Cooked Goose

by G. A. McKevett

  Butch might drink a little too much, but he was a sweet drunk and never got completely ripped or out of control. As a car mechanic he didn’t make a lot of money, but they always seemed to pay the rent and have food on the table . . . when Vidalia bothered to cook. Otherwise, they spent a lot of evenings at the local fast-food joints.

  All in all, he and Vi were a fairly good match . . . better than Vidalia realized. And although they had always bickered, this out-and-out warfare was a new thing. Something must be up.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Savannah said, “what are you two fighting about?”

  He looked embarrassed and uncomfortable as he stared down at his cowboy boots. “Oh, just some nonsense. It ain’t worth goin’ over.”

  She debated whether to push the issue and decided to throw out one more line. “If it’s something big enough for her to divorce you over, maybe it’s not just nonsense.”

  He drank about half the can in one gulp and toyed with the keys on the heavily laden ring on his belt before he replied. “She’s all mad because she . . . well . . . about a month ago she found some stuff . . . you know . . . some magazines . . . that I had stashed under the bathroom sink behind the spare toilet paper rolls.”

  “Mmmm . . . I see.”

  “And she tore ’em all up and burned the scraps and made me promise I wouldn’t bring anything else like that home ever again.”

  “Yes? And?”

  “And . . .well, I sorta forgot my promise, and last week she found another one that had sorta slipped behind the toilet tank.”

  “That sucker just ‘slipped’ back there, huh? Imagine that.”

  He blushed. “Well, you know how it is. She ain’t exactly been friendly lately and . . . well, guys gotta . . . you know. I don’t know why she’s makin’ such an all-fired fuss about it. I mean, all men like that stuff. It ain’t like I’m messin’ around on her or nothin’ like that. I’m not doin’ nothin’ nobody else don’t do. I’m a good guy.”

  He began to sniff a little, and his bottom lip quivered. Savannah felt a rush of affection for him, knowing what this little talk of theirs was costing him. He really did care about Vi and his children.

  “Of course you’re a good guy, Butch,” she said. “You’re a great guy, and a fine husband. I know how difficult Vi—or any woman—can be when she’s expecting. And I know it’s hard for a man to put himself in a pregnant woman’s shoes. But let’s think about this for a minute.”

  She considered her case long and hard before presenting it to him. “It’s difficult to draw any kind of a parallel here that will help you understand, but let’s pretend, just for a moment, that for some weird, medical reason, your pecker suddenly shrank to about half an inch long.”

  His eyes bugged out at the very thought. Yes, she had his full attention. “What?”

  “Just pretend for a minute it could happen. And say this . . . condition . . . was going to last for about nine months.”

  “This is silly.”

  “I know. But I’m cheaper than a marriage counselor, so hush and listen.” She took a deep breath. “And during this nine months, with this half-inch of equipment, you can’t exactly do your husbandly duties to your wife . . . at least, not as effectively as you did before. Plus, you’re probably not feeling too good about yourself, not feeling much like a stud. And maybe you’re tired all the time and throwing up every morning to boot. Got the picture?”

  He didn’t look especially enchanted with the tale, but he nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Then one day, you’re fishing around under the bathroom sink for a spare roll and you find a magazine full of good-looking dudes with twelve-inch wangs. And, all of a sudden, you realize that’s why your old lady has been spending so much time in the john. And it’s got nothing to do with constipation, like she said when you asked her.”

  He didn’t reply, but grunted and rubbed the tips of his boots together.

  “Now, even if your wife told you that all the other wives do it when their husbands go through one of those weird ‘pecker-shrinking’ periods, I still don’t think you’d be too happy about it. Right?”

  Another grunt.

  “You’d probably tell her to get those damned mags out of your house, to wait and be patient until things were back to normal and you could take care of business again.”

  He choked and cleared his throat. “So, you think what I did was wrong, too?”

  Savannah flashed back on the materials that Tammy had removed from the guest room. “Well . . . I’m not going to say what you do in your own bedroom . . . or bathroom, is right or wrong. That’s between you and your own conscience. But the Golden Rule says, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ And I think it’s a darned good rule . . . no matter what all the rest of the guys might be doing.”

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffed again.

  “Also,” she said, “I think it’s really important, once you’ve made a promise to your mate, to keep it. But, like I said, it’s free advice. You can take it or leave it.”

  She stood, leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “And I meant what I said; you are a great guy. Vi’s a lot luckier than she thinks she is.”

  “Thanks, Van.” He gave her a weak smile and crushed his beer can in his hand. “I’ll go talk to Vi. I want this to be a good Christmas for us all.”

  “It will be.” She slapped him on the back. “Hell, just one big happy family, right?”

  When Savannah walked back into the house, she found Margie and the twins still absorbed with their dough . . . the part that wasn’t on her floor or chair seats. They were using her cookie cutters to make bells and stars. For once, Jack’s creations were not genitally enhanced.

  “We’re gonna bake ’em in the oven,” Jillian announced proudly.

  “And hang them on the Christmas tree,” her brother added.

  Savannah gave Margie an affectionate smile. “Good going, Ms. Bloss.”

  “No problem, Ms. Reid.”

