by Hank Early
I raised my hands in the air.
“He’s going to need a doctor,” I said.
Bowl Cut’s eyes fell on me before flitting to Livingstone. “Two more for the road,” he said in a voice that might as well have been the mountains themselves speaking, it was so dusty and deep and unused.
Livingstone snapped to, grabbing four beers instead of the two Bowl Cut had asked for. “On the house,” he said.
Bowl Cut dropped the neck of the broken bottle he was holding and scooped up the new beer bottles. He nodded to his brother, who lowered the gun. Bowl Cut stepped over Slim and followed his brother out the door. I went to the screen door and watched as they headed through the tiny dirt lot and into the trees, disappearing like shadows at dusk.
20
It took the paramedics so long to get to the hidden beer bar that Slim woke up, put some ice on the gash in his forehead, and elected to go home rather than wait any longer. He was a different man upon waking. Instead of looking at me with that burning gaze of hatred, his eyes were softer now, uncertain and filled with gratitude when I offered him a hand.
“Do you need a ride?” Eleanor said.
“No, ma’am. I’ll be all right. I been hit harder than that before,” he said, some of his former bluster returning. He straightened his cheap tie, which had now turned red with his blood, and walked on rubbery legs toward the exit. He paused just before opening the screen door. “Who were them boys?”
I shook my head and deferred to the bartender, Livingstone.
Livingstone opened his big meaty hands to the roof. “They come in every now and again. I learned a long time back to just let them have their way. Give ’em a wide berth. Seems to be best.”
“Well, goddamn, next time I’d appreciate a warning,” Slim said. “I still can’t see straight and my head feels like it’s got glass stuck up inside it.”
“You need to see a doctor,” I said.
He was fully back to himself now. He glared at me. “Fuck you, old man. I wouldn’t never take advice from a man such as you that let a lady buy his beer.”
I laughed. What else was there to do?
Slim snarled at me and walked out, letting the screen door smack the doorframe and echo away into the deep heat of the midafternoon.
* * *
I asked Livingstone what else he knew about the brothers.
“Not much,” he said. “They usually come in with this woman. Don’t know her name, but she doesn’t really fit them.”
“What do you mean, fit them?”
“I don’t know. She seems educated, maybe. Smart. It’s almost like they’re her hired bodyguards.”
“Can you describe this woman?”
“She’s about your age.” He glanced at Eleanor. “She’s …”
“Go on.”
“A looker. Turns heads.”
“Hair color?”
“Varies. She’s always dying it.”
“Height?”
“Maybe five six. Average, I’d say. But when she wears that red dress …” He shook his head and then remembered Eleanor again. “Sorry, El.”
“It’s fine. I think I’ve seen her before too. She’s hard to miss.”
“So, do you have any idea where she’s from, what she does for a living?”
He shook his head. “You run a little out-of-the-way place like this for your livelihood and you learn not to ask too many questions and forget all the rumors you hear. Like I said, she seems to be with them brothers, so I go out of my way to mind my own business. Keep everybody happy, you know? Them boys don’t function too well in polite society. It’s a damn lucky thing they didn’t just kill Slim.” He glanced at Eleanor. “I apologize you had to see that, El.”
“It’s okay. I’m not going to stop coming. You know I love this place, Ralph.”
He nodded and looked at me. “You’re the one who lost sheriff, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s me.”
He pulled out two more cans of Mexican lager. “These are on me. One for the lady because she had to witness that, and one for you, sir, for having the guts to run against her asshole of an ex-husband.”
I thanked him and briefly considered correcting his statement. I hadn’t run against Walsh. I’d run against Preston Argent. But what was the point? In some ways his statement was actually more truthful. I really had been running against Walsh and his political machine. Argent was just the tool Walsh used to tighten his already viselike grip on the county.
“You know,” he went on. “I can’t think of a single person who voted for that Argent fellow. You ever think of investigating the election results?”
I shook my head. “I think that would be an uphill battle, but I do appreciate your vote.”
“Enjoy the beers,” he said. “And I apologize for all of that stuff.”
“Not your fault,” I said. “Might help if you could get some police presence up here.”
“I called them,” he said. “But I ain’t holding my breath.”
“Shit,” I said, looking at Eleanor. “We better boogie.”
“Yeah. If Argent does come, he’ll be on the phone to Jeb as soon as he sees my car.”
We took the beers with us and headed for her Volvo. She drove fast so as to get off the small dirt road before we had a chance to meet Argent or one of his deputies coming the other way.
Once we made it to the main road, I popped open the beers and handed her one. “Here’s to the one good thing about Preston Argent being sheriff. You can get away with damn near anything.”
She bumped her can against mine, and we drove out toward the county line. The sides of the road were lined with trees and sometimes old filling stations in various stages of decay. Other times burned-out houses flew past us like memories a person once held and then forgot. Eventually all was clear and there was only flat land and old fencing, dragged down by time and gravity, spindles of barbed wire disentangled and dead beneath a sun whose power seemed eternal.
