Where Fools Dare to Tread

by David William Pearce

  “Yeah, I get it, no one likes to get the shit kicked out of them…” He leaned back in his chair.

  “And?” I was getting impatient!

  “And our friend, Detective Mallory is waiting. You’re a popular nobody, Buttman. Tell you what; it’s my understanding, having talked with the doctor, that they’re letting you out at four. There’s some concern about who’s going to watch out for you…”

  “Joanie will take care of me…”

  “Yeah, except I spoke to her and she’s got a gig in San Fran. So till she gets back, you need a sitter. You can stay with me for a few days. I talked to the wife, and she’s ok with that so long as you don’t have a problem being in a black neighborhood.”

  “Why would I have a problem with that?”

  “Because people do, Buttman.” Jones stood up and acknowledged the detective hovering outside the door. “We’ll talk about our little adventure later.” He passed Mallory with a nod. He had one more comment before he headed out.

  “Agnes called.”

  14

  Mallory watched Jones glide down the hall past the nurse’s desk. I slid back on the bed, raising its head to better chat with my inquisitor. Mallory took the chair previously occupied by the bad motherfucker.

  “Interested in talking with me for a few minutes, Mr. Buttman?”

  “That depends on what you want, Detective Mallory.”

  He was much more casual this time. Unlike our previous meetings there was no threat in his voice or edge to his words.

  “You don’t care for the police do you?”

  “I have a deep, yet personally unsubstantiated, antipathy as concerns the police, yes.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because the cops, the fuzz, the pigs are the head busting, jack-booted thugs that allow the white power structure to continue to oppress the people. They abuse their social contract, hide their miscreants from proper adjudication and reinforce all the ugly stereotypes permeating American society. They are the bugaboos of an American life where we want to be protected from the other guy, but not hassled about all the silly shit we do because everybody else does it too. I think, in short, that about covers it. Naturally, that flies in the face of the good cops I’ve gotten to know, but there are exceptions to every rule.”

  Mallory laughed as I finished.

  “Excellent. However, you’re a little young to be a sixties radical, so where did all this antagonism come from?”

  “I got it from my old man, a true radical. He was a part of that time and did not hesitate to indoctrinate me in the way the world really works. And given all the stories I’ve heard about the police, it’s fair to say it’s not completely off the mark.”

  “Perhaps, or it’s the long-haired pinko freaks, with no respect for the law, talking trash, throwing bombs, assassinating cops, and trying to overthrow the greatest country in the world who are the real pigs. Ever heard that side of the story?”

  “I have. Son of a cop?” It was my turn to smile, or try to.

  “Lifelong patrolman. I got to hear all about it growing up, through the academy and on the beat. Just like you, but in reverse. We’re two sides of the same distrustful coin, Buttman.”

  “So we are.”

  We let that thought marinate as we sat there. I wasn’t exactly sure what the good detective wanted. They didn’t need me to find Desiree, Martin, or the missing money. Nor did it seem reasonable for a police detective, one assigned to the homicide squad, to wander down and inquire into the beating of a nobody. Mallory had other ideas, just as I did, our true coin of the realm.

  “Have you found Desiree Marshan yet?” I was curious.

  “Yet?” Ah, the smiling detective. “We’ve already talked to Ms. Marshan. As far as the department and the DA are concerned, the matter is closed.”

  “Didn’t she kill Boyer?”

  “She did,” he said as if it were no big deal.

  “And?”

  “And what?” His instincts were showing and I had unwittingly owned up that maybe I knew more, but in truth, we both knew that.

  “Is she in jail?”

  “No, Ms. Marshan is not.”

  “So what happened?”

  Mallory looked me in the one good eye, “You should know, you were there.”

  “Says who?”

  “Come on, Buttman, this isn’t my first rodeo. I know you know more than you’ve admitted.”

  “Maybe. Tell me what happened on your end, then we’ll see if I have anything to add.”

  “If that opens your mouth...” He leaned back and crossed his legs. “Ms. Marshan, in a statement, told us that she killed Boyer because he was sexually assaulting her at knifepoint. She was found to have cuts on her neck and hands, and, during a medical exam, showed evidence of injuries consistent with sexual assault. In examining Boyer’s body, we found physical evidence consistent with her statement.”

  “And Boyer?”

  “She claimed he was harassing her at work and that the harassment increased after he found out about her previous employment in the adult film industry. She said he was threatening to have her fired if she didn’t do what he wanted and that she feared for her life. This culminated in the attack in which she killed him. Apparently, he dropped the knife in the throes of orgasm, or something to that effect, and she picked it up and stabbed him to death. After she left, she turned herself in and provided her statement.”

  “I assumed you went through Boyer’s effects to corroborate her allegations?”

  “Nope, never occurred to us, Buttman.” He shook his head. “We did, however, find a large number of files on Boyer’s computer containing images and videos of Ms. Marshan. And staff members at Aeschylus and Associates reported that they heard Boyer making improper comments to Ms. Marshan.”

