“A coach from the old school,” Bernie said.
“As old as it gets. Go on out there if you want. He likes company.”
* * *
We walked onto the field, mostly dirt with tufts of grass here and there. Coach Flowers had moved out from between the two rows of players, now stood to the side. We stopped nearby. Coach Flowers put the whistle in his mouth, sort of nudging the stogie to one side, and talked around them.
“On the whistle, potato heads. Not before, not after. All set?”
He blew the whistle, a sound I hate, but at least I’d known it was coming. The two rows charged each other, thumping together with lots of grunts and shouts, none of the shouts actual words, more like the kind of noise you hear on Animal Planet. The kids finished knocking each other around, picked themselves up, dusted themselves off.
“What the heck?” said Coach Flowers. Or something like that—he wasn’t easy to understand with the whistle and stogie in his mouth. “Call that hitting? Don’t look like hitting to me. Looked like hugging your sister.”
One of the kids said, “I’m a sister, Coach.”
Coach Flowers turned to her. “Did I ask for your opinion, Taneeka?”
“Not yet, Coach.”
“Take a lap.”
Taneeka jogged away, her face all dusty and sweaty.
“Down,” said Coach Flowers.
The rest of the kids scrambled back to their rows, got down in hands and feet position.
“Butt is the engine,” said Coach Flowers.
“Butt is the engine!” the kids yelled.
“Hands is the tools.”
“Hands is the tools!”
“On the whistle, potato heads. All set?” He blew the whistle. Then came the charging, thumping, grunting, shouting, falling, after which Coach Flowers told them that was still hugging their sister, not hitting. They did the whole thing over a few more times. Over on the sidelines, the coach with the clipboard blew his whistle and yelled, “Time!”
“Already?” said Coach Flowers. “How the heck are we gonna beat the Eagles on Sattiday?”
“Hit ’em hard and often,” said Taneeka.
Coach Flowers gave her a look. “Scram,” he said, taking the whistle out of his mouth. “Alla yus.”
“Go Lions,” the kids shouted, and ran off the field.
Coach Flowers turned, seemed to notice us for the first time.
“Fifty-two looks real good,” Bernie said.
Coach Flowers squinted at him. “The fat one with the glasses?”
“Footwork, timing, balance. But the best thing is he’s humming a little tune the whole time.”
The coach nodded. “I noticed that. You with the league?”
“Just a spectator,” Bernie said. He held out his hand. “Bernie Little.”
“Ernie Flowers.” They shook hands.
“And this is Chet,” Bernie said.
“What’s he doing with that ball?”
“Chet!”
I dropped the ball, no problem. Funny how it didn’t bounce, instead sort of flopped down like an old shoe. The coach picked it up, peered at what might have been an insignificant hole or two. “It’s ruint,” he said.
“I’ll pay for a new one.” Bernie reached for his wallet.
The coach waved it away. “That’s all right. Pup dint know what he was doin’.”
I glanced around, saw no pups, no members of the nation within at all. Perhaps I’d misheard on account of the stogie in his mouth—a very thick stogie, frayed and sort of slobbery. I was starting to like Coach Flowers a lot.
“You musta played,” he said.
“Some,” said Bernie. “How about you?”
“High school,” said Coach Flowers.
“Where was this?”
“Coronado High down in Fort Kidder.”
“The Renegades,” Bernie said.
“That’s right. How’d you know that?”
“I was based in Fort Kidder some time back, took in a game or two.”
“Program went to shit after the move. We made state finals one year when I was there.”
“What was your position?”
“Center.”
“Who was the quarterback?”
“His name, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Boomer Riggs.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Huh?”
“No one knows the quarterback like the center.”
“True enough,” said the coach. “But Boomer never went on to the pros or nothin’ like that.”
“Have you kept up with him?”
“Nope.”
“How come?”
“No interest in it.”
“Sounds like maybe you didn’t like him much,” Bernie said.
