Lake Charles

by Ed Lynskey

  “How about that?” said Goat between the snorts off the ice hookah. “You two are astrally simpatico.”

  Ashleigh and I smoked some of her mind-bending reefer and soon after I pulled at the hangman’s noose snugging at my throat. The wind sailed through my ears. I swayed on the gallows’ trapdoor just inches above the spectators clamoring for the news of my fate. Their cheers erupted when my verdict came down—guilty as charged …

  She jogged me awake and insisted she play the lead in my dreams. For my “absolutely” reply, we kissed, and she filled my pair of lungs with the joy smoke. Our freewheeling van of happy-go-lucky partygoers crested the fog-shrouded mountains where my head plunged into a tailspin. Ah, so this was a bum trip, a bad go on the grass. But her kiss electrified me.

  “Death is but a dream,” she said. “Just like the song goes.”

  “The Devil’s Own song?”

  “No, silly, our song. You’re the songwriter who penned it for us. Soon we’ll fly up as the angels to dance on the clouds and sing it.”

  Then she went down on me there in the back of the party van.

  * * *

  From inside the cab truck, we directed our sight at the farm lane down the way. It was a calm, even docile scene. Beyond a white plank fence, the sleek, black thoroughbreds grazed in the knee-deep Kentucky bluegrass. I saw six thoroughbreds with others no doubt over the next knoll away from our view. I thought of the horseshoe tracks I’d seen in the sand at Lang’s Teahouse. Who’d go riding to Lake Charles? The mounted park rangers went on fire patrols through the rugged wilderness. This record dry month and the wildfires had turned out more horseback patrols.

  “Brendan, this is sort of ticky-tack for Sizemore,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

  “I agree but Ashleigh said her father owns different properties. Maybe this is one of them,” I said. “He dupes the ranchers needing legal aid, secures their land for collateral, and then turns around and calls in their debts. They’re too strapped to cough up the dough, and he steals the farms out from under them.”

  Herzog nodded. “Not original but it’s an ingenious idea.”

  “Only another shyster would think so,” said Mr. Kuzawa, angry.

  “I didn’t say he’s an admirable individual, but he is clever and treacherous,” said Herzog.

  “He wouldn’t live in that hovel.” Mr. Kuzawa nodded his grizzled head at the group of ramshackle buildings.

  “Then his tenants will know where they mail the rent check,” I said.

  I grabbed first gear on the column shift. The newly paved lane smelled of fresh tar, and the sprayed up stones dinged the cab truck fenders. I saw the yellow aluminum siding sheathed the boxy house, and its yard looked threadbare. No push pedal toys or jump ropes dotted the grass. A red tick under the porch crawled out and with curiosity sniffed at us. He judged our scent benign and flopped down to scratch behind an ear.

  After my cab truck halted, Mr. Kuzawa scooted down from the cab seat. He craned his head, peering at the farmhouse. Had I also seen a curtain stir in the picture window? He went over and rapped on the door. After no response, he gave us a shrug. I signaled him to go try at any other doors. He loped around the corner. Herzog’s game pouch speared me in the hip, and I shifted away. We sat watching, and in a few minutes, Mr. Kuzawa reappeared at an energetic clip.

  No sooner had he climbed into his seat than Herzog had to know. “Well …?”

  “A pregnant gal named Alicia finally answered my knocks,” replied Mr. Kuzawa. “She told me three times Sizemore is a bad man.”

  My acceleration wheeled us off down the lane. “No big shock there.”

  “The Arbogasts who lived here pulled up stakes on Memorial Day and moved in with a cousin in Gatlinburg. Alicia stayed behind since she has nowhere else to go. Her father raised hell over her pregnancy. Anyway, her begging persuaded Sizemore to let her stay on here. But once she has the kid, he told her to hit the bricks.”

  “Do the Arbogasts own the farm?” I asked.

  “They did,” replied Mr. Kuzawa. “Through some legal sleight of hand that Alicia couldn’t follow, Sizemore assumed possession and then ownership of the ranch and evicted them.”

  “Does she live alone in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?”

  “She told me she has a phone, and the church ladies bring her groceries and stuff.”

  “Does she know where Sizemore lives?”

  “Uh-huh. Tonight is the time to hit before he knows we’re after him,” replied Mr. Kuzawa.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ralph Sizemore merited some thought while we followed Alicia’s directions to find him. His posh trappings, starting with the big house, had to enthrall the locals. Deputy Ramsey had bragged how Sizemore was next in line to be a state senator. If deep coffers won victories, he’d buy his way into any desired office. I could see how the red-hot Sizemore had ridden a comet to the top of his politico’s game.

