by Alex Bledsoe
“No, sir,” she said immediately. “I’m just a little under the weather this morning. Must be the heat.”
“Your daddy’s got a lot of property around this house. He wouldn’t be growing a little something on the side, would he?”
The implication seemed to penetrate her fog. “No, sir. You know my daddy, he’d never do something like that.”
“How about you?”
“No, sir, I swear. I ain’t smoked it, and I ain’t grown it. Sir.”
She also still hadn’t opened the door. Cocker was about to make that an issue when Jeb Crabtree’s voice called, “That you, Sheriff?”
Cocker turned. Crabtree, dressed in grease-smeared coveralls and wiping his hands on a rag, came around the corner of the house and up onto the porch. “I’d shake your hand, Sheriff, but I might get it all dirty.” He saw Clora through the screen and said, “Christ Amighty, girl, go put some clothes on. Wearing nothing but a dishrag, that’s just plain unacceptable.”
“Yes, sir,” Clora said demurely, and scurried off into the house.
Crabtree smiled, forcing his voice to stay casual. His eyes betrayed his fear, though. “What can I do for you this morning, Sheriff?”
This time Cocker did not correct him. “I need some information from you, Jeb.”
“If I can.”
“How would I find that fella who bought that car the other day?”
Crabtree chuckled. “I don’t rightly know. He paid cash, took the title, and skeedaddled. I never even got his phone number.”
Cocker slammed the heel of his right hand into the nearest porch column. He hit it as hard as he could, and it creaked under the impact. Dust and debris drifted down on the two men. The nerves in that hand hadn’t worked properly since he’d been shot up, so Cocker felt little of the pain he should have. And the look on Crabtree’s face was enough to justify it anyway. “So you don’t even know where he took the car once he bought it?” Cocker asked.
“Nossir, I don’t. Although I believe the truck he drove out here had Shelby County plates.”
“What was his name again? Ziggie-inski?”
“Something like that. I got it written down inside.”
“Then go fetch it. And anything else that might help me find him.”
“Yes, Sheriff,” Crabtree said quickly. He grabbed the handle of the screen door, but it was still latched inside. He rattled it in confusion, then scurried in one of the floor-length windows that opened onto the porch.
Cocker flexed his fingers and rubbed his knuckles. Sometimes, he reflected, you just had to punch something to get things done. He sat down on the steps and lit a cigarette.
Before he’d taken three drags off it Crabtree returned with a piece of notebook paper. “Here you go. This is all I know about him.”
Cocker folded the paper without looking at it. He stood, and even two steps down he was taller than Crabtree. “Thank you, Jeb. By the way, is your little girl feeling all right?”
“She was a little peaked at breakfast. I figured it was her monthlies. She gets ’em as bad as her mama used to, God rest her.”
“She been keeping company with anyone?”
“Clora? Naw, she never leaves the house. I don’t know what she spends all day doing, but with that red hair and freckles, she just about bakes if she goes out in the sun very long.”
“I’d keep an eye on her if I was you.” He mimed smoking from a joint.
Crabtree looked down as he nodded. “I’ll do that. Thank you, Sheriff.”
When he returned home, Cocker entered his house and paused in the living room. When money from the movie deal first came in, Cocker hired a decorator from Memphis to redo the house and remove any hint of Vickie Lynn’s presence. Taking Cocker’s hypermasculine sensibility into account, the decorator lined the living-room walls with thin slices of logs, and brought in furniture made of unfinished wood with solid, square-cut corners. It was a bit like living in a hunting lodge, and suited Cocker and his son just fine. Well, he assumed it suited Bruce; he’d never really asked, and Bruce hadn’t volunteered an opinion.
But even redecorating hadn’t helped. Vickie Lynn’s presence still filled the place, as if her ghost still roamed whenever he was absent. He imagined her drifting through like smoke, frowning at the changes and itching to give him a piece of her mind. Yet as soon as he came home she vanished again, leaving only the vague sense that he had just missed her.
And each time, it broke his heart a little more. If it wasn’t for Bruce, he didn’t know what he’d do.
