You Killed Wesley Payne

by Sean Beaudoin

  Tarot did not volunteer a better idea.

  “This guy’s so full of shite!” Mick Freeley said. “You can’t be seriously thinking we can trust—”

  “How much?” Tarot asked.

  “Four grand.”

  “Ridiculouz.”

  Dalton stuck out his hand. “Four grand buys you a thousand more reasons to trust me than Chuff has.”

  Tarot stared at Dalton’s palm distastefully, then went into the studio. He came back with a stack of money wrapped with a bass string and a CLOSE YOUR PINKER EYES, SPREAD YOUR CASKET THIGHS T-shirt.

  “Classy.”

  “When do I get details?”

  “I’m supposed to lay it out at Yearbook’s party.”

  “We’ll be there anyway,” Mick Freeley pouted. “We’re playing that bash.”

  “Good. I’ll run the specs by Chuff. He likes it, I’ll find you after your set.”

  Tarot cracked his neck, which popped with a grotesque loudness, and then stuck out his hand to shake. His palm was enormous, pale and flaky and calloused.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #27

  Do not, repeat, DO NOT touch that disgusting thing.

  Dalton reached out. Tarot’s hand enveloped his, constricting the Venus Fly of his palm. They stared at each other. Tarot increased the pressure. Dalton’s knuckles compressed like rusty ball bearings being ground together. His bones were beginning to fuse.

  “Double crosses mean cemetery crosses,” Tarot warned.

  Dalton’s hand burned red, and then white. The pain was unbearable. And then it got worse. He kept his face composed, but it was on the verge of cracking.

  “It’s on the level,” he whispered, trying not to plead. “I swear.”

  Tarot counted out a beat, and then a few more, before letting go.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #28

  Don’t rub it. Don’t acknowledge it hurts. Think of Macy. Think of Landon. Think of your hand encased in a glacier. Smile. It DOES NOT hurt. At least not until you’re by yourself. Then you can go ahead and cry.

  “So we have a deal,” Cassiopeia said, toasting an imaginary martini.

  Kurt Tarot did not toast. He glared.

  Dalton did not toast. He winced.

  “Here’s to Salt River’s new big dog!” Cassiopeia said anyway.

  Dalton pulled Wesley Payne’s envelope from his back pocket and held it up for Tarot. “You recognize this?”

  I watch the branches frame my head,

  the flap of apron string

  Shadows cross the wagon ruts, dangle in the wind

  I dream of all the rumpled men who

  slept beneath my roof

  But their vengeance was not my vengeance

  nor my cloven hoof

  Sunlight on her face

  Mary sways

  Shadows dance below her

  Mary sways

  Down with tyrants, Booth cried to set the final act

  Death songs swept my boardinghouse

  and blew away the facts

  Southern winds gust in haste on this winter’s day

  Wilkes is gone and gut shot

  but his sins are mine to taste

  Sunlight on her face

  Mary sways

  Shadows dance below her

  Mary sways

  Tarot nodded. “It’s ‘The Ballad of Mary Surratt.’ ”

  “Those are your lyrics?”

  “It’s one of our early songs,” Mick Freeley said. “An effing good one too.”

  “Who’s Mary Surratt? Your old girlfriend?”

  “Zome of the lines have been changed.” Tarot pointed at the eraser marks. “The wordz are moved around. Why would you do that?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Wesley Payne.”

  Tarot’s face became hard. “That’s not amusing.”

  “What’s not amusing?”

  “Mary Surratt was the first woman executed by the U.S. government.”

  “What?” Cassiopeia said. “They executed a woman? Why?”

  “She was wrongly implicated in helping John Wilkes Booth azzazzinate Abraham Lincoln.”

  “You’re shite-ing me,” Cassiopeia said.

  Dalton tried to swallow, but it wouldn’t go down. “How was she killed?”

  “She was hanged.”

  “By the ankles?”

  Tarot frowned. “No.”

  Dalton turned to Cassiopeia. “I need a ride home.”

  Cassiopeia snapped her fingers. Jenny Two lifted a set of car keys from the depths of her bra.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Tarot said. “We’re not done with rehearsal.”

  “Where’s the opera?” Cassiopeia asked soothingly, rubbing Tarot’s cheek with her ring finger. “We’ll run through the set as soon as I get back. Besides, you need to walk your new bass player through the changes. I don’t want to sit around while you tear that hotshot a new clasp.”

  “No.”

  “I wasn’t asking permission,” Cassiopeia reminded him, but nice and soft, still stroking his cheek. Jenny Two quietly slipped off her high heel and held the point of the stiletto by her side. Mick Freeley slipped two guitar picks out of his sleeves, each one shaped like a razor blade. He and the Catwalk stared one another down.

  “Yes, yez,” Tarot finally conceded. “Go. But don’t forget—”

  Cassiopeia started down the hallway. Dalton ducked back into the practice room and grabbed Mole with the hand that hadn’t been reduced to jelly.

  “C’mon, Aqua Boy, before they change their minds.”

