Pretty Pretty Boys

by Gregory Ashe

  So why, Hazard wanted to know, did Somers look like he was about to toss his stomach? Sweating, pale under his perfectly golden complexion, Somers still looked like a Speedo model who’d wandered away from the beach—but now he looked like a Speedo model who’d had some bad seafood and needed a few hours on the toilet.

  He hadn’t known, Hazard realized. Somehow, Somers hadn’t known that Naomi Malsho was Mimi, their contact in the Ozark Volunteers. It seemed impossible—after all, Upchurch and Somers had been partners, and Wahredua was such a small town that Somers must have known Naomi was back. But it was the only explanation Hazard could think of. No one, Hazard was pretty sure, could fake the look of terror and dismay on John-Henry Somerset’s face.

  Some of Hazard’s anger eased with the realization; Somers hadn’t withheld the information. If anything, Somers’s overall pathetic appearance made Hazard relent. He realized no one had spoken since Somers had stated the obvious connection between Naomi and his wife. Hazard cleared his throat.

  “It’s not an illegal search, Miss Malsho. Detective Somerset and I were invited inside. Legally, consent to entry was provided. We haven’t violated any of your rights.”

  Naomi Malsho was cool, Hazard had to give her that. She glanced at him over her shoulder, but when she spoke, she addressed Somers. “I’d like to see what my lawyer has to say about that. People in this state are sick of militarized police invading private homes and trespassing citizens’ rights.”

  Somers still looked like he’d been hit on the side of the head—poleaxed was the word that came to Hazard’s mind—and again Hazard spoke up. “As I said, Miss Malsho, we were invited inside. That pretty much settles the matter, as far as the Supreme Court is concerned.”

  This time, Naomi didn’t bother looking back at Hazard. All her attention was focused on Somers. It reminded Hazard, in a way that sat uncomfortably in his stomach, of a cat watching a mouse. A very hungry cat. Something in Naomi Malsho was hungry in the same way: hungry for a cold, vivisecting violence.

  “John-Henry,” Naomi murmured. “You’ve looked better.”

  Something in the comment seemed to strike a note in Somers. Color came back to his face, even if it was nothing more than red slashes in his cheeks. He smiled, and his posture relaxed into his familiar, hey-bro, let’s-just-jam look, the one that made Hazard grind his teeth.

  “Naomi, when did you get back?”

  “Don’t pretend you’re happy to see me,” Naomi snapped, her cool facade shattering.

  Her hand whipped out, faster than Hazard had expected, but he had been ready. He caught her at the elbow, from behind, before the blow could land.

  “Let go of me, you bastard,” Naomi said, spinning towards Hazard. Or rather, trying to spin towards him. Hazard moved with her, applying pressure to her elbow, controlling her turn and momentum until she let out a pained cry.

  “All right,” Somers muttered, moving to Hazard’s side. He still looked peaked, like—

  —what had Lady Mabbe said, he has poison inside him?—

  —he was running a fever, but he was closer to the John-Henry that Hazard had come to expect. “Let her go, you’re hurting her.”

  “She assaulted a police officer,” Hazard said, but he released Naomi’s elbow. Whether from her own momentum or out of a desire to make a scene, Naomi staggered forward, thudding into the long, dining table and sending plates and bowls skidding along its surface. Hazard studied her; it had been an act, he decided. A very good act—she was turning towards them now, her face flushed, and the look only heightened her beauty. Yes, she was very good at all of this.

  Hazard had known people like her. People who were good at managing people. Billy was one of those people. No matter which way Hazard went—left or right—Billy seemed to know it, seemed to have figured it out a step before, but it always felt like Hazard was the one making the call. Hazard felt a prickle of danger, low at the base of his spine. What else was she good at? How much of this, he wondered, had she scripted? And how closely were they following the script without even meaning to?

  “You bastard,” Naomi said, but again her words, her eyes, her whole existence was focused on Somers. Hazard fought the urge to roll his eyes. “You’re enjoying this. You came here just to—”

  “Why don’t you go outside?” Hazard said to Somers.

  Naomi blinked. That hadn’t been part of the script, Hazard guessed. She had tried seducing him, in the living room, and that hadn’t gone over well either.

