Mr. Swain. Tell me, did the father have any enemies?
I don’t know if he had enemies, but I couldn’t say he had friends.
Why is that?
He was a drunk.
Yes, I know. What else?
Well, he was nasty. His mind was half gone, but he had a gift.
For?
For finding where a person was raw.
And exploiting it?
Every chance he could. But not because he wanted anything. Just for his own pleasure.
True, the Inspector thought, to a point.
It sounds like you speak from experience?
We all experienced him.
So the two of you had no particular quarrel?
No.
But you believe he was killed in anger?
Maybe. I hadn’t thought about it.
But then why kill the woman too? Why not wait until Jonson was alone?
He wouldn’t ever be alone. The only time he sent the boy out was when he had a whore coming.
The Inspector stopped himself from asking how Swain knew the woman was a prostitute, why he’d registered no surprise on learning there was a woman of any kind.
About the boy? the Inspector asked. He seems to have run off. Is there a chance his father made him angry?
No, Swain said. No chance at all.
Explain.
He didn’t care enough about his father to kill him.
I’m sure it appeared that way.
A barker in a worn cadet jacket stood out front bellowing a list of attractions. The Inspector held up his badge, said he needed to speak with one of the performers. The man directed him to a second entrance off the alleyway; from there, a stagehand led him into a cellar crowded with cubicles fashioned from cloth scrims.
This one’s his, the stagehand said, sliding back a curtain. Jonson’s son sat on a wooden barrel, dressed in his underclothes, outfitting an old pair of English Brogues with a new set of laces. He didn’t look up.
I have a message from your father, the Inspector said. He won’t be able to make it tonight.
The boy nodded, said nothing.
You don’t seem surprised.
The stagehand snickered.
I’ll be all right, the boy said.
Yes, your father told me. Don’t you want to know where he is?
I know already.
What else do you know?
About what?
About how your father earns his living?
He earns it onstage. Same as me.
I understand, the Inspector said. Would you do me a quick favor? Would you smile?
Smile?
I’d like to see your teeth.
The boy set down his shoes, pinched his lips and held them back while the Inspector leaned forward.
All clear, he said. It seems odd, though, that you didn’t ask why I would want to see your teeth. Perhaps you knew that already, too?
He exited the cellar, walked a block in the direction of his apartment, then turned back.
The acts went by quickly. A hobo told jokes while sawing his wife in half, a small child ate knives while levitating a foot off the stage, a contortionist disappeared inside a wooden bucket. The Inspector wanted to applaud, but he couldn’t help seeing the wire that held the boy in the air, couldn’t help noticing that when the strong man dropped his weights they made no sound. Instead of feeling transported, the Inspector found his attention focusing inward. He was not, he thought, that different than the people onstage. Like them, he appeared skilled but was not expert in anything. An expert would be able to predict the outcome of his actions. The fact that the Inspector solved one case meant nothing when the next one arrived.
It was Jonson’s son who brought his attention back to the stage. The boy could sing, dance. From atop his barrel, he executed acrobatic maneuvers at a speed the Inspector would not have thought possible. Jonson, with his curved spine and bloated abdomen, had spoken the truth at least one time: his son was more than half their act.
The air was beginning to cool; the moon, perfectly halved, hung as though designed to light this street. The Inspector heard a single pair of footsteps echoing toward him from behind. He stopped, turned.
Sir, a man said, the toes of his shoes now abutting the Inspector’s, they ain’t told the truth.
Who’s that?
Them at the bar.
The man squinted, kicked the ground, scratched at the acne rising from his beard.
All right, the Inspector said. OK. Let’s talk.
He took the man’s elbow, tugged him toward the nearest alley.
That boy was there.
I figured as much.
Last night.
OK.
He sang.
Quiet now, the Inspector said. We’re almost there.
The man planted his feet, shook himself free.
I’m trying...
Walk, the Inspector said, grabbing the man’s collar. Hurry now.
But already he heard a woman’s heels striking the wooden platform behind them.
Arney, she called.
The Inspector turned, held up his hand, exhorting her to come no further.
Arney, Audrey said, I’ve been looking for you.
Her spirits seemed livened by alcohol. She’d applied her make-up, pulled a blond wig tight over her scalp.
Arney, stay with me, the Inspector said.
Audrey stepped between them, knotted her arms around Arney’s waist.
I got some time before I start work, she said.
Yeah, Arney said: confused, ashamed. She reached up, kissed his cheek.
Audrey, the Inspector said, this isn’t the way.
Do you have any time, Arney? she said.
The Inspector stared past her.
I can protect you, he said. The arm of the law reaches far.
Yeah, Audrey said. But Arney and I ain’t far. Are we, Arney?
Arney allowed her to take his hand, allowed himself to be led away.