Coach Flowers shrugged. “Long time past.”
“Yes and no,” Bernie said.
The coach squinted at him again, normally not a good look on humans, especially small-eyed ones like Coach Flowers, but it sort of suited him. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Do you remember Lotty Pilgrim?”
“’Course. Prettiest gal in the state back then. And real talented, too. She in trouble? My wife mentioned something.”
Bernie handed the coach our card. “We’re trying to help Lotty.”
“That’s nice,” said the coach. “But what’s it got to do with high school football way back when?”
“That’s where you come in,” Bernie said. “Tell me about Lotty’s relationship with Boomer Riggs.”
“Like in what way?”
“Anything that comes to mind.”
“Well,” said Coach Flowers, “it was kind of upside down.”
“How do you mean?”
“Boomer being the QB and all, big man on campus, well-off family, especially for down there in those days. He coulda just played the field, had any girl he wanted—which he did, before things got going with Lotty. He kind of surprised me after that.”
“How?”
“Boomer got real serious. Talked about wanting to marry her, go away to college together. Getting married young wasn’t so unusual then.”
“What was Lotty’s reaction?”
“That’s the upside-down part. She was way more casual than him—not wanting to … what’s the word?”
“Commit?”
“Yeah,” Boomer said. “Then when she met that Mexican or whatever he was down in Tesabe and dropped out to be with him, Boomer just went ape.”
“Oh,” said Bernie, his head going back just a little. I love that move! It makes him look even better, almost an impossibility, you might think.
“Boomer got drunk and beat the shit out of Jose Riaz,” the coach said. “Night before our last Thanksgiving game—meaning the seniors. Knocked Jose right out of the game. Boomer shoulda been suspended, of course, but the coach didn’t have the balls.” Coach Flowers gazed across the field. “We lost.”
“I’m a little confused,” Bernie said. “Was Jose Riaz the Mexican Lotty got involved with?”
“Naw,” said the coach. “Jose was just a Mexican—a handy nearby Mexican for Boomer to take out his rage on. And Jose actually wasn’t a Mexican, came from an old-time Arizona family going back hundreds of years. American as you or me, is what I’m tryna say, if you get my meaning.”
“I think I do,” Bernie said.
I myself did not get the meaning. But if apes were in the picture things had taken a bad turn.
Thirty
“Go in and take a seat,” Rick said, opening a door for us. “You’re on camera but there are no mics.”
“Sure about that?” Bernie said.
Rick laughed. “Beware the unknown unknowns, huh, old buddy?” He handed Bernie a bottle of water as we went inside, and closed the door behind us.
This was the kind of room where you don’t want to spend much time: cement floor, cinder-block walls, one plastic table, two plastic chairs, no windows, a heavy metal door on the far s
ide of the room. Bernie glanced around and sat down. “He’s right about the unknown unknowns. But what’s the funny part?”
I couldn’t help Bernie on that. Instead, I sat down beside him, nice and close. Human tears leave a smell in the air, a bit like the ocean, but way tinier. I was picking up that smell in this room. It reminded me of our trip to San Diego. We’d surfed, me and Bernie! At first on the same board and later we each had one. I preferred sharing a board, but there’d been issues, possibly involving who stood where. When you’re in front you get that ocean spray full in the face. I was thinking about how much I love ocean spray full in the face when the door on the far side of the room opened, and Lotty Pilgrim came in, wearing an orange jumpsuit. The door closed with a solid clang. She saw us and stopped.
“It’s you?” she said. “That’s not what they told me.” Lotty backed toward the door.
Bernie rose. “Sorry for the subterfuge,” he said. “But not using it would have been a greater sin.”
“Why is that?”
“I’ll explain.” Bernie walked around the table, pulled out the other plastic chair.
Lotty didn’t move. “Why should I trust you? Not that it matters in the big picture, but you set me up.”
