Love Her Madly

by Mary-Ann Tirone Smith

  “Boys was willin’ to pay Lloyd for his feel and his speed. All you had to do was find him. And if he was in the mood, needed a few bucks, you counted your blessings. Besides good and fast, he was cheap. Lloyd had no overhead and he was America’s guest.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Didn’t concern himself with the tax man. But once Lloyd took up with Rona Leigh, he gave her every cent he had, every cent he earned, to do with as she pleased, so long as she’d quit hookin’ and just service him. Rona Leigh knew a good thing.”

  “Why’d they kill Melody and James?”

  He smiled. “All Lloyd wanted was his chopper back. Got stolen a few days before. But that night, when Lloyd stood next to James’s bed holdin’ the ax over his head, James told him he never stole no bike. Then—too bad for James—he insulted Lloyd. Big mistake. Lloyd was one jumpy little stud. You didn’t want to cross him. Temper like a basket a snakes. Man had no rudder, I’ll tell ya. And when Lloyd was drugged up and you crossed him? Well, you just took your life in your hands.

  “That night, James made the most biggest, god-awful mistake a his life. I don’t know what he coulda been thinkin’. ’Course, he was a halfwit, so he probably wasn’t thinkin’ at all. And he was in the middle a fuckin’ Gary’s wife so he mighta been a teeny-tiny bit distracted.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Heard it from someone who visited Lloyd. In prison.”

  “Lloyd tell his lawyer any of this?”

  “’Course not. He said the only thing he could say. That Rona Leigh made him do it.”

  “He thought that would get him off?”

  “So they told him. Get him a life sentence, insteada what he got, is what they told him.”

  “That obviously backfired.”

  “Yeah, it did. Still, we all thought the jury would take pity on him. But the jury figured you want to accuse someone of stealing your bike, you do it man-to-man, not while the guy’s in a position that would make some other guy look bad. When he’s fuckin’ the other guy’s wife, ya know?”

  Of course. “Lloyd basically killed Melody because she was a witness, then?”

  The cowboy didn’t bat an eyelash. “I don’t know as he much cared about that. If Melody’d gotten outa there, she wouldn’ta said nuthin’. I suspect it was just a case a her gettin’ caught in the crossfire.”

  “But he did kill her?”

  “He did.”

  “Rona Leigh didn’t swing the ax?”

  He laughed. “You got to be kiddin’. She couldn’ta swung a toothpick.”

  “She’s going to die for something she didn’t do, then.”

  “Never said that. Rona Leigh played things a little too close to the vest. You got to watch your ass, and she didn’t.”

  I looked out at the skyline of downtown Houston in the distance. The smog hovered just above the buildings, hadn’t settled to the streets on this particular day.

  I said, “So did James steal Lloyd’s motorcycle?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “’Course. Aaron Granger stole it.”

  “And is he dead?”

  “Aaron? Hell, no. Back then, after the murders, he just scrammed outa town. James got family.”

  “I take it this Granger would have had reason to fear James’s family.”

  “Better to be safe than sorry. But he’s back. Things cooled off and all, when Lloyd died in prison. AIDS. Turned homo, what with no women.” He looked me over. “Now can I ask you somethin’, FBI?”

  “Sure.”

  “How come you decided to come down here just to jar Gary? You got a personal stake in any a this?”

  I lied. “Not personal, no. What’s your name?”

  “How’s Chuck?”

  “Chuck’s fine. One more thing, Chuck.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why did Lloyd think James Munter stole his bike?”

  He banged his steering wheel with the heel of his hand and hooted. “Now that’s the question I been waitin’ on you to ask! Wondered when you’d make it around to gettin’ your money’s worth. See, that there part of it, that’s the funny part. Melody was a piece a work. When Melody let it be known that she was about to take James out back and fuck ’im, Gary was pissed. But when he figured the two of them had took off together Gary was like to kill her, just how you said it should be back at the bar. She’d crossed the line. Everyone was laughin’ at him. In his face matter of fact. Big joke.

  “So Gary calls Lloyd, tells Lloyd that the man what stole his bike was presently fuckin’ his wife. Told him the guy’s name was James Munter and where to find him. Gary knew Lloyd would stop whatever he mighta been doin’, go to James Munter’s place, and find Melody in James’s bed. He figures when Lloyd beats the hell outa James, it’ll give Melody the shits. Maybe Melody’ll take a few licks too.

  “But like you said, FBI, it backfired.”

  “How do you know Gary called Lloyd?”

  “The guy owned the bar back then? Even more of a shrimp than Gary, shaved off at the pockets. He heard him make that call. Not the only one, either. But Gary didn’t want Melody knocked around bad, just wanted to put a scare in her. So he tells Lloyd that Melody has the hots for him. Man! Just one more fuckin’ backfire. Gary forgot about Rona Leigh. No girl would even look at Lloyd once Rona Leigh teamed up with him. Whoo!”

  “You just said Rona Leigh couldn’t have swung the ax.”

  “That’s right. She got Lloyd to whack Melody.”

  “Chuck, how do you know that?”

  “Don’t. Educated guess.”

  “One last thing.”

