Jonah Man (19 page)

The shopkeeper spread his palms on the counter, transferred his gaze from one envelope to the next.

They don’t all have return addresses, he said. People are lazy that way.

Yes, but as the postman in a town this size, you must have an idea of who the locals correspond with. Are any of these addressees unfamiliar?

Whoever you’re looking for ain’t local?

No, though they may have been here a week or two already.

They?

Yes.

Well, there is one jumped out at me. He tapped a creased envelope with his ring finger. We don’t get much headed for New York.

To his surprise, the Inspector recognized the slanting, oversized scrawl. Jonson had not seemed the type to keep in touch.

Obliged, he said, folding the envelope into his jacket pocket.

Ain’t you going to read it?

Yes.

But not now?

I thank you for your time.

The Inspector folded the letter in uneven thirds, returned it to his pocket, then stood scanning the shops on the opposite side of the street. At a little before dinner time, only the saloon was open. He crossed, pushed his way through the swinging shutters. There were five or more men seated at the bar, each a stool apart, drinking beer and eating peanuts, smoking, pretending not to notice the Inspector’s entrance. A lone woman sat at the far end, inhaling from a cigarette that had burned most of the way down. The Inspector took the stool beside her, laid open his wallet and tapped his badge.

A word, he said.

Perkes? she called. An outsized bartender stepped forward, a man whose blunt features seemed like place holders marking where more permanent features might some day be grafted on.

Your name is Perkes? the Inspector said.

It is, Perkes answered.

Do you own this place?

Just work the bar.

And you are? the Inspector asked the woman.

Audrey, she said.

Audrey, the Inspector said. A word.

Sure, Perkes said, his palms resting on the bar.

Perhaps at one of those tables?

Just wiped them down, Perkes said.

Tremendous.

Care for anything to drink?

Tonic water.

Coming up.

The Inspector reached for Audrey’s drink, a rose-colored liquid with an orange rind floating on the surface. He raised her glass, breathed in.

Strong, he said.

I keep odd hours.

The work day is over then?

Ain’t begun.

They sat opposite each other at a table built for four, the Inspector leaning over his drink, Audrey tilting back in her chair. Her auburn hair was cropped short, perhaps to better fit a wig; her skin was pale, her face marked with freckles. She appeared bruised, but had no bruises.

You look tired, he said.

The heat, she said.

Indeed. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his forehead dry.

Would you like to see the body? he said.

What body?

I can take you to see it, if you like.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

She wore a blond wig, young, maybe half your age.

Who?

I doubt she suffered. Whoever killed her held the gun inches from her skull.

You got me confused with someone else.

But you know who beat her, don’t you? You know who put those bruises up and down her legs.

She rubbed out her cigarette, picked up her glass, set it back down without drinking.

The Inspector lowered his voice, reached for her hand.

Apart from Jonson, have there been any new clients in the last few days? Your answer is important. I’m trying to help your friend.

She hesitated as though waiting for an emotion to pass, then glanced toward the bar.

No, she said, pulling away. Apart from him there ain’t been nobody at all.

The Inspector felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up to see Perkes smiling down.

Can I be of any help? he asked.

You have been, the Inspector said. He stood, pointed to his drink.

A tab, he said. I’ll visit again.

He walked back to the bar, picked up his bag, rapped his knuckles against the counter.

By the way, he said, have any of you seen a boy? Between 13 and 15. He’d be on his own.

They looked at him, then each other, then their drinks.

I wouldn’t let a kid that age in here, Perkes said.

I’m talking specifically about last night.

I worked last night. Closed the bar.

Gentlemen, the Inspector said, does Mr. Perkes speak the truth?

Yes sir, the man closest to the Inspector said. Every word of it.

The theater had been built to accommodate a metropolis that never materialized; judging by its remains, it might have covered a city block in any of the nation’s smaller capitals. The ash had died in the desert air, the wreckage was more or less contained. There were people rummaging through it now, some with implements, some with bare hands, each operating independent of the others.

Hello there, the Inspector called. The nearest of them turned, spiked his pitchfork in the ash. He was abnormally tall, his legs rising to the Inspector’s torso, his shadow the length
of any two men’s shadows. Behind him a half-dozen people of disparate ages and body types were likewise busy shoveling and sifting through the theater’s remains: an obese woman, her hair sheered off, a deep sheen across her scalp; a boy not ten years old and a girl several years his junior, their bodies covered in blackened burlap; a female dwarf with fingers as long and thick as the Inspector’s; a middle-aged man who was missing a hand yet seemed to wield his shovel more adroitly than any of his two-fisted colleagues.

Care to join us? the tall one asked.

