Slow Burn (18 page)

"Hell,
no/' he said. "Never even got a chance to talk to anybody else. I just got
done payin' people when the place was crawlin' with cops."

"Good. So
all they've got is the cames and wents."

"They
probably ain't even got that."

"They
didn't get your notebook?"

He gave me a
sly grin. "Fat chance."

"Tell me
about it," I said.

He did. When he
finished, I threw an arm around his shoulder and gave him a shake. "You're
the best, George. The best."

"As good
as Buddy used to be?"

Nobody had
mentioned Buddy in a long time. I was suddenly filled with that cold feeling I
got whenever his name came up. I took a deep breath. I used to think it was
sorrow that froze my innards, but have come to see it as a kind of permanent
rage for which there is no suitable outlet. Buddy Knox had been the de facto
leader of the crew before George. He was stubborn, and I was careless. On a job
down in Tacoma, the combination cost Buddy his life. What his death cost me
remains to be seen. - "Better," I said. "You keep your shit
together better than he did. I couldn't trust him the way I can trust
you."

I gave him a
small hug.

He struggled to
escape. "Leggo of me, ya gorilla," he growled. "Christ, in here they'll
be thinkin' we're engaged."

"You could
do worse," I lisped.

George looked
grim. "We gonna call anybody?"

"Not
unless you've got a girlfriend."

Ten minutes
later, the jailer reappeared. "You boys call your mamas?" he asked as
he pulled open the cell door.

"Called
yours instead," George snapped.

"One of
them psychics, are ya?" he said affably. "Follow me."

We walked along
the gray corridor, past a half-dozen individual holding cells and down around
the corner to the left.

Even from the
outside, it was obvious that the big general holding cell was where the action
was. Beneath the bright lights, twenty or so men were divided into three
distinct groups. At the far end of the cell, six or seven Hispanics sat close
together in sullen silence. Something about their clothes and haircuts told me
they were probably waiting for the immigration van. Their quiet eyes followed
George and me as we shadowed the jailer down the hall to the orange door.

The middle of
the cell was held down by the African-American contingent, which lounged on the
benches and the floor like they'd signed a lease. Sitting with his back to us
was a huge specimen with a three-ring neck. As George stepped into the cell, he
was just finishing up a story. ". . . and so I axed the bitch. I said,
'bitch, you want me to come upside your head again?' and she say ..." He
looked over at George. "Hey, Granpaaaw," he hollered in a put-on
drawl, to the delight of his audience. "Come ova hea . . . ah got somefin'
fo' ya. Ah bettcha you kin pull them teeth right out, can't ya, Pops? Got
nothin' but smooth gum for cool Poppa here."

George ignored
him, instead slipping over by the far wall, leaning back against the blocks
with his hands stuffed in his pockets. The white man's section was just inside
the door. Two long-haired rednecks about thirty sat side by side on the metal
bench while a third lay snoring on the floor as I entered/

"Ooh, you
got you a bodyguard, huh, Gramps? He be guardin' yo body fo' you, old
man?"

The turnkey
snapped the door shut behind me, but didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave. I
think maybe he'd seen this particular movie before and had been looking forward
to the sequel.

From this side,
Mr. Bigmouth was mostly flab. One hell of a lot of flab, but still flab. He was
no more than a biscuit away from three and a quarter, but soft and out of
shape. He had a big, square head and eyes that were nearly squeezed shut by the
pressure of his blossoming cheeks.

"How
t>out you?" He pointed a fleshy finger my way. "Got some fo' you,
too, honey."

The jailer was
still in sight, so I decided to take a chance. At least I didn't have to worry
about whether Lardass was armed. These days a guy can't pick a fight with a
nine-year-old, for fear that the little shit will have an Uzi in his backpack.
Besides which, fighting in jail is like fighting in school. It tends to get
broken up before it runs too far out of hand.

I looked down
at the nearest butt-rocker on the bench. He wore a tight black Metallica
T-shirt, a pair of ratty jeans about two sizes too small and yellow socks with
holes in the toes.

"Has that
fat piece of shit been running his mouth all night?" I asked in a loud
voice.

The jailer
stopped sauntering and smiled. George pulled his hands from his pockets and
stood up straight along the wall. The redneck ran his eyes between Bigmouth and
me and then back again, but said nothing.

"What you
say?" Bigmouth demanded. He looked out at his audience in disbelief.
"That honky motherfucker call me names?"

"Call you
a fat piece of shit, my man," somebody said.

In order to
drag his big ass up from the bench, Bigmouth had to reach up and grab the bars
with both hands. Even so, his pants did all they could to stay behind. As he
rose, his unbelted drawers slid down to reveal a section of ass the size of a
car hood.

He looked at
the crowd, stuck his arms straight out and cleared his hands of imaginary dust.
The mob loved the show, dissolving into a series of whistles, waves and high
fives. The Mexican guys grinned and moved as far toward the back of the room as
the bars would allow.

He was still
mugging at his boys when I stepped over the guy on the floor. "If you
think your hands are clean enough now, fat boy, what say we get down to it, because
no matter what, I'm here till about ten in the morning, and I've got no
intention of spending the night listening to your big fucking mouth."

Not only did
the room go silent, but the first sign of doubt crept into his narrow little
eyes. This was not the way it was supposed to go. I was supposed to be
hollering for help by now. And then the jailers were supposed to come and bail
my ass out, and then he could bust our balls for the rest of the night. A
beginning, a middle and an end.

"I bust
you up, motherfucker," he said.

"Only if
you fall on me, Lard Bucket."