That evening, he opened the door to his room to find Mavis standing there with a plate of smoked turkey and mashed potatoes in one hand, a brim-filled glass of milk in the other. He stepped aside, waved her in.
I ought to have brought a tray, she said.
Nonsense, the Inspector said.
She set the glass and plate atop the dresser.
Do you have a moment? he asked.
I suppose I do, she said.
Good, I need your help.
He glanced into the hall, shut the door. Mavis smiled: a coconspirator.
You’ve lived in this town a long time? he said.
Lord save me, yes, she said. Ed helped lay those rail tracks. He made it this far, then wouldn’t go farther. Wouldn’t go back, either. Like something spooked him.
There are things I need to know.
Such as?
Who, besides you and your husband, owns the property in this town?
Originally, she told him, the railroad owned it all. The railroad created the town, but they were quick to see their mistake. They sold the hotel to Ed, the rest to a real estate company out of New York.
And your Sheriff? the Inspector asked. Your husband said that he passed. How?
A vagrant slit his throat, she said. Someone he brought in for the night, most likely out of kindness. Sam was an old man. Now there’s just me and Ed.
And there’s been no one to take his place?
Who would want the job? Mavis said. Before last night, the only murder we had was our Sheriff ’s.
According to the man who worked the kiosk, the boy had attempted and failed to board the previous night’s train. The Inspector thanked him, stepped outside. For a while he was the only one waiting. A single electrolier lit the platform. On the opposite side of the tracks he could make out creosote brush, a brace of ocotillo cactuses. The air was cool, the sky crowded with stars.
A man in a borsalino hat mounted the platform, stood at the far end smoking a clove cigarett
e through an opera-length holder. Soon afterward, the performers arrived, the adults carting their luggage on dollies, the children trailing behind. Swain was not among them.
He felt the train’s vibration before he heard its whistle. Moving to the edge of the track, he saw the headlight approaching but could not distinguish the cars from the black landscape. He stepped back as it pulled in. The full train was barely longer than the platform, a commuter rail making provincial stops between larger stations. He watched the performers haul their belongings onboard, watched the shopkeeper sprint from the kiosk and exchange sacks with a man in a belltop hat.
The Inspector walked to the lead car, showed the conductor his badge.
Mind if I take a quick pass through? he asked.
Anything I should worry about?
I just want to make sure someone didn’t get by me.
The only light came from the lamp outside. Apart from the show people, most of the passengers were asleep, lapped in coats or blankets with hats pulled over their eyes. They were all either shorter, taller, thicker, or fatter than the boy.
He nodded to the conductor, then lingered for a moment, searching up and down the tracks as the train pulled away. When he turned around, the man in the borsalino hat was still there, smoking. He took a last drag, tossed the stub onto the tracks, returned the holder to his blazer pocket and started toward the street. The Inspector followed, watched him climb into a two-tone Sports Phaeton and drive off.
II
Next morning, he found Swain back amongst the rubble, sifting and digging, alternating between rake and shovel. The Inspector stood on the periphery, called hello. Swain’s skin shone yellow-sulphur against the soot.
I thought you’d be gone, the Inspector said.
Why would I be?
Your colleagues have left.
They aren’t my colleagues anymore, he said.
You resigned?
It was a long time coming.
In that case, we should celebrate. May I buy you a drink?
At this hour?
The day is hot already. A moment out of the sun would do you good.
Swain hesitated, searching for an excuse. Finding none, he set aside his rake, waded through the wreckage.
Splendid, the Inspector said.
They walked to the bar in silence, the glass storefronts candent in the morning sun, the surrounding foothills boasting their fullest range of blues and greens. Perkes greeted them from behind the zinc, gestured to the table the Inspector had occupied with Audrey.
Tonic water? he asked.
Coffee. Black. And a mimosa for my friend.
Let me guess—on your tab?
Please.
You’re not drinking? Swain said.
Perkes, the Inspector called, a pinch of scotch in my coffee.
They discussed the local climate while Perkes prepared their order, Swain eyeing the Inspector, trying to discern a motive, the Inspector smiling, attempting to appear as though he had none.
I’m sorry for the loss of your venue, the Inspector said. Given the size, it must have been quite an establishment.
I never saw it even half full.
Perhaps they will build one of a more appropriate stature.
Maybe, Swain said. It won’t matter to me either way.
Right, the Inspector said.
Their drinks arrived. The Inspector ran a finger around the lip of his cup, watched Swain tilt his head and swallow. Swain was not, the Inspector thought, so far gone as Jonson: beneath the feigned resignation, there was something he continued to want for himself.
If I may ask, the Inspector said, what was the issue with your colleagues? Why was your departure long in coming?
I’d had enough, Swain said.
Of?
Swain sniggered.
Of dickering over my spot on the bill, he said. Of split weeks and sleeper jumps. After a while, a man stops hoping.
I understand.
I doubt it, Swain said.