“You were telling me about the boy who died,” I said. “What was his name?”
“Weston Reynolds. He was seventeen. They say he snuck out of the dorms, or whatever you call them, one night and made his way to the waterfall that edges up against the school property. There’s a rock there the boys tell stories about. They say he climbed up on top of it and flung himself off into the river below.”
“But you don’t believe it?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t. I’m not saying it couldn’t have happened. Sure, it’s possible. Eddie doesn’t think so, of course. He swears Weston would never do anything like that. He says they killed him because they couldn’t change him. A lot of the boys, according to Eddie, pretend to be straight so they can get out. Makes sense. I even encouraged Eddie to do it, but he won’t. He says it would be disrespectful to Weston’s memory to do that. Can you believe it? I mean, I don’t believe in genetics anymore. There’s no way that boy is Jeb Walsh’s son.”
I was less shocked about the whims of genetics than she was. People had long wondered how I could be my father’s son. Except, in most scenarios, I was the one who’d been born wrong and he was the one who was innately good. What a screwed-up world we tried to navigate. No wonder it was so hard.
“So, you went to Harden about this?” I asked.
“Multiple times. I demanded to know what had happened. He said the police had looked into it and determined it was suicide. End of story. Except it wasn’t the end for me. I wanted to know if they’d driven him to it. Eddie told me there was a rumor they made some of the boys have sex with some woman.”
“What?”
“That’s right. It was like a test. There’s some woman they know that meets the boys out by the waterfall to, you know … have sex with them. According to Eddie, it was Weston’s turn to meet her. He didn’t want to go, but if you didn’t show up, they’d make life really hard on you. So he went. He never came back. Of course, Harden and Blevins deny all of this, and Jeb d
oes too. They say it’s just the boys making up stories.” She shook her head and looked for all the world like she wanted to cry.
“Take it easy,” I said. “I’m going to help you.”
“That’s the thing,” she said. “You can’t help. No one can help. Now that Argent is sheriff, he told me the next time I called the school about anything, he’d have me arrested for harassment. He said things would get harder on Eddie, too. What can you do when there’s no law willing to help you?”
It was a good question, just one of the many I didn’t have a satisfactory answer for.
“We’ll figure something out,” I said.
She sighed. “And until then?” she asked.
“Stay in touch with Eddie and keep your distance from your ex-husband.”
She gave me a look that suggested she’d been hoping for more from me. I resisted telling her that it was okay. I knew exactly what it felt like to expect more from Earl Marcus than he’d ever been able to deliver.
21
Later that evening, I pulled out the letter I’d found on Joe again and laid it open on the kitchen table. Goose lay under my feet as I reread it. My eyes continued to be drawn to the greeting. The name Joe was so common as to almost be useless, but maybe if I could combine it with another search term …
I opened up my phone’s search app and typed Joe, Missing, Georgia.
I got nothing. Frustrated, I tried again, this time typing Joe, Missing, Tennessee.
Again nothing. I repeated this process with South Carolina, Florida, and finally Alabama before I got a hit.
I cursed out loud when I saw the headline of the third result under the news tab. Local Reporter Seeks Answers in Partner’s Sudden Disappearance.
According to the article, his full name was Joseph Timmons. He was an intern at the Birmingham News and had been dating Chip Thompkins, a full-time staff writer, for nearly two years. Thompkins said Timmons had been “distant” in the days and weeks before his disappearance. When Chip has pressed him on what was going on, Joe had told him he was trying to “tie up some loose ends” from his abusive childhood. Chip didn’t elaborate on what kind of abuse this had been, and the article wasn’t clear about whether Chip even knew the extent or nature of the abuse.
The article went on to say that police had been investigating the disappearance but at this time didn’t have any leads.
Shit.
I took a deep breath, walked to the refrigerator, and reached for a bottle of whiskey from the top. I opened it and drank deeply straight from the bottle. I felt a little better, though nothing would ever be able to make me feel good about what I was about to do.
* * *
Half a bottle later, I called the number listed on Chip Thompkins’s staff profile at the Birmingham News. I was pretty drunk, but years of practice being drunk had made me a pro at handling my business while intoxicated.
I didn’t really think he’d pick up his office phone at eight o’clock in the evening anyway, but he not only picked up but barely let it ring before answering eagerly.
“Birmingham News, Chip Thompkins.”
“I’ve got some news on Joe,” I said.
“Who is this?”
“A friend. Name is Earl Marcus, and I’m a private investigator over in Georgia. Coulee County.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Well, Joe has.”
“Do you know where Joe is?”
“No,” I said, “but I know he’s in some trouble.”
He was silent. I waited, not sure what I was doing or what to expect.
