“I have NFL Game Pass. They keep games on there for a year. I missed the last Raiders game because of work.”
Now she turned to Luck, who could only offer her a shrug.
The unsettled feeling in Darger’s gut intensified. One of the two men was lying, but where was the lie? They’d thought Murphy’s story about watching football had been the clear fabrication, but now Camacho had given them a perfectly clear explanation for it. But he was still insisting he’d been alone all day. Why would one of them say they were together and the other deny it?
She could see only one choice remaining to her now. She had to lay it all out and hope something shook loose. No more games.
“Here’s our problem, Miguel,” Darger said. “We have a witness from The Blue Handkerchief fire that picked Murphy out of the crowd as someone he’d seen in the bar recently. Someone he described as seeming nervous and out of place.”
Camacho’s eyes stretched wide.
“Murphy? You think Murphy set the fire? That’s… insane!” he said.
His shock seemed genuine to Darger, though that wasn’t worth much. Bad people fooled the ones closest to them all the time.
“There’s no way,” he insisted. “No fucking way. It’s a mistake. I can prove it.”
“How’s that?”
“Murphy was with me when the fire started. It couldn’t have been him.”
“Come on, man,” Luck said. “You expect us to believe that?”
Darger leaned forward.
“You just spent the last ten minutes telling us you were alone all day. So, what is it? You forgot you weren’t alone after all?”
Darger saw fury in Camacho’s eyes. And something else. Fear?
He sat back, crossing his thick arms again.
“Yeah,” he said, his tone bitter. “I forgot. And I just remembered something else.”
“What’s that?”
“I want a lawyer.”
Chapter 46
The glass pipe adheres to Carl’s lips. The flame licks at the white rock in the rounded end of the pipe, a sphere like a miniature fish bowl there at the end of the tube. A little hunk of Chore Boy bronze wool filters the chamber from the shaft, keeps the rock from sucking up into the bum’s mouth when he hits it.
Jim watches the whole process through the glass like he’s peeking through a window. The flame dancing around the bowl, the smoke swirling off the rock and sucking up into the tube, little black marks smudging the glass from the fire’s touch, the rocks shrinking as the heat devours them.
They sit in the front seat of the SUV, a few blocks from where the purchase was made. Jim can’t help but lean away from the man in the passenger seat who has just finished smoking his $20 worth.
Carl writhes in his seat now, his body undergoing a series of tics and gestures that only a crackhead could produce. Knees pumping up and down in some jerky time signature. Shoulders rotating, shimmying, almost dancing. Head pointing up toward the ceiling.
Outside of himself or maybe pulled deeper inside. His brain on fire. His soul on fire.
Jim knows from his own experiences some years ago: smoking crack is very much like setting a fire inside. Lights everything in the brain the fuck up. The whole body, for that matter.
It pushes the edge of the limits of human experience. Pushes past stimulation. Past joy.
Crack pushes so far past joy that it ruins it forevermore. A glittering, throbbing, glistening world draped around the user. A glow so bright inside that it cannot be sustained. Cannot be forgotten. Can only be longed for again and again.
When you smoke this, you cross a line permanently. For the rest of your life, part of you will want only this. Ache for it. Itch for it. Pine for it. Nothing else can ever measure up.
You find a hole in your soul you never knew existed, and there’s only one way to fill the fucker: with that potent smoke inhaled through a glass tube.
“You ain’t gon’ smoke yours?” Carl says, wide eyes locking on the foil in Jim’s hand. His top lip quivers in fast motion as he stares.
“Not yet,” Jim says. “Let’s see where the night takes us first, Carl my boy. I suspect we’ve got an interesting journey in front of us. Yeah?”
Carl hesitates a moment, eyes flicking to Jim’s sunglasses and then back to the foil. At last, he nods.
