The Man Offside

by A. W. Gray

  I nodded.

  She brightened as though she’d just scored high on a pop quiz. “I thought I remembered it right,” she said. She adjusted her position, lifting one leg and clasping her hands over her knee. Her bare upper arms compressed her breasts together. She said, “So, Rick. Whatcha want?”

  “I’m working a few things out that might help my old buddy Skeezix, as a matter of fact,” I said. “It’s some private stuff that we probably shouldn’t discuss here.”

  She ran the tip of her little finger across her lower lip. “Well, I don’t know. Say, you sure you’re not just tryin’ to get me off someplace alone?”

  “Nothing like that, honest. Skeezix being out of town for a while, I’m looking after his interests. Your house, that’s one thing I’m interested in.” What I was telling her wasn’t a lie, not a hundred percent lie. I did want to see the papers on her house, especially after what Donna had told me over the phone. Plus, it might help Skeezix if I could find out who had Jack killed—it might keep the little twerp alive. What I really wanted to visit with Connie about had to do with the pictures featuring her and Jack, but I didn’t want to spring that on her as yet.

  “Well, since you’re bein’ honest . . .” She favored me with a coquettish blink. “If you want to find out about my house, I guess the best place to do that is at my house. So, darlin’, you want to follow me home?”

  She’d thrown me a curve and the twinkle in her eye said that she’d intended to. No rocket scientist here, but not many men would be the favorite over Connie in the boy-versus-girl department. I said, “Your house . . . ? Now?”

  “No time like the present,” she said. She stood and gathered up her clothes, then bent over close to me with her nipples brushing the tabletop. “And close your mouth, darlin’, you look like you’re tryin’ to catch some flies. Don’t worry, I’ll run back and get dressed before we go. I wouldn’ want to embarrass you none.”

  Connie Swarm drove the same way she danced, as though the devil himself were in hot pursuit and she wasn’t about to let him catch her, but at the same time she didn’t want him to stop trying. As I followed the tail lamps of her Trans Am north on I-35, she zipped in and out in speeding traffic, changing lanes without signaling, and sometimes would whiz completely out of sight. But each time I’d thought I’d lost her for good, her brake lights would flash into view, then she’d stick her arm out the window and give me a come-on wave. Visible through the Trans Am’s rear window, her pigtails flopped about in the car-generated wind. Once I glanced at my speedometer just as the needle hovered at ninety miles per. Visions of patrol cars—alternating with glimpses of Norman Aycock, county D.A. Pierson, and Detective Atchley—danced in my head. I swallowed the lump in my throat, took a firm grip on the steering wheel, and kept on truckin’.

  She took the Hawley Road exit. Her car’s rear end bobbed left and right, then the Trans Am lurched hard on its springs as she whipped left underneath the freeway, headed for the lake. Grimly, my teeth grinding together, I followed. The Quik Stop where I’d bought gas on my first trip to Connie’s flashed by on my right, the gas pumps a string of lighted blurs. The mesquite trees were gray, gnarled phantoms on my left; farther away the lake was still as a picture, the trees and brush on the opposite shore showing upside-down reflections like toy electric train scenery on a mirrored table. Connie left a trail of flying dust as she wheeled into her driveway and threw on the brakes; I parked parallel in front of the yard. The windmill’s arms stood unmoving.

  Her porch light was on. Visible down at the shore, the Cris Craft rocked gently near the end of the dock. There’d been two more cars in the drive the other night, now there were none. Connie flounced out of the Trans Am. She had changed into a flimsy blue T-shirt and short white shorts. She stopped beside the low cedar bush, beckoned, then half jogged, half strutted across the yard and up onto the porch. I followed, walking up behind her as she fumbled with the key in the door. She bumped me with her hip, and I wondered whether it was an accident. The grin she flashed me as she opened the door said that she’d bumped me on purpose. “So, darlin’,” she said, “here we are.”