  Somers couldn’t seem to break eye contact with Naomi, who was flushed, her chest heaving with agonized breaths. Hazard elbowed him. Hard.

  “God,” Somers grunted. “I don’t think—”

  “Why don’t you get a breath of fresh air? Right now.”

  “I—”

  Hazard elbowed him again. Harder.

  “Break my damn rib,” Somers yelped, massaging his side, but he took a step towards the door.

  “No,” Naomi cried. Her voice sounded terrified, and most of it, Hazard knew, was an act. But part of it was real. This wasn’t going the way she had hoped. “I don’t feel comfortable with—with him. He scares me. I—”

  Hazard caught Somers by the arm and held up his free hand to silence her. He fixed Naomi with his gaze, and for the first time since they had found Somers in the study, she returned his look. It was a furious, defiant gaze, but it held a measure of respect. Naomi was used to men—even men like Somers—doing what she wanted, following the rules of her game. It might have worked with Hazard, too—even though he might not want to sleep with her—except he’d had too many years of letting Billy lead him around by the nose. Billy made Naomi Malsho look like a toddler playing duck-duck-goose.

  “Haz—” Somers started to say, but Hazard shook him by the arm, and Somers—with a surprising display of wisdom—went silent.

  For another moment, Hazard continued to hold Naomi’s gaze. Then, he rolled his shoulders and released Somers. “Are we done with this?”

  Naomi pulled herself upright, dropping the pose of a frightened woman and assuming, again, the cool confidence Hazard had seen earlier. She cocked her head at Hazard, studying him with obvious new interest. Then she nodded.

  “John-Henry,” she began, turning towards Somers.

  “No,” Hazard said. “You can talk to me.”

  Anger moved over her face like a shadow in a mirror—and then it was gone. “Detective Hazard,” she said, adjusting her body towards him. “I remember you, you know. Shy, skinny, that mess of hair like you’d never seen a comb. Did you ever—”

  “Miss Malsho, we’re here to talk to you about a recent crime, perhaps a series of crimes, and about anything you might be able to tell us.”

  “All business. Very well. What do you think I can tell you?”

  “Do you go by the name Mimi?”

  “Hazard,” Somers started to say, “she’s not—”

  “When I’m working with the Volunteers, yes. You can call me Naomi, though. That’s what John-Henry’s used to.”

  Somers’s jaw dropped. “Naomi, you’ve got to be kidding. The Ozark Volunteers? Those—those losers? Those drugged-up, racist—”

  “That’s enough,” Hazard said.

  Naomi was smiling, though. “No, go on, John-Henry. What do you think of the Volunteers?”

  “As I said, we’re here to ask for your help. Are you associated with the Ozark Volunteers?”

  Again that anger flashed in the mirror of her face. “I’ve already said that I am.”

  Somers was shaking his head.

  “And what is your role within the Volunteers?” Hazard asked.

  “I’m a specialist.”

  “What is your specialization?”

  “Throwing parties. John-Henry can tell you that. I helped plan his wedding.” For the first time, genuine emotion seemed to fill her voice—a venomous hatred that soaked the last words.

  “And you’ve helped Detective Renard Upchurch with investigations in the pa
st? Investigations involving the Ozark Volunteers?”

  Naomi’s gaze moved past Hazard and Somers and settled on the window. She crossed the room and stood at the glass, staring out over the corn, and she shrugged. “Yes.”

  “In what role?”

  “In the role of a defender of my people.”

  “Your people?”

  “White people.”

  Somers made a strangled noise in his throat, and Hazard shot him a furious glare.

  “My people,” Naomi continued, still staring through the glass, “are decent, hard-working, white Americans. Christians, although I don’t really need to say that since the Jews are an inferior race and aren’t truly white or American. And my people are in bondage, Detective Hazard. In bondage to foreign oligarchies, in bondage to the Jewish syndicates, in bondage to a militarized police state intent on depriving American citizens of their God-given rights, in bondage to the blacks who suckle at the government teat. In bondage,” she turned, framed by the rust-colored sunset, towards Hazard, “to the gays and the lesbians, whose only desire is to destroy the family and leave a wreckage of sodomites in their wake. Those are my people, and I’ll do whatever I can to set them free.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Somers said under his breath.

