The Dime

by Kathleen Kent

  When he sees Seth, he smiles, the thick coating of sauce on his lips and teeth making him look like a vampire.

  “Hey, Riot,” Wayne calls to Seth.

  Seth responds by clapping him on the back and saying, “Hey, Flush. But that’s ‘Officer Dutton’ to you.”

  Wayne’s close-set eyes flick briefly toward me, head bobbing like a tweaker on a binge, but there’s cunning there, if not intelligence.

  We sit in chairs on either side of him and a waitress comes to take our order. Seth asks for two beers.

  “Kind of risky, meeting us in a place like Gas Monkey, Wayne,” Seth says.

  “Yeah, I know,” Wayne says, nodding. “But the ribs, man, are just too good.”

  He takes a few more bites and then leans closer to Seth. “Uh,” he whispers, “can I get a beer too?”

  Seth shakes his head. “Not from me. You’re still on probation.”

  Wayne shrugs his shoulders. “Okay, I get it. You just lookin’ out for a brother. Hope you don’t mind I ordered already. Haven’t eaten today.” He says this through lips working around flesh and gristle clinging stubbornly to bone.

  “No problem, Wayne,” Seth says. “You want another plate of ribs?”

  “Yeah, man, sure. Thanks.”

  While Seth signals the waitress, Wayne turns his attention to me.

  “You his bitch?” he asks casually. He sucks at his fingers—what’s left of them—suggestively, his eyes falling to the front of my shirt. Rather than being threatening, though, Wayne seems like a freshman trying to score points in front of an upperclassman.

  I just smile pleasantly. “You break your fingers off inside your old lady’s snatch?”

  Wayne snorts out a laugh and turns to Seth. “I like her, man. She’s got some snap.”

  “She’s got more than snap,” Seth says. “So watch yourself.”

  The beers are delivered and Seth takes a drink from the bottle. “I’d like you to tell my partner here what you know about the Roy family.”

  Wayne sets the bone he’s been gnawing down on the plate and deliberately wipes at his hands like he’s about to give a state address. He takes a few sips from his soda glass.

  “Yeah, right, the Roys.” He turns to face me, all the twitchiness gone. “Riot here tell you anything about me?”

  “A little,” I say.

  “So you know I’ve been with some bikers in my time, right?”

  I nod my head. “They supply your meth.”

  “No, see, no. That’s where you’re wrong,” Wayne says, moving his hands for emphasis. “It’s not for the crystal. I can get that anywhere. It’s for the love of the clubs, see? I had a bike. I had the time and the inclination. I was a prospect in three different clubs over the past fifteen years. I just lacked the will. Just couldn’t get my addiction under control. I’d get a package and a run for a client. But I’d always end up using the product. I couldn’t be trusted, see? I’d let the brothers down. And they tend to cleave to the unforgiving. The only reason I’m still breathing is ’cause I went down on a drug-possession charge in East Texas. I was lucky, ended up in Angelina County Jail and not, like, Huntsville, where I’d have had my balls cut off by one of the diamond-patch members.”

  Diamond-patch bikers often have the number 13 inside the patch they wear on their vests, the letter M being the thirteenth letter of the alphabet. M for murder.

  “I was there for eighteen months. In for dealing crack. My old lady was trying to help me get off the meth, see?” He sniffs and bobs his head up and down a few times to make sure I get the nobility of this last statement.

  “Anyway, she was from Lufkin and I’d been staying with her, trying to put some distance between myself and a misunderstanding with the Bandidos back in Dallas.”

  He shakes the hair out of his face and for the first time I can see the meth scars gouged into his cheeks like small lunar craters.

  “Mostly everyone at Angelina is in for meth, and the thing is, they’re all family in one way or another. All Aryan Brotherhood and shit. And here I am, a stranger in their midst.”

  His eyes fall on Seth’s beer, and he scratches thoughtfully at the scabs flowering his neck. “All this talking’s making me real thirsty.”

  When Seth moves the bottle farther away, Wayne settles for more of his soda.

