CHAPTER
26
They began to come in the night. He could not deny them. He wasn’t sure if they were dreams or fantasies, but they always came between the hours of four and six while he was in a semiwakeful state, involving visions and positions as yet untried: smoky memories, these visions, all of Holly. He’d roll over and see Jen sleeping, and wonder, Why, oh why aren’t you enough for me?
But the fact was: She wasn’t enough, or at least now that he’d had the other, younger woman so often and knew how she tasted (salty) and how she smelled (musky) and the consistency of her hair (tight) and all the secret parts of her that he could touch to make her squeal and moan.
Maybe it was just the closeness of the brush with death; whatever, now he needed flesh to confirm that he was unmistakably alive. He wanted Holly’s flesh. He did not, goddamn his soul to hell and goddamn his allegiances to hell, want his wife’s flesh.
“I have to go,” he said to Jen in the morning.
She just looked up at him. She was a handsome woman, near his own age, with a square, beautiful face, now completely unimpressed and beyond surprise. Her eyes just bore into him. He sensed her remoteness and her passage into a zone beyond disappointment, as if to suggest there were few words left.
“My guns,” he said. “I called that OSBI lieutenant, Henderson. They’re out of the state ballistics lab now, they all been tested. He says I can sign for ’em. Sure would feel better with my own guns, and not somebody else’s.” He’d been given a department Smith .357 for self-defense, just in case, but somehow it lacked the proprietary intimacy of the ones he’d put so many holes in targets and Odell with.
“So you’re going to go fetch them?” Jen said suspiciously.
“Yes, thought I might. Then I thought I’d stop at the range and run a box through each and see how it felt. Then I’ll be right back.”
“You haven’t been ‘right back’ in four months, but I suppose if you have to go, you have to go.”
Bud tried a smile. It didn’t work. He knew he shouldn’t appear too anxious, but whenever he “acted,” he knew his movements seemed awkward and forced.
However, today he knew he had to have Holly and damn the consequences, and so after dawdling over another cup of coffee and reading a sports section whose scores he already knew by heart, he at last got up, threw on his hat, slid the generic Smith into a belt holster and a jacket over that, though it was hot, and set out.
He blinked. The Percodan knocked out the sharp jabs but couldn’t reach deep enough into his nervous system to shut down the more general throbbing in his limbs and joints that made him aware of every movement; once again, he felt ancient. He no longer wore the eyepatch, but some moisture came and he blinked it back as he slid behind the Ford’s wheel. As he climbed in, he fired something off in his leg wound, where the pellet had sunk so deep, and a momentary flare of pain blossomed inside. He shook it off and pulled the door shut.
It was bright now, June, and flecks of pollen hung in the air. Spring was a memory; full Oklahoma summer bore down, its weight crushing all movement from the air. He took an unair-conditioned breath, and it felt like sucking down steam. Then he turned the engine, backed out, and with a nod, passed the day-shift bodyguards.
He drove to the City Hall Annex. C.D. was not there to be found, but instead there was a younger OSBI detective, and some boys holding court in the task-force big room.
The boys wanted to meet Bud: two Texas Rangers still hoping to get a try at Lamar, two undercover state policemen from the headquarters unit, and two or three OSBI investigators, the names and hands all thrown at Bud in a hurry.
“Hell of a job you did there, Pewtie. Goddamn, that’s the kind of shooting this here country needs more of by a damn sight”—that was the gist of the comments, offered in several variants.
“Well,” said Bud modestly, “I was damned lucky.”
The social palaver done, Bud went into the office where once C.D. had drunkenly held court, and the new boss opened a drawer and pulled his guns out one after another.
“One Colt Commander, .45 ACP, serial number FC34509, one Beretta 92F 9-mm, serial number D12097Z, and one Beretta 84 .380, serial number E259751Y. There, Sergeant Pewtie, just sign and they’re yours. Got your Beretta shoulder holster and the Colt Galco, but I don’t know what happened to the .380 holster. How the hell you carry that?”
“In my belly. Behind my belt buckle. No holster at all. Hurt like hell, but I was damn glad it was there when I needed it.”
