by Pete Hautman
Crow was not tracking. “What are you talking about?”
“You have to look at the big picture, Joe. Your theory doesn’t stand up. In the first place, I just can’t see Dr. Bellweather as a child molester. And even if he was, wouldn’t he have gone into pediatrics or child psychology? Or become a minister, or a gym teacher? Something like that. He is, after all, an intelligent man. If he liked young boys, he would be in a profession that gave him access to kids. I mean, if you had a foot fetish, you’d open a shoe store, don’t you agree?”
Crow held out the telephone receiver, wrinkling his nose as though it had given off a noxious odor. Where was all this shoe store shit coming from? He hung up the phone, wondering why he had made the call in the first place.
He let himself out through the front door, got back in his car. The windows were already starting to frost over. He started the engine, put the car in gear, and took off. If Bellweather was still alive, he would be in touch. If he was dead, then Crow was out of a job. Either way, there was nothing he could do. He decided to go home. He would take a long shower, then go back to bed. If he was very deliberate about it, if he lay perfectly still, if he did not allow his imagination to stray, he might even get some sleep.
Crow opened the door to his apartment, turned on the light, and surveyed its bleak interior. The unfolded sofa bed, blankets a tangled mess, clothing piled on the floor. The cardboard moving boxes, fragments of his former life. Bare walls. The persistent smell of latex paint. He remembered that in another eighteen hours he would be going back to his home in Big River. Dinner with Melinda. The thought frightened him, but it was the only thing happening in his life with a hint of positive spin. He threw his trench coat on the bed and kicked off his shoes. The apartment felt cold.
He might be out of a job, but at least he had Ricky’s Ruger. He tugged the gun from his belt and examined it. Probably worth five or six hundred bucks. He could always sell it. That made him feel better. He laid the gun on the thin mattress, shrugged out of his coat, let it fall to the floor, unfastened his shoulder holster with the Taurus, let it drop onto the coat. He sat on the edge of the mattress and peeled off his socks. Toenails needed trimming. He took off the rest of his clothes, piled them on top of his coat and gun, went into the tiny bathless bathroom, stepped into the shower, and turned the water on, as hot as he could stand.
Twenty minutes later, he turned off the water and opened the plastic shower door. He knew immediately, without knowing how he knew, that something had gone wrong. He grabbed a towel and dried himself, keeping his eyes on the bathroom door. It was standing open a few inches, just the way he had left it. Had he heard something? No. It was a smell. Like wet leaves. He wrapped the towel around his waist, put a hand on the cool, wet doorknob, and pulled.
The smell was stronger. Crow leaned out the open doorway and looked across the sofa bed to the left, toward the kitchenette.
George Murphy was standing in front of the open refrigerator, perusing Crow’s collection of condiments, sour milk, and petrified pizza. He swiveled his head toward Crow and unleashed a demented grin.
“You don’t eat so good, Officer Crow,” he said. His blue baseball cap had a bright-yellow corn cob embroidered on the front.
Ricky Murphy stood against the wall, just on the other side of the bed. He was wearing a black canvas duster, the leather-lined collar turned up, his Stetson riding low on his forehead. A wad of tobacco distended his left cheek. The familiar-looking Ruger in his left hand was pointed in Crow’s general direction. Crow locked eyes with him for an instant, then looked back at George.
“There’s some ice cream in the freezer,” Crow said. “Help yourself.” Moving slowly, he stepped out of the bathroom. He wished he had a pair of pants on. His faded navy-blue twills were there on the bed, only a few inches away. He imagined himself reaching for them, saw himself die. He sensed that any sudden movement could get him killed. Ricky would twitch, and it would be all over. Under the circumstances, he decided to be a statue.
George had the freezer open. “Looks like you got a couple pizzas in here too.” He came out with a cylindrical container. “Chocolate. My favorite. Where are your spoons?”
“Look in the sink,” Crow said.