  In the living room, Savannah found Dirk sitting on her sofa, feet propped on the coffee table. Gee, she thought, it must be about dinnertime.

  He was wearing a bedraggled expression, the one he wore most often these days. But she couldn’t really blame him.

  “I’ve seen cheerier faces on death row inmates,” she told him as she sat beside him on the sofa and slipped a newspaper under his feet. “Need a beer?”

  “No, I need an IV drip of morphine, but I’m still working. I just got back from that bookie’s place, you know, Maldonada”

  “Let me guess: Judging from the sourpuss you’re wearing, it was a bust . . . and I don’t mean the kind where you slap cuffs on him.”

  “You got that right. He’s out of town, has been for over a month. Visiting some relatives in Atlantic City. And yes, it checks out. Completely. He’s been very visible in the casinos there. About a zillion people saw him.”

  “Poop.”

  “My sentiments exactly. What’s going on up there?” He pointed to the staircase. “I saw your brother-in-law going up, looking like a hanged dog.”

  “I laid a guilt trip on him. Hopefully, it’ll lead to domestic tranquility.”

  “What had he done wrong?”

  “He was born male.”

  “The bastard.”

  “Precisely.”

  The doorbell rang, and Savannah hauled herself to her feet. This was getting to be a bit much. “Grand Central Station,” she muttered as she made her way to the door. “I’m beginning to long for the old days when I was suicidally lonely.”

  But it was a pleasant surprise—Ryan Stone in all his male glory, decorating her front porch. He was wearing a charcoal suit that was damned lucky to be draped across such a body. Savannah wished she were wearing something other than a faded T-shirt and jeans.

  “Sorry I didn’t call first,” he said. “But I’ve got something interesting, and I couldn’t wait.”

  “Come right in. Heav
en knows, we could use something interesting.”

  “I saw Coulter’s car out front,” Ryan said as he walked inside. “This is for him, too.”

  “What’s for me?” Dirk said, sitting up straight and taking his feet off the table.

  Ryan glanced around. Seeing that the younger set was absorbed in their craft, he unbuttoned his jacket and sat in one of Savannah’s easy chairs.

  “As you know,” he said, “I’ve still got friends in the bureau. And since I’ve left, they’ve acquired some pretty sophisticated toys.”

  “Like what?” Savannah said, sitting on the sofa next to Dirk.

  “Like an extensive computer data bank that will cross-reference all sorts of goodies. Like similar crimes, comparable m.o.’s, facts in one case that parallel another.”

  “Sounds good,” Dirk said. “Wish we had one.”

  “Well, for a few minutes this afternoon, you did. Without telling them why—because you told me to keep it under wraps—I asked them to run the star-studded ring through the files, just to see if we could come up with a match.”

  Savannah scooted out to the edge of her seat. “And . . .?”

  “Bingo.” Ryan reached into his pocket and pulled out a computer printout. “Last year, on 21 July, a young Latino male was beaten to death in a junkyard in East L.A. The case is still open, no suspects. But the kid lived long enough to tell authorities that there were three assailants, white guys that he didn’t recognize. They beat him with clubs and their fists. He said they were wearing big heavy rings that really hurt when they clocked him.”

  “Where does the ‘star’ reference come in?” Savannah asked.

  “He died in a hospital about twelve hours after the beating. When they did the autopsy, they said it was from brain death due to inner cranial swelling. He had about a hundred significant bruises, but there were four that were particularly distinctive. They were on his head and face and one on his shoulder, the shape of a star.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments as Savannah and Dirk digested this new information that was possibly very helpful, though it wasn’t immediately obvious how.

  Finally, Savannah said, “July 21st . . . that date rings a bell.” She walked to her purse that was lying on the table in the foyer and took out a small memo pad.

  Bringing it back to the living room, she thumbed through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Yep, that’s what I thought.”

  “What?” Dirk said, trying to read over her shoulder.

  “July 21st last year . . . that was the first day of the Point Morro Air Show.”

  Dirk nodded thoughtfully. “The ladies said their men didn’t wear those rings very often. In fact, hardly at all. But we know one thing—that day, at least Titus Dunn was wearing his.”

  From the upstairs guest room came a sound, the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings. Ryan smiled and gave Savannah a questioning look.

  She shrugged and turned to Dirk. “Gee, things are looking up around here. It seems everybody’s making a little progress.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  December 20—11:37 A.M.

  Savannah’s feet were hurting, her spirits were flailing, she was cranky and hungry . . . and it wasn’t even noon yet. Since early that morning she had been running around San Carmelita with the photo of the notorious ring in hand, asking every off-beat, garage, basement or backyard jeweler if they had ever seen such a piece.

  She had never known how popular a hobby gold casting was. Sometime, when she wasn’t so tired, cranky and hungry, she might check it out as a possible pastime herself. Considering the lack of men in her life, it might be the only way she would get her hands on any good jewelry.

  This last shop was in the back of a tarot reading parlor, where they sold strange, esoteric jewelry with lots of crystals and Egyptian-looking hieroglyphics. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender incense and an aura of mysticism.