He looked at them: his three guns, all functional black combat pistols, without a grace note or a gleam to them. Just tools. A wave of sweetness came over him, so powerful it almost made him want to faint. No man whose life hasn’t been saved by a gun can begin to imagine what a man whose life has feels when he confronts the instruments of his survival.
Bud headed out, but then he stopped, feeling he had a thing or two still to do.
“Where would I find C.D.?”
“Well, Sarge, he’s got a place way south of town, out Thirty-eighth Street, south of MacMahon Park.” He gave an address.
“I ought to drop on by,” Bud said, learning that he felt it exactly as it popped out.
“The old boy’d probably appreciate that, assuming you get him early enough, before he’s given himself up to the bottle.”
Bud looked at his watch. Did he have time for this? Why was he doing it? If he got in and got out quick, it shouldn’t matter. But time, as always, was the problem. It might help him cover; he went to see the lieutenant, they got to talking, the hours passed, that’s why he was late.
It was a dingy little suburban tract house in an unappealing development, smaller even than Holly’s place, way south of the airport, and now and then a big jet would roar overhead, its landing gear threatening to knock down aerials and chimneys. There were no trees in the neighborhood.
He waited just a second to determine if he really wanted to do this or not. It had the sense of a fool’s errand. But there was something in the way it was shaking out he didn’t like—that he, Bud Pewtie, had “found” Lamar, where the old man had not. It wasn’t really a fair interpretation. He finally went up and knocked on the door.
The woman who answered was another bitter prune, without a lick of softness anywhere to her drawn features or her immense fatigue.
“I’m Pewtie,” Bud said. “Is C.D. available?”
She just fixed him with a wordless glare, and then finally said, “You the lawyer about the settlement?”
“No ma’am. I’m a highway patrol officer that worked his last case.”
“That damn Johnny Lawyer said he’d be here yesterday. We need the money. Damn fool C.D. lost all his two years back on a goddamn re-sort investment down at Lake Texoma.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Bud said.
“Well, you go on back then. But he’s in a black mood, as usual.”
“Has he been—”
“Of course. You can’t take that man’s bottle from him, but he don’t get bad until around four.”
Bud walked back into a dark little room and found C.D. sitting under a pyramid of cigarette smoke, his bourbon bottle, and a paper cup before him. He was watching a soap opera through squinty eyes, his face all knit up, a cigarette dangling from his lips. On a shelf to the left stood a brass army of pistol marksmanship awards.
“Howdy, there,” said Bud.
“Bud, goddamn,” the old man leaped up, “nice of you to drop by.”
“Well, damn, just wanted to know how you’s doing?”
“Oh, it’s okay. Gits a little draggy toward the end of day, that’s all.”
“You need anything?”
“No sir, not a thing. I ain’t quite as drunk as I was last time I saw you. Need a drink yourself, son?”
“No, lieutenant. I just wanted to drop by to say so long.”
“Well, you’re the only one of ’em man enough to do that. Close to fifty years, and nobody even come by. How ’bout
a sandwich? Bud, you want a sandwich? Honey! Can you git Bud a sandwich?”
“No, it’s all right, Lieutenant, I already ate.”
“Sure, Bud. Say, that was good work on Odell. Pity you couldn’t have gotten Lamar, too.”
“I was one bullet shy, goddamn his luck.”
“Now, Bud,” Henderson said, “I’ll be the only one of ’em who tells you the flat-out truth. You shouldn’t have fired so much without aiming. Been in seven gunfights, won ’em all, only twice was I even hit. You got to aim, Bud. You can’t spray and pray. That’s what old Jelly Bryce taught me and no man was better with a gun than he was.”
“You’re right, Lieutenant. I just couldn’t think fast enough.”
“Another thing Jelly Bryce taught me, a man comes at you again, soaking up lead like that, you got to stay cool and break his pelvis with a big bore bullet. Break his pelvis, down he goes. Hit him three inches inside the hip. Puts him down every damn time. Under them circumstances, even a head shot is iffy; hell, you can blow out the top half of a man’s brain and his heart, and he can still go for fifteen seconds on instinct.”
“I’ll remember that.”
