The Yards

by The Yards (epub)

  There are those who think that Mom’s slow. Me, I’m not buyin’. I think she’s afraid, but of what I don’t know. What I do know is that she’ll do just about anything to avoid conflict. Like she’s phobic. As for Dad, I’ve never heard him utter a harsh word to his wife. Or a kind word, either.

  Dad nods at his desk, and Mom puts the tray down. I take a second bite of my doughnut as she leaves the room.

  “The doughnut’s great,” I tell her.

  Mom offers me a quick smile, a young, almost girlish smile. She’s as slim and graceful as dad is thick and clumsy. You’d never take them for husband and wife if you laid eyes on them for the first time.

  When I turn around, Dad’s standing by the window. He staring into the backyard, with its border of roses. The blossoms present a bloodred wall that extends from one side of the property to the other. It’s Mom, of course, who cares for them.

  “I’m thinkin’,” Dad says, “this is better for us.”

  “How so?”

  That provokes a baleful glare. What horrible thing did he do in life to be burdened with an idiot son? That’s all right. Let him think I’m an idiot. Let him live with his delusions, as he’ll have to live with the consequences.

  “If the cops had the money, it’d be gone forever. This way, if we can find the asshole who offed Bradley, we still got a chance to get it back.” Dad lifts a coffee mug and almost drains it. “And speakin’ of the dead, I told you Bradley was deadweight. I told you he was a complete fuckup. But he was your buddy, and you fuckin’ vouched for him. Am I wrong? Tell me.”

  The job couldn’t have been simpler. First, I give Bradley seven hundred little green pills with the number 80 (for 80 mg) on one side. Second, Bradley carries them to a buyer in the northern part of the state. Third, Bradley carries back the eighteen thousand dollars the buyer gives him, going to the Skyview Motor Court before anyone knows he’s in town.

  The Skyview was my idea—just in case the cops were set up on Bradley’s house—but it was pretty much routine. When it comes to drugs, our rule of thumb is simple. Here and gone before anybody knows what happened. That said, the virus was good for us, what with just about every cop busy and the newly unemployed with nothin’ but time on their hands. True, I got sick, Mom too, but we both recovered after a couple of weeks. Not Dad, though. He isolated himself early on while his wife, even sick, left his meals by the door to what used to be their bedroom.

  “How can you blame Bradley?” I ask. “The guy’s dead. He paid with his life.”

  “I thought you said he was asleep when he bought it.”

  “The cops think he was asleep, okay? What’s the difference? You don’t get deader ’cause you see it comin’.”

  Dad picks up a doughnut and bites off half. I watch him chew for a moment, watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. I’m wondering what it would feel like to run a straight razor across his throat.

  “I want that money, Connor, or I want my pound of flesh. I can’t let myself get ripped off and do nothin’. Somebody, somewhere has to pay. You’re gonna make that happen.” He hesitates, then repeats. “You’re gonna make that happen by yourself. I don’t want no one else knowin’ I’m out eighteen grand.”

  I don’t mention the obvious, that the cops will also be looking for whoever took Bradley off the count. Or that my interest might catch their attention.

  “Look, Connor, you know the jerk, right? His friends, where he hangs out, what he likes, what he don’t like? So ask around. Bradley musta told somebody he was gonna be in that room. You find that somebody, you’ll find our money.”

  I think I’m supposed to respond, but I don’t. I just shrug and reach for my coffee. The rip-off isn’t do-or-die. The eighteen hurts, but we’ll be okay. I gotta figure Dad already knows that. He has something else in mind.

  “Try hard, Connor. Try real, real hard. Because we wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t recommended that asshole.” He smiles. Here comes the punch line. “If you don’t find that money, it’s gonna come out of your end of the business.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  DELIA

  Felice Gaitskill is several inches taller than my five-six and big-boned as well. But she’s not as formidable as her son. Richard Gaitskill’s as tall and thick as Vernon Taney, who seems unimpressed. Vern’s pulled a chair up before a monitor in the back office. He offers me the chair, which I take, then waits for me to nod. Vern will conduct most of the interview, as usual. My job is to close the deal.

