The Wages of Sin

by Nancy Allen

  “They’re going to know you’re up to something, driving like that,” he said. With his molars he bit off a length of beef jerky and chewed.

  “You’re scarfing down jerky and soda pop when we’re trying to do a job here.” Nell hissed in disgust. “No wonder you can’t hold down a job. Even Smokey don’t want much to do with you.”

  “Quit riding me.”

  “Well then, you keep your eyes open for the child. If we know when she comes and goes, you’ll be able to snag her and see what’s she’s up to.”

  Bruce swallowed. “Why don’t we just go on to her house?”

  “Why don’t you just choke on that jerky? We got to figure out what’s going on.”

  “I know what’s going on. Larry done got pissed off at Jessie and he gone after her with a bat. And she died. End of story.”

  His mother cut her eyes at him. “You don’t know shit,” she said. When they neared Ivy’s foster home, Nell drove past it and parked in front of a house two doors down. “Give me a piece of jerky.”

  Bruce took the bag from his lap and handed it over. Nell pulled a strip from the bag and nibbled the tough smoked hide with her front teeth, like a rabbit.

  “Too bad your back teeth is gone. That ain’t no way to eat jerky. You gotta tear it.” And he demonstrated, gripping the hide between his back molars and pulling.

  Nell swallowed, giving him a sour look. “When you get to be as old as me, you’ll be glad to have a tooth in your head,” she began, but paused as the school bus turned the corner and chugged down the street.

  “Scoot down,” she mumbled around the wad of meat in her mouth. “Make sure she don’t see you.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” he said, but he slumped in his seat and tugged the hat lower onto his face.

  The bus stopped at an intersection several houses down the street. Children exited the vehicle: two big boys, followed by a cluster of girls. After several moments passed, Ivy emerged, pausing to pull her blue backpack high onto her shoulders.

  They watched her amble down the sidewalk, a sheet of manila paper in her hand. A girl in a yellow jacket was half a block ahead of Ivy, but she stopped and turned her way.

  “Ivy,” she called.

  Ivy stopped on the sidewalk. She reached up and adjusted her glasses, but didn’t move to join the girl on the sidewalk.

  “Oh, Ivy,” the girl in the yellow jacket called again, in a singsong voice.

  In the Buick, Bruce whispered, “What’s she doing?” but his mother shushed him.

  The girl in yellow began to backtrack, advancing toward Ivy on the sidewalk. Ducking her head, Ivy stood her ground.

  “Some friend of hers, you think? Maybe we ought to head out of here,” Bruce said in an uneasy whisper; but Nell shook her head.

  “Ain’t no friend,” she said.

  The girl sauntered up, closing the distance between them on the sidewalk. “Whatcha got, Ivy?” she said, with a nasty smile.

  Ivy narrowed her eyes. She didn’t reply.

  When she was within arm’s length of Ivy, she shouted: “I know what you got! Ivy germs!” She reached out and knocked the paper from Ivy’s hand.

  But as the paper fluttered to the sidewalk, Ivy reached out and snaked her fingers around the other girl’s wrist, then gave it a vicious twist.

  The girl backed away, fighting to free herself. “Stop it! Let me go!” But Ivy doubled her hold, using both hands to hang on.

  “You’re hurting me!” She finally released herself from Ivy’s grasp. “I’m gonna tell!” She turned on her heel and ran away.

  Ivy knelt down onto the sidewalk and picked up the paper. With her hand, she dusted it off, then blew on it, and wiped it a second time. She let out a long breath, and tugging at the blue backpack with her free hand, Ivy resumed her path down the sidewalk.

  In the Buick, Bruce cleared his throat, and pushed his fishing hat back into place. One of the lures snagged his finger, and he pulled it away with a jerk. “I don’t know about this, Ma. Seems like a lot of ­people around here. Kids and everything.”

  Watching Ivy enter the front door of the yellow house, Nell shook her head.