  I avoided looking directly at her as I crossed the threshold, but still I saw her outline in the corner of my eye as I crossed the darkened living room and sat on the sofa. I had to get my head on straight. I’d been under some sort of goofy spell since I’d watched her dance, and the heady, roller-coaster ride to the lake had done nothing to break the enchantment. But playing around with Connie wasn’t going to help me with the trouble I was in. I tried to shut her face and body out of my mind. What the hell, wasn’t she strictly a play-for-pay girl? Not in the sense of cash in, sex out, maybe, but if you fooled with Connie you were going to pay one way or the other. And hadn’t she once shot a guy—her husband, in fact—right in the balls? That thought made me cringe. I dug into my mind and came up with two mental pictures: one the porno shot of Connie and Jack I’d seen in Catfish’s place, the other an image of Connie rolling in the hay with my old pal Skeezix. I think it was the idea of being Skeezix’s competition that really put me in the right frame of mind. Finally I called up an image of Donna, lovely Donna with the laughing eyes. Okay, now, spell broken. I peered through the dimness at Connie Swarm.

  The yellowish glare from the porch silhouetted her in the doorway. She switched on the interior light; she suddenly was visible head to toe. She still was quite a number, but whatever I’d been building for her was gone. I wondered if she noticed the change in the way I was looking at her.

  Evidently she didn’t. With a smile playing on her lips she left the room, then returned in a moment with a baggie dangling from between her fingers. In the baggie was some three grams of off-white powder. Until today, I hadn’t seen any cocaine in a long time; a few years earlier I could’ve told you the weight to the nearest milligram. In her other hand Connie carried a hand mirror and a rolled-up dollar bill. Party time. She threw me a wink and flowed onto the couch beside me.

  “So, Mr. Rick. Ricky-Rick. Rick nobody, just like in Casablanca. I watch it every time it comes on. Rick’s Cafe American. D’ja know he never had no last name, never in the whole show? So Ricky-Rick, you want to have a toot with me?”

  “No, Connie,” I said. “Let’s get something straight, right now. I really need to ask you some things. It’s not a front to get alone with you, make a pass, or anything.” She was holding the mirror in her lap and scraping some of the powder into a line, using a razor blade she’d had in the baggie. Jesus, it had been a long time, but I really didn’t want any. At least I was pretty sure I didn’t. “Come on, we really need to talk,” I said.

  She wasn’t listening. She snorted a little coke through the dollar bill. “Dynamite, Ricky,” she said. “Come on, don’t you want some?”

  “Not me.”

  “Don’t be a stick-in-the-mud, Ricky-Rick, you don’t look like one. You married?”

  “No,” I said.

  “No wifey-poo? If you’re telling the truth, and I don’t care if you are or not. Oooo, I’m getting a rushy-rush, Ricky-Rick.” She sat up straight, rested her hands on her thighs, and inhaled. She held the breath for a few seconds, then let it out slowly. “Deep breathin’ makes it last. Trust me, darlin’, you don’t know what you’re missin’.”

  This wasn’t getting me anywhere. “Oh, I know what I’m missing,” I said. “Listen, Connie, the house. Who do you make your payments to?” I was hoping she was just high enough to rattle off some answers without thinking.

  She wasn’t. She watched me with a doubtful arched eyebrow as she scraped together another line. “Are you sure you want to help Skeezix? You ought to know about the payments already, if you’re really so friendly with him.”

  “Well, to tell you the truth,” I said, “I’m supposed to make the payments for you while he’s gone. I told him I’d take care of them—Jesus, he wrote down the name, who I’m supposed to pay. But I lost the piece of paper. I ought to have my butt kicked.”

 
; She doubled up her leg and sat on her foot. “Where’s he gone, if you know so much? You been talking to him?”

  Going to see Connie was beginning to look like a royal screwup. Not only was I not finding anything out, I was making her just curious enough to start asking around about me. And to start checking up on Skeezix as well. I tried a stab in the dark. “Well, sure, I talk to him most every day. Don’t you know who I am?”

  “Sure, you’re Rick. Ricky-Rick, only you’re not as fun as I thought.” She did another line; the powder vanished from the surface of the mirror as if by magic. She sneezed.

  I took a shallow breath and plunged ahead. “Hey, doll, I’m the guy that’s handling the pictures. For Catfish. I’m the distributor.” Bringing up the porno shots was either going to get me some information or the bum’s rush. Maybe both.

