Friction (8 page)

C
rawford kicked aside an empty paint can as he made his way up the weed-choked path, wondering what had happened to the paint that belonged to the can. It hadn’t been applied to the house, which looked more ramshackle than it had the last time he was here.

As he stepped onto the porch, the rotting planks bowed beneath his weight. Through the screen door, he saw Conrad waving for him to come inside.

“Make sure to pull that screen closed all the way so flies don’t get in.”

Crawford went in. “Sure wouldn’t want flies spoiling this place.”

The older man cocked his head to one side. “Was that intentionally snide?”

“Nothing gets past you.” Crawford motioned behind him. “Why are you leaving the door open? Is your AC busted?”

An oscillating fan was circulating moisture-laden air through the cluttered living room. The man in the recliner had stripped down to dingy white briefs and a wife-beater with stained armholes. His feet were bare.

“The compressor started making a funny racket yesterday, so I cut it off.”

“Did you call a repairman?”

“Thursday’s the soonest he can come.”

“It’s stifling in here.”

“Well, nobody invited you or is insisting that you stay.” Conrad aimed the remote control toward the TV and ramped up the volume.

Crawford took the remote from him and punched the off button.

“Hey, I was watching that.”

“How many times have you seen it?”

Conrad was fond of World War II movies, especially the ones filmed in black-and-white where granite-jawed GIs smoked Lucky Strikes and referred to the enemies as Krauts and Japs.

Crawford tossed the remote onto a stack of old suitcases that passed for a coffee table. “The ending never changes. Our side wins.”

“Now you’ve gone and spoiled it.”

As Crawford pulled a chair from beneath the dining table and dragged it closer to the recliner, he discreetly looked around for empty liquor bottles or other signs of bingeing. But he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d remarked that nothing got past the old man.

“Sixty-two days and counting,” Conrad boasted. “In case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.”

Crawford sat down and tilted his chair back until it was supported by only two legs. He stacked his hands on top of his head. “Too many times to count, you’ve climbed on the wagon only to fall off again. So if I’m skeptical, tough.”

“I’m staying sober this time.”

Crawford made a scoffing sound. “Did you find Jesus?”

“Snide, skeptical,
and
blasphemous. You’re on a roll.”

“Conrad, you wouldn’t know how to function sober.”

“I’m sober now, and I’m functioning passably well.”

“But drunk is your norm. How many years did you stay soused?”

Conrad screwed up his face, which was much more lined than it should have been for a man of sixty-eight. “Let’s see. What year is this?”

Crawford rolled his eyes.

“That was a joke,” Conrad said.

“Hilarious.”

“I remain gainfully employed, too.”

“Still out at the sawmill?”

“Sweeping up. Hot and dusty work, but it’s wages.”

“Why aren’t you there now?”

“It’s my day off.” The old man took a moment, during which he eyed Crawford up and down. “You’ve been keeping yourself busy.”

“You heard about yesterday’s shooting?”

“Couldn’t help but.” He gestured toward the TV. “Dominated the news. Tuning in between my movies, I caught most of it.” He made a rueful sound. “Sorry as shit about Chet. I knew him from the time he was a rookie deputy sheriff. Sent him a box of cigars when he got appointed bailiff. I saw him just about every time I went into the courthouse.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time he caught me and some other boys sneaking in the exit door of the movie theater?”

“No. What’d he do?”

“He let the others go. I was the only one he called out. Just stood there staring for the longest time, then said, ‘You go that route, get in trouble, you got nobody to blame but your own self.’”

“Straightened you out?”

“Worked better than jail, and I guess he knew it would.”

“He was a good man.”

“Yeah, and if he hadn’t taken that bullet yesterday, I might not be here.”

“Ah,” Conrad wheezed. “Survivor’s guilt. That why you dragged your butt out here? You want me to convince you that Chet’s time was up, that’s all there was to it, and that you can stop feeling bad about it.”

The front legs of Crawford’s chair landed hard on the floor when he got up and moved to the open window, ostensibly to try to catch a breath of breeze, when, in fact, he needed to speak frankly, and that was difficult to do when looking directly at Conrad. Oceans of whiskey had left his eyes threaded with red lines, but they were windows into a mind with the snapping precision of a steel trap.