He should’ve sold the house and moved him and Bruce into something nicer. He could certainly afford it, now that Swinging Hard was a huge hit and there was talk of a sequel. But this was his home, and to leave it would mean letting the bastards who’d killed Vicki Lynn win, even though they were now all dead. And that would never happen.
He went to his son’s door and leaned close. He heard faint music. “Son, it’s a pretty day,” he called. “You want to go fishing?”
There was no response. He tried the doorknob, but it was locked. He wrapped his huge hand around it, tightened his grip, and turned with all his strength. The puny mechanism gave way. When he pushed, the door got stuck on a rolled-up towel stuffed under the bottom. It ripped when he yanked it aside.
Bruce sprawled on his bed, fully dressed, enormous headphones on his ears. The music blaring through them was more of that hard rock nonsense that Cocker had forbidden to be played aloud in the house. He found its glorification of raunchiness and antisocial behavior entirely unacceptable, and was close to joining his minister in the belief that it was, truly and literally, satanic.
Cocker slapped his son’s foot. Bruce’s eyes opened, then he sat up suddenly and yanked off the headphones. The music was so loud it made Cocker wince; he couldn’t imagine that cacophony pouring directly into his ears. “Turn that racket off!” he bellowed.
Bruce scurried to stop the turntable and turn off the stereo.
“Stand up,” his father said.
Bruce did so. The boy was almost as tall as Cocker, and his shoulders were as broad. He was more slender, though, a trait inherited from his mother.
Cocker backhanded him across the face so hard it knocked him onto the bed.
“What was that for?” Bruce cried. His face felt numb and hot.
“Bad enough that I know you’re out there dealing dope like some Memphis pusher-pimp, but now you done got that Crabtree girl hooked on it, too.”
“What are you talking about?” Bruce cried. The whine he knew his father hated crept into his voice despite his best efforts. “I’m not selling anything!”
“I just saw her, son. She looked like a junkie, and I know you been keeping company with her on the sly.”
“I ain’t had nothing to do with that ol’ Crabtree trash.”
“Son, I was a policeman for a long time. I know where you been, and what you been up to. You ain’t smart enough to put something past me yet.”
Bruce was silent for a moment. Then he began to laugh.
“You best show some respect,” Cocker said darkly.
Bruce continued to guffaw. “Tell me, Daddy, were you using that same brilliant detective mind when you took Mom along on that stakeout?”
Cocker froze. Bruce continued to giggle. Then Cocker deliberately unbuckled his thick leather belt and slid it out of the loops.
By the time it hung free in his hand, Bruce was no longer laughing. He said nothing, though; experience had taught him there was no dissuading his father once he’d set his mind on violence.
Cocker doubled the belt in his hand and slapped it against his other palm. It sounded like a pistol shot. “Boy, this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you,” he said. “And it’s gonna hurt you a lot.”
“Hot enough for you?” Cocker said to the clerk at the Shelby County Motor Vehicles office. Cocker’s smile had once charmed the ladies from Mobile to Louisville, but the plastic surgery after his chin was shot off made it
far less endearing. One woman told him he now looked like a possum baring its fangs.
Charlene Hanks would have been immune to Cocker’s smile anyway. She knew of the former sheriff through her cousins in McHale County, many of whom had spent the night in Cocker’s jail back when he wore a badge. He made no secret of his dislike for black people, and considered any who crossed his path to be “guilty until proven more guilty,” as he put it. One cousin would never walk right again after a particularly vicious blow from the sheriff’s famous baseball bat shattered his ankle.
The back room of the DMV was filled with the chatter of typewriters and adding machines, interspersed with the occasional clang of a metal license plate against a wooden desktop. Two dozen desks, most manned by women, processed the forms provided by the clerks at the customer windows.
Charlene opened the file folder, which held page after page of recent vehicle registrations. “If the car you mention has been registered in Memphis in the last week, it would be on this list. You’re welcome to go through it. I can’t imagine there’s too many . . .” She glanced at the note Crabtree had given Cocker. “ ‘Zginskis’ in here.” She looked up at Cocker. “Is that a real name?”