Jim tucks the foil into the left front pocket of his pants, not realizing until he does it that he’s keeping it across his body from Carl. Probably smart. Crack can turn any man into a fiend, no matter how peaceful his disposition. Jim has watched crackheads crawl over the floor for hours, fingers raking along, scouring the carpet for anything remotely rock-like or white to toss into their pipe and smoke, hoping beyond hope for that .01% chance that they will randomly find some crack on the floor to smoke.
They merge with traffic on the 101, straddling the border between Chinatown and Little Tokyo. Concrete walls encase the cars just here, as though this highway is sunken, partially buried beneath Los Angeles. Their view of the city reduces to just that image: gunmetal gray walls, drab and industrial, periodically peppered with graffiti.
Even fifteen minutes after clearing his pipe, Carl’s chest still heaves as though he’s just run the 400 meters. Hands drifting up to smear at the greasy skin of his face and forehead every few seconds.
Getting off the highway and onto Sunset Boulevard, they move through Angelino Heights toward Echo Park. A spa, a motel, and a large, modern-looking church occupy the sides of the road here, taking the place of the endless row of tents.
Jim realizes he’s driving straight toward Betsy’s apartment. Jumping the gun, he thinks. Shit. A fast food billboard gives him the idea to change routes for the time being. Buy some time. Let the night mature some. Besides, ol’ Carl looks like he could use a bite to eat.
“You hungry, Carl?”
This time there’s no hesitation. Carl nods with gusto, that excited look flashing in his eyes.
Jim chuckles.
“You know what I like about you, Carl? There’s no wasting of words. You’re the strong, silent type, right? I respect that.”
The haggardness of Carl’s appearance stands out again under the glow of fast food signs, the reds and yellows gleaming on those doorknob cheekbones. Acne scars give his face the texture of paper mache.
“Me?” Jim continues. “Guess I’ve always been a talker. Too much energy, you know? Keyed up. Can’t sit still or shut up. Always been that way. I was a hyperactive child and the whole deal. It’s like my turbo booster got flipped on when I was a kid, and I never quite figured out how to turn it off. Even when I’m alone, my mind just keeps kicking out words. Monologuing away up in my dome, audience or no. It’s like I’m always talking to myself inside, you know?”
“Right,” Carl says, eyes again flicking to Jim’s sunglasses and then away.
They fly through the drive-thru, commandeering a bag of burgers, fries, and a pair of Cokes. Part of Jim had expected Carl to get a milkshake for some reason. Food in hand, they park and begin to eat.
The silence stimulates at first, some strange energy swirling in the SUV, but it only takes a few minutes for the quiet to become comfortable. Funny how that works, Jim thinks, how a little quiet time can sort of seal a bond between two men, especially if there are burgers involved.
“You grow up around here?” Jim says.
Carl answers between bites of his second burger.
“No, sir. Grew up outside of Memphis. Moved out here when I was 19 or 20. Been just about that long again now, I guess.”
Jim crunches the numbers in his head — that’d make Carl around 38 years old. He looked closer to 50 or 60.
“Only thing I really know about Memphis is that they have good barbecue. Watched some Food Network shit about it a few years ago. Or maybe Anthony Bourdain or something. Anyway, I hear it’s rough out there.”
Carl catches his tomato from falling out of his sandwich and pushes it back in place with his thumb. Then he nods.
> “My brother, Stevie, got caught up in the drug game. Killed over some turf squabble when he was 17. I moved out here a couple months after that. It’s like you get so tangled up in trouble in some place, so enmeshed in it, that the only way to disentangle yourself is to get as far away as you can. Physical distance. So I went all the way to the Pacific Ocean, you know? I’d need a boat to get farther.”
“Why L.A.?”
Carl sips his Coke as he considers his answer.
“California seems like a land of opportunity, I guess. I mean, you got the movie stars out here and everything, but I didn’t have grand dreams or nothing. Just wanted to find work and get by. Press the reset button on my life. Find a place. And at first, it all worked out. I got a job in construction. Made decent money. Shared a dumpy little house with some of my coworkers, you know, but it was great. Looking back, it was a great time.”
“What happened?”
