We sat for a while longer in silence.
"The family is peculiar," I said.
"And the horse shooting is peculiar," Becker said.
"What does this suggest?" I said.
"Can't imagine," Becker said.
FIFTEEN
THE BATHHOUSE Bar and Grill had a Bud Light sign in its front window with a neon tube image of Spuds McKenzie looking raffish and thirsty. The room was air-conditioned. There was a bar the length of the room across the back. There were tables in front of the bar. Along the right wall there was a small dance floor, with a raised platform for live performances. At the moment the music, Bette Midler singing something I didn't recognize, was from a big old-fashioned Wurlitzer jukebox next to the door. Behind the bar was a chalkboard with the night's by-the-glass wine selections, and a list of bar food specials. In the late afternoon, the bar was about half occupied and there were people at several of the tables. It was like any other place where people went to avoid being alone, except that all the customers were men. The bartender had a crew cut and a mustache and a tan. He was wearing a dark green polo shirt and chino pants. I ordered a draft beer.
"Tedy around?" I said.
"Tedy?"
"Tedy Sapp," I said.
"Table over there." The bartender nodded. "With the muscles."
Tedy was wearing the Bath House uniform-green polo shirt, chino pants, and a tan. His hair was colored the aggressively artificial blond color that musicians and ballplayers were affecting that year. It was cut very short. He was a flagrant bodybuilder. About my size, and probably about my weight. He was chiseled and cut and buffed like a piece of statuary. I picked up my beer.
"That'll be three and a quarter," the bartender said.
I put a five on the bar and carried my beer over to Tedy's table. He looked up, moving his eyes without moving his head. He had the easy manner of someone who was confident that he could knock you on your ass. He had a cup of coffee in front of him on the table, and a copy of the Atlanta Constitution was folded next to it.
"My name's Spenser," I said. "Dalton Becker mentioned you to me."
"Becker's a good guy," Sapp said.
His voice carried a whisper of hoarseness. He gestured at an empty chair, and I sat down.
"You used to work for Becker," I said.
"Used to work for Becker," he said. "Deputy sheriff. 'Fore that I was in the Army-airborne. Lifted weights. Karate. Married. Trying as hard as I could to be straight."
"And you weren't," I said.
"Nope. Wasn't, am not now. Doesn't look like I'm gonna be."
"And now you're not trying," I said.
"Nope. Got divorced, quit the cops."
"Becker fire you when you came out?"
"Nope. I coulda stayed on. I wanted to quit."
"Still pumping a little iron, though," I said.
"That works gay or straight," Sapp said.
"And now you're here?"
"Yep. Four to midnight six days a week."
"Hard work?" I said.
"No. Now and then a couple queens get into a hissy-fit fight, scratching and kicking, and I have to settle them down. But mostly I'm here so that a few good old boys won't get drunk and come in here to bash some fairies."
"That happen very often?" I said.
"Not as often as it used to," Sapp said.
"Because you're here."
"Yep."
"Most people don't anticipate a tough fairy," I said.
Sapp grinned. "You look like you might have swapped a couple punches in your life."
"You ever lose?" I said.
"What? A fight? In here? Naw."
"That why you quit the cops?" I said. "So you could work here?"
"Yep."
"So you could protect the people who come here?"
Sapp shrugged.
"Lot of gay guys never really learned how to fight," he said.
"Most straight guys too," I said.
Sapp nodded.
"Well, I know how," Sapp said. "And I figured I could maybe serve and protect…" He stopped and thought about how he wanted to say it. "With a little more focus, down here, than I could working out of the Columbia County Sheriff's substation."
I sipped some of my beer. He drank some coffee.
"What do you do?" Sapp said. "I know you're carrying a piece."
"Alert," I said. "Detective. Private. From Boston."
"I figured you wasn't from down heah in the old Confederacy," Sapp said.
"Lawzy me, no," I said.
My instinct told me I could level with Sapp. My instinct has been wrong before, but I decided to trust it this time.
"I'm down here working for Walter Clive," I said, "trying to find out who's been shooting his horses."
"Horses?"
"Yep, apparently at random, several of them. He's worried now about a two-year-old named Hugger Mugger, who's supposed to be on his way to the Triple Crown."
"And after that a lifetime of stud fees," Sapp said.
Without being asked, the bartender came over with coffee for Sapp and a beer for me. He put them down, picked up the empties, and went away.
"So why come talking to me?" Sapp said.
"You know the Clive family?"
"Un-huh. Everybody in Columbia County knows the Clives."
"I'm interested in the son-in-law, Cord Wyatt."
Sapp didn't say anything. He put sugar in his coffee, added some cream, and stirred slowly.
"I am told he is interested in young boys," I said.
Sapp stirred his coffee some more. I suspected he was consulting with his instincts.
"So what if he was?" Sapp said.
"I'm told he acts out that interest."
"And?"
"I think adults have no business scoring children, but that's not the point."
"What is the point?"
"The family is strange," I said. "The crime is strange. Does that mean the crime comes from the family? I don't know. I'm trying to find out."