  “I wanna thank you, Felice,” Vern begins, his tone amiable, “for accommodatin’ us on such short notice.”

  Felice sneers, her eyes narrowing. “Just do what you gotta do, Vern. Get it over with.”

  “Now, Felice, no need to get testy. This is murder we’re talkin’ about.” He hesitates, but Felice, though her mouth moves, holds her peace. “First, did you know Bradley Grieg before he registered last night?”

  “Why would I know him?”

  “That’s actually my second question. The why part.” Vern lifts his head to look into her eyes, his expression still friendly. “So, you did know him, right?”

  “Uh-uh, not the way you mean. Grieg was a regular, checked in maybe three times a month. Usually had a woman in the car. Different women.”

  “Hookers?”

  Richard answers this time, his voice surprisingly high-pitched. “I think Bradley was a . . . a ladies’ man. I think he liked to show off, at least to me. Whenever I was workin’ outside the office—collectin’ trash, cuttin’ the grass—he’d stop and talk for a minute. The women he was with, a lot of ’em were older than he was, and most of them wore their wedding rings. Like they weren’t ashamed, ya know? Like knockin’ off a quickie was routine.”

  “What about yesterday? Was he alone when he registered?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure, Richard?”

  “He parked his car out front when he came into the office. There was nobody else in it.”

  “Okay. So far, so good, and I appreciate the cooperation.” Vern pulls a chair up beside me. “Anybody object if I work this?” Nobody does, and we’re off and running.

  Drawn from an external hard drive, the video’s grainy and blurred, pretty much as I expected. It’s that privacy thing again. Don’t see, don’t tell. According to the desk register, Grieg checked in at 6:20 P.M., and Vern fast-forwards at high speed from early morning, through the afternoon to evening. At 6:15 he slows it down, then slows it further when an Audi pulls onto the lot and drives up to the office.

  Richard Gaitskill wasn’t lying. Grieg was alone when he registered. What’s more, the time/date stamp at the bottom of the screen reads 6:21, which jibes with the desk register. So far, so good.

  Bradley Grieg leaves the office eight minutes later, at 6:29. He drives to his cabin, pops the trunk, and carries the suitcase and the smaller bag into the cabin. Then nothing.

  Vern taps a key, and the footage rolls on at high speed until 9:03, when the door opens and Grieg pops out. He’s carrying the small bag, which he lays on the front seat before driving off. Other guests appear, unloading mostly, as Vern works through the video. The cabins they occupy are all at a distance from Cabin 909. By chance? Most are on the other side of the office.

  Vern pauses the video and turns to the Gaitskills. “Grieg brought women to his room from time to time. We’ve established that much. But did Grieg ever have a male guest in his room?”

  “A male guest?” This from Felice Gaitskill. A question for a question.

  “Yeah, did he ever have a man in his room?”

  “Not that I ever seen.”

  “How ’bout you, Richie. Did you ever see a man enter Grieg’s cabin?”

  “Can’t recall I have.”

  “But maybe it happened, right? Maybe?”

  “Maybe,” he concedes.

  “Like Connor Schmidt?”

  Richard’s too young and the name too unexpected. Now he’s asking himself what we know and
what we don’t. He’s cooked. Not his mom, though.

  “What are we now,” she asks, “suspects?”

  Vern slides his gaze from son to mother, taking his time, the gesture almost lazy. “You live on the premises, Felice, and you were home last night. So, yeah, you could’ve killed him.” Another smile, this one less amiable. “Nobody’s eliminated until they’re eliminated. Now, do either of you know Connor Schmidt? Or his father, Carl? A simple yes or no will do here.” Neither Gaitskill volunteers a reply, and I step in to close the deal.

  “Think about it. A man was murdered in one of your cabins, only the second murder this year. Do you really want to impede my investigation when Mayor Venn is personally involved? Use your heads. If you don’t cooperate, I gotta ask myself why. And me, when I have a question, I keep turning over those rocks until I find an answer.”

