“I didn’t realize Preacher House was clothing optional.”
“It’s not,” I said.
“Yeah well, care if I come over with some binoculars and a camera?”
“But then who will keep the pub safe,” I stood to leave.
Michael frowned at me. “He’s not staying.” He then turned to Phil. “You’re not staying. Preacher is leaving and I’m going for a walk down the beach, I got a few things to think about.”
“Hey man, how come you never take me on walks?” Phil.
“I’m not answering that. I’ll be back in an hour to open shop. I expect you to be gone.”
“I’m starving. What about lunch? It’s taco Tuesday.”
“Today isn’t Tuesday.”
He said, “Wings Wednesday?”
“Humor me and wait on the sidewalk so that I can unlock the door and let you in. I’m leaving now. Be sure and hit the light on your way out.”
Michael closed the door
“Will do,” Phil called after.
He opened it again, only a crack (I was already outside), and peered his head in. “And don’t steal anything.”
“Who do you take me for?”
“I was talking about the beer.”
“Damn.”
c
I STARTED UP THE DRIVEWAY for the Stable, with aspirations of making the remainder of my day wholly uneventful. Eat some corn bread. Listen to a couple of records. Maybe get around to writing that sermon. That dream was quickly endangered when two car doors slammed shut on the curb behind me. Out of curiosity I turned around without stopping in my hungry stride, but only because I had an appointment with cornbread. Detectives Hazelwood and Mello were quickly closing the gap between us, and neither looked happy.
I said: “Officers, did you identify the body?”
Mello said: “Is that your car parked down there, Preacher?”
“No, it belongs to a friend of mine. Street sweepings on Thursday, so if he gets a parking ticket, it’s not on me.”
Hazelwood said: “This friend of yours wouldn’t happen to be a Sean Parker, would it?”
“Is that dumb-ass in trouble again?”
I laughed the thought off like a bad joke on my trip up the driveway, despite their lack of amusement, and opened the front door to the Stable. Hurley and Mello peeked in, but just as quickly helped themselves in without a personal invite.
“Who needs a warrant?” I spoke after the fact.
I bent down to let the hound off his leash. Without warning he went right after Mello, the weak one in the pack, and probably because they were equal in height when standing on his hind paws. Mello reared into the wall and spouted off several adjectives until I succeeded in wedging them apart.
“In fact he is,” Hazelwood said as I drug the hound unwillingly across the room with his ears flapping from side-to-side in the struggle, and apparently unsympathetic to his partner’s fear of dogs. “When was the last time that you spoke with him?”
I shrugged shoulders, “Recently,” and proceeded to push the hound by his rump until he’d been thoroughly wedged through the crack in the front door. Even that was an effort, as I had to compound my body weight in order to shut it.
“How recent is recently?” Mello brushed off any hint of hound that his pants may have acquired
I headed straight for cornbread in the oven, but Craig had apparently already taken them for his personal consumption, I poured myself a cup of coffee instead, calling to them from that room. “What’s this all about?”
Mello withheld an answer but thumbed his fingers across my record collection, occasionally wedging LP’s apart to see if there was anything stashed between them. His tongue swished a toothpick from one end of his mouth to the other. Outside, the hound dog pressed his nose to the glass, twitching eyes between both detectives, and puffed his cheeks like the wolf that plotted to blow the piggy’s house down. Blood would probably be spilled.
Mello said: “Did he drive that car?”
“Possibly,” I said.
“Look, dumb-ass. Either he did or he didn’t.” Mello clamped his teeth down on the toothpick in a sudden spurt of anger.
Hazelwood honed in on the coffee table, carved of driftwood. That’s where he discovered the passport and the wallet and the cash.
He said: “What’s this?”
“What do we got there, partner,” Mello.
Detective Hazelwood spread both wings out of Sean’s passport. “I think we have the suspects passport.”
Mello slapped my head from behind, just as I was taking a sip of coffee.