  Connie’s reaction was the last thing I expected. Her hands fell limply into her lap. Her lower lip trembled. The cocaine brightness in her eyes dimmed as though someone had thrown a switch. Tears welled in her eyes. One ran down her cheek and streaked her makeup. In a shaky, childlike voice she said, “Where’s Debbie?”

  My mouth was probably agape. I didn’t say anything.

  She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders heaving with sobs. “I’ve done what you said, all of it. Where is she? Please.”

  I don’t guess I could have been more surprised if snakes had started wriggling and writhing on top of her head, like on the Medusa. I’m pretty much of a softie when it comes to girls crying, even girls like Connie Swarm. It took all that I could muster to say, stone-faced, “Well, where did Catfish tell you that she was?”

  “It’s been three months. The last time you let me see her Skeezix promised I could play with her again in a couple of weeks. Catfish promised, too, he was right there with us. Now they tell me it’s you that won’t let me see her. I don’t care what you think about me, it’s not right for you to keep her away from her mommy. Not right! My little girl, she’s all I’ve got.” Between the cocaine and the grief—real grief, too, this girl wasn’t capable of faking anything—Connie was close to hysteria.

  I left her sobbing and hugging herself alone on the couch while I hustled into the converted dining room and rummaged through the wet bar. I found a big, smooth tumbler with “TEXAS TEA” decaled on its surface, and half filled it with tap water. I would have used whiskey if she hadn’t been tooting the cocaine, but I’d seen some nasty results in my time from mixing the two. I carried the water back in to her. She took a big gulp and coughed a fine spray. The drink seemed to help—at least her shoulders weren’t heaving quite so much. I sat back down beside her.

  “Listen to me,” I said. “I’ve been putting you on, because I thought I had to. I’m not in any porno ring, Connie, you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else. It’s my fault that you do, because I was trying to fool you into telling me some things. I’m sorry for that, but now I’m telling you the truth. I’m a guy who’s in trouble, and evidently you’ve got problems with the same group of folks that I do. If you’ll help me, I’ll do everything I can to bring your little girl to you. Any idea who’s got her?”

  The tears were still flowing, but at least she was listening. “You a cop?” she said.

  “Just the opposite, I’m trying to get around the police. Did you know that Catfish is dead?”

  I wasn’t sure exactly what Connie’s expression held, but the grief was suddenly gone. Her voice was practically steady as she said, “You kill him?”

  “No, but I got there right after somebody did. Trust me, Connie, he’s gone.”

  Her upper lip curled. “The son of a bitch got himself killed. God, I wish I’d been there.” She sank back against the cushions. “Nobody’s got Debbie, not the way you’re thinking. Just her asshole of a father, but he’s got court orders to keep me from seeing her. Catfish and Skeezix had ways to get her out here to see me—they’d have Fred bring her once in a while if I was good. You know, darlin’, if I’d make their pictures for them. That was bein’ good.”

  “Fred?”

  “He’s a lawyer, Fred Cassel. I’m not sure what he had to do with it, but that’s who they called when they’d let me see her.”

  I thought, Jesus Christ, old stand-up Fred. What in hell is going on? I said, “Are you sure? Little guy with a Hitler mustache, wears a lot of silk hankies in his breast pockets?”

  “Sure, I know him. He used to be Skeezix’s lawyer sometimes.”

  “When? When was he?” My temples were pounding.

  “He was all the time until . . . just about, about a year ago Fred told Skeezix he couldn’t be his lawyer no more, something about, what, a conflict? I don’t understand it, but it was about the same time he started . . . hey, I didn’t like it no better than anybody else.”

  “You’re talking about when Skeezix started being a government informant?” I said.

  “That’s about it, about the time.” Connie was wringing her hands in her lap.

  I was going to need time to sort all this out, but right now I needed to accumulate what information I could, before Connie changed her mind about talking to me. Underneath the varnish, she was just another street-tough lady with a soft spot for her daughter, and she might decide to clam up at any moment. “Connie,” I said, “think. Do you think Fred Cassel had anything to do with the porno business?”

  “I couldn’ say. He spent a lot of time at Baby Doll’s, and out at the Bullrider Danceland, too, with Skeezix and Catfish. And Bodie Breaux, too. Him and Bodie did a lot of drinkin’ together.”