He took a drink from his glass. The soap opera whined onward. Bud could smell the liquor and the smoke. All of a sudden, he just wanted to get the hell out.
“Listen, Lieutenant, I do have to poke along. I just wanted to say I’s sorry how it ended for you and I didn’t
want no hard feelings. Some are saying I found Lamar and you didn’t, but we both know that’s not how it was.”
“No, Bud, that is how it was. You did find Lamar and I did not. Bud, you going to bring those boys over? I’d surely like to meet those boys of yours. They sound like a damned fine set of boys.”
“Sure, Lieutenant.”
“Let’s set a date, Bud. I’ll get my calendar out. Maybe we could take ’em fishing. Let’s pick a weekend in July, we could go on up to the Wichitas, or no, no, out to Lake Texoma. Used to own a nice piece of land there. I know where the damn fish are hiding, that I can tell you!”
“Lieutenant,” Bud said, “I’ll have to check with them. Jeff’s got Legion Ball and I don’t know when exactly Russ has to go East. I’ll have to call you back on that.”
“Sure, Bud. Now, you positive you don’t want no drink?”
“Lieutenant, I have to go.”
“Okay, Bud.”
“Anyways, I’m sorry—”
“Well, I’s sorry too, Bud. I wanted that Lamar and by God if I’d gotten another break or so, you can bet I’d have nailed him.”
“Yes sir.”
“Yes sir,” said the old man, less to Bud than to himself, “yes sir, I’d have nailed him. Just couldn’t get that last damned break.”
When Bud finally got back to his truck, the full force of the day’s heat lay upon him. He checked his watch: Dammit, he’d spent close to half an hour with the pitiful old goat, when he’d only meant to spend ten minutes. He shook his head at what had become of the mighty Lieutenant Henderson. He still felt a little woozy from the smoke and the dark claustrophobia of the place, or maybe it was the force of his sexual anticipation. Anyway, he got in and drove to Holly’s, feeling he’d earned it.
It took him twenty extra minutes to find the place, and he’d have to come up with an excuse to account for the time, he knew. But by the time he got there, he wasn’t thinking about such things. He thought he’d burst.
He pulled up, nodded at a black kid on a yellow plastic trike on the sidewalk, and bounded to the porch.
“Well, damn my soul,” she said. “The hero himself.”
Bud looked around theatrically. “Oh yeah? There’s a hero here? Always wanted to meet one of them boys, shake his hand.”
“Git you in here, Bud Pewtie, this very instant. You can tell me how much you like my house and how sorry you are I had to move in by myself … later.”
She pulled him in and began to grope with him, immediately coming upon his guns.
“Oh, my, well sir, maybe we ought not to do a thing, so as you don’t have to readjust all your equipment.”
“I’d gladly dump ’em in the trash, darlin’, for a few minutes with you.”
“Well I hope it’s longer than a few minutes.”
And it was. Bud was in fine form today, released of all his inhibitions, driven forward by the peculiar intensity of his wants. His pains vanished; his legs were young again, his lungs full of stamina. The games started in the living room on a sofa, moved up the stairs, though pausing there for several minutes owing to the possibilities of the steep upward rake of the steps, then continued in her upstairs bedroom, where things got immensely tangled and complicated until at last the moment itself arrived, exploded, and then departed.
“Whooee, wasn’t that a time?” Bud said.
“You should do more of this man-killing, Bud. It does wonders for you.”
“Wasn’t I the boy, though?” he said.
“You certainly were.”
He laid around in her bed for another half an hour and then the mood came across him again. Squealing delightedly, she accommodated him; she was smooth and slippery as an eel.
And when that one was done, he said, “Well, I think we broke in the new house right nice.”
“Would say so. Want to see it?”
Bud knew he shouldn’t. Too much time, he was late already; but she was so proud of the damn thing.
“Sure,” he said.
They dressed, and she lugged him around, room to room. Bud tried hard to keep his enthusiasm up, but he knew he was doing a poor job. And, there really wasn’t much to see: her trailer furniture, spread throughout a six-room house, looked sparse. And for some reason, the house looked grayer and dirtier than he had remembered it looking. Could he live here? It wasn’t nearly as nice as his wonderful and comfortable old place.