“As real as Latrelle or Melvis or some of the names you folks give your babies,” Cocker said with a laugh. Then in a vaudeville accent he asked, “Now why don’t you check that list for me, chile?”
Charlene sighed and shook her head. Cocker had no right to the information he sought, but he also was a celebrity and had plenty of friends in medium-high places. She flipped through the forms, looking for names that started with Z. She found Zeigler, Zamboni, and Zidack, but no Zginski.
As she worked, a perky little blonde tapped Cocker on the arm. “Mr. Cocker,” she said in a voice so high-pitched with nervousness it could make dogs howl, “could I have your autograph?”
“Why, sure, hon,” Cocker said. He took the offered pen and paper, and asked in a deep purring voice, “Now who should I make this out to?”
The blonde giggled, and Charlene rolled her eyes. She reached the end of the list, and waited for Cocker’s attention to return to her. He signed three more autographs for simpering women before he turned back to Charlene and asked, “Any luck?”
“There’s no Zginski on this list. He’s riding with bad tags.”
Cocker shook his head. The man could not simply vanish, that wouldn’t be fair at all. God wouldn’t do that to him. “Thanks. Will you let me know when he shows up?”
“Mr. Cocker, I have an awful lot to do around here besides running errands for you. And as I recall, you’re just a civilian now anyway. Any cooperation you get is strictly a courtesy.”
Cocker scowled in frustration. “I’m pretty sure this fella was a foreigner, one of them dee-fectors from Russia. How would I go about tracking that down?”
“You asking me?” Charlene said dubiously.
“Surely y’all must have dealt with illegal aliens before. How do you go about keeping up with them?”
“If they’re illegal, we have to wait until they get caught.”
Just loud enough for Charlene to hear, he growled, “Are you getting mouthy? Don’t you be getting smart with me, girl.”
That was the final straw. Charlene jumped to her feet and put hands on her hips. Her chair rolled into the desk behind her. She barely came up to Cocker’s chest, but her anger made her seem much taller. “And don’t you be treating me like I’m damn Mrs. Butterworth, then,” she bellowed. “You may have lots of important friends, but it don’t give you the right to march in here and act like you own the place!”
The rest of the room fell silent. A Shelby County deputy sheriff, so young his face was still pink from his morning shave, appeared beside Charlene. “Is there a problem here?”
Cocker, aware that he had an audience, shook his head and patted Charlene on the cheek. “Just another sign that ol’ desegregation might’ve been rushed a little.” Then he gave Charlene a quick kiss on the forehead, which left her speechless as he sauntered away, his enormous frame drawing every eye. He waved to the room as he went out the door.
“Just a friendly warning, Charlene,” the deputy said after Cocker was gone. “That’s not a man you should piss off.”
“Well, I ain’t gonna sit here and be pissed on,” she snapped. “If he thinks he’s getting any more information out of this office, he’s a bigger honky fool than he looks like.”
“That’s enough of that!” called out Mr. Biltmore, the supervisor. He stood in the door to his office. “I won’t stand for racial slurs in this workplace. Charlene, get in here right now!”
In his car outside, Cocker waited as the air conditioner cooled the interior. He should just let it go, he knew. Really, it was just a car.
And yet Zginski’s arrogant sneer, the utter lack of respect, just would not fade from his memory. Who the hell did that foreign bastard think he was, anyway, swiping a car out from under a real American?
He’d come all the way to Memphis on the hottest day of the year so far, and it had been a bust. He wanted a drink before starting the long drive back to McHale County, and maybe a real man’s lunch. He knew just the place to get it, too.
CHAPTER 11
THE LUNCH CROWD packed the Ringside when Byron Cocker entered, and he paused in the door to let his eyes adjust. As they did, he heard the usual wave of whispers spread through the room. Even people who hadn’t seen Swinging Hard recognized him.