  “Once they realize that I’m in bad with the Bandidos,” he says, “they’re cool with me, though. They have my back. They even teach me shit. Like how to short-cook Piney Woods meth. Man, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. You ever hear of red phosphorus dope? I can walk into any Walmart now and, for a hundred bucks, get enough product to make fifteen grams in ten minutes. A one-pot cook, man.”

  Large old-dope labs use professional-grade equipment and need people with chemistry knowledge to create a purer form of product. The labs take a lot of time to set up and have to be located in open, well-ventilated areas because of the acrid fumes from the cook. The operations are put into production only once or twice a month and make a couple of hundred grams of crystal meth at a time. Shake-and-bake setups, though, can be done in bathtubs, small boats, even the trunks of cars.

  Wayne laughs nervously, rubs his palms together between his two jiggling knees, as though simply talking about the meth is making him euphoric.

  “We get it,” Seth says. “You’re a one-man operation now. Get to the Roys, please.”

  Wayne wipes his hands nervously across his T-shirt, a WALK FOR THE CURE rag, probably donated to some Goodwill center, and says, “People are real friendly, real open about stuff once you’re accepted. They talk about everything in Angelina. Their old ladies, their small-time scores, their busts, their come-to-Jesus moments in rehab. One thing they don’t talk about is the biggest supplier of meth in East Texas. Not directly. I heard about them once by accident. Came across some of the skinhead brothers in a huddle, talkin’ about ‘the Family.’”

  He mutters the last two words in a whisper.

  I ask, “You mean like the Manson Family?”

  “Who?” Wayne asks.

  “Charles Manson. The Manson Family.” I speak the words slowly, deliberately.

  Wayne shakes his head, pulling at one ear, clearly having no idea who I’m talking about. I look at Seth for a beat and then say, “Never mind. Go on.”

  “So,” Wayne continues, “one skinhead shoves me against the wall and says, ‘What’d you hear, fuckface?’ I tell him, ‘Nothing. I heard nothing.’ And he tells me that if I ever mention anything to anyone, ever, about the Family, I’d be picking up my own eyeballs off the floor.”

  Wayne shows me his horns on his right hand, the hand with only his thumb and two fingers left.

  “And just to prove the point, he cut off two of my fuckin’ fingers quicker than I could piss myself.”

  He starts to shiver, although the room is warm and he’s wearing a long-sleeved jacket. Seth pushes his beer in front of Wayne, and he picks up the bottle and drains it in a few swallows.

  “The worst part,” Wayne says miserably, “is that they flushed my fingers down the john. I wasn’t a snitch, though.” He looks at me and grins, showing gaps where the battery acid from the cook has rotted away his teeth. “I told the guards, when they asked me what happened, that I had gotten a paper cut from playing cards. Man, the brothers thought that was the funniest thing they had ever heard. That’s how I got the nickname Full Flush. Get it? Cards? Toilet flush?”

  “I get it, Wayne,” I say. I push my beer in front of him too and he smiles at me like a surprised child. He drains my beer in short order.

  He wipes his mouth with one sleeve. “After that, people weren’t so tight with their talk. But I learned only a few things about the Family. They make good meth, almost as good as the Mexicans. But they always wear masks and regular clothes during a deal so no one knows what they look like, where they’re from, or how many of them there are. But even the Aryans and the Mexicans are respectful, man. The Family pushes back hard. You kill one o
f them, they kill five of you.”

  “Anybody ever mention the Roys?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says. “They were the big suppliers for a time. But they all died in a fire a while back. The woman and her two boys. From what I hear, a fire set by the Family.”

  He picks at his teeth and glances around the bar as though looking for someone. “The Family takes tributes, see? Body parts.”

  Seth looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “What kind of body parts?” I ask.

  “Whatever you got that can be hacked off.”

  I look at the three remaining fingers on his right hand and ask, “You think it was a member of the Family that cut your fingers off?”

  “No, man,” Wayne says in all seriousness. “That was just prison talkin’.”

  He then stares at the clean-picked ribs from the first go-round, his appetite clearly gone, and when the waitress delivers his second order, he asks her if it can be wrapped to go.

