Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery

by T. Blake Braddy

  "I know who you are," he said through the open passenger window, slamming his door. His voice was low and resonant and only vaguely country, like he'd lived somewhere else before. "I won't make the same mistake as bossman."

  I leaned against the truck, peeking my head into the cab, which smelled of dirt and grass and tobacco spit, and a hint of generic pine freshener thrown in for good measure. He pushed the key into the ignition - hard - turned it, and the engine rumbled to life.

  My eyes drifted to the ignition, where a mass of silver and gold keys dangled from a single, big ring. "This your truck?" I asked, fighting the ruddy swell of the diesel.

  "Company's," he replied, not matching my gaze.

  I sucked my teeth. "Shame that key chain there doesn't have a company key fob, don't you think?"

  "What?"

  "Leland likes to doodle his name on anything he has a passing association with." I pointed at the hat. "Hell, he's even branded you. You telling me that doesn't include the company cars' key rings?"

  The man flushed. His jaw muscles tensed as he clenched his teeth. "Step away from the truck, dickwad," he said, "before I make your asshole match your big fucking mouth."

  I pursed my lips. "Reckon I'll be on my way, then. Speaking of assholes, your boss around? You get your marching orders from him every morning? That what you do here?"

  "I'm about two seconds from getting out of this truck and stomping your ass into a mud puddle, friend."

  I didn't doubt that he could do it. He was built like a UFC fighter gone to seed, or a man who bench presses Buicks for kicks. But I already had my mouth open. No stopping now. "I got seven pistol rounds say I put you down like a tired bull from a Hemingway novel before you get your foot anywhere near my ass." I spat on the passenger seat of the truck. "Friend."

  "You shoot me, you better hope you kill me."

  "That's the idea, Igor."

  We stared in silence, him sitting behind the wheel, me leaning against the truck. In the mild heat of the idling engine. Breathing in the exhaust.

  "What, ex-cop? You gonna shoot me for not talking to you? For not listening to your half-cocked fucking theories?"

  I shrugged. He said, "What a chicken shit move."

  "Coming from a grown man who babysits an entitled know-nothing."

  "I hope they find your fingerprints all over the scene at that old nigger joint. I hope they fry your ass, because I'll get a front row seat. Bossman'll make sure of that."

  "Oh, I bet he will," I said.

  This time, he didn't answer. Rather, he sneered and raised the window to avoid answering me, yanking the column shift into reverse and backing away. He backed until he could throw the truck in drive, and then he pulled down the driveway. A couple of times the engine revved, the truck jerking forward like a dog trying to leash-train the master. He wanted to bark the tires on the blacktop, but I knew he wouldn't. He was fucking bought and paid for.

  I walked up to the portico and knocked a couple of times, but nobody answered. Guess they saw me coming.

  There was a BMW parked by the garage. Jeffrey's car. He had to be here. I stepped back and peered into the windows of the house, trying to find somebody looking down at me. I might as well have been trying to find answers at an empty house.

  I pulled a small item out of my front pocket and turned it over in my fingers, suspecting I was about to do something both stupid and bullheaded. But I couldn't help myself. I felt the blood rush to my head as I dropped to one knee. I deposited the dusty Brickmeyer key fob on the portico and walked soundlessly down the driveway.

  Your move, I thought.

  * * *

  My next stop was my lawyer's office. Jarrell told me nothing was new, but that my court date was coming up and it didn't look good for me to be driving around town. He also felt compelled to say that it definitely didn't look good for me to be seen at a bar. Having a drink, no less. I pretty much shrugged through the conversation and told him not to screen my calls.

  "They're looking to serve you for a restraining order," he said, smiling, as if that might lighten the mood. On his face was an ancient scar, lightened by time and made less omnipresent by an abundance of wrinkles. He wasn't that old, but the years hadn't been kind. "You pissed in Leland's cream pie while he was trying to take a bite."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  A man’s words are his identity, sometimes. "You've got to pick up on my lingo. Anyway, turns out, Leland was trying to sell that land when that Laveau boy's body was found on it. Having you poke around only made it worse. Now nobody's going to want that bunch of rotted pine trees."