  After Ashleigh overdosed in our motel room, the local blats (I read them rolling hot off our presses) had pilloried her as a pothead and less complimentary tags. But they let me be because I wasn’t the juicy headline to chase. Scandal had chilled Sizemore’s meteoric rise. I sensed he’d shelved his lofty plans until the problem—me—disappeared. I knew I had to live on borrowed time. Each breath I drew as a free man was a fluke. That rathole cell in Yellow Snake loomed in my bleak future. For now, Sizemore’s drubbing on my head burned in my brain, and my ache for scoring just revenge heated my fight blood. But first, I had to know Edna was out of danger.

  * * *

  Just off the state road a 5-iron shot down from the entrance to Sizemore’s main estate, we cooped in the cab truck. The screen of silver maples hid us rather than our parking at his gate protected by a guardhouse. My pair of colleagues smoked while I nipped off the fifth of whiskey, the liquor brewed by filtering it through maple charcoal. The whiskey filtered through me, and I felt its red-hot mist coloring my eyes. The fiery whiskey dulled my shrieking nerves to a manageable roar. Now Monday at 7 p.m., nightfall drew nearer to set the stage for our smashing third act.

  Herzog misread my pensive mood. “Chin up, Brendan. We’ll skate through this trial.”

  Mr. Kuzawa’s eyes went flat and hard. “Shit lawyer, what odds do you give Brendan?”

  “Better than even.”

  “Quit blowing sunshine up his ass. My idea is unbeatable. We go in and waste Sizemore.”

  “Your idea will send Brendan back to the big house for ninety-nine years.”

  “Ninety-nine years?” Nervous sweat greased my palms and dampened the half-moons at my armpits. I swallowed over a jagged lump. “Behind bars I don’t cope so well.”

  “If we do it slick, the cops will write up our hit as a bloody mugging by unknown assailants.”

  “Do you have the expertise in disguising assassinations?” asked Herzog.

  “Put it this way. I’m clever enough to disguise yours.”

  As my asshole tightened, Herzog coughed like a goat. “What does that mean?”

  “Form your own conclusions, lawyer.”

  His hands left tremoring, Herzog flicked his Marlboro ash into the dashboard tray. He inhaled a heartier puff. Still uneasy, he talked as if he worked in court. “We better focus our efforts on discovering who harmed Ashleigh Sizemore. For redemption, Brendan solves her homicide. To wit, a lock-tight motive explains the whys and wherefores to her grisly fate.”

  “Fuck that finesse shit. I’m honing the finer points to my idea.” Mr. Kuzawa tossed the Marlboro pack out the cab window.

  Herzog turned haughty. “But Kuzawa, you’re not Brendan’s attorney. I’m the professional paid to advise him, not you.”

  “He called me when the chips were down. You just popped up at Lake Charles.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I’m his go-to guy, not you.”

  “All right, enough already,” I said. “We’re not—I repeat—not taking out Sizemore.” I gave Mr. Kuzawa a meaningful look.

&n
bsp; “Hey, I hear that.” He nodded. “We go in and rattle his cage and shake out what he knows. He can point us to Edna.”

  “Fine but I’ll do the cage shaking.”

  Mr. Kuzawa shrugged. “It’s your party, Brendan.”

  Our talk trailed off, and I used the lull to replay Ashleigh and me asleep in the motel bed. The murderous slime had to ooze through the door, or he’d wormed in the bathroom window. Ralph Sizemore put a face on the murderous slime, but proving it was tough. I squirmed in the cab seat and spoke.

  “The sheriff’s deputies recovered the angel dust taped under our bed table. Angel dust killed her. Mr. Kuzawa is on the right track. Sizemore sneaked in to kill her and plant the fake clue. With us off cruising in the ozone, fixing it was easy. The part I can’t figure out is how the angel dust ended up in her system.”

  “Proven techniques can extract that from Sizemore.”

  Herzog had a pained sigh. “Did your time in Korea shape you into a total thug, Kuzawa?”

  “Back off or I’ll show you what Korea did to me. Just call me a ticking time bomb ready to go off when I get pissed enough.”

  This time Herzog swallowed hard, and I said nothing.

  Mr. Kuzawa waved his hand at the state road. “Brendan, go supply for the mission.”

  Wagging his head, Herzog moaned as I kindled the engine. “What if Sizemore does confess to his daughter’s murder? Will you kill him on the spot?”

  “I was messing with you, lawyer. We hand over Sizemore to the state cops.”

  “Their phone number is in my wallet,” I said.

  “If things get hairy, the rangers stay on standby,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

  “The Smoky Mountain Rangers? You’re not one of them or are you . . .” His face pale as a leper’s, Herzog stopped.

  Mr. Kuzawa crossed his fingers. “We’re like this.”