He wasn't sure
anymore, but the expectant looks on his pals' faces convinced him he had no
choice. As he waddled forward in what I'm sure he imagined was a quick rush, I
bobbed my head to the left and let his big fist sail harmlessly over my
shoulder. While he was still coming forward, I hooked him hard to the side,
just under the ribs, burying myself to the wrist in his torso. When he grunted
and reached for the spot, I pushed off on my right foot, winging my right hand
straight in from the shoulder, moving forward until I was standing on my left
foot.

It hit him
right on the button. My whole arm went numb. Either this was National Hardhead
Week or I was losing my stroke. He wobbled but stayed up, staggering a few
steps and then slowly rubbing his hand over his face, checking for blood. While
he stared stupidly at his palm, I shuffled in and gave him another hook to the
ribs. This time the grunt was more of a scream, as he howled and bent toward
the blow.

I butted him up
against the bars and worked his body like the heavy bag, doubling up on every
other hook while he flailed away harmlessly at my back. In less than a minute I
had him moaning at every blow and desperately trying to slip his elbows into
his hip pockets. As I felt him begin to slide down the bars, I took one step
back and hit him in the forehead with the heel of my hand. His head snapped all
the way back, banging off the bars with a muted clang.

I gathered
myself again as he stepped toward me. When I saw his eyes, I backpedaled into
the center of the room. Bigmouth reached out as if to pull a lamp cord, twirled
once in a pirouette and collapsed onto the concrete floor. The turnkey waited
to see what was going to happen next.

"Anybody
else?" I asked the assembled multitude. No takers.

"You
ladies, settle down now," the jailer admonished as he left.

It took twenty
minutes and a bucket brigade of water cups from the sink in the rear of the
cell for the homeboys to get the big fellow over to his perch on the bench.

"Little
testy tonight, Leo?" George asked.

"Assholes
like that, if s do it now or do it later," I said, without believing it.

It was
eight-twenty. The rednecks rose and offered George and me the bench. At first
we demurred, but when they insisted, we eventually had no choice but to
acquiesce. We spent the night alternately watching each other's backs and
napping.

I was swimming
upstream in that river that flows between wakefulness and sleep, the place
where the mind sorts out the day just past and prepares for the next, when they
came for us. Everybody was issued a nifty pair of orange coveralls and a pair
of little white booties, kind of like the slipper socks my mother had insisted
on buying for me, right up until the day she died. That and a lovely pair of
steel bracelets, and we were ready for court.

George and I
shuffled into courtroom number four at ten-o-six the next morning and walked
out the door on bail at exactly eleven-twenty. Judge Ellen Gardner had not been
amused by Martha Lawrence's attempt to deny us bail. Jed had let her ramble on
about what dangerous characters we were until the judge interrupted her litany.

"You keep
mentioning an ongoing murder investigation, Ms. Lawrence. Am I to take it that
these gentlemen are to be charged in that investigation?"

"We
believe these men have material knowledge which is pertinent to—"

"Are you
charging them or not?" the judge interrupted.

Lawrence
took a deep breath. "Not at this
time, Your Honor."

"Mr.
Waterman is released on his own recognizance." Bang.

"Mr.
Paris's bail is set at ten thousand dollars." Bang-bang.

Rebecca
was
waiting with Jed when we came squinting out into the sunlight on Third
Avenue. I availed myself of a handshake from Jed and a long hug and a
kiss from
Duvall.

"Is the
phone working in the new house?" I asked her.

"As of
this morning."

"What's
the number?"

I wrote it in
my notebook, then threw my arm around George's shoulder and pulled him down the
street, away from Jed and Rebecca. Jed was an officer of the court and Rebecca
worked for the county. The way I saw it, there was no sense compromising their
respective positions.

I wrote the new
number on the back of one of my business cards and handed it to George.
"Find everybody who worked yesterday," I said. "Find out where
everybody went and write it down. Then call that number and leave the info on
the machine. Then—and this is real important—throw away whatever you wrote it
on." I pointed at the card in his hand. "That, too. Memorize the
number and get rid of that thing."

"How come
the spy shit?"

"In case
either or both of us get picked up again, which I think is real likely." I
told him why, then reached into my pocket again and pulled out the rest of the
cash. "Divvy up the money and get lost. All of you. I mean
stone-lost."

"Ain't you
worried about cops and your phone?"

"Ifs a
brand-new number," I said.

"How come
we gotta get lost?"

"Because
we know something the cops don't. We know where all those people were all day
yesterday. That's our edge, my friend. That’s what we've got to trade."

He eyed me up
and down. "Ya know, Leo, watchin' you in the cage last night and listenin'
to you now, I got to say that the older you get, the more you remind me of your
old man."

I never meant
to break his nose. I just didn't want to get hit by that damn cast. The sight
of Lance standing at the rear of the lobby as I walked in, now sporting not
just the cast but a crosshatched mask of tape and gauze, almost made me feel
bad. Almost. Even from this distance I could see the deep discoloration around
his eyes and the cotton packed in his nostrils. I waved as I headed for the
reception desk.

Marie wasn't
working today, but Molly was. "Can I help you, sir?"

I threw my
electronic room key up on the desk. The magnetic strip was nearly peeled off
and hung down, while the card itself had been remolded into a C shape by the
door lock.

"I'm Mr.
Waterman in nine-ten," I said. "My key won't work in the door."
I meant it as a little joke. Sort of an ironic comment on the dreadful state of
the key. Instead, Molly took me seriously and began a detailed explanation of
why and how electronic keys operated. It was my own fault, so I let her ramble
on while she made me another. As she babbled, I was again reminded that
technology divides people into those who care why and how the technology works,
like Molly, and those who care only that it works, like me.