  Hazard ignored him. His whole attention was focused on Naomi Malsho, who stared at him like an ancient queen, bound to the sun, furious and divine. It was a very good act, he thought. Very, very good. And some of it, perhaps, was true. The racist and homophobic parts, at least, had something true in them.

  “Why do you help the police?”

  Naomi blinked. “I’m not helping them, Detective. I already told you. I’m helping my people.”

  “Let me be frank, Miss Malsho. It’s time for you to help your people again. Two members of the Ozark Volunteers were involved with a murder that they attempted to cover up with arson. We need you to help us find them. You can help by pointing us to the men who were involved and, in doing so, protecting the rest of your people from—how did you put it? A militarized police state?”

  “That’s a lie,” she said, the words smooth and even and controlled.

  “It’s not a lie, Naomi,” Somers said. “We have a witness who puts them there.”

  Naomi smiled, moving towards them now, and the rust-colored sunset behind her blotted out her features and turned her into nothing more than a composite of graceful lines. “That’s not what I meant. The two men were there. I’m sure of that. But what you said was a lie. They weren’t both involved with the murder.”

  “They had the tattoo—” Somers began.

  She waved a hand, cutting him off. “As I said, I’m sure they were both there. And I rather imagine they were Volunteers. But you’re not listening to me, John-Henry. I’m not arguing about the facts. I’m arguing about your interpretation.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Hazard said, and suddenly he was thinking of Billy again, and all the times Billy had done this exact same thing, led him right where he wanted and thought Hazard couldn’t see it, couldn’t ever figure it out.

  “What?” Somers said.

  “She’s saying they weren’t the killers,” Hazard said. “She’s saying they’re the victims.”

  AGAIN, NAOMI MALSHO SEEMED SURPRISED that Hazard had spoken her; Hazard had the sense that for Naomi, the only person of interest in the room, possibly in the county, was John-Henry Somerset. But after Hazard had spoken his realization, Naomi turned her attention to him.

  “Close,” she said. “Although that’s not quite what I meant. I believe one of the men you saw was the victim you found. The other—the other I’m not sure.”

  Somers was shaking his head; he had the look of a man on cartoon ice, slipping every way no matter how he tried to get his feet. “Hold on. Hazard, what are you talking about? You’re saying—”

  “I’m saying she thinks the Ozark Volunteers are the victim. She’s saying one of those two men was the body we found in the trailer. That’s right, Miss Malsho?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you give us a lead? The names of our potential victims?”

  Naomi considered the question, tilting her head. Behind her, the sunset filled the glass wall with fire, framing her so that she looked like a saint from a medieval painting. “Come this way,” she said, leading them into the study. She circled the glass desk, sat in the high-backed chair, and crossed her legs. Through the glass desktop, the movement—and its effect—were perfectly visible. Hazard fought a sudden, grim smile; tangling with Naomi Malsho, he decided, wasn’t like dealing with a medieval saint. Maybe a medieval devil, though—one of those hundred-armed monsters that could tie you up without even trying.

  Naomi’s attention was already drifting back to Somers. Running her hands over the desk, brushing a pair of folders that had spilled onto the tabletop—pictures of Somers, Hazard realized with a start—Naomi smiled. “John-Henry, you’ve been going through my things.”

  “Why do you have those pictures?”

  “What? These?”

  Hazard shot Somers a glance, and Somers said, “Pictures of you. And of me.”

  “Well, Miss Malsho?” Hazard asked.

  “Don’t be silly. There just photos. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Leaning forward, Hazard snagged one of the folders and flipped it open. Somers was right; the folder held dozens of photographs of Somers: at work, at the bar, on the street. Somers in the morning light, Somers with his face half-hidden by shadow. It looked like a modeling shoot, Hazard thought. Every picture, every goddamn one, showed the same perfect features. Even when he was drunk off his ass, Somers was drop-dead gorgeous.

  “Like what you see, Detective?”

  Hazard slid the folder back towards the woman and took the other. It held a handful of pictures of him. He tapped the one at the window, the one that showed him with his chest bare. The scar was visible, the scar on his chest made of three shiny lines, where Mikey Grames had tried to carve his initial while Somers and Hugo Perry held Hazard’s arms. It had been taken through the window at the Bridal Veil Motor Court.