  “Wayne,” I say, pulling his attention from the scattered bones on his plate. “You’re not afraid of talking about this here? There’re a lot of bikes out front.”

  “You crazy?” he answers. “There’re no real bikers here. Guys wearing cuts wouldn’t be caught dead in this place. I mean literally dead. All the same,” he says, sitting upright in his chair, dropping his hands down to his lap, “that’s why I ducked into the back room. My cousin works the bar. He keeps an eye out for me.” He sniffs a few times. “I’ve got a plan, see. Me and my old lady are starting a business. Painting house-number signs on curbs. Those Highland Park folks like for the cops to know where they’re going at all times.”

  The waitress brings the takeout sack and Wayne stands up. “Listen, man, I gotta bounce.”

  Seth puts a restraining hand on his arm and he sits back down. “My partner has something to show you. A picture of a tattoo.”

  I pull Sergei’s drawing out of my pocket, slide the plate of ribs out of the way, and place the sketch in front of Wayne. I had hoped for an immediate reaction but he studies the drawing for a minute, chewing on his lips.

  Pointing to the first letter, he asks, “Is this an A? It’s got no crossbar thing through the middle of it.”

  Seth points to the second letter. “That clearly looks like a B.”

  “Do you recognize the image?” I ask Wayne.

  He cocks his head, impressed. “Nice work. Could be Aryan Brotherhood. But they’re usually all swastikas and eagles and shit. Definitely not in my prison. You couldn’t get the colored ink in Angelina.”

  I fold the paper and put it back in my pocket. “Thanks, Wayne. If something jogs your memory, give Riot a call, okay?”

  Wayne holds out his right hand for me to shake, which I do, his forefinger and pinkie wrapping around the back of my palm in a queerly prehensile way. “Well, you take care,” he tells me, breathing caustic fumes into my face. “Don’t go into the woods alone, hear?”

  Seth slips him a few twenties and he does the tweaker shuffle out of the restaurant, shoulders bowed, head swiveling from side to side like a dashboard dachshund. Seth pays the bill and we stand in the parking lot in front of my car.

  “Poor Flush,” Seth says. “He’s basically a good guy. But you know what they say about addicts: A crack addict will take your stuff and leave—”

  “And a meth-head will steal your stuff and spend days helping you look for it,” I say.

  I’m disappointed that Wayne didn’t recognize the tattoo. The more I look at the first letter, the more I’m uncertain that it’s an A. It could be a partial letter, or it could be an imperfectly formed part of the design. The whole tattoo could be just a flight of fancy to the wearer and not an affiliation with any group in particular.

  “What are you thinking, Riz?” Seth asks.

  “I’m thinking that this has been the longest fucking day of my life, and I need some sleep.” I give Seth’s arm a squeeze. “You’re looking a little pale yourself, Riot. Thanks for the snitch connect.”

  I get into my car and drive back to Anne’s house. I figure I’ll change and go for a short run to shake loose the thoughts in my head. Maybe Benny will have something to say about the tattoo.

  21

  Except for the porch light and a second-floor hall light, Anne’s house is dark when I pull into the driveway. The key is always left under the mat, even though I’ve begged Jackie to tell Anne to leave it in a less obvious spot.

  I slip in through the front entryway, trying my best not to let the screen door squeak, and have already secured the inside lock before I notice the smell of fresh tobacco smoke coming from the direction of the living room, just off the foyer. The upstairs hall light illuminates the entryway table with its collection of framed portraits of the Nesbitts taken at holidays and family reunions. There’s also one larger photo of a teenage Jackie and her dad, each holding a rifle, standing proudly in front of a six-point elk, its head propped up on a rock.

  My foot hits the bottom riser on the stairs and I hear Anne’s voice out of the darkness calling my name. A voice that, despite Anne’s many years living in Oregon, has managed to retain the twang of a born-and-bred Texan, with the imperious muddle of compressed vowels and tight-lipped consonants.

  I stand quietly, hoping I’ve imagined it.