George found a spoon, wiped it on his coat, sat down at the short counter that served as a dining area, pried off the top of the ice cream carton. He winked at Crow, spooned a mound of ice cream into his mouth, rolled it around with his tongue until it softened, and swallowed.
“This is good ice cream.” He held up the carton, reading the label. “Haygun Days? I never heard of it. Ricky, you ever hear of Haygun Days?”
Ricky shook his head, his eyes never leaving Crow. A stringy glob of tobacco-laden spittle arced from his mouth and landed on the pillow. Crow noticed another glob nearby, soaking into the sheets. That was what he had smelled. Wet leaves. Ricky shifted the wad of tobacco to his other cheek with a deft contortion of his tongue. Crow looked away.
George treated himself to another spoonful of ice cream. “Take it easy, Crow. Why don’t you come on over here, have a seat? Let’s talk. You like to talk, right?” He pointed the spoon toward the stool on the other side of the counter.
Moving slowly, Crow walked around the bed, stepping on his pile of clothing, dragging his bare foot across it to feel for the Taurus. His toe hit something heavy. The gun was there, under his shirt, still in its holster. Not that it would do him any good. He noticed that the door leading into the hallway was undamaged. “How’d you get in?” he asked, not expecting an answer. The locks in this apartment building were so cheap they’d probably slipped it with a credit card. He sat down across from George, who smiled, his mouth full of chocolate ice cream. Crow heard Ricky moving, felt him come in close behind him. He decided that the best plan, if you could call it that, would be to ignore the gun bearer and focus on the ice cream eater.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
George examined Crow’s face. “I’m looking for my son,” he said.
“Here?” Crow asked. “I don’t get it.” The words had hardly left his lips when Ricky jammed the barrel of his revolver, all his speed and weight behind it, into Crow’s lower back. His kidney exploded with pain, his body snapped back, his shins cracked against the underside of the counter, the stool flew off to the side, and Crow hit the floor with his shoulder. He felt the pain slicing up through his abdomen, striking the base of his skull with audible force. The small fragment of his mind that was still working thought that he had been shot. He could hear voices.
“That wasn’t necessary, Ricky.”
“Bullshit. The son-of-a-bitch has it coming, and more.”
“Well now you just ease off there. Let’s talk to the man, see what he has to say, okay?”
Crow heard the words, decoded them. All he could think was, If I’ve been shot, how come my ears aren’t ringing? He opened his eyes and saw greenish gray carpeting. The pain was rapidly localizing. He reached back, expecting the hot liquid feel of blood. Nothing. He realized that he had just taken a kidney punch, a blood pisser for sure, but knowing that he wasn’t carrying a slug of lead in his abdomen made the pain tolerable. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, looked up at George.
“Are you all right?” George asked. He sounded genuinely concerned. “Can you stand up?”
Crow straightened his back, turned and looked at Ricky.
“He gets excited sometimes,” George said. “Don’t worry about it. Pick up that stool and sit down. I just need to ask you a few questions.”
Crow climbed to his feet, his abdomen twisted to the left. Keeping Ricky in his field of vision, he picked up the stool and sat, the wooden seat ice cold on his bare buttocks. His towel had fallen off, but it no longer seemed important.
George leaned across the counter and spoke, his large lips squeezing out the words. “All I want is my son. I want to know where he is.”
“I don’t know where he is,” Crow said, watching Ricky.
“I want him back.”
“Look, I don’t know anything about this.” Crow pronounced the words carefully, wanting to be absolutely clear. “I’ve never seen your boy. All I know about him is what you told me.”
George reached back and pulled out a wallet, flipped it open, and pointed a thick finger at a small color photo of a chubby, dark-haired boy. “Shawn,” he said.
Crow shook his head.
George sat back, picked up the ice cream, spooned another ounce into his mouth. His eyes got smaller. “Then tell me where I can find Nelly Bell.”
“I have no idea,” Crow said. “I was supposed to see him tonight, but when I got there he was gone. Someone had broken in. A window was broken.”