“Byron!” Gerry Barrister called as he worked his way through the crowd. He was pale and haggard, but his good nature was undimmed. The two men shook hands. “Didn’t know you were in town. Come on over here and have a drink.”
“Think I can get a sandwich, too?”
“Sandwich, hell. Byron Cocker gets the best steak in the house!”
Barrister led Cocker to the bar and waved Fauvette over. “Fauvette, this is the world-famous Byron Cocker, inspiration for the movie Swinging Hard. We wrestled together back before he turned to law enforcement. I pinned him in less than a minute one time, too.”
Fauvette looked from Barrister to the much larger Cocker. “Really?”
“That’s ’cause the promoter decided he’d be a better heel than I would be,” Cocker said. “I was more the handsome baby-face type. Well, back then, at least.”
“Listen to him,” Gerry said. “He used to have the women crawling all over him. Couldn’t keep a jock strap for girls stealing ’em for souvenirs.”
“Not my fault them tights showed off what God gave me,” Cocker said with a grin. Then he took his first real look at Fauvette and frowned. “Honey, are you old enough to be working in a bar?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” Fauvette assured him. “I just look young.”
“Now, Byron, you think I’d be hiring underage girls?” Barrister said. “This is a respectable business. Hell, starting this weekend we’ll even have live music.”
“What’s your poison today, Mr. Cocker?” Fauvette asked with her best disarming smile.
Barrister waved her close and said just loud enough for Cocker to hear, “Give him a silver bullet in a jacket.”
“Anything you say, boss.” Fauvette knelt and took a can of Coors beer, illegal east of the Mississippi, from a special cooler hidden on the bottom shelf. She wrapped a fake Budweiser label around it and presented it to Cocker. “Compliments of the house?” she asked Barrister.
“Of course. And have the kitchen whip up a steak for my friend, too.”
Cocker took a drink and sighed contentedly. “Man, that’s good stuff.”
“Good thing you don’t carry a badge anymore, isn’t it?” Barrister said, his laugh just a hair too forced.
Cocker sipped the beer and nodded his thanks to Fauvette. The instant their eyes met he felt an odd, vaguely familiar chill from her, and the cut on his hand tingled.
And then, as Barrister droned on about their shared wrestling past, Cocker felt another tingle, the one that unmistakably warned him of danger. He turn
ed toward the door.
Rudy Zginski entered, paused, and looked around.
Cocker couldn’t believe it. After convincing himself he’d never find the stuck-up Russkie again, here he just walks into the same bar, big as life. What were the chances? Clearly the good Lord was on his side, as always.
Cocker hunched his shoulders and tried to duck down out of obvious sight. He was the tallest person in the room, which was usually a good thing except when he wanted to be discreet. He peered at Zginski through gaps in the crowd. Barrister obliviously continued his story.
Zginski stood rigid, hands formally clasped behind his back. Despite the heat he wore a black polyester suit over a white shirt with the top two buttons undone. A simple gold chain hung loose around his neck. A white handkerchief peeked from the coat’s pocket, almost hidden by the wide lapels, and matched his white belt. His shoes were white leather with stacked heels. His gaze traveled methodically around the room like a radar antenna.
Then he turned and looked directly at Cocker.
Cocker’s throat constricted with the sudden certainty that the smaller man scared him. Those eyes gave him the same shudder as the girl bartender’s.
Then he realized that Zginski wasn’t looking at him, but past him at Fauvette. The girl gazed back, as if some unspoken communication passed between them. Both stood perfectly still; for them the loud, crowded room seemed not to exist.
Cocker’s attention flicked from one to the other. There was definitely a resemblance: both were pale, seemed unnaturally calm and slightly removed from the world around them. And both had the same cold, slightly creepy eyes. True, the girl didn’t have his accent, but could they be related?
Then Zginksi turned away and disappeared into the crowd. This broke the moment, just as Barrister said, “. . . and that’s the truth. Ain’t that right, Byron?”
“Sure thing, Gerry. ’Scuse me for a minute, I need to visit your facilities.”
“Well, hurry back, that steak’ll be up in a minute.”