“It’s a great little place, honey,” he said.
“You’ll help me paint it?”
Bud hated painting.
“Of course.”
“Oh, Bud, we’ll be so happy here. I know we will.”
“Yes ma’am, I know we will. Now, uh, I’ve—”
“I know, Bud. And you don’t want to do any talking at all. Okay, Bud. Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Of course you will,” he said. “By god, of course you will.”
* * *
Bud drove home, thinking of lies, or rather expansions on the truth. Old C.D., now I had to go see him. It ain’t right what they done to him and what they’re saying about him. And you know how that man can talk (she didn’t, of course). He just jaws onward and onward and you can’t slow him down any. And he’s so bitter I didn’t want to insult him any further. Plus, he had to hear the story of my famous shootout. And of course he had a lot of comments and constructive criticism. The time just flew away on me.
He actually mouthed the words out loud, so they’d feel familiar in his mind. You didn’t want to be making stuff up in an escapade like this, because you could just as easy as pie come up with something that invalidated something you’d said before; pick a nice, simple, believable story, near to the truth as you can make it (not very, in this case, but believable) and stick to it. He had a laugh here, remembering an old story about a football quarterback who was out helling around and his wife caught him sneaking in around seven in the morning, and he had a dandy all set up. He told her he’d come back at about ten the night before, but since she was already asleep he didn’t want to wake her so, since it was such a nice night out, he’d decided to sleep in the hammock out there in the front yard, and that’s where he’d been. She said, “That’s very nice, but I took the hammock down two weeks ago.” So the fellow said, “Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”
Bud pulled in the driveway, and immediately one of the OSBI youngsters got out and came up to him.
“Sergeant Pewtie?”
“Yes?” he said, suddenly alerted by the youngster’s gravity. Oh Christ: What was wro
ng?
“Sergeant, your wife has been looking all over hell and gone for you.”
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“It’s your son.”
“My son?”
Bud watched him in horror, thinking his whole life might be about to change: Lamar, his son, vengeance, it all came together in a single, horrifying moment.
“Your youngest boy, Jeff.”
Oh, God, thought Bud.
“He just been arrested by the city police. Assault. He attacked two boys in school. Hurt ’em bad, too.”
CHAPTER
27
The papers, in all their accounts of the famous gunfight at Jimmy Ky’s, gave no personal details about this Bud Pewtie. Oklahoma highway patrol sergeant, forty-eight, that was all. His name was in no phone book either, but that was common: Cops seldom had listed phone numbers.
“How are we going to find him, Daddy?” Ruta Beth asked.
“Oh,” said Lamar, “there’re ways. He’s left a trail. A sly old dog like me, hell, I’ll sniff him out.”
Lamar stared at the photo in the paper, and Bud Pewtie stared back, it was a grave, authoritarian face, the face of a manhunter. Lamar had seen it on a few cops in his time, but fewer and fewer of late, as the cops had gotten younger and somehow sweeter. But Pewtie had the gray eyes and flat mouth of a hero type, an ass-kicker, a shooter. And goddamn, he’d done some shooting. Lamar looked at the bandage swaddling his left hand. Two fingers, just gone, as if by surgery. Luck or talent? Lamar knew it was probably luck, but it left him a little uneasy. No man should be that lucky.
“He’s a scary man,” said Richard.
“Richard, when you hold a gun to a man’s kid, he ain’t scary no more. And when you blow that child’s brains all over the sidewalk, let me tell you, he’s going to bawl like a baby. Oh, then he’ll know the true cost of mixing up with Lamar Pye. By God, he’ll know.”
Lamar thought: He’s probably a family man. Looks like the father of a whole tribe, lots of those square tough-guy sonsofbitches was like that—they were trained that the world was theirs for the taking and their job was to fill it with kids. He thought of Pewtie as the head of a tribe, and saw him living on an estate, though of course he knew how little cops made. But the image was good; it stoked the cold rage Lamar knew he had to taste and hold to do the deeds that he had in mind, that would teach the world how dangerous it is to take something from Lamar Pye.
Dirty White Boys Page 33