  “You got it.”

  “Where’d Gary get the money to buy the bar from Pee-Wee?”

  He stared straight out at the road.

  I took another hundred-dollar bill out of my wallet and held it out. He took it.

  “Gary inherited the money.”

  “From who?”

  “From his dead wife, who else?” He removed his hat so he could slick back his hair, the world’s most nervous gesture.

  “And who knew that? Everybody?”

  He turned his face toward mine. He squinted. He said, “I didn’t.”

  “Did Gary know he’d inherit money from his wife when she died?”

  He looked back to the road. “See, ma’am, that’s the one thing no one wants to know. No points for knowin’ that. I ain’t stealin’ your money, neither. No one knows. Matter a not crossin’ the line.”

  “Which line?”

  “Which line? You learn anything a-tall in FBI school, ma’am?”

  Yeah, I did. Follow the money.

  6

  I called Rona Leigh’s warden, asked if I could see her the next day.

  He said, “Her dance card is full. You can come on by, though. She asked me if I’d heard from you. I expect she’d see you in a minute. I’ll call you back.”

  He did. I could see her next morning at ten.

  It was late afternoon. I headed toward the airport. As the plane lifted and became immediately engulfed in smog, I asked the man in the string tie next to me what the governor intended to do about the pollution in Houston. He said, “Shoot it.”

  The clerk at the Best Western said, “Cop’s been lookin’ for you. Ranger.”

  “A Ranger? Well, then, I guess he’ll find me.”

  * * *

  The next morning I arrived at the Mountain View visitors’ lounge fifteen minutes early. There were a dozen people there, all reporters. Rona Leigh was presently with two guys from People. Soon as the prison van arrived back with them, I’d get shuttled to the bungalow.

  Rona Leigh now lived in the pen. Unlike the men on death row, she wouldn’t be transferred the day of the execution. Another executive decision by the warden. He told the press he had to consider his other girls, how riled they’d be on that last day. Didn’t want them to see Rona Leigh marched past them. Goodbyes would send them out of c
ontrol. So he’d snuck Rona Leigh out when they were asleep.

  The People people stayed past their allotted time. I went outside when the van came into view. I recognized the reporter and his photographer. The photographer specialized in crime. He’d taken my picture several times.

  Instead of hello, I said, “You guys are on my time.”

  “Hey, Poppy Rice. Rona Leigh gave your time to us.”

  “Promised her a cover, didn’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’ll come out before the execution, I take it.”

  The reporter’s name was Frank. Their top dog. “Comes out in two days.”

  Three days before the execution, the spiritual adviser arrives. The cardinal would coincide with the People magazine story on Rona Leigh. Perfect.

  Then Frank said, “Just to piss you off further, she eliminated the guy before us so we got his time too.”

  “Who?”

  “U.S. News and World Report.”

  I got up on the shuttle steps. “She knows which side her bread is buttered.”

  Frank said, “Tell us what she says to you, and I’ll put in whatever the hell it is you’re doing here. You got an angle you want publicized, just say the word.”

  “Hang around. There’s a good chance I’ll have something for you.”

  “Something new? If not, I’m gone. Story has to be in the hopper at midnight. I’m telling you, I feel like I’m working for the fucking Wall Street Journal on this one. Our Rona Leigh deadline is tight.”

  The photographer, taking my picture, said from behind his lens, “That’s ’cause she’s got a deadline.”

  The van started to move.

  The corrections officer riding with me was Harley Shank.

  “How’s it goin’, Agent?”

  “All right. How’s Rona Leigh?”

  “Not that great.”

  As he led me across the grass he said, “She’s gettin’ a little crazy. I’m real glad you’re here. She feels you’re a special friend to her, Agent, sent by the Lord. Her only other friends are the girls on death row, and they can’t help her anymore now that she’s in the pen.”

  I suppose there was no harm in letting the woman think my purpose was to help her rather than support the Constitution.

  There was a window cut into the wall of the room with the holding pen where there hadn’t been one before, a chair in front of it for me and another one on the other side for her. Rona Leigh was in the cage crying. The guard inside opened the cage and she stood and came out. This room wasn’t wired; we each had a phone receiver. I picked mine up. She sat down and did the same.

  I said, “Hello, Rona Leigh.”

  She sniffed. “Hello, ma’am. S’cuse me.” She took out a Kleenex. “That man from the magazine asked me how I’d felt when I packed my things. What things? I told him I had no things. I have a bar of soap. He asked me how I was goin’ to feel on my date. How I’d feel when the needle punctured my arm.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She began rubbing her arm where the needle would go in.

  “I tried to stay strong for Jesus, Miz Rice. I tried. Those two men wanted me to be grateful that they would be running my picture, but the reporter was not interested in the mission Jesus has for me.”

  “How did you answer his questions?”

  “I didn’t. I just kept explaining the divine plan Jesus Christ has chosen. I kept telling him about my true self that was robbed by Satan and then given back by the Lord.” She tried to blink back her tears. “I’m glad you’re here. I was wishin’ you’d come back, and then I figured that, by wishin’ for it, I was wishin’ the days away. I don’t want these days to pass. I don’t want to fail Jesus.”