  “There wasn’t any pushback from A and A, or Boyer’s family?”

  “No.” Mallory raised his eyebrows for effect. “There was no interest in pursuing any other possible motives for what happened; not from the department, not from Durant. We’ve had no contact from the family. Everyone wanted it swept under the rug and forgotten.”

  “Don’t you find that a little odd?”

  “Why would I? There was nothing to indicate she was lying. You said you didn’t know anything. The evidence collected corroborated her statement. Do you know something that would challenge that?”

  “And if I did, would there be any support, from the department, the DA, Durant, or the Boyer family to pursue it?”

  “Probably not, but that doesn’t mean that I no longer care about what you have to say.”

  “I’m touched.” I tried to smile; it hurt.

  “You should be.” His smile seemed oddly genuine.

  So now what?

  “I don’t get it? If you have no loose ends, other than whatever I may or may not know concerning Boyer’s death, why you’re even here? It can’t be the beating, I’m not important enough. I don’t know anything relevant about Martin Delashay’s disappearance, and I doubt it’s my sterling personality or staunch support of the police.”

  “Let’s just say it’s for my own personal edification. There may be little I can do to reopen a case no one is interested in, but certain things don’t add up. Unfortunately, they’re tangential to the death of Boyer and with Durant pushing Goncalves I’m as much an outsider as you are. As for Martin Delashay, his wife assured us he’s prone to disappearances and that we shouldn’t be concerned. Apparently, he always returns. How’s that?” Mallory leaned in. “Work with me on this. It’s not a bad thing to know someone in the police department. I�
��m not a bad guy, Buttman.”

  I wonder how Moses would answer that?

  “Yeah, I’ve known monsters who told me the same thing, but I’ll be nice and won’t lump you in with them, at least not yet. It’s tempting, detective, very tempting. I still don’t know why you think I know more than I say, but right now I can blame the drugs and if need be I can blame them later. Some things, for now, I’ll keep to myself, mostly so if I’m full of shit I won’t come across as a complete bozo, but I’ll play.” I slowly turned and sat up. This time the robe stayed put. “What do you want to know?”

  “Is what you told me about Boyer’s death complete?”

  “Complete? Very diplomatic…”

  “So why not tell what you do know, all of it?”

  “Because influential individuals asked that I be discreet, I have to honor that. I’m small potatoes; I know my place, but you know that already. As for what I did not pass on initially, well that seems to be so everyone could get their story straight.”

  “And your story…”

  “My story… I was returning the documents from Delashay when I walked in on them. I can’t say, for sure, that it wasn’t a sexual assault, but there were no cuts on Desiree Marshan, and I don’t think this was the first time they’d engaged in what they were doing. The knife was in the desk drawer. She got mad when Boyer got cute about letting me watch and my taking a turn if I wanted. I don’t think her killing him was premeditated, but I don’t know for sure. Desiree was never a delightful character as far as I was concerned. I found her moody and petulant, but again that might just be me. After she killed him, she demanded a satchel that contained money and the documents I had. I gave her the money. I didn’t care about that, but refused to turn over the documents. I don’t think she knew what to do at that point, so she took off. I gave her five minutes and called security. That’s my story.”

  Mallory mulled this over. “Why would she want Delashay’s documents?”

  “She wouldn’t say, but she was pretty pissed off when I refused to turn them over.”

  “Weren’t you afraid she might kill you too?”

  “No. She was already freaked out after killing Boyer. The knife was on the floor, so I kicked it away. I didn’t think she had the nerve to find the knife and kill me before I could stop her, all while half-naked and bloody.”

  “Do you know what was in the documents?”

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t know.”

  “And the money, do you know how much was in the satchel?”

  “Twenty-five grand.”

  “Know anything about that?”

  “No.”

  “Seems like a lot of money to have in cash at a back office, don’t you think?”

  “I do, but I don’t know what it was for. Maybe it was her payoff for grabbing the documents.”

  I was about to lie back down when a small intense looking woman in a doctor’s coat came into the room. Mallory stood up and moved the chair back to the wall.

  “Thanks for the opportunity, Mr. Buttman. You have my number, keep in touch.”

  Mallory left me to the care of the doctor. She asked how I was feeling. I replied that I was in pain, but felt better for the most part, all things considered.

  I was almost ready to be introduced back into society.

  In a matter-of-fact drone, she slowly went over my condition, the medications I would be given and the best way not to abuse them. She recommended a follow-up be scheduled and that physical therapy might not be a bad thing once I recovered enough for physical horseplay. I thanked her for her cogent application of medical professionalism. The nurse came in moments later to repeat everything the doctor had just said. She asked if anyone was picking me up and I replied that a big black man was coming to take me away. She smiled in a thoroughly condescending manner and promised to return later with everything I would need to get the hell out of here. I laid back on the bed and promptly fell into a dreamless sleep.

  When I opened my eyes, Mr. Jones was waiting.