  “Nah. This’ll be easy. Easy as pie.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  On the double-­sized mattress in Elsie’s one-­bedroom apartment, she rolled onto her side and studied Ashlock. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling. The hair on his chest, she noted, was starting to turn gray.

  They had just finished an evening romp, which though it was uncharacteristically speedy, had nonetheless gotten Elsie where she wanted to go. Staring at Ashlock’s five-­o’clock shadow, she thought that her orgasm was more the product of her own concentration than any particular attention on Ashlock’s part.

  He exhaled out with a deep sigh. It didn’t sound like a sigh of ecstasy. She nudged him with a bare knee. “What are you thinking about?”

  His eyes opened, and he looked at her with surprise, as though he’d forgotten she was there. “Huh?”

  “What is going through your head? Is it Burton?”

  Ashlock’s teenage son was still a sensitive topic. Elsie had no intention of stepping in as a substitute for the boy’s mother, and Ashlock had never indicated that it was a role he wanted her to fill.

  When he didn’t answer immediately, she said in a threatening tone, “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about your ex.” Now that Ashlock was the primary custodian of his son, his communication with his ex-­wife, a born-­again Chris­tian who was the mother of his son and two grade-­school daughters, had become much more frequent. And contentious.

  “Lord, no. Not her. Or Burton.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve got to locate Bruce Stout.”

  Elsie kicked the tangled sheet out of the way and sat, leaning against the headboard. “That’s really flattering. You’re thinking about some dirtbag while you’re screwing me.”

  Ashlock gave a halfhearted laugh. “Not during. After.”

  “Oh. That’s different. Totally cool, then.”

  He rubbed his face with his hands. “Sorry, Elsie. I’m frustrated, that’s all.”

  Scooting back onto the mattress beside him, she stroked his arm. “You don’t need Bruce Stout to make our case. We have a ton of forensic evidence. We have the murder weapon. We have the little girl. And fuuuck, Ash,” and she leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Larry Paul? He confessed.”

  He scratched the ear she’d whispered into. “Yeah. He did.”

  She propped herself on an elbow again. “You made him sing like a bird, Ash.” And she was no longer worried about the Motion to Suppress that Josh Nixon had threatened, early on. Elsie had done her homework on the inebriation issue, and was confident that the law was on their side.

  “But he said he wasn’t alone that night. Bruce Stout was with him and Jessie Dent in her trailer.”

  “So? Are Bruce Stout’s prints on the murder weapon?”

  “No.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  “Did Larry Paul try to attribute the murder to the other guy?”

  “Not when I questioned him. But he was zoned out, stoned out of his mind. He’ll change his story; he’s bound to. And if I can’t locate Stout, well—­it leaves a hole.”

  Elsie sat up in bed. “It doesn’t endanger the verdict. The case is airtight. Open and shut.” She looked down at her bare thighs with a critical eye. It would be nice to have muscle tone in her legs. But it wasn’t like she had all day to exercise. She covered them with the sheet and sat up straight.

  Ashlock reached out and cupped her breast. “You’re a pretty sight.”

  Elsie smiled. Sometimes he said exactly the right thing.

  He gave a gentle squeeze and dropped his hand. “But there’s no such thing as an airtight case. You know that as well as I do. The defense can always spy
a pinhole.”

  She nodded, thinking. “You’ve already done a search for the other guy—­Bruce.”

  “I’ve been to his house twice, once with a search warrant. Looked high and low. If his mother’s hiding him out, she’s not giving it up.”

  “He lives with his mother?” She reached to the bedside table, where a glass of Diet Coke sat. The ice had nearly melted, diluting it to a light tan color. She drank it anyway. “I thought you said he was in the drug trade.”

  “Small time. He’s a no-­account. Not smart enough to sell much.”

  “What does his mama think?” Elsie pressed the wet glass against her neck. The September evening was warm.

  He scratched the stubble on his jaw. “Not sure what to make of old Nell Stout. She’s worked in the kitchen at Smokey Dean’s Barbeque as long as I can remember. Worked for old man Dean, before his boy took over the franchise. They may have her at the meatpacking plant now, outside the city limits.”

