A Garden of Vipers (13 page)

I slept some that night. It was between four-fifteen and five-forty-five, I think. The rest of the time I stared at pictures forming and re-forming on my shadowed ceiling. Listened to words tumbling through the darkened air.

She'll betray you. They always betray us, don't they?

The words were my brother's words, Jeremy. He was, by all measures of the human mind, insane. Driven mad by our father's relentless punishments and beatings, Jeremy had at age sixteen killed our father. Over the years he had killed five women. In his twisted mind he was avenging himself on our mother for never protecting him.

But she was blameless, little more than a child herself. It was the three of us against my father, a trio of Chihuahuas caged with a rabid Doberman.

Jeremy was incarcerated at an institution west of Montgomery. I was a hesitant visitor every four months on average. Last year I had taken Dani with me to visit Jeremy. He hated women, and the visit had not gone well, ending with him forecasting that my relationship with Dani would end in betrayal.

His senses were uncanny. Had he seen something I had not? Or was it just his usual antifemale ranting?

I had planned on visiting my brother soon, was overdue by a month, in fact. But when he would ask, as he always did,
How's your little love-muffin, Carson? Has she betrayed you yet?
I did not want to admit the truth: that she had tried me for a year, found me wanting, and had taken up with a man who could deliver her the world wrapped in silk and served with champagne.

I decided to postpone my visit this time around. Take a break from Jeremy. He wasn't going anywhere.

I stumbled from bed at six, turned on NPR, and fixed coffee. Figuring I needed the caffeine, I used four tablespoons per cup, drank four cups, buzzed off to the department.

Harry showed up with a half dozen ham biscuits, correctly figuring I hadn't eaten. We chomped biscuits and shuffled through phone slips from the previous day, hoping for points of gold glittering in the mud. Harry read a slip, reread it. Snicked it with a fingernail.

“Something here, maybe. Lemme make a call.”

Harry got up and went to the conference room to phone, returning a call to a snitch. When we told a snitch no one was listening as they talked, we told the truth. Maybe it didn't mean much, but that's the way we played it.

Harry was back a minute later, eyebrows raised.

“You know Leroy Dinkins?” he asked.

I searched my memory and saw nothing but an amorphous blob wriggling in a doorway. It took me a second to realize my mind was showing me Leroy.

“Met him once when I was in uniform,” I said. “A shoplifting beef. Leroy got stuck when he tried to run out the back door of a grocery downtown, the back door a lot smaller than the front. He was about eighteen, if I recall.”

“That's blubber butt himself,” Harry said, scowling at the slip. “I got this snitch hangs with Leroy Dinkins sometimes. He says Leroy was cadging drinks at a bar named Lucky's when a guy looking like our drawing comes in. They talk in private, the hairball leaves. Suddenly Leroy's ordering from his own pocket.”

“The hairball gave Leroy some money,” I said.

“That's the way my snitch saw it.”

“Why'd your snitch tattle on his buddy Dinkins?”

Harry laughed. “Leroy drank all night and didn't buy anyone else a single pop. My snitch got pissed off, dropped the dime.”

“Leroy should learn to share,” I said. “You know where bubble butt lives?”

“With his mama.” Harry grinned. “Where else?”

 

Leroy Dinkins was easy to spot: a hulking mass on a porch. Harry knew Dinkins better than I did, filling me in as we drifted into a space in front of Dinkins's house, a tiny frame bungalow.

“Leroy's the original fraidy-cat, Carson. Placid, flaccid, and lazy-assed. Hangs at the edge of the street scene, too lily-livered to get in any serious trouble. Scared to death of doing time.”

I nodded. There were guys in the can who'd rather see a fat guy than a slim woman. Harry continued his assessment. “Leroy's not real bright, but he's all over the hood, and he's got two big fat ears that suck up information that he sells. Who's got the best reefer, where the upmarket hookers hang. He's less a doer than a connector.”

“How should we approach him, bro?”

“Like he's about twelve years old.”

Dinkins was testing the limits of a lounge chair, lying back. He wore a kinte cloth–pattern shirt the size of a bedspread over voluminous jeans and orange plastic flip-flops. He tensed as we pulled to the curb, looked stricken when we headed up the sidewalk.

“Howdy, Leroy, remember me?” I asked. “Here's a hint, the front half of you was outside Packy's EZ Mart, the back half was inside.”

“Dunno what you talkin' about.”

Leroy Dinkins was sucking a forty of Coors Light and nearing the bottom of an industrial-size bag of cheese puffs. A wide circle around his mouth was orange with cheese-puff dust, like clown makeup.

Harry gave Leroy the hard eye. “Rumor has it you were at a joint called Lucky's a few days back.”

“So wha'? I go to Lucky's two–three times a week. They got good po' boys and cheese fries.”

“Plus Lucky's has wide doors, right?” Harry said.

“Why you botherin' me? Bein' nasty and all?”

Harry leaned close. “We're looking for a guy. You might remember him, looks like King Kong maybe? Face that's all fur.”

Dinkins pushed himself up from the chair, the Goodyear blimp filled with Jell-O and struggling to get aloft.

“I got to go inside and fix my mama's supper. She has to eat same time every day.”

I stepped between him and the door. “Come on, Leroy, you're not in a jam. Did you sell this guy something?”

“I don't know nobody look like that,” he whined. “I gotta go inside.”

The door pushed open behind me and bumped my ass. I turned to a petite woman in her sixties wearing horn-rim glasses, the frames adorned with rhinestones. She was leaning on a cane. I figured she'd been behind the door trying to hear our conversation.

“Leroy, you didn't tell me you had company.”