  My plan had been to confront her with what Chuck told me. Tell her that no one thinks she could have swung the ax. Ask her if she recalled telling Lloyd to kill Melody. But she was somewhere else. The governor would hear it instead.

  “You’re not going to fail him, Rona Leigh. Jesus has sent someone who will see to it that you don’t.”

  “Jesus?” A tear fell down her cheek.

  “Awhile back I did some work in New York. For the cardinal at the Catholic cathedral. He—”

  “Cardinal de la Cruz?”

  “Yes. You know of him?”

  Her chin trembled. “I do.” Too bad the photographer was missing the visuals. “Cardinal de la Cruz wrote me a letter a long time ago. He told me he was praying for me, and he wrote out a Catholic blessing.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Some things I keep to myself. He didn’t go to some newspaper to say he was praying for me, neither. He only told me, nobody else. I wrote back. I thanked him.”

  She slumped a little.

  “Rona Leigh, I spoke to him yesterday.”

  Now she perked up. “Did he ask after me?”

  “He did better than just ask after you. The cardinal wants you to do something for him.”

  “He does?”

  She was exactly like a little kid eager to understand what the surprise is going to be. The little kid she keeps telling everyone she never got to be.

  “He wants permission to act as your spiritual counsel. He wants to come out here and be with you.”

  She didn’t understand. I saw a look of disappointment, and I thought I saw the beginning of anger; a spark came to her eye. And then she saw the possibilities. I knew that because her back was straight again.

  “He wants to stand by me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the governor will learn this?”

  “Right away.”

  “He’ll learn it from you, won’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  Her eyes narrowed just a bit. A flicker of distrust.

  “Rona Leigh, if I can tell the cardinal you agree, I can tell the governor the same thing. And I think I’ll also be able to tell the governor that in a very short time People magazine will break the story, which probably means the cardinal will be on their cover, not you.”

  She smiled. She said, “I been on plenty of covers. Only thing is, Vernon might not be too happy. He’ll have to tell Reverend Robertson. Reverend Robertson was going to send a representative to advise me. But never mind. I think the cardinal is closer to God. I mean, a Catholic has to make big sacrifices to be a priest. Jesus appreciates sacrifice more than anything else.”

  Her shoulders rose. She grinned. “We’re goin’ to do this, Miz Rice, we are. With the cardinal in his backyard the governor will grant me my reprieve. I know it’ll be only thirty extra days, but—well, a miracle could happen.”

  That’s what I thought, though my idea of a miracle was not hers.

  “Rona Leigh.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tell the warden about this. The governor has to know before anyone else does.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t tell anybody.”

  “All right.”

  She put her fingertips up to the glass, as close to a touch as she could give a visitor. She said, “I do thank you Miz Rice, I do. Will you tell Harley I am not going to see anyone else today? I need to pray.”

  I turned and relayed the message to Captain Shank.

  He said, “Amen,” and looked down at her with great reverence.

  She stood, and the guard at her side walked her into the cage.

  I watched the foggy imprints of her fingertips fade from the glass.

  Back at the lounge, I told Frank to come with me to the phone and listen in on my conversation. I put the receiver between our two ears. The photographer rolled his eyes. I called the cardinal’s secretary. He told me how anxiously they’d been awaiting word from me.

  I said, “Rona Leigh has agreed to Cardinal de la Cruz’s request. She is happy he made such an offer. I will tell the warden she has consented to the cardinal’s being her spiritual adviser. He will be with her when she is executed.”

  Frank grabbed my arm. He couldn’t help himself. I as
ked the secretary if he thought the cardinal might change his mind, and I moved so that the receiver was full to Frank’s ear. He took in the priest’s one-word answer and bit his lip.

  Then I said into the phone, “Father, may I be the one to break the news to the media?”

  He said, “To the benefit of Rona Leigh?”

  “To the service of justice.”

  A little pause. “Then certainly. The cardinal will not object. But let me know when it will happen so he can have a press conference ready to go.”

  “It will break in two days. Hold on a minute, Father.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece.

  “Frank, what time will People hit the grocery stores?”

  “When they open the doors.”

  I said to the priest, “The best thing would be for the cardinal to have the press conference at La Guardia, the morning he leaves for Texas.”

  He agreed and I received yet another blessing.

  I hung up. In a strangled whisper Frank filled the photographer in, grabbed the phone, and started jabbing numbers. I pressed my finger on the little mechanism that gave him a dial tone.

  “What? What?”

  “Do not tell your editor who your source was, just that it’s one hundred percent reliable. Have him call the cardinal’s office for verification.” I gave him the secretary’s number.

  The photographer, hovering over us, said, “Don’t call from here, Frank. Call from the car.”

  Frank said to me, “What’s this secretary’s fucking name?”

  “Watch the mouth. He’s a priest.”

  The photographer said, “This is great. I get to go back to New York. I’ve never taken a shot of a cardinal before.”

  I went to Best Western and waited an hour. I called the cardinal’s secretary back. Yes, the People editor had spoken to him. He told me he wondered at my speed. I said, “Speed is one of the things they pay me for, Father.”