  15

  I don’t know exactly what I was expecting as the always somber Mr. Jones drove me to his house. Having never spent any time in the black part of town, most of my expectations were of rundown buildings and homes with people hanging out on the street, as if I were in some movie from the Seventies. I felt completely out of place not only because of where we were, but with what I was wearing. My clothes had been removed and were unfit to wear anyway from the blood, sweat, and vomit covering them. Jones thoughtfully brought me a pair of baggy sweatpants and a tee shirt emblazoned with the words, Big Daddy. A wide grin covered his face as I gingerly put them on. They wheeled me out after I signed the required paperwork and carefully put me into Jones’ minivan. To my rather chagrined surprise, his neighborhood wasn’t any different than mine. His house was a ranch with a pleasant front yard. Mr. Jones’ wife, son, and daughter were waiting for us as he pulled into the driveway.

  His family was courteous and solicitous, helping me out of the car and into the house. I sat on the couch as they took their places around me, ready to inquire about the sad-assed white dude invading their personal space. The kids, both in their teens, quickly lost interest in my problems and disappeared; off, I assumed, to their own rooms. Mrs. Jones sat across from me.

  “I don’t know what exactly Orville has told you, but my name is Coretta.”

  Orville?

  “Like Coretta Scott King?” I asked.

  “Yes, I was named after Dr. King’s wife. My parents were deeply involved in the civil rights movement and wanted me to remember their struggle. I want you to know that you’re welcome in our house.”

  “I appreciate your letting me into your home, Coretta. I promise not to overstay my welcome.” Coretta smiled and took my hand. She was a statuesque woman with thick black hair and eyes that sparkled. Jones squirmed next to her. She didn’t strike me as the kind of woman a bad motherfucker would marry, but then I didn’t expect him to live in the burbs with a wife and two teenaged kids.

  “I do have one rule, Monk…”

  “Yes?”

  “This is a Christian home, so I won’t tolerate any foul or offensive language.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll be mindful of what I say.”

  “I appreciate that. Orville, please show Monk his room.”

  Orville and I watched as Coretta left, moving towards the kitchen. Clearly Orville was a different person at home. I thought something was up when he arrived at the hospital. The clothes he wore were not black, but rather colorful and the glasses he wore were not evocative of a mid-Seventies black badass. He held out his hand.

  “This way.”

  It was a tidy room with a twin bed covered by a flowery comforter that matched the curtains. A small table with a lamp and a bureau complemented the bed. The light from the window filled the room with a warm glow that made me want to rest my weary soul. As I had no baggage, of the material kind, there was nothing to find a home or place for. Mr. Jones eyed me as I gently lowered myself on to the bed.

  “What time is it?” I asked. I had no idea and for some reason thought it important.

  “It’s a little after five. I expect we’ll have dinner in a half hour or so.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Don’t care, you need to eat.” It was good to hear his patronizing tone, something familiar to hold on to. He handed me a small bag. “This is for you, toothbrush, toothpaste, some floss, deodorant, and a comb. There are towels in the bathroom for you, they’re the white ones.” He almost smiled at that. “Oh, and one more thing…�
�

  He reached into his pocket.

  “This is for you. I took up a collection.”

  It was a small phone.

  “Now you don’t need to use mine. Agnes already has your number. Hers is in there. For some reason she’s worried about you. You don’t have to call, but you know.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate this.”

  A look of disapproval came over him.

  “Don’t thank me, thank Coretta. I foolishly mentioned your situation to her. I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”

  He left me to my discomfort and I to his. I figured we could talk about Orville another time. I briefly flirted with the idea of calling Agnes, but changed my mind, maybe after dinner. I put the phone on the table, carefully laid down, and closed my eyes. I put my hands to my head and felt about the bandages. There was less swelling, and so long as I didn’t press too hard there was little pain. My eye and nose were a different matter. The eye was still swollen to the point where I couldn’t see out of it, and my nose was plugged with gauze that I gingerly pulled out. I was tired of breathing out of my mouth. A small amount of air passed through my nostrils. It was a start.

  The rest of my left side was stiff and sore, but otherwise in one piece. My ribs ached, but not like they had when the tractor fell on me, breaking four and nearly killing me. This wasn’t so bad. Same with my leg, there were nasty bruises, but nothing that wouldn’t heal. All in all, I had survived the beating intact. It could have been much worse. The question now was what to do? It was one thing to mount a half-assed inquiry into a missing woman, who wasn’t actually missing. It was another to get the shit kicked out of you and not reflect on your motives and of those who administered the beating.

  It was time for answers.

  The first would have to come from the man of the house. Whether from Orville, or the chill Mr. Jones, it didn’t matter. His motives I needed to know. Otherwise it was time to split. I drifted in and out of consciousness. The sunlight was fading, and with it the warmth I first experienced here in my little room. There was a noise I didn’t recognize coming from the table. The phone was making itself known, squawking, demanding attention. I picked it up and pushed the talk button.