMW and drove down to catch him before he discovered I wasn't there and drove up the hill to the Crow's Nest. I pulled up next to his car and slipped out, giving the door a gentle push to close it. A cat slipped around the corner and disappeared into the weeds. It was Moe, a second-generation mouser, the only surviving member of a family of cats who had taken up residence at the Farmhouse when the property was in ruins. I was pleasantly surprised to see that he was still around. Silently, Moe's nose poked through weeds and he watched me curiously. I was still smiling when I heard it.

“Waldo!”

Cash
stood on the back deck, which extended from the back of the house and was covered with a large roof. Shrubbery and trees provided privacy and cooling shade on the hottest days. He stepped off the deck and waited as I approached. My stomach lurched at the sight of him and my balls pulled in tight protectively as if they sensed that another assault was imminent.

“There you are—lost in the woods. What the fuck you doing out here in the country?”

I recovered myself. I knew what he was there for and didn't feel like small talk, but I couldn't help letting him know that I was now beyond McDonald's. “My new job,” I smiled. “Estate manager.” The title left my mouth effortlessly as if I had seen the want ad and applied.

“Speaking of new jobs, I came to collect.” The wide smile faded to a serious deadpan and his eyes slit with malice.

“Collect for what? You didn't do anything. You didn't tell Devereaux about Stomp. You didn't tell him . . .”

“What's my job?” he interrupted.

I stopped and looked at him.

“I said
what's my job!”

I was silent for a moment and decided that he had done something worth hearing. “Keeping my ass out of jail.”

“Keeping your sorry ass out of jail.” He put on his killer face. “Say it,” he demanded.

“Keeping my sorry ass out of jail.”

“That's what I get paid for, and today you just got yourself a bargain.”

As if by silent agreement, we both stepped into the shade of the deck and sat down at one of the patio tables.

“Got any beer?”

I really didn't know, but I unlocked the door, which entered into a modern kitchen looking like it was ready for a Ladies' Society House Tour. Surprisingly, there was plenty of beer and not much else. When I came out of the house, Cash craned his neck, looking around at what must have been to him an undreamed of paradise. I placed a six-pack of beer on the table and sat down with him—everything back to normal except that now he was working for me, and I didn't like it. His wages were getting higher and it was impossible to fire him.

Cash snapped open a beer and took a long swallow. “You got my money?”

I shook my head and reached for a beer. “You took my money. How am I going to come up with five hundred dollars?”

“Seven hundred,” he corrected. “You're forgetting the tuition for the lesson the other night.”

“I didn't forget. You'll get paid for that,” I assured him. There was an edge to my voice that carried with it a promise of revenge. For an instant, it seemed to put him off his game.

“Yeah, we'll see about that,” he said at length and we each took another sip of beer. Cash looked around the deck nodding appreciatively at his surroundings. “Must be a lotta money in this place. You can smell it.”

I sniffed the air. “Only thing I smell is French fries.”

“Get used to it.” He took another long swallow and then crushed the can, balling it up like tinfoil. He tossed the can off to the side where it rolled to a stop against the brick fire pit. “I'm sensing some an-o-mosity.” He cracked open another beer. “I don't think you like me.”

“What's not to like? You beat the crap out of me and take my money. I think I'm in love.”

His eyes flashed to mine and held. “Yeah, I love you, too—except I didn't take your money. I earned it. We're partners. We each got to do our separate jobs. If I don't do my job of keeping your sorry ass out of jail, you can't do your job, which is to pay me—which gets us to the main point. I want my seven hundred dollars—now.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my father's five hundred dollar advance, three bloody fifties, and the money Devereaux traded for my DNA.

Cash grabbed it, did a rough count, and tucked it away, giving me a little smile—a smile that told me I had just avoided another lesson.

“You have your money. Now give me a report.”

Cash blew out his cheeks and shook his head in that way he had of showing his disgust for those around him. He reached for his beer and shifted in his chair. The molded legs scraped on the decking.

“Let us review,” he said in a tone he had borrowed from some distant classroom. “You called me in a panic because Devereaux or whatever was on his way over to check on your story and you wanted me to lie to cover your ass. Correct?”