  “Naw. Fred Cassel and Breaux.”

  “Sure, darlin’,” Connie said. “Didn’ you know that? I thought Bodie an’ you were buddies.”

  Sure, we were. My old buddy Breaux. Who just happened to know Fred Cassel, who just happened to forget to mention that he already knew Bodie when he hired me. Come to think about it, Cassel had told me he knew of Breaux, and had suggested that I get Bodie to help me get rid of Skeezix. Whom Cassel also knew, and who knew Bodie also. Jesus, the three of them must have died laughing every time my name came up.

  “Connie,” I began, then said, “Jesus Christ, what to ask.” Then I cleared my throat and said, “Connie, really important this next one. Now, when I told you I was the porno distributor, you somehow thought you already knew about me. Does that mean that there is somebody else besides the people we’ve talked about? Like Jack Brendy maybe?”

  She gave me a blank stare. “Who?” she said.

  “Come on, Connie, don’t start blowing smoke. Not now. I’ve already seen your picture with Jack. You know, the two of you doing it, over at Catfish’s place.”

  She didn’t show the slightest trace of embarrassment. Come to think about it, there wasn’t any reason she should have. A modest woman Connie wasn’t. She said, “Oh, that old guy. He’s the one Fred brought over and Catfish took the pictures from the closet. They used some of those pictures to, you know, get people to do what they wanted. Like me with my little girl, they always wanted something on everybody. But no, no way that guy was part of the action. They were putting one over on him is all. I think he might’ve had something to do with dope. I remember they told me not to say nothing about Skeezix, that they didn’ want him to know I knew him. I never asked why, I wasn’t supposed to ask about anything. Just do. But there was somebody else they were all takin’ orders from. They used to call him up.”

  Well, they had damn sure put one over on me. Easy as pie. Just set up Donna to have me over and . . . the thought of Donna being involved in it flashed through my mind, but I quickly discarded the idea. Donna Sue Morley simply wouldn’t do anything like that. But the others . . . well, they’d killed Catfish, or had it done, and probably Jack as well. And I was sitting here shooting the breeze with Connie Swarm, who had too much information about what was going on, in a house where Breaux knew right where to find us. I said, “Connie, I’ve got to get you out of here.”

  “No, no, I’m all right,” she said.
“Stayin’ alone has been kind of different. Good for a change.”

  “You don’t get it,” I said. “We’ve got to go now. I’ll put you up someplace. I doubt you’ve got time to pack even. If they haven’t already, they’re going to figure out that you’re dangerous to them. They’re not that worried about me—they’ll let the state and the feds handle that one for them—but you’re not safe where they can put their finger on you.”

  I’d just thrown a lot at her, and wasn’t sure whether Connie would buy it or not. By now I was pretty sure that the quicker she did buy my line, the better chance she had of staying alive. She said, realization dawning, “You mean right now?”

  “Right this second, Connie. Yeah, now.” I took her arm and helped her to stand.

  She had a strange look, an innocent gaze that reminded me of how young she was. Which in Connie’s case was awfully easy to forget. “Do you really think they’d—” she began, then said, “I need to get a couple of things.”

  She left me alone and retreated to the rear of the house. I sat on the sofa and watched the baggie of cocaine with a strange fascination. In a few minutes

  Connie returned. I’d say this much for her, she traveled light. Her belongings were stored in a small overnight bag. I took the bag and led her toward the door. She paused, went back over to the couch, and picked up the baggie, then looked at me questioningly. I shook my head. She nodded and left it there. We went outside, and I led the way down the steps into the yard.

  I said, “I don’t think my place is safe, either. We’d better go check into a—”

  The brrrt! brrrt! of a machine gun shattered the stillness. From the street, somewhere in the vicinity of where I’d parked the ‘Vette, short orange bursts of flame spat like dragon’s breath. Sod flew nearby, the line of fire directed to my left and moving in my direction.

  I had a sudden crystal-clear memory of a day in the country I’d once spent with Breaux. Bodie was a real gun freak, and on this particular day he’d been practicing with a WW II relic, a Schmeizer machine pistol, riddling rows of beer bottles, fence posts, and dried-up horse turds.