  She rang the silver bell on the counter and a handsome, middle-aged black woman wearing a colorful batik caftan glided into the room. “Good morning, child,” she said in a lovely accent that Savannah guessed might have been from the Caribbean. “I am Mama Talula. And how may I help you today?”

  Savannah smiled and said, “My name is Savannah, and you would make me a very happy woman, if you would just tell me that you’ve seen a ring like this before.”

  She laid the photo on the counter and waited for the usual negative response.

  “Of course I have, dear girl. I have seen it. I made it. Are you a happy woman now?”

  At first, neither Savannah nor her tired, aching feet could believe it. “Did you really? Or are you just trying to cheer me up?”

  The woman laughed and the sound was like that of the silver bell on the counter. “I am glad that you are happy, and I am telling you the truth. I made that ring several years ago.”

  “Do you remember who it was for?”

  “I don’t believe he told me his name. He was a beautiful young man, with fine cut features and a strong, muscular body.”

  Savannah had pictures of Dunn, McGivney, and DeCianni in her purse. She pulled out the one of Dunn, as he was the one most likely to be described as “a beautiful young man.”

  “Is this him?”

  Mama Talula looked at the picture and nodded. “That is him. I would remember his face anywhere. As I said, he was beautiful, but part of his aura was dark, very dark, as though there was evil around him. I was afraid for him.”

  Savannah thought of Titus’s blood-splattered walls. Yes, evil had been very close to Titus Dunn.

  “Have you read the newspapers lately, Mama?” Savannah asked, replacing the photo in her purse.

  “No. I don’t like to read such things. All the wicked doings in the world, they make me sad.”

  “I can understand that. The young man who bought your ring, he’s missing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is that why you’re asking about the ring?”

  “Yes. That’s right.” She took McGivney’s and DeCianni’s pictures from her purse and held them out to the woman. “Have you seen either of these men?”

  Mama studied them carefully. “This man, I have never seen,” she said, pointing to McGivney’s picture. “But this one, he came in with the first man and asked me to make him a ring, as well.”

  “And you did?”

  “Of course. Just like his friend’s.”

  “So, you made those two?”

  “And another for a third friend of theirs. I never saw him. They told me his size, said it was to be a surprise, a gift for him.”

  “They didn’t mention his name?”

  “No. But I believe they were in military service of some sort.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Savannah could feel an area on the nape of her neck start to tingle, just the way it always did when she was about to get something good.

  “Because when they came in the last time, to order the fourth ring, they—”

  “A fourth ring? There were four rings? Are you sure about that, Mama?”

  “Of course, I’m certain. My rings are like my children. I made four, exactly alike, except for size, of course.”

  “And what were you saying about the men being in the military?”

  “I think they were. When they came back for the fourth ring, I remember the younger man said to the other, ‘The captain’s really going to like this. Now we’ve all got one.’”

  Savannah resisted the urge to vault over the counter and give Mama Talula a kiss.

  “Now, you are a very happy woman?” Mama asked, her face lit with a broad smile.

  “Mama . . . I’m beyond happy. I’m ecstatic!”

  12:25 P.M.

  “This was a good idea,” Savannah told Margie as they sat at the table in Burger Heaven and watched the twins happily burying their faces in their ice cream cones—their rewards for having polished off their junior deluxes with cheese.

  Margie lowered her voice an
d leaned closer to Savannah. “Anything’s better than sitting around at your place, listening to Vidalia and Butch ‘make up.’”

  Savannah took a sip of her chocolate malted. “No kidding. I think I liked it better then they were fighting.”

  “Mommy and Daddy were playing bum-bum again this morning,” Jack announced with an ice cream smeared grin.

  “Bum-bum?” Margie said.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t ask,” Savannah whispered.

  “Yeah!” Jillian nearly dropped her cone onto the table. “Jackie went in the bedroom to tell them he wanted some soda and guess what he saw . . .”

  “I really don’t think we should—” Savannah just had a feeling.

  “He saw Daddy’s bum-bum going up and down and up and down, and Mommy was under him, and she was laughing really hard.”

  “Yep, that’s what I thought,” Savannah muttered. She gave Margie the eye. “You just had to ask.”

  “And Daddy got all mad,” Jack said. “He told me to knock next time, but I’m not gonna because I thought it was funny and I wanna see it again.”

  “Why don’t you finish your ice cream there, young man,” Savannah told him, ruffling his curls, “and then you and your pretty sister can go play in the balls.”

  She pointed to the cage full of red, orange and yellow, plastic balls where other children were diving in, screaming with glee.

  “Oooo, neat! Hurry up, Jackie,” Jillian exclaimed, then attacked her cone with renewed vigor.

  Savannah looked up and saw Dirk walking toward them, a grimmer than grim expression on his face. The last time they had spoken on the phone, less than an hour ago, he had been down in the dumps. He had driven into Los Angeles and talked to the father of the young man who had been beaten by the guys wearing star rings. The trail was so stale, he hadn’t gotten anywhere with it.

  But once Savannah had told him about her conversation with Mama Talula, the fourth ring, and the “captain” reference, and he had been downright chipper. Apparently, something had happened to send him into another depression. Lately, he had been more moody than Vidalia.