“So far.”

“There I am talking to you about my fee, and Devereaux walks up to me—stands there almost like he knows who's
on the other end. That gives me . . . what? Thirty seconds to prepare, and what am I working with?” He looked up trying to recall. “Oh, yeah. Number one: you beat me up. Shit,” he laughed. “You ever take a look at yourself? Looks like you fell out of a tree. Oh, yeah—and some jive shit about a loan I tried to collect. Christ. First of all, if you owed me money, I'd beat the crap out of you—which I did. And then I'd take all your money—which I did not. Forgot two hundred. But your story . . . and this is the best . . . after you beat the crap out of me without leaving a mark, I go hire this biker guy from Easton to finish what I can't—collecting pocket change from the Frymaster King.”

Cash paused and shook his head, wagging it back and forth slowly. He ran his tongue across the front of his teeth like the words left a bad taste in his mouth.

“So what did you tell him?” I asked.

“None of that shit. Believe me. Where'd you learn to lie—Sunday school?”

He paused and looked at me like he really expected an answer. I said nothing and he continued.

“I told him what he wanted to hear—lies.” He studied me, letting his words sink in. “Good lies. This Devereaux has been around—has had all kinds of bullshit thrown his way. Do I know Stomp?
Never heard of him.
Did we fight?
Fight? Why would we fight?
What's the deal with the money?
What money?
I made him pry it out of me.” He paused.

“Pry what out?”

“The day you quit,” he paused, “you took money out of the till.”

I closed my eyes and my head fell back.

“I came after you because I took it personal—because I might get blamed.”

Cash waited until I opened my eyes. With a deep sigh, I looked at him.

“When I came for the money, you got pissed—took a swing at me. I had to beat your ass to protect myself. Told him I wouldn't press charges.”

“Now he thinks I'm a liar and a thief.”

“No, I look like the liar. You look like a freakin' simpleton, telling a story like that. But that's good. You
can't even come up with a decent lie—you look innocent, a babe in the woods. Keeps your ass out of jail, which is how I earned seven hundred dollars.”

“You said I stole money from McDonald's,” I shrieked. “How the fuck is that going to keep my ass out of jail?”

“Accusing ain't proving,” he said in a calm, confident voice. “Besides, it takes the heat off the other issues for a while.”

I considered that for a moment but didn't like the tradeoff. What I did see and appreciate was Cash's clear insight into the way Devereaux's mind worked.

“Now I'm going to forget about you linking my name with Stomp. I'm on parole. He's a ‘criminal element.' We do bidness, and my ass is back in jail. But, like I said, accusing ain't proving.”

Cash folded his hands around his beer can and leaned forward. “And because I'm feeling generous, I'll take care of the hand in the till problem free of charge.”

He gave me a smile of victory. “I'll tell him Dusty did it,” he said and rose to his full height. “I'll tell Devereaux that I checked the security tape and it looks like Dusty might be the one. Dusty thinking you'd get blamed for it since you quit.”

Security tapes. Fuck. The cameras at McDonald's not only kept an eye on the customers, they also showed the employees interacting with them. One camera was trained at the service counter from the behind the registers to track transactions. Another camera monitored the drive-thru window. The camera in the corner watched over the dining area and a fourth camera, the Big Brother camera, was trained on the work area behind the food counter. You could see the Frymaster and the door to the drive-thru window. In the course of a shift, everyone got caught on camera—if they were working.

“Those tapes,” I said, trying to contain my rising fear. “Do you keep them or do you tape over them each day?”

“Funny thing—that's what Devereaux wanted to know.”

This time, my head dropped to my chest. My shoulders sagged.

“Something wrong?”

There was an ironic quality in his voice that told me
that he knew, but wanted to hear it from me and savor the moment.

“Wrong? All Devereaux has to do is see the tape from the night Jonah died and he'll know we weren't there. He'll see in a minute we weren't working. Our timecards are wrong.”

Cash raised his eyebrows as if he had just seen the point, but it was all show. He was enjoying the fact that I just saw the point. “A picture's worth a thousand words,” he added thoughtfully.