“They salesmen, Mama. They just leaving.”

She looked at me, squinted. “What you boys selling?”

Harry stepped in front. “Actually, ma'am, we're with the Mobile Police Department, here asking about someone Leroy might have seen.”

“Lee-roy?” she asked. “Who you seen?”

“Ain't nothin', Mama. They got the wrong guy.”

She turned to Harry. “Who you axin' about?”

“A fellow with a big beard and long hair.”

She looked at her son. “When that boy here last, Leroy? Didn't I see him out here four–five days ago?”

Dinkins's face plummeted. “I don't remember, Mama,” he moaned. “I don't think so.”

“Sure it was. I saw him clean as day. You two was in the front yard. I thought that fellow had his back to me at first, all that hair, then I saw eyes an' a mouth.”

“Mama!” Leroy whined.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Harry said.

“I need my chicken tonight, Leroy. Wit' biscuit. You comin' in soon?”

“Right now, Mama.”

She nodded at us and tottered back into the house. Dinkins tried to slip in behind her, but Harry's hand found Dinkins's chest. “Walk us to the car, Leroy. We'd enjoy your company.”

“I gotta
go,
” he wailed. “Mama needs her chicken.”

Harry took Dinkins by a blubbery bicep and guided him out to the sidewalk.

“We need to know details about Fur-face, Leroy, no holding back.”

“You guys'll twist up my words, make me go to jail.” Dinkins looked like he was about to start bawling. The guy knew something, but was scared it could cause him trouble. Street advice was if you shut up and pretended ignorance, it all went away, cops included.

“Stand here,” Harry said. “I'll be right back.”

Harry parked Dinkins in the middle of the sidewalk, then grabbed a stick of yellow chalk from the car. He inscribed a large square on the sidewalk. Harry paused, studied the square, grabbed Dinkins by the arm.

Dinkins's eyes went wide. “What's gonna happen to me?”

“Shhh,” Harry said. He walked Dinkins to the square, set him dead in its center. Dinkins stared down at the yellow outline.

Harry said, “It's a free space, Leroy. Anything you say inside the free space is not official. Nothing can be used against you. In fact, it's not even like you saying it. It's just a voice in the air.”

“You're makin' that up.”

Harry produced his badge, held it out like a small bible on his palm. “Take the free-space pledge, Carson.”

I put my hand over Harry's badge. “I, Carson Ryder, detective, hereby solemnly certify that full and bona fide free-space privilege be granted one Leroy Dinkins.” I stopped, then added, “So help me God.”

Harry said, “You're in a legal free space, Leroy. Safe from anything you say, forever and ever.”

Dinkins peered down. “No shit?”

“Don't step out of it,” I cautioned.

Harry leaned against the Crown Vic, crossed his arms. “Now, tell me anything you want to about the guy at Lucky's. What was his name, how did you meet, and what did he want?”

Dinkins shrugged, sending waves jostling through his fat. “He just came in the door, sat at the bar, looked around. He ate a samwich, talked to people. He finally talked to me.”

“About?”

Dinkins started to shrug it away. Harry pointed to the ground. “Free space, Leroy. Use it while you got it. They don't have free spaces down at the station.”

“He had some cars to get rid of, but there were a couple problems with the paperwork. Lost in a fire, he said.”

“Stolen.”

“Sure, the cars was hot. He was just talking in code.”

“What was his name, Leroy?”

“He din't say. That's the truth.”

“What'd he look like up close? Solid guy, kind of square, the fur face?”

“All I could see was his eyes. They were brown, I think. But he wasn't square. He was…” Dinkins held his hands about a foot apart, moving them up and down.

“Slender?” I said.

“Shaped about like you. And about how high. Maybe more. That's all I remember. He showed me a big bunch of crisp money.”

Crisp like fresh from an ATM, I figured. The cash Mrs. Atkins had been forced to withdraw.

“What was he wearing?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I dunno. Jeans and a shirt. Blue shirt? The usual stuff.”

“Did you give him what he wanted?”

Dinkins looked like a man on a jittering tightrope.

“Come on, Leroy,” Harry said. “Use the damn free space.”

“He said he was paying a thousand dollars for the right information. A place to unload the metal.”

“A thousand dollars?” Harry said. “A
grand
?”

“Five hunnert up front, five after the name proved out.”

Harry paused. Frowned.

“He came back?”

“Two days later he's out in my front yard, hands me the other five. That's when Mama saw him.”

“Who did you give him, Leroy? What name?”

Dinkins looked down, made sure he was centered in the box.

“Uh, there are these two guys, brothers. They got this bidness going on with cars…”

“The Hooleys,” Harry said. “Right, Leroy?”

Dinkins nodded nervously.

“Hooleys?” I asked.

“Two brothers,” Harry said. “Darryl and Danny Hooley. Back when I was in Crimes Against Property they were boosting sound systems, smash and grab. This was eight or nine years back; they were in their late teens.” Harry gave Dinkins a skeptical eye. “You know where the Hooleys keep their chop shop?”

“I just gave the hairy guy their names. I mean they're in the fucking book.” The phone book bit was probably a lie—Dinkins knew where the chop shop was, but didn't want to tell us, free space or not. Dinkins's eyes turned scared. “This hairy guy did something wrong, didn't he? You'll tell the Hooleys and I'll get beat up.”

“Calm down, Leroy,” Harry said. “It's all protected by the free space.”

Dinkins studied the sidewalk, relaxed. “Oh, that's right.”

Harry and I started to the car. Dinkins remained in the box, looking down, fascinated.

“Hey, you guys,” he called.

We turned. “What?” I said.