“The sheriff planted a GPS tracker under my car,” Bernie said. “I’m ashamed of myself for being careless, but I didn’t set you up.”
Bernie ashamed? I must have heard wrong. I licked his foot, always more interesting when he wore flip-flops, like now.
For a moment or two, Lotty stayed put. Then, very slowly, like her legs had gotten real heavy, she came forward. She looked small in the orange jumpsuit, even though I knew she wasn’t a small woman. Also her silvery blond hair had lost its pouf, hung straight down, sort of limp, and had gone pure white at the roots. Bernie angled the chair for her and helped her closer to the table, like a gentleman at the Ritz, where I had actually once been myself, if very briefly.
Lotty turned her head to look up at him. “Do all private detectives talk in terms of sin and shame?” she said.
“None of them, including me,” Bernie said. “That was a first.”
Lotty rested her hands on the table, strong, square, nice-looking hands, even if kind of oldish. “You seem like a good man,” she said, “and the way you and Chet get along proves it, but I don’t know what you hope to achieve. I’m pleading guilty in the morning.”
“Guilty to what?” Bernie said.
“Murder.”
“Whose murder?”
Lotty sat back. “Clint’s, of course.”
“Okay, let’s start there,” Bernie said. “Take me through it.”
“We’ve already done this.”
“No,” Bernie said. “We’ve done your avoidance of it. What happened that night at the ranch?”
“I killed Clint. That’s the bottom line.”
“How?”
Lotty closed her eyes. Her eyelids trembled for a moment, then opened. “I can’t talk about it.”
Bernie leaned forward, laid his hand on one of hers. “You sense things, Lotty—more powerfully than most people. You must be sensing that this is your last chance—maybe the only chance you ever had—to straighten things out.”
“What things?” Lotty said.
“Your whole life.”
Lotty’s head twisted to the side, almost like she’d been hit.
“How did you kill Clint?” Bernie’s voice was quiet, but not at all soft.
Lotty tried to slide her hand out from under his, but Bernie didn’t let her. It wasn’t like he pressed real hard or anything like that. He did it more with his eyes, if that makes any sense, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t.
Her eyes shifted as though she was hearing some faraway sound. “With a knife,” she said.
“What knife?” said Bernie.
“It … it must’ve—” she began and then stopped herself. “A kitchen knife,” she said. “I took one of the knives from the kitchen.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t remember. I just went and grabbed it.”
“Think back,” Bernie said. “What were you doing before you grabbed the knife?”
“Why are you humiliating me like this?” Lotty withdrew her hand. Bernie didn’t stop her.
“I don’t see what’s humiliating about it.”
“No? An old bag drunk out of her mind? In bed with her cheating boyfriend and acting like a whore even though she knew he was cheating? And finding he was all tuckered out from a previous engagement?” Tears rose in Lotty’s eyes but didn’t overflow. “Humiliating enough for you? Want more?”
Bernie just sat there. A silent time went by. Often in those silent times I feel Bernie’s thoughts, but not now. Was he just letting a silent time go by? At last he spoke.
“At what point did you go to the kitchen for the knife?”
Lotty’s mouth opened. Bernie had surprised her in some way, surprised her big-time. Her tears dried up. “You’re so goddamn dogged,” she said.
That again? Hadn’t it already come up with Leticia? Like mother, like daughter—wasn’t that a human expression? How nice the two of them had realized Bernie and I were alike in some ways, both of us dogged, of course, but was it possible I was kind of whatever dogged would be going the other way, toward human, if you see what I mean? I myself did not see what I meant and abandoned the whole thing at once.
“Was Clint still awake?” Bernie said.
“I don’t know,” said Lotty. “I was drunk. Blacked-out drunk. Ever been blacked-out drunk?”
Bernie nodded.
Whoa! I’d never seen him like that, or anything close. Had it happened in that time before we got together, me and Bernie? Some times are more important than others. That one didn’t really count.