  “Betty,” Anne says again. There is no question mark at the end.

  As I feel my way into the living room, a floor light comes on and I see Anne sitting upright in her deceased husband’s recliner, wearing her robe and slippers.

  “Hi, Anne,” I say. “Everything all right?”

  She places aside the magazine that she’s been holding—apparently a Braille copy, as the room had been pitch-black until a few seconds ago—and walks stiffly to where I’m standing.

  She folds her arms, her pale brows drawn in a V-shaped frown. Her nostrils flare slightly and she tells me, “You smell like cigarette smoke.”

  “So do you,” I say reflexively.

  Anne is a secret smoker. According to her, she quit years ago. But under stress, she’ll sneak a few out in the backyard or in the downstairs guest bathroom. Because of her heart condition, everyone, including her doctor, has lectured her ad nauseam about the dangers of smoking. But she, like a lot of smokers her age, doesn’t think the surreptitious ones count.

  Her frown deepens, but I’ve had practice waiting out hardened felons in an interrogation room, so I meet her stare.

  As the silence continues, I think the next thing she’ll say is that she wants me sleeping on the couch and not in the guest bedroom with Jackie. I brace for the lecture about how only bad can come from our “unhealthy lifestyle choice.” How my influence on her daughter will bring Jackie unhappiness and social disdain resulting in racking and burning at the stake.

  But what she says is “My daughter is very precious to me.”

  I end the stare and look at my shoes.

  “As she is to me, Anne,” I say.

  She nods, the edges of her mouth trembling and downturned. “Just don’t break her heart.” She says this while walking past me, throwing off the scent of cigarette smoke and Pond’s cold cream. I hear her slippers shuffling up the stairs and the sound of her bedroom door closing.

  I soon follow after, finding my way to Jackie’s room. Just the thought of a run now is too much. I sit as gently as I can on the edge of the bed, taking off my boots and socks and slipping out of my pants.

  Jackie stirs and sits up behind me, draping her arms around my waist. She kisses the side of my neck and asks softly, “You tired, baby?”

  She kneads my shoulders and I say, “Yeah.”

  “Everything okay?” she asks.

  I think of what I’m not going to tell her about: the visitor in the crawl space, the tweaker with the stories of jailhouse brutality, the encounter with her mother. Instead I say, “Everything’s fine.”

  22

  For two weeks in North Texas, once in the spring and once in the fall, the weather is about
as perfect as it can be anywhere. A bit like a landlocked San Diego, only with much bigger cars. I look at the modest but well-tended homes around Anne’s and think life lived in an enclave could be much worse. A lot of middle-class neighborhoods back east would have avenues about half as wide, and breaking free from a parallel-parking job on a borough street can be a bit like an outtake from War of the Worlds, with panicked, impatient motorists maneuvering wildly between other drivers all the while shouting obscenities. In contrast, it’s superbly quiet on Anne’s street.

  I stand for a moment, my face turned toward the sun, breathing in the air that’s for once not weighted with humidity, and I imagine what it would be like sitting on my own backyard patio, drinking coffee, Jackie in her turquoise robe idly pulling weeds from the potted plants. I remind myself that I’m long overdue to find an agent to show us some property again, an agent who’s not going to turn apoplectic at the thought of a same-sex couple setting up housekeeping in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

  We’ve spent the entire weekend at Jackie’s mother’s house and, remarkably, miraculously, there’ve been no meltdowns, arguments, or cutting judgments made. At least, not out loud. However, I’m certain I’ve sustained irreparable brain damage from listening to too much Fox News.

  My work phone rings with Seth’s number showing on the screen. “You’re up early,” I say, glad that the first call of the morning is from him.

  “Hey, partner,” he says, “want to hear something funny as shit?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, retrieving the car keys from my pocket. “Give me some good news.”

  “You know we got that football game coming up this next weekend with Homicide, right?”

  Every fall, one of the most anticipated DPD sports matches is the full-contact football game between the Homicide division and the Narcotics division. The rivalry is intense, injuries abound, and the after-parties are legendary.