Asthma, the Inspector said, holding up his badge. Just need to ask a few questions.

The tall man stepped clear of the wreckage. The others followed.

The manager has put you all to work? the Inspector asked.

A wage is a wage, the fat woman said, the sweat turning her cotton smock a darker shade of blue. And we got burned out of our booking.

What is it you’re looking for? the Inspector asked.

Anything that shimmers, the dwarf said.

I’m interested in a boy, the Inspector said. He worked with his father, a man named Jonson. They sang and danced.

Worked? the tall man asked.

The father’s been murdered, the Inspector said. The boy’s missing.

The bald woman put her arm around the dwarf, the tall man crossed himself, the man with one hand registered no expression, the boy and girl seemed not to understand. The girl was fine boned, delicate, likely beautiful beneath the grime that obscured her features. The boy was unremarkable—round faced, gangly, like any boy one might find playing in a field or an alley. The Inspector hunched toward them, smiled.

We need you to keep digging, he said. It’s important work.

But we haven’t found anything, the boy said.

Then whatever is there to find remains hidden, the Inspector said.

That sounds like a riddle, the girl said.

Riddles aren’t real talk, the boy said.

Go, the fat woman said, slapping her palms together. The Inspector waited, then continued.

Did you know them well? he asked.

Well enough, the tall man said.

Hardly at all, the fat woman said.

More by reputation, the dwarf said.

The man with one hand said nothing. He seemed anxious to get back at it, his heels raised off the ground, the fingers of his surviving hand gripping and releasing the shovel.

Reputation? the Inspector asked.

The boy was big-time talent, the dwarf said. The father was just sober enough to know what he had, but not sober enough to make it work.

And that you know by reputation, or observation?

Well, we all observed them yesterday, the fat woman said.

Yes, I heard. Did that sort of thing happen often?

Only all the time, the dwarf said.

Were they close, father and son? Did you know them well enough to know that?

Hardly, said the tall man.

You hardly knew them well enough? Or they were hardly close?

I never saw them speak two words to each other, except onstage, the fat woman said.

What about you, sir? the Inspector asked the man with one hand.

His father beat him, the man said.

You’re sure? the Inspector asked.

You ever know a drunk who didn’t beat his kid?

A few, the Inspector said. Let me ask this: was he close with anyone else? Is there someone he might turn to if his father were hurt? Family? Friends? Colleagues?

Didn’t have a person in the world, the dwarf said.

Had a place, though, said one-hand.

What do you mean?

Chicago. The kid loved Chicago. He half-smiled, wide enough for the Inspector to glimpse blue streaks bleeding upwards into his bottom teeth. He couldn’t wait for his old man to get tight so he could go out on his own. Walked that city front and back. Anywhere you went, there he was.

All right then, the Inspector said, pocketing his notebook. If any of you see him, you’ll let me know.

Is the boy in trouble? the amputee asked.

I can’t be sure until I find him, the Inspector said. But since you seem to have known them best, I’d like a private word.

I doubt there’s much I can tell you.

Anything would be of value, Mr...

Swain.

The Inspector stepped to the side, cupped his hands to his mouth: Happy digging, he called to the children. He took Swain by the crook of his whole arm, led him across the street, stopped beneath the wooden awning of an empty storefront. They stood for a moment, Swain looking at nothing at all, the Inspector looking at Swain. He wasn’t big, but he had a laborer’s frame—squat, thick, a slight bulge at the waist. The half-circles beneath his eyes were inflamed with age and sleeplessness. He shuffled his feet, shifted his gaze, seemed to suffer from the kind of nervousness that comes with bad living.

Mr. Swain. Tell me, did the father have any enemies?

I don’t know if he had enemies, but I couldn’t say he had friends.

Why is that?

He was a drunk.

Yes, I know. What else?

Well, he was nasty. His mind was half gone, but he had a gift.

For?

For finding where a person was raw.

And exploiting it?

Every chance he could. But not because he wanted anything. Just for his own pleasure.

True, the Inspector thought, to a point.

It sounds like you speak from experience?

We all experienced him.

So the two of you had no particular quarrel?

No.

But you believe he was killed in anger?

Maybe. I hadn’t thought about it.

But then why kill the woman too? Why not wait until Jonson was alone?

He wouldn’t ever be alone. The only time he sent the boy out was when he had a whore coming.

The Inspector stopped himself from asking how Swain knew the woman was a prostitute, why he’d registered no surprise on learning there was a woman of any kind.

About the boy? the Inspector asked. He seems to have run off. Is there a chance his father made him angry?

No, Swain said. No chance at all.

Explain.

He didn’t care enough about his father to kill him.

I’m sure it appeared that way.