  Tapping the photograph, Hazard said, “Pictures taken on public property are fine, Miss Malsho, but this is an invasion of privacy.”

  Naomi briskly gathered the photographs and stacked the folders at her side. “Pictures may be taken of private areas if they are taken from a public space. Trust me, my photographer made certain he was on a public road when he took those photographs.”

  “Hotel and motel rooms, as well as bedrooms, bathrooms, and the like, are an exception to that rule.”

  “It’s hard to make a case for privacy when the occupant stands at the window, preening, shirtless. Perhaps advertising for business. What did you use to call it, John-Henry? Trolling for queers?”

  At the question, Somers seemed to snap out of his daze. The slashes of color on his cheekbone darkened, and he said, “That’s enough, Naomi.”

  Naomi’s runway features twisted into a sneer. “College made you a limp dick, John-Henry. You know that? It happens too often. All these godless, liberal professors spewing lies, warping minds. I remember you in high school. I remember when you shoved this faggot down a flight of stairs because he gave you the eye at lunch. And now look at you: prancing to his tune, smiling as he ogles your pictures, getting off on the attention. Thank God you ruined things with Cora; I wouldn’t have the heart to tell her what you’ve turned out to be.”

  Before Hazard could fully process what Naomi had said—he had given Somers the eye at lunch, and that’s why Somers had pushed him down the stairs? What the hell was she talking about?—Somers surged out of his seat. His hand clapped down on the desk so hard that Hazard was sure the glass had broken. The sound rang through the study, and the force of the blow shifted the stacked folders and sent them sliding to the ground, where they spilled photographs everywhere. Among them, Hazard was surprised to see a spray of black-and-white glossies of Detective Elizabeth Swinney.

/>   “That’s enough, I said.” Somers took a breath, and he looked like he was wrestling with something a hundred times larger than he. “Now, let’s have it, Naomi. Upchurch called you, asked if you had anything on this, and you said you wanted to help. If all you have is your claim that one of your friends died in the fire, give us a name and we’ll clear out. If you have something else, let’s hear it. But if you called us out here so that you could make a fool of yourself and insult me and my partner, we’re going to leave.”

  “Of course I have more,” Naomi said. “I’m not a fool, John-Henry. I don’t want this coming back on the Volunteers. For too long, the Volunteers have been the whipping boys of this county. They’ve been the victims, taking the blame for every crime that our PC mayor and police chief were too afraid to prosecute. Vandalism, prostitution, robbery, assault. These are ethnic crimes, John-Henry. Did you know that there’s a direct correlation between the college’s recruitment of blacks and Mexicans and the crime statistics? Look back about twenty years. Think about what this town was like when you were here in high school. You’ve seen the changes, John-Henry. You know. You could leave your door open. You could walk the darkest streets without any fear. Now? Good Lord, I have to carry a gun every day, John-Henry, because I’m afraid for my life.”

  Hazard tried to study her. He tried to fight the surge of fury that awoke in him at her description of the past. Her eyes, he was shocked to discover, were clear and shining, the eyes of a woman who believes she’s in the right and who believes she has all the answers tucked up her sleeves. But mostly he was thinking about Jeff Langham, who had blown out the back of his head, and he wanted to ask her how safe Jeff Langham had been twenty years ago.

  It took a moment for Hazard to realize that Somers was talking because Somers words sounded eerily close to Hazard’s own thoughts. “Twenty years ago? You think twenty years ago Wahredua was some shiny Norman Rockwell painting? You’re insane, Naomi. Sift through your photos down there, find that one of Hazard at the window. Do it.” Naomi hesitated, then she shuffled the stack of papers until she produced the photo. Somers ripped it from her hand and pointed to the scar visible in the photograph. “Twenty years ago, in your precious all-white paradise, me and Mikey Grames and Hugo Perry carved that into Hazard with Mikey’s fucking pocket knife. That’s the shit you want to go back to? They should have fucking strung us up, Naomi, and nobody even blinked an eye. Everybody knew and nobody so much as goddamn blinked. That’s what you want?”