  I nod to Vern, and he fast-forwards until Grieg returns at 10:42, his Audi followed by a midsize sedan I can’t identify. Mitsubishis, Hondas, Toyotas, even Fords and Chevys? From this distance, they could all be poured from the same mold. If I didn’t know that Grieg drove an Audi, I wouldn’t be able to identify his car either.

  A woman exits the second car. Average height, average weight, a blur actually, the video worthless as far as identification goes. I can see that she’s wearing a hat, but it’s the only detail I can make out.

  Neither hesitates. Grieg holds the door open as she passes, then follows her into the room. Thirty-three minutes later, at 11:15, the woman exits, walks to her car, and drives off.

  Please be it, I tell myself. Let there be nobody else on the video until Richard Gaitskill discovers the body. Let it be the woman for sure, without doubt, the only card on the table. Identify her, and I close the case and the chief says, “Attagirl.”

  It begins to rain a few minutes further into the video. The rain gradually becomes more intense, until Cabin 909 is reduced to a vague outline that finally disappears altogether. It doesn’t reappear until sunrise. Anybody might have exited or entered in the intervening seven hours. Not likely, true, but maybe enough to create reasonable doubt. It only takes a single juror.

  Richard Gaitskill enters the video at 7:47 A.M., driving an electric vehicle the size of a golf cart. He steers the cart from cabin to cabin, picking up trash, skipping the currently occupied cabins. At 9:10 he stops in front of Grieg’s cabin and peers at the door for a good thirty seconds before hopping down. I watch him approach the cabin, push the door open, then quickly back away. Within seconds he’s on his cell phone.

  “That call you’re making?” I ask. “To 911?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure? Because every call to 911 is time-stamped to the second. So if you’re lying to me, I’m gonna find out.”

  Richard’s eyes narrow slightly. “Look, you asked if I knew Connor or his dad. Well . . .”

  “Don’t tell him nothin’.”

  Richard responds without glancing at his mother. “We run a clean shop here, Lieutenant.” He points to an aluminum baseball bat leaning against the wall. “No whores, no pimps, and if I think somebody’s dealin’ from one of the cabins, they go, too. But Carl Schmidt and his kid? That’s a whole other game. So, yes, I know the Schmidts, in the sense that I’d recognize them on the street, but not so good that I’d say hello when I pass ’em. As for Connor, he’s been here a couple of times with Bradley. What they did in the room I couldn’t say. I don’t know now, didn’t know then, and don’t wanna know in the future. You fuck with Carl Schmidt, you could end up dead.”

  It comes too fast for me, too glib. Like he’d rehearsed it in his head, word for word, before he let the words go. And yes, Richard could have killed Bradley. His mom, too.

  “Okay, that’s enough for now. But listen to what I say, and listen carefully. You really need to preserve the video. That’s because, if anything happens to it, I’m gonna charge you with obstruction of justice.”

  Richard’s quick to respond. “I got a better idea, Detective. Why don’t you take it with you? That way, if somebody else should wanna take it . . . well, I won’t have it to give.”

  “Somebody like Carl Schmidt?”

  “Or his kid.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GIT

  Charlie’s just completed second grade, earning an E for excellent in every category. In the comments section, Mrs. Taney wrote, “Charlotte is reading and doing math well above her grade level. She is an outstanding student.”

  Mrs. Taney didn’t add, “And a beautiful child.” She didn’t have to. I know that beautiful children sometimes trace the route of the ugly duckling in reverse, but Charlie, at age eight, is a beautiful child. No doubt about it, not in anyone’s mind, not even Mom’s, and maybe that’s no surprise. My marriage didn’t work out, but not because Sean was hard to look at.

  Charlie’s a generally cooperative child who passed her terrible-two phase without throwing a tantrum, though her vocabulary at times was limited to a single word: Why? Why became her chant, and my explanations, no matter how detailed, only led to a demand for more explanations.

  Mom insisted that I put an end to Charlie’s curiosity with the kind of spanking that resolved all questions. My response was equally emphatic. If she ever laid a hand on Charlie, I’d rip her head off and shove it so far up her ass it’d end up back where it started.