“Yes, he has better locks on his doors than you do. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“He has Shawn.”
“It’s news to me. What makes you think he’s got him?”
“We found his Vikings cap. Right on Nelly Bell’s kitchen counter. Where is he, Crow? Where is Bellweather?”
Crow hated to repeat himself. “I told you,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t—” He saw Ricky moving and brought his arm up, this time catching the gun butt on his left triceps, a hard blow that spun him off the stool and numbed his arm. Ricky swung again, a vicious backhand that clipped Crow on the chin as he staggered back, then he connected with his boot, a perfect Tony Lama shot to Crow’s dangling testicles. Crow doubled up and hit the floor with his face.
Ricky followed through with a series of nasty kicks to the gut and ribs, which Crow hardly noticed—for the moment, his universe began and ended with his balls.
“That’s enough, Ricky. Leave him alone.”
“I say we pop ’im.”
“Get out! Now! Let me and him talk, okay? The important thing is we find Shawn. You kill him, it ain’t gonna do us any good.”
Crow heard the shuffle of boots on carpet, heard the door open and close. He wanted to throw up, but that would hurt too. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid; he could feel his heart pulsing waves of pain up his abdomen and down every limb. He heard George Murphy’s voice.
“I’m really sorry about that, Officer Crow. Ricky’s upset about his nephew, as I’m sure you can imagine. Would you like some ice cream? A glass of water?”
Days or seconds later, Crow opened his eyes and acquired a sitting position. He looked down at his crotch. Things were still attached, but the pain filled his lower abdomen. He lifted his head. Out of focus. He squeezed his eyes closed, which hurt, then opened them, which also hurt. George Murphy’s face—friendly, solicitous, caring—hung before him.
“Are you all right?”
Crow looked around. His apartment appeared normal. The walls weren’t covered with blood. For some reason this surprised him. The only thing out of place was the big man sitting in his kitchen.
“Ricky’s gone,” George said.
Crow touched his chin. It felt pulpy and tender. Ricky gone? His mind, churning, produced a moment of regret. How could he kill a man who was gone?
“Are you sure you don’t want some ice cream?” George was holding out a spoon. Ice cream dripped on the countertop. Crow fixed his gaze on the spoon but did not move or reply. Murphy shrugged and ate the ice cream. “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Are you still working for Nelly Bell?”
Crow shook his head slowly. He opened and closed his jaw. It seemed to be working. “I don’t think so,” he said. It was a true and—more important—a safe response. His voice sounded and felt awful, like bubbles rising through sand.
“Then you need a job, right?”
“No.”
“I want you to find my son.”
“I don’t know where your son is,” Crow said.
“I believe you. I really do. If I didn’t, I would have let Ricky keep kicking you. Ricky gets excited. You have to understand that about him. He’s convinced that you took Shawn. I personally don’t believe it. I don’t think you would do a thing like that. Besides, when I watched you drive away you were alone.” Murphy paused, his brow contracted. “Maybe you don’t know where he is, but I think you can find him. You do that sort of thing, right? You find people.”
“Call the cops,” Crow suggested. “They do that sort of thing too.” His left arm was hurting now, a sharper sensation that cut through the throbbing in his gut. He stood up, grabbing the counter for support.
“Take it easy now,” George said, standing and reaching out a hand to steady him. Crow brushed it away. George shook his head sadly. “Look, I don’t want the police involved here. It’s nothing we can’t take care of—me, you, and Ricky. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”
“That’s what Bellweather said.”
“Really? He hasn’t paid you? Then you’ll be looking for him anyway, won’t you? That’s good. Let me know when you find him.” Murphy grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. Crow almost collapsed. “Tell you what,” Murphy said, his hand on the doorknob. “If I find him first, I’ll collect your money for you. How much does he owe you?”
Crow staggered toward the sofa bed, lowered himself to the mattress. “Two hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred? You must work cheap.”
Crow bent forward, as if he was about to vomit, slipped his hand into the pile of clothing, came out with the Taurus. He aimed it at Murphy’s belly.