  Mole let himself be led along without a word, dragging his backpack like a sack of turnips. Between the hickeys and the bruises he looked like he’d just machete’d his way out of the Saipan jungle only to find that World War II had been over for years. They caught up with Cassiopeia and walked back through the incredible wall of noise, down the four flights of steps. As they passed the gear booth, Strata waved. Dalton took out his earplugs and held them up. “Can I get a refund on these?”

  “Once a crackstar, always a crackstar,” she said, playing with her purple dreads.

  The parking lot was quieter, dark now, but still full of cars. Cassiopeia nodded toward a convertible Jaguar.

  “I should have known. Sugar daddy?”

  “I look like I need a daddy? Sugar or otherwise?”

  “I guess that’s a no.” Dalton used his shoulder to push Mole’s girth into the tiny backseat, then climbed in front. Cassiopeia cranked the engine before squealing out of the lot in a spray of beer cans and taco wrappers.

  “Since when do you sing, Dalton?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he said, gently rubbing his knuckles.

  “Since I decided it was time to come out of the shower and show the world what I’ve got. You can only play second fiddle for so long.”

  “The world already knows what you got.”

  Cassiopeia took a corner at twice the recommended speed. “Well, thank Bob for that, a compliment from Dalton Rev.”

  “So how deep are you with Count Chocula?”

  “Is this about him hurting your hand? Hey, I’m sorry he hurt your hand.”

  “This is about him being the biggest freak in a thousand-mile radius. This is about him being a dangerous sociopath.”

  “Jealous?”

  “More like nauseated.”

  “Can you tell me something, Dalton?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why do you keep crowding my action?”

  “What action?”

  “I don’t need you swinging by places I’m working to make sure I’m okay, okay?”

  Dalton considered telling her a lie.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #29

  The truth hurts. A lie metastasizes.

  “I didn’t. Swing by. I was on the level about Newport. He brought us there. I didn’t even know you—”

  “Oh,” she said. “I thoug
ht—”

  “Well, I didn’t—”

  “Because, in that case—”

  “I mean, not that I meant—”

  “Even if you did—”

  “Why don’t you two get a room already and get it over with?” Mole asked from the backseat.

  Cassiopeia accelerated on a straightaway, the Jag bucking like it’d been spurred in the flanks.

  “The mummy speaks,” Dalton said. “Not very cleverly, but he speaks.”

  “Not to you. Not anymore. You’re a bad influence.”

  “Sidekick is a dangerous job.”

  “Enough of the hard-boiled patter,” Cassiopeia warned. “This is much bigger than you have any idea. Tarot is—”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Dalton interrupted.

  “Do you?”

  “I guess I’ll find out at Lu Lu Footer’s party.”

  “There is no plan, is there? None at all.”

  “There’s always a plan.”

  “Like walking into that studio about to get yourself crushed by a mic stand?”

  “Everyone plays a role. By encouraging suspects to be the most extravagant version of themselves, they reveal their secrets.”

  “Oh my Bob. Where do you come up with this bloshite?”

  “From The Cat with One Life, the Crook with Nine Fingers. At least that line specifically. Chapter fourteen, page sixty-six.”

  “Do I have clue one what you’re talking about? Do I even want to?”

  “Probably not. Being head of Foxxes and all, you probably can’t afford to have any extraneous information clanging around in your head.”

  Cassiopeia slammed on the brakes in front of Mole’s house. The Jag slid twenty feet through gravel. “We’re here.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Not going alone,” Mole said. “Too scared.”

  Cassiopeia pointed across the lawn. “Lester, your house is right there.”

  The small, aluminum-sided A-frame squatted in a yard full of plastic toys and dog turds.

  Mole shook his head, not moving.

  “Euclid, get outta my car!”

  Mole set his lip. “Not going alone.”

  “Going where? Your front door?”

  “Yup.”

  “Fine, I’ll take him in.”

  “You and I need to talk,” Cassiopeia said. “Like now.”

  “I know, but what am I going to do?” Dalton gestured to the backseat. “You go. I’ve got something to take care of, anyhow. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Dalton—”

  “Go,” Mole said petulantly.

  Cassiopeia’s eyes were furious. “Stupid Euclidian. They should have drained you and made you into a six-pack a month ago!”

  The Jag peeled away, leaving them standing on the edge of the lawn. Dalton took Mole by the arm and started to lead him in. Mole pulled away angrily. “Don’t touch me.”

  “But I thought—”

  “It was a ruse, you rube. Like I’m too scared to walk across my own lawn? I needed to get you alone before that tarantula spun more of her web. Not like you deserve my help, but I just did you a mongo favor.”

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough before, guy, but Foxxes are into some seriously evil shite. I thought it was just rumors, but that was before Classless-iopeia hooked up with Tarot. That’s one girl you need to stay way away from.”

  “Mole, I don’t think—”

  “Yeah, that’s just it, Dalton. You’re thinking with your rodney.”

  Mole’s eyes were intense. The clown act was almost entirely gone.

  “Okay, I hear you. I’ll watch it around her.”

  “Don’t just watch it. Stay away. There’s a difference. Get it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  Mole turned and walked up to his house. In a corner window was a flickering bluish light, where Buffy Bucharest was watching TV. The door slammed.