  “Oh shit. Smokey Dean, Junior. I can’t stand him.”

  The mention of Dean Mitchell conjured up ugly visions of Elsie’s adolescence. Dean had been a year ahead of Elsie at middle school in Barton. He was the biggest kid in school, the product of early puberty onset and unlimited access to his family’s barbeque pit.

  Whether he became a bully because of his size, his upbringing, or his nature, Elsie didn’t know; but he had terrorized the middle school, taunting bespectacled girls like Elsie and flinging the bookish boys down the stairways. When the principal tried to penalize the boy, Smokey Senior—­one of the most successful men in the county, with friends in local government and on the school board—­hired a lawyer and threatened the school district with a lawsuit for harassment of his son. After that, no one even tried to restrain Dean Mitchell Junior’s reign of terror.

  “Smokey Dean is a dick. And his old man was a dick, until he died. Do you know what Junior used to do? He would hold my head under the water at the city swimming pool in the summer. I almost quit going.” She took a gulp of watery Coke. “And it was hot as hell at my house.”

  “Son of a bitch.” Ashlock caressed her arm. “I bet you put up a fight.”

  “I was no match for him. But my mother was.” At the recollection, she laughed aloud: when Marge Arnold learned the reason Elsie was avoiding the city swim park, she drove straight to the pool, hunted young Dean Mitchell down in the snack bar, and confronted him.

  “She grabbed him by the ear. It was positively Victorian.” Elsie threw back her head and crowed.

  “Did it work?” Ashlock asked, grinning at the story.

  “Yeah—­for me, anyway. He looked for other victims, but he didn’t fuck with me anymore. My mother was one woman who didn’t put up with his shit.” She pulled the hair off her neck, found a hair tie, and tied it back. “His dad went to the middle school that summer, and said if his son was assigned to Mom’s English class, he’d sue.”

  “That boy would’ve benefited from a year under Marge’s thumb.” He threw the sheet back. “I better get going. Burton will be waiting.”

  “Can’t he walk home?”

  “It’s getting dark; I’m not comfortable with him walking all that distance. We’re across the highway. And he’ll want to eat. Fourteen-­year-­old boy.”

  She wrapped her hand around his penis. “If you were fourteen, we could go for a second round.”

  He stroked her cheek. “If I was fourteen, you’d be in jail.” He patted her hand and shifted to get off the bed. She released him.

  “Guess I’m eating alone,” she said. She’d been eating alone more often than not, since Burton moved to town.

  “You can eat with us, if you want.” His voice was noncommittal rather than persuasive; she knew he was only asking out of politeness.

  “If you were fourteen, I’d be in kindergarten.”

  Zipping his pants, he said, “I bet you were a smart-­mouthed kindergartner. But I wouldn’t have messed with you on a bet, your mama is too scary. Hey, tomorrow’s Saturday. Burton has a practice for the debate team. Want to get some lunch? Hang out, just the two of us.”

  Elsie shook her head. “Can’t do it tomorrow. It’s Mom’s birthday, and I’m running around with her.” She gave a weary sigh. “We got too damn many relatives, Ash. The only time I see you anymore is at the courthouse.”

  He didn’t reply; just pulled her to him for a kiss, then walked away, buttoning his shirt as he left.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Elsie pulled her Ford Escort off I–44 and drove down the highway loop of Mount Vernon, the county seat of Lawrence County, Missouri. When she reached the Red Barn restaurant, she took a right onto the gravel drive and pulled into the only empty spot on the lot.

  “They’re already busy. Hope we don’t have to wait for a table,” Elsie said.

  Elsie’s mother Marge unbuckled her seat belt. “It’ll be worth it.”

  Inside the restaurant, a woman in black jeans with blond hair pulled back from her face with a rubber band greeted them. “There’s a booth in the corner,” she said, indicating the table with a nod of her head.

  Beaming, Marge Arnold scooted into the booth as the waitress pulled plastic menus from their spot behind the napkin dispenser and set them on the table.