Sapp drank some more coffee. He nodded.
"I see how you're thinking," he said. "I was a cop once."
"Me too," I said.
"Why'd you quit?"
"I got fired. Disobedience."
"I'll bet you're pretty good at disobedience," Sapp said.
"One of my best things," I said.
I drank some more beer. Sapp drank some more coffee. The jukebox played a song I'd never heard before, sung by a woman I didn't know. The lyrics had something to do with a barroom in Texas. Two guys got up and slow-danced to it on the dance floor.
"I know Wyatt," Sapp said.
"He come in here?"
"Not very much," Sapp said. "I do some counseling too, on, ah, gender identity issues."
"Wyatt came to you?"
"Yeah."
"What can you tell me?"
"Anything I want. I'm not licensed or anything. I know something about gender identity issues. I just talk to people."
"What do you want to tell me about Wyatt?" I said.
"He's fighting it," Sapp said. "Something I know a little about. He wants to be straight and rich and have nice teeth."
"Man's reach must exceed his grasp…" I said.
"So he sits on the feelings and sits on them and finally he can't sit on them anymore and he goes off the wagon, so to speak."
"Kids?" I said.
Sapp nodded.
"Prostitutes mostly," Sapp said. "In Augusta."
"He ever get in trouble about it?"
"Yeah. Augusta Vice got him in a street sweep once, Clive got him off. He moved on a kid here in Lamarr once. Kid's mother called the cops."
"Clive get it buried?" I said.
"Yep."
"Money?"
"And fear. Delroy does it for him."
"I don't see Becker taking a bribe."
"Nope, but his boss will."
"Delroy the bagman?"
"Yep."
"What about the fear?"
"Delroy offers money to the kid's family. They don't take it, he tells them that something bad will happen to the kid."
"Wyatt tell you this?" I said.
"No."
"You talked with the kid," I said.
"Couple years afterwards," he said.
"He came to you?"
"Yeah," Sapp said. "He was afraid he was gay. I told him I thought he'd been exploited by Wyatt. I told him if anyone threatened him again he was to come right straight to me and we'd see about it."
"Anyone threaten him again?"
"No."
"Is he gay?" I said.
"I don't think so," Sapp said.
"You tell him that?"
"I'm not looking for converts," Sapp said. "I told him it's not important to be straight or gay. It's important to be what you are."
"Like you," I said.
Sapp grinned at me.
"I'm queer, and I'm here," he said.
"Know anything else about the Clive family that would interest me?" I said.
"Not much. I got a friend might be able to help you out, though. She's done some business with the other son-in-law. Whatsisname, Pud."
"How's she know Pud?" I said.
"She's a madame."
"In Lamarr?"
"In Lamarr."
"And how does she know you?"
"She's a member of the gay community," Sapp said.
SIXTEEN
THE HOUSE SAT on a nice lawn behind a white fence, on a wide tree-lined street where other houses sat on nice lawns behind white fences. All the houses dated from before the Civil War and, had they been a little grander, would have thus qualified as antebellum mansions. I parked in the driveway and walked up to the front door and rang the bell. The yard smelled richly of flowers. In a minute the door was opened by a smallish woman in jeans and a white shirt. She wore no shoes. Her toenails were painted dark maroon. Her gray-blond hair was twisted into a single long braid that reached nearly to her waist. I said, "Polly Brown?"
"Yes."
"My name is Spenser. Tedy Sapp sent me over."
"Tedy called me," she said.
She stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind her.
"We can sit on the veranda," she said. "It's such a pleasant night."
We sat in a couple of rocking chairs and looked out across the dark lawn at the quiet street. There was a good breeze blowing past us and it must have discouraged the bugs, because there weren't any.
"This is not a whorehouse," Polly Brown said. "I run an escort service. My girls come to you."
"I'm not here for that," I said.
"I know why you're here, I was just clarifying my situation. The 'you' was generalized."
"Of course it was," I said. "You don't sound southern."
"I'm from Cincinnati," she said. "Went to college and everything."
"How'd you end up here?"
"I have no idea," she said.
We were quiet again, rocking in the near darkness.
"So what would you like to know about Pud Potter?" she said.
"I gather he availed himself of your services."
"Often," she said.
"But not here."
"I told you."
"Yes, you did, so where?"
"Where would I send the girl?"
"Yes. I assume it wasn't to his house."
"Oh, wouldn't that be smart," she said. " 'Hello, Mrs. Potter, I'm here to fuck your husband.' "
"So where?" I said.
"He keeps a room and bath in town. Just off the square."
"Glad to hear there's a bath," I said.
"So what's the problem?" Polly said.
"My question exactly," I said. "He ever cause trouble or anything?"
"Pud? Hell no, he's a sweetheart. Lotta the girls liked him because he'd be too drunk to actually do anything and they'd get paid anyways."
"How about the law?" I said. "He ever have any trouble there?"
"Nope. I run a clean operation, pay my dues, the law leaves me alone."
"Including Becker?"
"The black deputy-in-charge?"
"Un-huh."