  Dalton looked down the street. Mole lived about twenty blocks from Macy’s. If he kept up a steady jog, he might get there before she got into bed. He needed to talk to her tonight. He needed to apologize. He needed information. But what he really needed, more than anything, was to get home before curfew or Sherry Rev was going to be pissed.

  CHAPTER 15

  SALT RIVER STEEL

  Macy picked up on the fourteenth ring, annoyed.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “Listen, I want to talk.”

  “And I want to sleep. You couldn’t wait until homeroom?”

  “I could have,” Dalton said. “Except that I’m downstairs and all.”

  “Downstairs?”

  “Well, across the street at a pay phone.”

  “You’re going to wake my father up.”

  “I’ll be quiet. Promise.”

  “Yeah, until you decide to start slamming doors and then run out of the house without a word.”

  “Sorry about that. Seriously. I know I owe you an explanation.”

  “At the very least.”

  “Fortunately, I have one.”

  Macy didn’t answer.

  “Or,” Dalton said, “I could just leave and walk home, but then I won’t be able to tell you what I found out about Wesley.”

  She still didn’t answer. He was about to hang up, when she said, “Around back in five minutes. And don’t make a sound!”

  Click.

  Dalton stood at the screen door, moths doinking against it. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked and mosquitoes flew sorties at his neck in waves. Macy, wearing adorable red jammies, eventually appeared on the other side. Her hair stood up at a pillowed angle. She had a tiny speck of toothpaste at the corner of her lip. Dalton turned the handle, but it was locked.

  “I said back door. I didn’t say you could come in.”

  The low bass of TV commercials thrummed from the interior. Dalton could see half of Albert Payne asleep on the couch, his sockless feet and plaid slippers dangling above a near-empty bottle of wine.

  “Looks like your dad is safely medicated.”

  “Mind your own business.” Her pajama top was stretchy and tight. She didn’t appear to be wearing a bra, going free range on him. Dalton tried hard to concentrate on the microwave in the kitchen.

  “You’re not paying me to mind my own business.”

  Her arms were crossed, but he could tell she was wavering with the Deservedly Angry routine.

  “He makes his own. In the basement.”

  “Huh?”

  “Wine. My father bought some kit over the Internet. It smells like kerosene.”

  Dalton sniffed the air. All he could smell was her. Her skin and the bitter tinge of soap.

  “Macy?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Macy?”

  “What?”

  He made an ape face, pressing it against the screen, hard enough for little squares of lip to bubble through the mesh. “I won’t run away again if you give me a banana.”

  It was so stupid she unlatched the door and put her arms around his neck. There was a desperation to the way she clung to him. She was scared. He hadn’t realized just how much up until that second, taking for granted that she’d come to terms with losing her brother. With being alone. With being surrounded by a school full of suspects. He’d been a jerk hiding behind the guise of professionalism, thinking about Inference’s money and Landon’s armor, but not how totally unmoored she must be.

  “Listen, I’m sorry—”

  Macy cut him off, pressing even tighter.

  “You better have a really good reason for taking off like that.”

  “I do. Let’s go upstairs and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Sitting on the pink bed, Dalton tried to describe Elisha Cook and his curly mustache without the whole thing sounding too much like a cartoon. Out loud, it was beyond implausible. He told her how Cook had been behind the tree, staring in her
window, and how he admitted he’d been following Dalton around school. Macy rolled her eyes and made little snorting sounds of disbelief, but he didn’t try to convince her, which more or less eventually convinced her. They regarded each other across the mussed pink comforter.

  “Harvard? That’s… crazy. I didn’t even bother applying to Harvard.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  She blushed. “It’s just, you know. I study and all.”

  Dalton slipped the silver number 9 key out of his back pocket, half dreading showing it to her. It would probably get him kicked back out the screen door. On the other hand, he wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t shown her right away. Let alone the money in the envelope, or the lyrics on the back. He could keep pretending it was because he’d had to run after Elisha Cook, but it wasn’t. There was something about the way her brother had hidden the envelope that bothered him. It didn’t feel innocent. It was furtive. Like Wesley was holding it for some kind of leverage or racket. Or even blackmail. And if his key really did belong to a locker full of cash, someone was going to have to do a whole lot of explaining on Wesley’s behalf. Like, for instance, the sister who idolized him. But did Macy need to know about it now, especially if it turned out not to be true?

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #30

  Object Lesson #489 in why you shouldn’t even consider making out with a client. Besides, just which one of you are you really trying to protect?

  Dalton held up the key. “Ever seen this before?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Could be a clue. Could be garbage.”

  “What’s it to?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “It’s where Inference’s money is, right?”

  Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”

  “Duh, it’s a locker key. The only thing a locker’s good for is stashing loot.”

  “Who says?”

  “No one said. It’s in every movie ever made. Stash the cash in a Greyhound locker and then all the colorful characters take turns shooting each other over the key, since cash is just too heavy and inconvenient for actors to carry around while saying clever lines and pointing silver-plated Colt .45’s all the time.”