Ow, I said.
Hazelwood discovered the wallet next. He pulled out several cards and spread them out on the table. “And if I’m not mistaken, we’ve got a South Carolinian driver’s license, with the suspect’s name on it.”
There was another slap from behind, followed by an Ow!
Hazelwood thumbed through the stack of cash and then held one single bill up to the light.
“Okay, start talking,” he said.
“I take it this isn’t a friendly visit.”
“No, I’m not happy, Preacher. It was our day off.” Hazelwood said.
I said: “On Wings Wednesday?”
“I had planned to take my daughter to the zoo,” he added. “Buy her balloons and everything.”
“Did you hear that? The zoo….” Mello’s cheeks reddened. “Balloons and everything. Me, I like to sleep in with the lady. My partner and I get a call at the crack of dawn because a jogger finds a young woman, who just so happens to be Mancini’s only begotten daughter, folded up neatly in a trashcan with an eggshell for a head and scrambled brains. And now look at us, here, talking with you in this dump of a horse museum.”
“Gracie?” I sunk into the nearest chair I could find.
“That’s the one,” Hazelwood. “How well do you know her?”
“She's dead? How is that even possible?”
“You tell us.”
“I don’t know what to say.” The threat of tears formed in my skull. I washed them away the best I could, but my fingers trembled, so I tucked them under my legs. Hurley and Mello noticed, and it made them perspire with thirst.
“How about your pal, Parker, – where’d he run off to?”
“Sean couldn’t have done that.” I was having a tough time breathing too.
“Yeah and why’s that?”
“He just couldn’t. This has to be some sort of mistake.”
“You have someone over last night, Preacher,” Mello pulled the toothpick from his mouth while combing the room, only to slide it between his lips and clamp down on it again, “An attractive young girl, perhaps?”
“We got a witness who claims a young woman came up here last night just after dark.”
“You must have been talking to Estelle, our community watchdog. Who was visiting this time, Marilyn Monroe or Ingrid Bergman?”
Mello and Hazelwood eyed each other.
“Okay, here’s what we have,” Mello said. “We’ve got the automobile of a suspect parked out front of your house after he disappears from the scene of a crime.”
“We don’t like that,” the short fat one said.
I said: “Yeah, I don’t either.”
“We’ve got your friends wallet and passport and a wad of cash. How much you figure is here, Preacher?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t counted it yet.”
“That’s a load of fudge nuggets,” Mello wacked over the back of the head, and then said to his partner: “Can you believe this guy?”
“I’m counting a thousand dollars.”
Mello whistled.
“That’s a lot of money,” I said.
“You’d better start talking, kid.” Mello perspired still with the thirst to slap me. “Where’d he run off to?”
“All of a sudden I don’t like your attitudes.”
“You know what I think?” Mello looked to his taller partner. “I think this son of a bit
ch had a little too much to drink last night. He looks a little agitated.”
“I think he does, Mello.”
I said: “Hey, a little coffee in the morning and I’m fine.”
Hazelwood pushed me into his much shorter partner. Coffee spilled all over Mello’s shirt, and my mug went spiraling down.
“What the hell?” Mello wiped at the coffee stain. “You take a swing at a cop, I can forgive that. But you spill coffee on my new shirt, that’s where I draw the line. My wife bought this for my forty-fifth birthday.”
“She must like thrift store shopping then.”
“Well look at what we have here, Mello. He’s not only a few beers short of a six-pack, his other cheek pulls double duty as a smart-ass.”
“I loved you guys in Twins.”
“How many comebacks are you going to pull out of that dookie-maker, Preacher?”
I came up with another, but kept it to myself.
“Alright, a smart-ass like you knows the drill. Let’s go.” Hazelwood wrapped five fingers around my arm and directed me towards the door. “We’ve got a nice comfy bed and breakfast waiting for you downtown.”
“I want my lawyer,” I said.