“A couple years in, I got to partying more. Just beer and pot, at first, maybe a little cocaine from time to time. But then I got into the harder stuff. And it’s like after a while the drugs get pretty deep under your skin, I guess, start warping your thoughts and stuff. You start seeing that paycheck in terms of how much dope you could buy, how much fun you could have. Paying a big chunk of it for rent — basically to have a mattress to sleep on at night — stops making sense. It starts seeming like an unbelievable rip-off. So a couple of us working in this crew set up tents in Skid Row. This was, like, 2003 or 2004 or some shit. Of course, none of us kept our jobs more than two months after that, but…”
“So it’s been over 15 years, you’ve been living on the street all that time?”
Carl shrugs.
“Guess so. But it’s not all bad. Probably not how people think it is, looking in from the outside. You find ways to get by, ways to feed yourself — both your body and your addiction, I guess. People are kinder than you’d imagine. Generous. Especially the tourists on the weekends. You meet a lot of interesting people, homeless or otherwise. Like I’m out here riding with you right now, you know? Eating burgers. Never could have seen that coming when I woke up this morning. I guess a lot of the people I meet, it comes down to drugs, that’s the common denominator that pulls us together like a magnet, but not always. I think a lot of people are just lonely. Just really lonely, and they go out and find anyone they can maybe connect with. Just a companion, you know. Someone to wander the earth with for a little bit. Life can be beautiful when you have someone to share the moments with. Same reason people get dogs, I think. Friendship is at its best when it’s simple. You don’t even have to say much. You can just be.”
Jim feels his eyebrows push up past the top of his sunglasses, some strange feeling creeping over him as Carl talks, and then he gets a hold of himself. Feels that aggressive part of himself clench inside like a fist.
“I’ll say this: I don’t have much to worry about in this life, you know?” Carl says, throwing his hands up. “Nothing to lose. I think that’s an underrated piece of business.”
The homeless man at last falls quiet, the subtlest smile on his face, and then Jim chimes in.
“See, I just met you, and hearing you talk a little bit, I think you have potential, man. Potential for more than this. I ain’t talking about joining the rat race and selling junk bonds or anything dumb like that, I’m just talking about doing something that matters to you. More than sleeping on cardboard and panhandling and all that. Feeding those basest appetites and nothing more. There has to be more to life than… than…”
He trails off. Realizes that what he was thinking is that there has to be more than life than setting fires, lashing out at the world over and over, seeing how much damage you can do, measuring your life and self by the destruction you dole out.
He swallows in a dry throat, something clicking deep in his neck. Jim does not approve of these types of thoughts. Loser thoughts. Jim needs to act now and put a stop to this.
Without thinking, he fishes the crack out of his pocket. Holds up the little foil in the palm of his hand, movements delicate as though he’s handling some precious gem instead of street drugs.
“Well, I got a chance for you to do something tonight,” he says, his voice changing, going flat again. “A little prank, yeah? Revenge. All you have to do is help me scare someone, and I’ll not only give you this little bundle of joy, I’ll throw in $50 for your trouble.”
Carl is transfixed, gone mute, eyes locking on the foil again, head bobbing up and down in slow motion.
Chapter 47
As Darger and Luck exited the interview room, she got the faintest whiff of smoke. Her first thought was that there was a fire here, but then she grabbed a handful of her hair and sniffed. It was her. Her hair and probably her clothes, too. They’d sucked up the acrid smell of burning like a sponge.
“Well that didn’t go how I expected,” Luck said.
“No,” Darger agreed.
She leaned against the wall, then let herself slide down until she was sitting on the floor. God, she was tired. She rubbed at the corner of her eyelid with a knuckle. And her eyes itched. Another parting gift from the fire.
Luck squatted down across from her, forearms resting on his knees.
“I mean, I wasn’t totally shocked that Camacho tried to cover for Murphy. It’s clear they’re pretty tight, as far as partners go.”
She considered Loshak. If he was accused of something, something she didn’t believe he could possibly be guilty of, would she lie to help him? She supposed it would depend on what he was accused of and what kind of evidence they had against him.
