Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery (37 page)

“I don’t think it’s so selfless as that. You’ve had it pretty rough in your life, like me. We’ve both had dry runs of shitty luck, but the difference between you and me is that I was smart enough to work for the people who made me jealous, rather than try to drag them down into the briars with me.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe you’re right, and I’ve been dreaming all this up to kick Leland Brickmeyer in the nuts for having money. But maybe - and this is something I’ve had to think about a lot - there is no meaning to it, or else I’ll never find it. Most likely I’ll just stagger from this fuck-up to the next one without an inkling of how I should have gone about it.”

“And I reckon that’s what I’m trying to avoid by getting out now, while there’s still time for me.”

“All the blood that needed to be on your hands is still there. You’re just trying to scrub it off so
you
don’t see it. Doesn’t mean nobody else won’t.”

He tapped one of his enormous fingers on the table, watching it. “I guess that’s something I’m going to figure out how to live with.”

“You could always turn over, face the right direction. Hell, you could probably do some good. There’s this detective-”

“Listen, man, I got to go. I was on my way out of town when I saw you parking, and I had to stop in and tell you. You don’t have to believe me, and I reckon it wouldn’t make sense for you to, but you won’t have a chance to follow-up with me to find out if it’s all true or not."

"But why? You’re the hard case. Brickmeyer paid you to be his muscle. You’re not supposed to think about what’s happening."

"If you can figure out which of these shadowy sumbitches killed Emmitt Laveau, then I ain't got nothing to worry about. Good luck."

Without another word, the behemoth sauntered out of the restaurant and disappeared down the street, favoring the leg I had nearly broken.

*  *  *

I drove down a winding road made of hard Georgia clay, listening to the shocks squeak beneath me. The sky was as silvery-gray as the side of a dull blade. Trees rushed by and disappeared at intervals, like silent, ever-present guards.

I found the man I was looking for on the screened-in porch of his impressive two-story cabin, drinking a cocktail that made the entire room smell like rum. "How you doin', sport?" he said. "Come on in and have a seat."

I drew up the chair next to him and leaned back, looking over the orange sunlight reflecting off the man-made pond just on the other side of the yard. A small dock jutted out into the water, a ten foot aluminum boat tied up tight on one side.

He was in repose in a way I had never witnessed, and if not for the warmth he exuded in those moments, I might have thought he knew why I was out there. I told him as much - at least about the calmness - and he replied, “Even clowns wash off the make-up after a show.”

The rocking chair squeaked amiably as Jarrell swayed back and forth. "I need to log these hours?"

"Actually, this is a social call," I replied.

"You're lucky I used to bum around with your father. I don't normally dispense with complimentary counsel. Go ahead, I'm listening."

"You know the politics around here," I continued.

"I wish I didn't. Cocktail?"

I shook my head.

"Good boy," he said, swirling his own concoction, the ice tinkling in the glass. He was either drunk or sedated. "You need to stay away from this shit until everything passes."

I didn't answer him. Across the pond, one kind of fish or another splashed, creating a mild ripple across the water’s surface. Jarrell's smile widened, and the lines in his old face deepened.

"You read the paper today?"

He grimaced. "Oh, hell, if it doesn't have anything to do with keeping you out of jail, I don't give a rat's furry ass about it. But I can tell something's working. Little Leland walks around like that stick up his behind has been jammed in a bit deeper."

"'Little' Leland?"

He stared at me for a moment, his eyes looking into me for
something
. He used one hand to rub the scar on his cheek. The other swirled the glass, causing the ice in it to tinkle amiably. "Shoot, I can remember that boy soiling his britches in the first grade. Like I said, young man, I am
ancient
. You know how old dirt is?"

"No."

"Well, I'm a day older'n that, so go figure. He ain't quite got the swagger he used to. Something's got him down."

"Good," I said.

"Leland, he ain't tough like his daddy. His daddy was a mean sumbitch, I tell you what. Leland is soft, more like his mother. It's amazing he's made it as far as he has. Jeffrey’s just like him. Life doesn’t always go in cycles. Neither one of them's got the nerve of a shelter dog. I remember back when Leland went to high school. Walked around like he was real hot shit. You know the type. Not much different than he does now. But he had something going against him."

I was suddenly interested in what the uncouth old man had to say. "What's that?"

"Haven't you been listening? Gumption. Leland had no gumption. Tried out for baseball. Couldn't make it. Tried to run track. Couldn't even do that. Lord, I remember the time he actually tried to play football. Somebody broke his collarbone during practice and he passed out. No kidding.”

“What has that got to do with anything?” I asked.

“Some people round here thought he was queer when he was younger. Once he got to college, though, he started whoring around, had a pretty public meltdown when he moved back. But he married a fine woman, which shut most everybody up."

My hands were sweating. I clasped them in my lap, trying to pretend that I was staring out across the pond. "Hey, bud, what's got you all juiced up?" Jarrell asked. "You look like something deadly's crawling around your boxer briefs."

"What do you know about the night my father killed...that man?" The fucking guy’s name had even gone hazy in my mind, after all these years.

Both bushy eyebrows raised up in a look of surprise. He seemed to stumble over a thought before saying, "Why, just what he told me. Strung him up and beat him to death. Bout all there is to tell, Rol."

"How'd you feel about what he did?"

He stopped rocking for a moment, and the amplified silence was only cut by the wind in distant branches. He pursed his mouth as he stared but he never betrayed himself, and he started rocking again. Man had the look of a survivor, like a cockroach in the wake of an H-bomb.