  I chewed on a hangnail, thinking it over. "So, whoever killed Emmitt Laveau probably wanted to punish the Brickmeyers."

  "Had everything riding on that one?"

  "Kind of," I replied. It wasn’t like I even had a real theory, but I had kind of banked on finding a picture of Leland Brickmeyer standing next to Laveau’s body, winking at the camera like they used to in lynching photos. Something like that.

  Turns out, it wouldn’t be that easy.

  "You might want to lay off him, then. He's already beyond pissed that somebody had the audacity to dump a body out there. Now you're going around town, trying to make him out to be the mastermind behind it. If he's innocent - and it looks like he is - you might end up at the loony bin in Milledgeville instead of a jail cell."

  "That's great news."

  "I have told you and told you that digging around was a bad idea. If you get embroiled in a pissing match with Brickmeyer or the police force, you're going to look foolish and unstable in the eyes of the judge."

  "Okay. Okay. I get it. Enough with the bathroom metaphors."

  "Just keep your lunatic routine to a minimum, okay? You don't have to go around, trying to make up for what your daddy did."

  "What did you say?" I felt sharp edges all over my skin.

  Jarrell leaned forward in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him. "Listen, buddy. Don't think I can't see the parallels between what your father did and what you're trying to do. They're perfect opposites."

  "That's not it at all."

  "Whatever. The thing is, you don't have to be ashamed. Nobody blames you for what he did. I defended the man, tried to do whatever I could to prove him innocent, but he had a lot of demons. I think you do, too, but this ain't the way to exorcise them."

  I spat a corner of fingernail on the floor beside me. "This is different."

  "He needed to go away. It was just his penance. He killed that man because, well, it had all to do with your mama. Not because the guy was black."

  "I don't believe that for a second."

  "Either way, he was guilty, and he did his time. Died doing it. He never got to tell you he was sorry, so now you're going around trying to make up for it by helping someone you hurt."

  "So."

  "It's a nice gesture, don't get me wrong. Whoever killed Laveau deserves a red hot poker up the ass, but don't screw yourself trying to bring him to justice."

  My phone buzzed in the pocket of my jeans. I pulled it out, saw that it was D.L., and then pressed a button to send the call straight to voicemail. He'd have to wait. "Thanks, Jarrell."

  "This isn't an act of charity. You're still paying me. But don't think for a second I don't care about what happens to you. Besides, you don't have enough money to keep me on retainer."

  * * *

  Deuce was pretending to be working when I opened the door to his office. He smiled without looking up and began clicking on his computer screen. "Damn, Rol, you almost ruined my game of solitaire."

  "I figured you might be out seining the streets for bail jumpers." I had forgotten to check my voicemail for D.L.'s message, so I sent him a brief text, telling him I'd drop by the police department this afternoon. The old man hated texts, and so I hoped every one I sent was slowly dragging him into the current century.

  "Word is, you're the one trying to snare people in nets, not me. Going around like
you belong in one of Ed McBain's 87th Precinct novels, and you are no Detective Carella."

  "I kind of like getting all this attention. Maybe someone will figure out which literary detective I actually am like." I pressed send and closed the phone before sliding it into my pocket. The phone beeped mildly a moment later.

  Deuce slid the mouse across the pad and clicked once, presumably to pause the card game, and leaned back in his chair. I took a seat across from him. "Do you just have a board full of shitty choices that you throw darts at, and whichever one you hit, that's what you go with?"

  "Who do you suppose is spreading word around? You think Brickmeyer might be the one starting all this? I don't talk to anybody but you and Jarrell, and that poor son-of-a-bitch is my lawyer. He doesn't want to ruin his already abysmal odds of defending me in court."

  "Clements knows what he's getting into. I know you don't know this, but the black folks around town do. He ain't always been the arbiter of social justice. Man's got some skeletons, but he's spent the better part of thirty years trying to exorcise them."

  "So? That's got nothing to do with what I'm talking about here."