In his prime, Conrad had been a feared and respected state prosecutor. His future brimmed with promise. Then his wife left him and moved to California with her lover. To blunt the pain of her desertion, Conrad turned to drink. But he could never consume enough to ease his heartache.

Soon, drowning his sorrow became his occupation, and he worked at it full-time and to the exclusion of everything else. With absolute apathy, he watched his life unravel. He squandered his career and future to become the town drunk, an object of ridicule.

The old alcoholic nursed no delusions about himself. With brutal candor and abasement, he owned up to his personal failures. Which made him as ruthlessly candid about other people’s mistakes and misjudgments. He took no prisoners, he cut no slack. While Crawford scorned the old man for wasting his life, any time he sought an unvarnished assessment of a dilemma, he knew he’d get it in this run-down house.

“Well?” Conrad prompted. “I was in the middle of a bloody beach assault. Did you interrupt all that excitement only to stare out the window? What’s going on? Why the sad-sack face?”

“What I did yesterday could screw me royally.”

“Going after the shooter, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“For starters, with my in-laws.” Crawford told him about the confrontation with Joe Gilroy. “I went over to their house late last night to check on Grace. Joe was polite for about two minutes, then he let me have it. He’s never been a big fan of mine. Now, I’ve given him an excuse to make me out a hothead.”

“Oh, and we all know better.”

His sarcasm brought Crawford around to face him. “Why I bothered coming out here to talk to you—”

“You bothered because you know that I won’t coddle you, that I’ll tell it to you like it is.”

“Then stop editorializing and get on with it.”

“Happily. Based on what I know of Joe Gilroy, I wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire. I despise judgmental hard-asses like him. But in this instance, much as it pains me to say it, he’s right. Going after that gunman, you could have gotten yourself killed, and that would’ve made your daughter a double orphan.”

“I thought of that,” Crawford admitted. “But not until later. After it was over.”

“You acted in the heat of the moment.”

“Conditioned reflex.”

“Conditioned, my ass,” Conrad snorted. “You were born with it.”

“You agree with Joe, then? I’m reckless by nature.”

“Let me finish, will you?
On the other hand
,” Conrad said with emphasis, “what were you supposed to do? Let a madman with a pistol run amok in a building full of people? You’re a Texas Ranger, for God’s sake. Even off duty, you’re not off duty. No lawman worth his salt is. Am I right?”

The answer being obvious, Crawford saw no need to respond.

The former prosecutor continued. “By all accounts, you saved Judge Spencer’s life. No matter what your father-in-law does to try to color her opinion of you, he’ll be peeing into the wind. The judge isn’t going to forget how you shielded her with your own body. Stop worrying on that score. You’ve won her favor.”

Speaking in an undertone, Crawford said, “Don’t be so sure.”

There was nothing wrong with the old man’s hearing, either. He perked up and fixed on Crawford the shrewd stare that had cowed lying defendants. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

“Forget it.”

“Has the judge got some reason to dislike you?”

“No.” His overly loud denial caused Conrad’s eyebrows to climb up his wrinkled forehead. Gesturing impatiently, Crawford said, “All I meant was, don’t be fooled by the soft packaging. She’s tougher than she looks. She was raking me over the coals but good when the guy rushed in with pistol blazing.”

Conrad sighed. “Lunatics on shooting sprees are going for records these days, trying to outdo each other. If you hadn’t reacted as you did, he would have killed the judge, and, more than likely, you and many others.”

Crawford turned back to gaze out the window. “Maybe.”

“Everybody’s saying.”

“Everybody’s saying a lot of shit. Doesn’t make it true.”

Conrad waited several moments, then asked, “Does your little girl know that her daddy’s a hero?”

“She doesn’t care. It’s enough for her that I’m Daddy. Anyway, I’m not a hero.”

“That’s arguable. You risked your life protecting others. You confronted the guy up on the courthouse roof.”

Crawford said nothing to that.

“Have they figured out who he was?”