“Loyalty only goes so far. Once I told him how deep Murphy is in this, I thought he’d waffle. Go back to his original story. I sure as hell didn’t think he’d ask for a lawyer.”
Scratching his jaw, Luck nodded.
“Makes him look guilty, doesn’t it?” he said. “I mean, I know it’s his right. And maybe it’s the right move. But if Camacho doesn’t know anything, why would he ask for a lawyer?”
What she’d said before to Luck, about the two of them being in cahoots, she hadn’t meant it. But now she wondered. Could the fires be the work of two men? Or could Camacho have known what his partner was up to and decided to shield him for some reason? Why? Would he really stick his neck out like that?
Luck straightened to his full height and crossed to the vending machine. He fed in a handful of dollar bills and came back with two Cokes. He handed one to Darger.
“Thanks,” she said, twisting the lid off and taking a long swallow.
“How’d Murphy know to say they were watching football?”
“A good guess,” Darger said with a shrug. “They’re partners. They know each other.”
Luck took a swig of his soda and wiped his mouth, looking unconvinced.
Darger replaced the lid on her bottle and set it on the ground beside her.
“OK, let’s say I need an alibi for some reason, to cover my ass for something or other. So I tell people I was with you yesterday evening. And then they want to know what we did. I’d tell them we ate dinner and watched a movie with your daughter. If they asked what we watched, I’d say it was some kid’s movie. I don’t remember the name. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. How far off am I?”
“Not far,” Luck said. “But you don’t count.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’ve got profiler spidey sense.”
With a groan, Darger stood up.
“Let’s go see if Murphy can tell us what game they were watching.”
* * *
Murphy’s knee, which had been bouncing up and down at a frenetic pace, froze as soon as Darger opened the door.
“Just one more quick question,” she said. “What game was it?”
“What game?”
“The football game you watched at Camacho’s house.”
Murphy frowned.
“I don’t remember,” he said. “I don’t watch a lot of
football, to be honest. Is this really that important?”
Darger shot an I told you so look at Luck.
Then Murphy said, “Oh wait. It was the Vikings and the uh… Raiders.”
She saw worry cloud Luck’s face. Darger felt a mixture of frustration and confusion. None of this made any sense. It felt like they were moving in circles.
She slid a pad of paper over to Murphy.
“I need you to write down your whereabouts for today, and then I need the same thing for August 11th, August 20th, and September 4th.”
He took the paper and pen, looking bewildered.
“August 11th and 20th and… hold on. Those are the dates of the other fires,” he said, and then it hit him. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. What’s going on here? Why are you asking me about that?”
“When we asked the witnesses from The Blue Handkerchief if they’d seen anyone hanging around recently that seemed suspicious, one of them picked you out of the crowd. He said you were there last week.”
His head shook from side to side, then he stopped and sat up a little straighter.
“But I was with Camacho when the fire started. I have an alibi!”
“The problem is Camacho says he was alone. He kept up with that story until I told him why we were asking, then he suddenly changed his story, said you were, in fact, together.”
“Well, there you go! That settles it, doesn’t it?”
“Not really. Because how do we know he isn’t just lying to cover your ass? Or that you didn’t set the fires together?”
“You can’t actually believe that!”
“I don’t know what to believe right now. All I know for sure is that both of you are lying about something,” Darger said, her voice cold. “And here’s another problem, Murphy. Your partner? He just lawyered up. And my guess is his counsel will advise him to cut a deal. Sell you down the river for a plea.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Murphy said.
“No?”
“No! Because he knows I didn’t do this.”
Darger shrugged.
“In that case, you’ll both go down for it.” She sighed and laid her hands on the table. “Look, Rodney. I want to believe you. I think this is probably all a misunderstanding. But I need you to tell me why a witness from today’s fire could possibly ID you. And why Camacho would change his story like that.”
Violet Darger (Book 6): Night On Fire Page 21