  "Listen, you don't-" He paused. "Okay, I get it, man. I really do. But you're getting fixated on one thing. Leland Brickmeyer doesn't rack the pool balls the same way you or I do. He's got contacts everywhere, and his hands are calloused from the pud-pulling he does. It wouldn't be that hard for him to ruin you forever."

  "I ain't got much else to ruin, Deuce. I think that's why Janita Laveau's got me running around on the end of a long leash. If I nail somebody for her son's death, hey great. If I don't, then oh well. It's just my life that's been fucked up. No big deal."

  Deuce reached under his desk and pulled a can of soda from his mini-fridge. He referenced the can with his free hand and raised both eyebrows. I nodded, and he retrieved a second drink from the small machine humming at his feet. After he handed it over, I popped the tab and took a long swig, enjoying the fizzy burn of carbonation.

  "That doesn't mean you've got to hold the match so close to the fuse. If he has some hand in this and you can find what, maybe you get vindication. But he keeps the shades drawn pretty tight, and he employs family, and they keep their mouths shut. How much did you get out of Jeff?"

  "I know for a fact he's wound tighter than a guitar string."

  "He's gonna take over the business if Leland ascends to the halls of Congress, and he knows that. Living in Savannah didn't work out for him, so he's banking on that big promotion."

  I took another swallow of Coca-Cola and placed it on the stained Berber carpeting. "Any idea of what he did down there?"

  "Shit, I don't know for sure, Rol. I was busting heads in New Orleans, and all I got to go on now is hearsay. You know they never turn off the lights at the rumor mill. It's always chugging along."

  "What was it? Drugs?"

  "They say he was into the club scene down there, got so used to being out all night that he just blew his day job. Came in drunk or hungover and they just kicked him out on his ass, politician papa or no."

  "Huh."

  "Interesting postscript to his time in Savannah. Not very long afterward, a criminal investigation into that law firm turned up some fraudulent activity. At one of the oldest firms in the city. The head partner professed cluelessness, but he got a dime in the can nonetheless. I'm not saying Jeffrey Brickmeyer had anything to do with that. From what I know about him, he's responsible, but-"

  "Makes you wonder." I guzzled more Coke. The heat and all my sweating was making it go down smooth.

  "Definitely does. That's my warning, Rol. You're sticking your butt cheeks right up to the saw blade, and you need to know what might happen if you get too caught up. Don’t get into the inner workings of the Brickmeyer clan. If you're serious about following this to conclusion - and I have no doubt you do - you need to ask yourself why. Why would Brickmeyer do such a thing?"

  I thought about that for a few moments, listening to the hum of some piece of electronic equipment or another. Then I stood, placed my soda can on the desk. "I appreciate it, Deuce."

  Deuce crushed the can with one enormous hand and deposited it into the recycling bin behind his swivel chair. He said, "I'll do what I can for you, but I got my own reasons for keeping off the man's radar. If I hear anything else, you're the first person I'm calling. Just don't say my name too loudly in mixed company. That includes your lawyer. I'm trying to run an upstanding business here."

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "I'm serious. I'll talk to some people, people who know things, and if I come up with anything, I'll let you know."

  I waved over my shoulder and ambled out into the too-bright afternoon sun. I sincerely hoped I wasn't getting him snarled in anything he wouldn't be able to get out of.

  * * *

  I rode to the other side of town and pulled into an empty spot cooled by shade. I threw the shifter into park. Two biddies in flower print dresses gave me the stinkeye as I went in the police station. Church ladies. Teetotalers. I could almost feel their scorn burning holes in me, but like everything else, I ignored the armchair judge routine.

  The PD was darker but not much cooler than outside, and I kept my head down to avoid eye contact. Two men I didn't recognize were stretched out in the uncomfortable seats of the waiting area, anticipating somebody's release. Not counting me, they were the only civilians in the place, and they looked like they had gotten tangled in a razor-wire fence and used their faces to break free.

  The hallways smelled like bleach and alcohol. I always hated it.