His voice was strained when he talked again. He said, "It was a horrible thing. No man deserves what he got, not even for what he did to your father. Lot of people criticized me for defending him. That’s old ball, man. What you want to go digging around in that for?"

"You wouldn't have had a reason to kick my dad's bucket over, would you? Let him go into the net?"

"I don't know what you're implying-"

"I didn't keep quiet to protect you," I said. I looked down. My hands were shaking. "I did it because I blocked it out. Seeing you and Jarvis Garvey there that night, being witness to all of it, that wasn't intentional. Suppressed memories and all that."

Jarrell's eyes went to his drink. He had stopped rocking back and forth, and the air was so still I was almost afraid to disturb it.

"I don't know if it's because I'm so near to this investigation, or what, but it's coming back to me, slowly but surely. I can remember, clear as day, seeing the both of you standing in the light of my father's high beams, hanging that poor man. Lynching him."

"You best watch your mouth," he said. His eyes thinned to slits. "Your freedom's on the line here, not mine. You think anybody's gonna believe you, somebody raising as much hell as you are right now, going and accusing folks of killing black people. You think anybody's going to pay attention? Shit. Gimme. A. Break."

"Not only that," I said. "I don’t think it was the first murder you were involved in."

"The hell you talking about?"

I steeled myself. "The owners of the Boogie House. I think you and my dad and Jarvis Garvey had them killed and then covered it up."

The old man stared, wide-eyed.

I stood up. "What happens to me happens to me. If I get a year in jail," I shrugged, "I'll do it. I'm going to stand up and pay for what I did. You've spent the last forty years hiding from who you used to be. No matter how many people you defend around here, you'll never make up for the three - or more - you had killed. Or killed yourself, with your own goddamn hands."

Jarrell watched me amble down the steps of his porch. "If I were you, I'd be thinking about how I was going to turn myself in. Detective Hunter is involved with a task force to dredge up old business in little towns like this, and he's become fond of my insight. He’s the one who’ll believe me, I figure."

"You have no evidence."

"Oh, I'm sure something will turn up," I said, and walked away.

*  *  *

The clock ticked on. I called Hunter, left a message, and then I called the pulpers again, leaving yet another voice mail. Nobody was answering except my best friend. Even Deuce seemed preoccupied, though, and he said it probably wouldn’t be a good idea for me to be seen (a) in public (b) having a beer, so he declined hanging out.

I just went home. I got the feeling that having my face and then showing it in public would be a good idea. I was treated to the mental image of pitchforks and torches. Those who weren’t on the side of the Brickmeyers thought I was just a fuck-up trying to upend the balance of the town. That, or they were convinced I was having some sort of mental episode and was taking everyone down with me in the process.

When you exist in your own head, as I do, then you can’t be entirely certain if you’re crazy or not. Looking at it from the outside, it was hard to argue with anyone making the points my brain was currently making.

I parked down by a gate near the Boogie House and hoofed it to my place. If the cops were waiting me out, then I’d have to sneak everywhere from now on.

Or until they catch me.

“Or kill me,” I mumbled aloud.

The house and everything surrounding it was as dark as the road had been, and I had to fumble for my key a couple of times to get it in the lock. The door creaked open, and I stepped inside.

No cops. No flashlights. No one screaming for me to put my fucking hands in the air.

And yet, still.

Instantly, something felt...off. I cut my eyes in either direction and moved to my left, into the corner of the room. In the bedroom, I heard the constant, monotonous
wha-wha-wha
of the fan blades. I knew for a fact I hadn't left the fan on. I never left anything on.

Cops could’ve done it, I supposed, but I didn’t think so. It wasn’t time to convince myself
out
of conspiratorial thought.

I wanted to call Vanessa's name. It wasn't entirely unreasonable to think she had come to her senses and was in the back room, doing whatever, but I didn't fully believe that. Something odd tingled inside me.

My knees began to ache, and perspiration formed at my temples. I felt unsteady on my feet. I was without my firearm. My pistol lay under the bed, in its case. I crept forward, careful to shift my weight to keep the boards from creaking. I reached the edge of the hallway and stopped, rearranging myself so I could peer around the corner.

The fan’s whirring grew louder as I peeked into the hallway. The moon cast no light, so I had no shadows to work with. Only the sliver of the light in the cracked bedroom door.

It was then I heard the first click, which in most situations signified a pistol hammer being cocked. The click was followed by a coarse, assonant grinding, and I knew instantly what was happening. I rose to my feet and bounded down the hallway, yelling gibberish I thought sounded somewhat official, "Stop right there!" or "Freeze!" or something like that.

I rushed into the bedroom to find a man yanking violently at a window. If there was one thing I knew, it was that it wouldn’t come up that easily, not unless he was bionic. Any other set of windows, maybe, but not these. Had he been hiding anywhere else, he might have gotten out before I could catch him.

I stopped cold, held my hands straight out, miming holding a gun. He had his back to me, so he didn't know I wasn't packing, not yet. My entire body pulsed with adrenaline.

"Stop!" I screamed. "Stay right there. I will fucking shoot you!"

He stopped.

"Put your hands up!"

He obliged.

"Turn around, slowly, keeping your hands up."

*  *  *

"Don't shoot me, man," he said. "I ain't got no weapon."

“I don’t either, but H.W., what the hell are you doing here?"

He looked like he wanted to answer but couldn't. He stood stock-still by the window, not quite sure what to do with himself, with his body, his hands held out in front as if calming a rabid dog.

I didn't see a gun, so I scanned the bedroom. It was trashed: papers and clothes strewn about, drawers flung open, mattresses askew, and the closet door sagging on its hinges.