“Fuck you,” he said. Not brilliant, but to the point.
Murphy laughed. “I can tell you’re upset. We’ll talk about this again tomorrow.” He opened the door. “I have to get going. Let me know if you find anything, okay?”
“Fuck you,” Crow said again. It felt good to say it, even if he was repeating himself.
Murphy said, “Good night, Officer Crow.” He closed the door.
XIV
She’s got eyes in the back of my head.
—SEAN MURPHY’S JOURNAL
AMANDA MADE THE BEST pancakes. Thick, tasty, and about a quarter pound each. A couple of them would keep a man moving till lunchtime, and if his bowels were sluggish, they’d move those too. George Murphy cut his stack into wedges, applied a half cup of Log Cabin syrup, and loaded them methodically into his mouth. Ricky cut his with the edge of his fork, a bite at a time, butter and a sprinkle of sugar, but no syrup. Amanda stood at the stove and watched. She liked to watch the boys eat. When they had both finished devouring their stacks, she quietly poured them another round of hot coffee.
George was in one of his moods.
Everybody knew that Ricky had a short fuse, and people had said the same thing about her. But George had his moods too. Ever since he was a little kid, good-natured most of the time, he did what she told him, worked hard—but there was a devil inside him. Amanda had learned to leave him alone when he was like this. Let him stew, and he’d get over it Don’t ask him any questions; don’t try to tell him what to do.
She knew he was worried. Last night they’d come home late, without the boy. So far, neither George nor Ricky had seen fit to let her know what they had learned. She watched George sipping his coffee, glaring down at his syrup-covered plate. He didn’t look like he was going to talk anytime soon, so she addressed her question to Ricky.
“How’d it go last night?” she asked.
“Nelly Bell’s got Shawn. We found his cap,” Ricky said.
George lowered his chin; his jaw pulsed. He dipped his finger in the pool of syrup remaining on his plate, licked it. Amanda could see the warning signs. This was not the same peanut-butter-eating George Murphy she had whacked across the forehead with a spoon. She tried something like that now, he might bust her one. Still, she persisted.
“You talk to that friend of yours? That Crow man?”
“He ain’t my friend,” Ricky said. “And he didn’t tell us nothing.”
“He doesn’t know anything,” George growled.
“Bullshit,” Ricky muttered.
George dropped his coffee, and his arm
shot out. The back of his fingers raked audibly across Ricky’s cheek, the coffee cup hit the edge of his plate and shattered.
Ricky shouted something unintelligible, jumped up, and backed away, holding a hand to his face. His chair crashed to the floor. Amanda reached back and grabbed her spatula. Ricky took his hand from his face, looked at it.
“You oughta cut those nails, bro.”
George blinked at the mess on the table as though its origin were a complete mystery.
Amanda watched the coffee drip off the edge of the table. Her momentary fear turned to anger. “You want that boy to grow up a man, you better find him quick, George Washington Murphy,” she said. “You got that fat son-in-law of mine out lookin’?”
“Orlan? What good would that do? Nelly Bell’s in Minneapolis or someplace. He ain’t even in Orlan’s county.”
“So send him to Minneapolis.”
“We send Orlan to the cities, who knows what kind of trouble he’d get hisself into.”
“Least he’d be out lookin’.” Amanda, her chin raised, gripped the spatula. George reached out and took it from his mother’s hand.
“We’ll find him, Mandy. We’ll find them both.” He put a hand on his mother’s forearm and squeezed gently. “I’ve got that fellow Crow working on it. Might be he’s found the boy already.”
Amanda said, “Well, if you won’t call him, I will. What’s the use of having a cop in the family if you don’t use him?”
“Call him if you want, for all the good it’ll do. Meantime, I got a dead elk to sell.” George turned and lumbered out of the kitchen. She heard him walk down the hall, slam the door to his office.
“What’s his problem?” Ricky dabbed at the scratch on his cheek with a napkin.