“Then you know what it’s like,” Lotty was saying. “In the morning you re-create the goings-on from the mess left over.”
“What sort of mess?”
“Do I have to spell it out? I woke up with Clint’s body beside me, our legs intertwined.” Her voice rose. “There’s a nice detail for you. Our legs intertwined, him with a bloody hole in his chest and me with a bloody knife in the palm of my hand.”
“But you don’t remember getting the knife.”
Lotty rose. “I’ve had enough.”
“We’re not nearly done,” Bernie said. “We haven’t even come to Hector yet.”
Lotty sat down hard, like her legs had given out.
“Let’s go over the death of Hector,” Bernie said. “The late Dr. Fred Wellington signed his death certificate—officially a drug overdose. Did you know Dr. Wellington, Lotty?”
She nodded. Her eyes were locked on Bernie’s now. It’s a look you see in my world, for example—what with Delilah so fresh in my mind—when a mouse suddenly notices that there’s a cat in the room.
“Did Hector buy drugs from him?”
She nodded again.
“Do you find it strange that the drug dealer signed the death certificate? Wouldn’t he want to distance himself from any customer ODs?”
“I don’t know how his mind worked,” Lotty said.
“Sounds like you didn’t like him much,” said Bernie.
“He wasn’t important to me.”
“No? That death certificate was very important to you. Still is.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“I most certainly do not.” Lotty’s legs tensed like she was going to rise again, but she stayed where she was. I’d seen that before at some of our interviews, perps stuck to their chairs. Was Lotty a perp? Or not? Was it possible that this was a case with no perp? What a horrible thought! A bit like tin futures, although I couldn’t have explained why.
“What didn’t you like about Dr. Wellington?” Bernie said. “Did he have some sort of influence over Hector?”
“His drugs,” Lotty said. “I didn’t like his drugs.” She got a distant look in her eyes. Bernie sat very st
ill. So did I. “I liked Hector’s drugs,” she went on at last. “They were part of a ritual, had meaning. Wellington’s drugs meant nothing but enslavement.”
“Did they enslave Hector?”
“Yes.”
“And kill him in the end?”
Lotty was quiet for a long time. It went on and on. Bernie never interrupts these silences. I’d seen that a jillion times, the biggest number out there, according to Charlie. But this time Bernie spoke.
“I’ve seen Hector’s body,” he said. “Someone dug it up.”
Lotty turned white. Not white, exactly. It was more like the skin of her face went dead. She started to topple over.
Bernie caught her before she fell. He can be very quick, as I’m sure you know already. Not long after that, he had her sitting up straight and was helping her hold the water bottle. Lotty drank and began looking more like her normal self. She was one of those tough cookies we ran into from time to time. A strange idea: no cookie I’ve tried came close to being tough, my teeth making quick work of each and every one. Maybe it’s all about the big difference between my teeth and yours, no offense.
Lotty put down the bottle, took a deep breath. “Who … who…?”
“Who dug him up?” Bernie said.
She nodded.
“We haven’t been able to identify him. A big guy, forty to forty-five, educated, self-confident. Any of that familiar?”
Lotty shook her head.
“Did Clint know someone like that?”
“No. What are you saying?”
“Just excluding possibilities, remote in this case.”
They looked at each other. I was reminded of some of the old boxing matches we’d watched, in the days after Leda and Charlie left. A crazy thought. Bernie punching a woman was out of the question. Also he liked Lotty a whole lot. But still, wasn’t she getting hurt?
“Flaco has a tape of you and Hector working on ‘How You Hung the Moon,’” Bernie said.
“My god,” said Lotty.
“Pretty goddamn wonderful,” Bernie said. “I just can’t fit it together with what came out of that grave.”
Lotty clasped her hands and squeezed them tight.
“The death certificate was false,” Bernie said. “Did you know that?”
Lotty nodded, the slightest little movement.
“Do you know the true cause of death?”
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