  “You want the breakfast buffet today?” the waitress asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Marge said firmly. “Ordering from the menu.”

  “Can I get you all something to drink?”

  After they asked for coffee and Diet Coke, Marge reached across the red-­checkered table and squeezed Elsie’s hand.

  “This is so fun.”

  Elsie smiled. “Happy birthday, Mom.”

  Marge let out a happy sigh. Studying the menu, she said, “Daddy is so jealous. Breakfast at the Red Barn.”

  “He could’ve come along.”

  “He wanted to. But when he heard you were taking me to the flea markets in Carthage, he backed out. Daddy says he doesn’t care a thing about other ­people’s junk.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s working in the yard today.”

  The blonde waitress walked up, balancing two cups of coffee in her right hand, and set down the Diet Coke in front of Elsie. “What are you hunting for today, Mom?”

  “Oh, you never know. Postcards of the Ozarks, maybe. Or lady head vases. They might have some pretty earrings like my grandmother wore. It’s a treasure hunt.”

  “Mom, you could find that stuff on eBay.”

  “Now what would be the fun in that?”

  The blonde waitress returned. “What can I get you all today?”

  Marge smiled, handing back the plastic menu. “I’ll have the chicken fried steak breakfast.”

  “How do you want your eggs?”

  “Over easy.”

  Elsie ordered scrambled eggs and bacon. As the waitress walked away, she whispered, “Mom. That comes with three eggs.”

  “I know it does. It’s my birthday.”

  “And you’re not supposed to order eggs over easy in a restaurant.” She trained a look of daughterly disapproval toward her parent.

  “Says who?”

  “There’s a warning on the menu.” Elsie pulled the menu back out to demonstrate, but Marge waved it away with a flip of her hand.

  “That’s just something they have to do. Silly business.”

  “Well, it’s a regulation.”

  “Elsie, for goodness’ sake. I have been eating eggs for fifty-­nine years. If they were going to kill me, I’d be dead.” She shook her head and exhaled in disgust. “These silly new rules. Did you know that they’re petitioning the school board in Barton to regulate what parents can bring to the elementary school parties? No candies or cookies or cakes. Silliest thing I ever heard.”

  Elsie yawned. “I guess they’re concerned about childhood obesity.”

  Marg
e scoffed. “As if that was the most terrible misfortune that could befall a child. Why Elsie, you were chubby in grade school.”

  It was a sore spot. “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “You were so pretty! Just a little plump. And when you got to be a teenager, you slimmed right down.”

  Their breakfast arrived. Elsie’s bacon and eggs couldn’t compete with Marge’s sizzling feast of fried meat with gravy, eggs, potatoes, and biscuits spread across two crockery platters.

  “I’ll share,” Marge said, but Elsie lifted a hand in dismissal.

  “No, Mom; I want you to have at it.”

  Marge poked the fork into the yolk of one of her eggs. “There’s more trouble heating up with the school board, you know.”

  Elsie was only half listening. Her attention was on her breakfast.

  “What’s that?”

  “That child. The little girl, your witness.” Marge pressed her lips together. “Some parents are petitioning the school board to have her removed.”

  Putting her fork down with a clatter, Elsie said, “What the fuck?”

  “Hush.” Marge glanced around the busy restaurant to see whether they had been overheard.

  “That little girl—­her name is Ivy—­has just experienced the most brutal loss of her mother. Witnessed it with her own eyes. The community should be lifting her up.” Involuntarily, Elsie pictured the child’s face, the broken glasses, and righ­teous indignation rose in her chest.

  “They say she has AIDS.” Marge whispered the word.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Mother. She does not have AIDS.”

  Two heads at the adjoining booth turned to listen. Elsie ignored them. “Who’s spreading that around? It’s defamation.”

  Marge said, “I told the teachers that it’s ridiculous, treating that little girl like Typhoid Mary. Because she won’t spread AIDS. It’s a sexual disease.”

  “Blood transmission spreads it. But it doesn’t matter a damn, in this case. She doesn’t have it.”