  Charlie was through with her questioning phase before she reached her fourth birthday. Not that her curiosity waned; my daughter studies on her own simply because she wants to learn. That’s all to the good—right?—a self-motivated child? Meanwhile, I’m the kind of mom who checks her child’s homework, her teeth, the dirt behind her ears after she washes up, and what she’s been doing while I’m at work. I even check her wardrobe.

  What I am, I think, is afraid. Afraid that I’ll fall back, that I’ll drag Charlie with me. I spent my puberty dodging drunks, including Mom’s boyfriends. I gave up at age fifteen. I want more for Charlie, so much more. And why not? My heart beats for both of us.

  Within the next hour, I receive very good and very bad news, the bad news coming first. I’m sitting next to Charlie on an autumn-red love seat that I’ve turned around to face the room’s picture window. Our house is flanked on the east by another, even smaller (if you can imagine that) house. But to the west, a short, semi-overgrown lawn gives way to an acre of hardwood forest. I’ve positioned the love seat so that Charlie and I can watch the trees and shrubs as they transition from season to season.

  On this day, we’re sitting with our backs to the TV, reading a book, or rather Charlie’s reading, with me defining unfamiliar words. The book I’ve chosen (yes, I’ve chosen) is Charlotte’s Web, hoping that hearing her own name in the title will keep her interested. We’re at the point where the main character, a pig named Wilbur, arrives at a new barn, when Mom’s voice pierces our comfortable bubble.

  “Hey, would ya take a look at this.”

  I glance over my shoulder to find Mom seated before our TV, a medium-size flat-screen that’s at least two generations behind the smart sets now on the market.

  “What, Mom?”

  “We got ourselves a murder, right here in Baxter. Second one this year.”

  The news footage on the screen is familiar enough to be part of a network crime drama. Yellow tape stretched across a driveway, official vehicles parked at weird angles, cops standing around, coffee containers on the hood of a cruiser. Then the parts come together, and I realize that I’m looking at one of the Skyview motel’s cabins. Cabin 909.

  It takes everything I have to maintain control. I have to because I know that Mom can’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut. Even now, she returns every couple of days to Pearl’s Beauty Parlor and her old friends in the Yards.

  “Okay, so what’s the big deal?”

  “It’s the Skyview, right? The place is a . . . a whorehouse.”

  Mom was about to say fucking whorehouse, but she knows I won’t stand for that kind of obscenity when Charlie’s aro
und. And the Skyview’s not a brothel, either, but a mid-priced motel catering mostly to families. I look from the TV to Mom, at the protruding cheekbones and the yellowed eyes. It’s as if the ugliness that rules her soul has invaded her body, a cannibal of an evil spirit run amok.

  “What are they saying? About . . .” I almost say his name, Bradley, just catching myself at the last second. “About the killing?”

  “Nothin’ yet. Gotta wait until the next of kin’s been notified. But you can pretty much figure what happened. Some workin’ gal decidin’ to get herself a tip whether the john liked it or not. Then again, it could be the john took somethin’ he didn’t pay for and she collected on her own.” Mom snickers. “Anyways, I’ve been knowin’ the woman who owns the Skyview—that would be Felice Gaitskill—since we was in high school. The woman ain’t no better than she has to be.”

  For just a moment, I close my eyes. This isn’t the time to get into it with Celia Graham. I reopen them just as two men dressed in white coveralls push a gurney loaded with a gray body bag through the cabin door. A second pair, a man and a woman, emerge from the room as the gurney’s loaded into a fire department ambulance.

  Mom points to the screen. “That’d be Vern Taney. Vern was a hotshot football player in high school, and everyone thought he was headed for college. Then his dad got sick and he had to go to work. Maybe that’s why he’s got that reputation. Quick with the hands if you get in his face.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Gotta be Taney’s boss. Don’t know her name, though. Lieutenant something.”

  The video’s running on a loop, and the sound is too low for me to make out the reporter’s words as they play in the background. But I can’t focus anyway, and the scene has to repeat several times before my thoughts settle down, before a sentence from a time when I was young enough to believe that church and prayer would save me drills its way into my brain. Here to stay.

  For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me.