Mello likely knew the line well. It brought a smile to his face. He opened the door and further grinned: “You just might get lucky and the phone will be out of order.”
Only when he did open the door, the hound sprung out of nowhere to assault him, which meant I now had a ride-along partner in the backseat of their car.
c
THE DETECTIVES HAD THE HOUND AND ME processed at Police Headquarters, my alleged crime: attempting to kill Detective Mello with a cup of coffee. The hound would probably be convicted ofThe booking procedure involved a series of beauty shots from various angles, and then the celebrity fingerprinting came next. None of the photographs included an action shot, as I had suggested, like jumping in the air with a rose clenched between my teeth. Everything in-between involved various odors from fellow bookies without deodorant and breath that screamed of alcohol. To top it off, lots and lots of waiting. The worst part was the waiting. And then there was more waiting, this time in my very own cell.
“You know where the real prison is?” The guy on the top bunk said. “It’s out there, man. And the bars are in their heads!”
From our lower bunk, the hound rested his head on my chest. I stroked his ears and said: “Huh, I never really thought of it quite like that.”
“The war, man – that’s the real prison. And we’re not just fighting one of them, like Vietnam. No, we’re fighting two of them. Don’t you see? Democrats….Republicans…. It’s all a distraction. The politicians, man. They don’t want you to know that the real prison is their lies!”
“You raise a tantalizing point.”
“That’s why they’ve got me locked up in here.”
I said: “Because of political rivalry?”
“No, because I know the truth, man.”
“You know what else is a prison?”
I waited for his response.
He said: “What?”
“The Internet.”
“Hell yeah, WWW is the Mark of the Beast. They’re never going to log me on.”
“And Google is BIG BROTHER.”
“Hell yeah,” he said.
“Let’s go, Preacher,” Mello said. “And leave the dog.”
When I turned to look, despite a painful kink in my neck, the Jolly Green Giant was standing in the hall with Danny DeVito’s stuntman. It was Twins all over again. A row of bars opened, making the exact same clanking sound that I'd heard so many times during my stint as a sleuth in New York and surrounding neighborhoods. I swung both legs over the lower bunk and gazed at my cellmate.
“Stay off the Internet, my friend,” I said.
“Hey, they can’t lock you up if you’re free in here.” He pointed an index finger towards his temporal lobe.
“True that.”
c
“IS THERE A REASON you’ve got me holed up in here without due process?” I asked both detectives as they led me through the hall.
A fellow prisoner sporting a lavender Mohawk, a relic from my childhood, had bumped into me while passing in opposite directions. I told him to be careful on his time traveling adventure from the eighties, that he could have poked someone’s eye out with that thing, and was he enjoying his time in the future. He said he’d shove his eighties hair-do up my caboodle, or something to that effect. The jailhouse wasn’t exactly a fan club for the likes of Miss Manners.
“You don’t know a horse’s petute about due process, do you?” Mello opened a door and forcefully ushered me towards the rectangular table that dominated the otherwise barren floor space. I’d never been in an interrogation cell before, but I’d seen enough movies to know when I was being shoved into one.
“I read about it on Wikipedia.” I studied my reflection in the one-way mirror that dominated an entire wall and pressed my face up against it, making sure to create a little puddle of fog. “Wait a minute. Is this really a mirror? I’ve seen something like this once on LAW & ORDER.”
“Sit down.” Hazelwood said.
“And just look at me, hair messed up and everything.” I fixed my hair.
“I’m glad you noticed. I didn’t want to be rude and say anything earlier at your apartment, but then you tried to kill me with that cup of coffee, – so much for gentlemanly courtesy.”
“Sit down,” Hazelwood again.
I pulled out a chair and did as he commanded.
“No, the other one, dumb-ass,” Hazelwood, “Those two are for us. You get the high chair with the safety bar and the dunce cap. I imagine a guy like you has always wanted his fifteen minutes of fame. The taxpayers are thrilled to finally give it to you.”