“Have you contacted the authorities?”
“See, that’s the problem. The authorities here … well, it’s complicated.”
“Explain to me exactly what you know about Joe.”
This was the part I hadn’t prepared for, the part that surely would have prevented me from calling if I hadn’t had so much bourbon. I needed to make something up and fast.
“Do you know about the Harden School?”
“The private school Joe attended for a few years? Sure.”
“But do you know what they did there?”
Chip was silent. “What are you talking about? I’m assuming they did school there.”
“Not exactly. The Harden School was—well, is—a gay conversion clinic.”
“What?”
Now came the hard part, the part where I was just running on instinct. “He didn’t want to tell you because he knew you’d freak out. He didn’t want you to worry.” This sounded plausible to me.
“How do you know these things?”
“He came to me for help. He laid out the whole thing—well, at least as much as he knew at the time. He wanted to hire me. We had a conversation a couple of days back, but now he’s dropped off the radar. I can’t find him. Have you heard from him?”
“No. It’s been over a week. Do you think someone has hurt him?”
I knew it was best to hedge here. On the one hand, I needed Chip to feel optimistic or he’d likely go to the authorities himself. On the other hand, I wanted to start preparing him for the sad truth that Joe was already dead.
“I don’t know, but based on what he told me, I have some concerns.”
“Have you called the police?”
“No. See, that was the other thing that Joe understood. The police here in Coulee County … they’re useless. No, that’s not even true. They’re worse than useless. They’re crooked.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because Joe came to me. He trusted me. You should too.”
“I don’t even know who you are.”
“I understand. I’m going to ask you to trust me, though. The Harden School is backed by one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the South. He has every reason to protect the school’s interests. He’s also in bed with the sheriff in Coulee County. He’s a very dangerous man. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
“I doubt it. I don’t even keep up with small-town politics in Alabama, much less Georgia.”
“His name is Jeb Walsh,” I said.
There was silence from Chip’s end. I knew why, of course. The reason was simple: you’d have to have been living under a rock to not know who Jeb Walsh was. He was followed closely by the mainstream media, as his racial bigotry was well known. He’d also been closely tied to the alt-right over the last few years, and really just about everyone had an opinion on his divisive politics.
“You’re kidding,” he said after a moment.
“No. Jeb’s son is at the school now. And I have reason to believe Jeb himself may have orchestrated a student’s apparent suicide.”
He was silent again.
“Chip?”
“I want to go to the police.”
“I understand, but that’s not going to end well for anyone if you do. I actually reached out for two reasons. One was to see if you’d heard from Joe. I’m deeply worried about him at this point. Two, I think there’s a way you can help me.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, I need someone who’d be willing to write all of this up. An exposé centered on the school and Jeb Walsh.”
More silence. I could tell he was overwhelmed. How could he not be?
“Chip? I want you to know I’m going to figure out what happened to Joe. If he’s alive, I’m going to …” I winced at the deceit. “I’m going to find him.”
“I need some time to think about all of this. Can I call you back?”
“Sure.” I gave him my number and tried to convince him how important it was not to go to the authorities. “I’ve been dealing with Walsh a long time now. He’ll win if we try to do it through the police. He’s too powerful.” I hesitated before saying the next part. The words felt horrible coming out of my mouth. “Powerful enough to hurt Joe. Powerful enough to hurt all of us, which is why we have to operate on the down-low. Do you understand?”
“I’ll call you back,” he said.
22
There are som
e quirks of personality that seem ingrained in our very natures, and no matter how much we might try to get rid of them, they continue to influence our decisions and desires. I knew a man in Charlotte who constantly fought against his innate irritation with people.
“Earl,” he told me once, “you’re one of the only people I can hang around.”
“Why’s that?” I asked him.
“Because you don’t get on my nerves.”
“Was that why you divorced your wife?” I asked him, half joking.
His response was deadly serious. “Actually it was. I loved her too. But I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her because everything she did irritated me.”
I always remembered that friend when I thought about how we are prisoners to whims of our genetic makeup.
The flaws that came along with Earl Marcus were simple but had proved nearly impossible for me to overcome. I sought to self-medicate, and I used two methods: alcohol and women. After talking to Eleanor Walsh and lying to Chip Thompkins, I felt the need to self-medicate like I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
I couldn’t explain why my conversation with Eleanor Walsh had affected me like it had. For some reason, it made me feel helpless and hurt all at once. Maybe a part of me identified with Eddie Walsh. Not being gay, but just being a disappointment in the eyes of a father who cast a long shadow. That was the part of me that hurt. The part that felt helpless was born out of the realization that I’d tangled with Walsh before and failed. What made me think it would be any different this time?
I also identified with Joe. He’d obviously seen an injustice and tried to do something about it. There was always a risk in doing the right thing. And, too often, it felt like the risks outweighed the benefits.