"I have no problem with him."
"You pay him off?"
"No."
"Operation like this pays off somebody," I said.
She rocked a little and didn't say anything. She was small enough so that her feet only touched the floor when she rocked forward.
"But not Becker," she said.
"Know a guy named Delroy?"
"Maybe. What's he do?"
"Private security," I said. "On behalf of Pud's father-in-law."
"Yes. I know him."
A silver Volvo station wagon went slowly past us on the empty street, its headlights bright and silent.
"Tell me about him?"
"One of the girls tried to supplement her income," Polly said, "by putting the squeeze on Pud."
"Threaten to tell his wife?"
"Worse. She rigged a Polaroid and got some pictures during the gig."
"Which she threatened to show his wife."
"And everybody else, I believe."
"And?"
"And Delroy came down and explained the facts of life to her."
"Which were?"
"I never asked."
"Can I talk with her?"
Polly shrugged.
"If you can find her," she said. "Name's Jane Munroe."
"You know where I should look?"
"No."
"She doesn't work for you anymore?"
"No. I fired her before Delroy even talked to her."
"He talk to you first?"
"Yes. He suggested I fire her, but I would have anyway. Nothing kills a good client list like some whore threatening to blab."
"Is Jane still in town?"
"I'm not their mother," Polly said. "I manage their professional lives. I have no idea where Jane Munroe is, or if she's still using the name."
"Was Delroy polite?"
"Very businesslike," she said.
"He threaten you?"
"Didn't need to. As soon as I heard about the scam, I told him she'd be fired."
A big yellow cat appeared and rubbed up against my leg. I reached down and scratched his ear. He stayed for a moment, then left me and jumped up onto the porch railing and sat looking out over the dark lawn.
"There anything else?"
"Like what?"
"Like something about the Clive family that I'd like to know, but am too dumb to ask?"
"Tedy said I could trust you," she said.
"Tedy's right," I said.
"How do you know Tedy? You gay?"
"I'm straight. I met him this afternoon, the way I've met you tonight."
"I haven't had a lot of reason to trust straight men," she said.
"You used to turn tricks?" I said.
"Sure. You think I bought a franchise?"
"Just being polite," I said.
"A bunch of fat guys with hair on their back," she said. "Usually drunk, telling me they loved me. Telling me that they were going to give me the fuck of my life."
She laughed. It was a very unpleasant sound in the soft Georgia night. The yellow cat turned his head and looked at her without emotion.
I waited.
"What a hoot!" she said.
"You're a lesbian," I said.
"How'd you know?"
"I'm a professional detective," I said.
"Sapp told you."
"Yes, but I questioned him closely."
"Lot of the girls are lesbians," she said.
"What's love got to do with it," I said.
"Exactly," she said.
The yellow cat turned his head back toward the dark lawn, then silently disappeared off the railing. There was a scurrying in the bushes and a small squeak and then silence. I waited some more.
"Sapp's a good man," Polly said.
"Seems so to me," I said.
"You was smarter," Polly sa
id, "maybe you'd ask me about Stonie Clive."
"Cord Wyatt's wife?"
"Yes."
"Tell me about her," I said.
"She worked for me for a while."
"When?"
"Two years ago."
"You know who she was?"
"Not at the time."
"How'd you recruit her?"
"She came to me. Said she'd heard about me. She said she had always wanted to do this kind of work and could I take her on? She was a nice-looking girl. Upperclass. I figured she'd do well."
"So she actually worked."
"Yes. But here's the cool part. I service a truck stop on the Interstate, up by Crawfordville. Normally I send the worst girls up there. Mostly it's head in the cab of some ten-wheeler at twenty bucks a throw. Stonie wanted that."
"BJ's at a truck stop?" I said.
"If you don't waste a lot of time talking," Polly said, "you can make a pretty good night's pay."
"Why would she need money?" I said.
A little light spilled out onto the veranda through the screen door. It was enough so that I could see her shrug.
"She's not still with you?" I said.
"No. Left about six, eight months ago."
"With no notice?"
Polly almost smiled.
"Nope, just stopped showing up. Lot of girls do that."
"How'd you find out who she was?"
"Saw her picture in the paper, some big racetrack thing."
"You're sure it was Stonie?"
"I know my girls," Polly said.
"She ever say why she wanted to do this?"
"Nope."
"You have any theories?" I said.
She rocked some more.
"Most of the girls it's simple. They got no education. They got no skills. They need money. So they do this. Some girls do it because they get something out of exploiting men."
"The men are often thought to be exploiting them," I said.
"Uh-huh."
I could tell that Polly had her own position on exploitation.
"Some girls just like it," she said.
"Truck stops at twenty bucks a… pop?"
"Not usually. But everybody's different."
"You think Stonie liked it?"
"No."
"It wasn't the money," I said.
"I don't think it was the money," Polly said.
"Exploit men?"
"Maybe a little of that," Polly said. "But…"
She rocked for a time, thinking about it.
"You know her husband's a chicken fucker?"
"I know," I said.
"I think she was getting even," Polly said.
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