I did as he asked.
“Hey look, as much as I’d love to see you perform another big screen sequel to your 1988 hit, this one being Eddie Murphy filling in with DeVito, I know my first amendment rights, and I’m not telling you guys anything.” I adjusted an aching back into the metal chair, and that knot in the side of my neck wasn't going away on its own. I tried adjusting that too with no avail.
“That’s the right to bear arms,” said Hazelwood. He’d settled now into one of the two chairs while his short stubby and somewhat red-skinned partner paced uneasily behind me.
“The what?” I leaned in.
“The First Amendment is the right to bear arms.”
“I’ve already got a left and right arm, but thanks.”
“God bless you, Preacher. I was a little skeptical at first, but you are dumber than the entire population of a school yard bungalow. Try sitting on that other butt cheek of yours once in a while,” added Mello. “That way you can rotate between the smart-ass and the dumb.”
“You know, I’m no interior decorator, but a little natural lighting would do this room some good. Maybe some drapes.”
“Shut up. We’ve got you on Accessory to Murder and Unlawful Flight. Keep pushing us and we’ll add Obstruction of Justice. And if you’re not especially careful, you may just end up assaulting my partner here again.”
“I get assaulted by dumb-asses like you all the time.” Mello let a fist fall into his other hand. “How many dumb-asses have assaulted me in this here interrogation room over the last month, Hazelwood?” He looked to his partner.
“The statistics are sobering.”
“I’m not talking to you guys until I have my lawyer present. And besides, I’d never trip a midget. It just isn’t right.”
Mello slapped the back of my head like a bad habit.
“What is it that you do for a living again?” Hazelwood.
“I’m currently unemployed.”
“That stack of cash says otherwise.”
“Care to rephrase your question?” Mello spoke into my ear. His breath reeked of mustard and sauerkraut.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Not much to say.”
“How about why Sean killed
his wife, for starters.”
I thought there may have been a slight hint of garlic salt in Mello’s taste buds too.
I said: “I don’t believe a word of it.”
“The man’s a gambler. He’s a criminal. He’s thick as thieves with the Mancini family and that malnourished son of his,” Hazelwood said. “And we have reason to believe he’s been doubling his salary with Parisi.”
“I take it he’s not anymore,” I said.
“So you do know about it, then.” His taller partner shrugged. “The games over, give it up.”
“You guys need to lay off the abstract. Unless we’re talking about a Steven King novel, then I haven’t a clue as to what IT could possibly refer to. I know nothing. Sean and me, we went drinking a few beers together, – that’s all. Wait, I don’t get it. Which one of you two is the good cop and which is the bad cop? Because Detective Mello, for a while there I totally thought you were the good cop.”
“Stop being a horse’s-petute,” Mello.
“No, I wouldn’t dream of it. Sean’s already saddled to one.”
Hazelwood said: “Then why won’t you start answering our questions?”
“I don’t like the way your partner Ernie asks them.”
Mello shifted through a stack of papers in a manila envelope. It might have been his tax return for all I knew.
He said: “How long have you known Parker?”
“A long time – it’s a small town.”
“How long is a long time?”
“We go back to adolescence, I guess.”
“Is that when Giorgio reeled him in?”
“Who the hell is Giorgio?”
Nobody answered me.
“He ever say anything to you about his interactions with the Mancini family?”
“You mean Gracie’s family? Nothing.”
“You ever ask him? Weren’t you curious?”
“All the time.”
“And he didn’t mention anything?”
“Alex is innocent.”
“Then who killed the girl?” Hazelwood.
“Several theories abound. Some say it was Jimmy Hoffa, but I’m more preferable towards Khrushchev or Castro. Of course, if you ask Estelle, she thinks one of the Kennedy’s had Monroe killed.”
“Did Gracie visit you last night?”
Some We Run From (Preacher Book 2) Page 2