The gruffness of his tone gave the Inspector pause, made him wonder if he did in fact understand.
My own abilities have been questioned, he said. I’ve seen people advance at my expense. Before long, you begin to internalize the doubt. You’re right to make a break. There is such a thing as a corrosive environment.
Swain scratched his scalp with his hook, lifted his glass, set it back down without drinking.
You won’t believe me, he said. But I played the Majestic once.
In Chicago?
I had a wire act. I wasn’t top billing, but I wasn’t shut, either.
What happened?
I took a spill. There was a full house to see it.
Were you injured?
A broken leg. A lump on my skull.
And when you healed?
I never set foot on a wire again.
I see, the Inspector said.
Swain looked him over, furrowing his brow as though on the verge of forming an opinion.
See what?
There’s someplace you want to get back to, the Inspector said. I know the feeling. I started in the big city. I’m not in the big city anymore.
Swain nodded.
Which city? he asked.
The biggest city, the Inspector said. New York.
So why are you here with me?
I’ve spent a lot of nights considering it, and I’m not sure I’ve come to the same conclusion twice. There were people I didn’t get on with, though I didn’t realize it at the time. At the time, I considered myself dedicated, unyielding. My colleagues saw me as arrogant and overbearing. Not that they ever told me.
They let you go?
They set me up to fail. They gave me a high-priority case, a case that should have gone to a more senior investigator. It was a random crime. Unsolvable. When I failed to solve it, they assigned me to foot duty on a bridge in the dead of winter. The message was clear: the length of that bridge was all the police work I’d ever know.
So you left?
I started over in what you might call the hinterlands. I’ve made progress, but most days I still feel like an exile. I had something very few people have: a clear vision, a path I was supposed to follow. My life since has felt like a constant and sometimes exhausting improvisation.
Swain raised his hook:
I’d know about that, he said.
The Inspector felt a door beginning to open. Interrogating Jonson had been work: any cracks the Inspector had managed to expose in his veneer only revealed a new facade. Like Jonson, Swain lied when the questions mattered, but unlike Jonson, he appeared incapable of withholding the more intimate details of his life.
But then, the Inspector thought, the same could be said of me. He looked across the table. Swain seemed to be thinking with him.
What does any of this have to do with your investigation? he asked.
Not a thing, the Inspector said. I’m taking an early break. I wanted company, and the locals aren’t as friendly as I’d like.
They never are, Swain said.
There is one thing about the case that puzzles me, the Inspector said.
What’s that?
Jonson’s son. Why did he run off?
Are you sure he did?
He attempted to board last night’s train, but the conductor wouldn’t allow him unaccompanied.
Swain appeared startled, tried to hide his expression by finishing his drink.
I’ve imagined myself in the boy’s place, the Inspector said. If my father were murdered, why would I alert no one? Why would I flee? You know him. Can you explain his mind set?
The boy is a prodigy, Swain said. Pure talent. I couldn’t say how he thinks.
Weren’t you a prodigy once?
A false prodigy. But if I had to guess, I’d say the boy had been looking to get away for a long while. His father was a hard man.
That sounds like motive.
No, Swain said. Just opportunity.
That’s what I was thinking.
I’m glad, Swain said. Now I’d best get back to work. Thank you for the drink.
The Inspector lingered outside, watching Swain walk back toward the theater. He had a stinging sense of having done wrong—of having made a confidence that he would betray. In the long run, he told himself, he would correct the mistake he’d made with Jonson. He would see that Swain was sober before setting him back on the circuit.
The shopkeeper spread the new envelopes across the counter, examined the addresses one at a time.
Sorry to disappoint, he said. But there ain’t a name here I don’t recognize.
No apology needed.
You ain’t been having much luck.
What do you mean?
That boy didn’t show last night.
No, the Inspector said. He didn’t show.
As he exited the store, he glimpsed a man on the opposite rooftop glassing the town’s surroundings through an outsized pair of binoculars. The Inspector turned as though he hadn’t noticed, walked a block toward the hotel and crossed the street. Looking back, he saw the two-tone Sports Phaeton parked a short distance from the store. He passed through an alleyway, reversed direction, climbed the fire escape to the roof where the man had been standing. When he reached the top, the man was gone, the door to the building’s stairwell locked from the inside. He crouched next to a scattering of cigarette butts, peered over the ledge and watched the Phaeton speed into the desert.
He remained there for some time trying to work out who the man was and what he had been looking for. Were the suppliers still in town, or had he been left behind to clean up? Was he searching for the boy? Or was he keeping tabs on the Inspector? Whatever the case, so long as the suppliers maintained a local presence, there was an avenue to pursue. He crossed the roof, stood surveying the visible length of rail track. There were places a body could hide, or be hidden, in the scrub and brush.
He climbed back down the fire escape, continued forward, descended the small but steep slope that led to the tracks.
Jonah Man Page 13