Crawford shook his head.

“Well, that’s not your problem.”

“It wasn’t until about an hour ago.”

Conrad made a snuffling sound. “I get the feeling we’re just now getting to the heart of the matter.”

Coming back around, Crawford told him about Neal’s visit to his house that morning. “He delivered a message from the police chief, along with a letter from Chet’s widow.” He related the gist of it. “Next thing I know, I’m accompanying Neal to the morgue, when what I should’ve done was to kick him out of my house.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because of the letter from Mrs. Barker. Besides—”

“Ha! Figured there was a ‘besides.’ I’ve been waiting for it.”

“I watched Chet die,” he said tightly. “I watched the guy on the roof get blown to hell. Naturally, I wanted answers to all the questions left open.”

“Naturally.” Conrad waited, then asked softly, “You find any answers in the morgue?”

Crawford said nothing, just looked back at him, and Conrad immediately read meaning in his expression. His rheumy eyes narrowed to slits. “I see. Well, then, that breakthrough was worth you making the trip downtown. Neal Lester must be happy.”

“I didn’t share.”

Without breaking their eye contact, Conrad lowered the footrest of his recliner, sat up straight, and scrubbed his bristly chin with his hand. “You didn’t tell—”

“Or even let on about it.”

Conrad eyed him, finally saying, “Usually, when someone withholds information from the authorities, it’s to protect something or someone.” He waited for Crawford to address that, and when he didn’t, he went on.

“I won’t ask what it is you know, because I don’t want to hear anything that I might have to testify to in court at a later date. But whatever it is, you need to tell the police immediately.”

“Why?”

“Duty. Justice. Or obstruction thereof. Just a few of the reasons that spring to mind.”

“If I keep it to myself, no one will ever know.”

“
You
will. Can you live with the secret, whatever it is?”

Crawford looked aside, cursing under his breath.

“I didn’t think so,” Conrad said.

“If I cough up what I know, I’ll be placing myself in the epicenter of a shit storm.”

“You’re already at the center.”

“A bigger shit storm,” Crawford said. “An F-five shit storm.”

“Which could prevent you from getting custody of your kid.”

“Damn fucking straight.”

Conrad took a couple of moments to assimilate that. “Okay. I get that. But what happens if you
don’t
tell?”

Crawford drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Potential for an even greater disaster.”

“How much greater? Life or death greater?” Then he said, “Never mind. It’s written all over you. Somebody else could die.”

“
Could
,” Crawford stressed. “Maybe not. I don’t know.”

“But that’s what you’re scared will happen.” This time when Crawford didn’t respond, Conrad gave him a cagey grin. “Now I get why you came out here today. You want me to do the dirty work for your conscience.”

Crawford placed his hands on his hips. “Does what you just said actually make sense to you? Because to me that sounds like the rambling of a drunk.”

“I am a drunk. I admit it. But I’m not the one impeding a police investigation.”

“I’m not impeding anything.”

“That’s splitting hairs, and you damn well know it.” He leveled a hard look at Crawford. “As a peace officer, as a law-abiding citizen, you know what you’ve got to do. You knew before you walked through that door. You just want me to be the angel on your shoulder who whispers it in your ear.”

“Angel? That’s a laugh. Why would I come to
you
asking about matters of conscience?”

“So that when things go south, you’ll have me to blame for dispensing rotten advice. Soon as that shit storm starts swirling around you, you’ll curse me for being a drunken fool who you had the bad judgment to listen to. You’ll get to hate me for being the one who urged you to do the right thing.” He paused, then added, “Not that you need another reason to hate me.”

“You got that right.” Crawford turned abruptly and pushed so hard on the screen door that it swung wide and banged against the exterior wall.

“Son! Come back here.”

As Crawford thumped across the porch, he called over his shoulder, “Thanks for the fatherly advice.”

Most of his visits with Conrad—who, even in his private thoughts, he referred to by his given name, certainly not Dad—ended badly, which was why they were few and far between, and only when Crawford initiated one. A condition of him acknowledging Conrad at all was that Conrad was never to contact him. He’d lost that privilege years ago.