  The building itself isn't very big. A block of ten cells in the back manages to accommodate the city's criminals without getting too crowded. There is a separate room for the drunk tank and yet another for violent offenders, the speed freaks, and the toothless wife beaters who wake up in the cell completely unaware of their offenses.

  I nodded at Dara, who hesitated but then let me in, past the reinforced door and into the main hallway. Her perfume mixed with the chemical scent of the cleaners and solvents, producing a sickeningly sweet odor. I tried not to let it show, and I didn't slow down. "On my way to see D.L.," I said. "Not my fault he called."

  Dara shook her head. "You're lucky he let me know you might drop by," she said. There was no good humor in her insults today.

  "Thanks, Dara," I said, throwing her a mock salute, already halfway down the hall. Vanessa and Dara used to be friends, and even though Vanessa had left me, Dara blamed me for it. She also implied I was responsible for Vanessa’s addiction. She never said anything outright, but she didn’t have to.

  I knocked and walked in at the same time and caught D.L. on the phone with his wife, so I gave an embarrassed wave-and-smile, and then I waited outside until their conversation was over.

  D.L.'s office was dark, same as always. He had tacked up dark tapestries - he refused to acknowledge they were dark sheets - to curb the light coming into the room, and the overhead fluorescent bulbs hadn't been turned on in years. Strategically-placed lamps gave the room an even illumination. D.L. had always complained about his eyes, and being the police chief had finally given him the ability to indulge his peculiarities.

  "How's she doing?" I asked, and he responded by raising one side of his mouth and one shoulder in an apathetic shrug. "Better'n you are, son," he replied. "You've been squatting over the soup bowl, so I hear. We're all on pins and needles, waiting to see what comes out."

  He was looking older these days, well-built but going flabby in all the normal places. His gut peeked out over the belt, and gin blossoms stood out on his nose as if the veins had been injected with ink.

  He gestured with one hand, offering the chair across from him, but I decided to remain standing. Resting my palms on the chair back, I leaned forward and said, "What's up, D.L.?"

  "You tell me."

  "I think I'm the one who got a voicemail an hour ago."

  He leaned up in the chair, grimaced as he stretched his back. I heard a loose, wa
tery pop. "I think you need to put on the brakes, Rol."

  "I haven't-"

  "It’s why I wanted to talk to you in person.” He paused and then said, “I wish you would have a seat. Standing up the way you are is making me nervous."

  "Forgive me if I don't feel welcome."

  "Aw, hell, you were always self-centered, but these are not the circumstances for you to take exception to everything. If you're standing up to make a point, well, you've made it."

  Beneath his expansive mustache, the ghost of a smile appeared. Cautiously, I sat.

  "There," he said. "That's much better. I had no choice but to let you go. In these hard economic and political times, you had to expect the consequences that were handed down to you."

  "I hope this whole conversation isn't going to revolve around me and my accident."

  "No, no, I suppose it won't. It is going to revolve around you, though."

  "I've already gotten that impression." I paused. "Listen, I'm not going to do anything to interfere with the actual investigation. I'm doing Janita Laveau a favor. She wants someone looking out for her best interests."

  "And that person is you?"

  "I'll try to be impartial."

  D.L. sat up, chair creaking, and pressed his hands together on his desk, as if in prayer. It was how I was accustomed to seeing him. He stared at me like the answer to a quadratic equation was suspended above my head. "Rolson," he said, "there is no such thing as a good vigilante. Let me tell you something. We had a preacher, lived in the Junction back in the sixties, hated alcohol. Thought every societal ill could be traced back to it. Round here, I reckon he was right. Wasn't wrong, anyway, not entirely. He used to load up his car, which was a souped-up Mustang, with baseball bats and shotguns and chase down the boys running moonshine into the Bottom on Friday and Saturday nights. Was real good at it, too. Got his name in the paper once for it. Anyway, he took it on himself to chase down two of the McCail brothers - oh, Finnius and the other one, second generation Irishmen, both of them - and they pulled a shotgun on him. He managed to wrench it away and shoot the one brother, not Finnius. Killed him instantly."