  Herzog and I knew if you brought in the rangers, the blood would flow in Yellow Snake’s streets.

  * * *

  The all-purpose store on Yellow Snake’s main artery muscled out its neighbors, a payday loan shop, an off-brand electronics store, and a marquee advertising “Apocalypse Now”, a box office smash. My cab truck shunted to the curb, and I shepherded us into the store where angular steel shelves walled the aisles. Herzog angled off at one aisle to get a pair of leather gloves for his soft hands. I found the bolt cutters, pry bars, electrical tape, extra ammo, and of course, the cartons of Marlboro Reds.

  The soon-to-pop pregnant, short brunette between her indifferent drags off the Newport rang us up. Smitten, Herzog tried to hit on her except bored stupid she spewed a stream of cigarette smoke in his face. His cheeks and ears flushed an ignominious red, and Mr. Kuzawa consoled him.

  “Forget her. She’s used goods.”

  Herzog nodded.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Kuzawa halt and squint up at the transom as if making out something written on it. I stashed our purchases in the truck bed, quit Yellow Snake, and headed back on the state road. Once past Sizemore’s gate, I secluded us behind the same grove of silver maples. Time draped heavy on us waiting until nightfall. Examining the indelible ink crusted under my fingernails, I felt chained to the lifetime of a pressman’s tedium, but I clung to my plan to go make a fresh start at Valdez.

  My alcohol buzz gone left me feeling morose. Mr. Kuzawa and Herzog lit up. In a little bit, Mr. Kuzawa ditched his butt, slumped back his head, and took a catnap. Herzog’s eyes never strayed from the state road as if he was expecting a parade to march by us.

  I bunched up my fist. “Can I beat out of Sizemore where he has taken Edna?”

  Herzog scrunched his face. “Don’t bank on using brute force. He’s a vicious adversary.”

  “If he freaks you so much, why did you volunteer?”

  “What’s the adage? ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’ We’re up against it at your trial. I’m an officer of the court, and the legality of what you want to do is highly questionable.”

  “Tough titty. It’s too late to abort.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “Who’s in your hunting lodge?”

  “We’re an eclectic association of professionals.”

  “English, please.”

  “Lawyers and doctors, for the most part.”

  “How many tom turkeys have you bagged?”

  “More of a hunting enthusiast, I shun the violence but savor the excitement of the chase.”

  “Is your lodge in town?”

  “We meet at the depot restaurant.” He lowered his voice to a sober murmur. “Pay no attention to Kuzawa. His advice is dangerous.”

  “He’s always been solid by me. You can be the getaway driver.”

  “No, I can keep up and do my part. That’s why you paid me.”

  “I paid you to keep me out of jail.”

  Twilit licks of crimson and purple inflamed the western sky beyond the bug-spattered windshield. Every so often, a vehicle droned by on the state road, one junker with a muffler dragging the asphalt and kicking up sparks. I glimpsed a red Cadillac whisk by, but it was too dim to make out the driver or passengers. Mr. Kuzawa slept on and I envied his ability to rest at a time like this. By marked contrast, my lawyer fidgeted.

  “Herzog, you’re a raw nerve, man.”

  “I don’t deny it, but you need me along,” he said.

  * * *

  “How risky is doing this?” asked Herzog.

  I’d abandoned the silver maples, turned off the state road, and crawled in reverse down a bush road Mr. Kuzawa had noted earlier. The darkening hardwoods absorbed us, arranging the scene for our nocturnal raid on Castle Sizemore.

  “Negligible if we stay sharp,” replied Mr. Kuzawa. “By striking due east through the woods, we hit Sizemore’s property line. Cross it and then hump over his fields. Be quiet. Don’t spook the horses. The high ground near the mansion affords us a vantage point.”

  Herzog’s tongue scraped his lips. “Can you clarify our objective?”

  “Make him give up where Edna is,” replied Mr. Kuzawa.

  “I trust that includes no rough stuff,” said Herzog.

  “It depends. If he brings heat, we respond in kind.” Mr. Kuzawa paused. “Just wait in the truck, Herzog. You’ll drag butt and slow us down.”

  “I’m an outdoorsman,” he said. “Your pace won’t outstrip me.”

  “We go in as a group,” I said, the final word. “To recap, I’m after Edna and the pot farms. I don’t want any fatal accidents.” My stare met Mr. Kuzawa’s fiery bulletpoints for eyes. My horror replayed the arrow piercing Cobb’s chest. “Killing has no place in this.”

  “Agreed, so back off,” said Mr. Kuzawa. “Do you know if Sizemore is weapons savvy?”

  “He brought up his poker games at Fort Hood,” I replied.

  “Probably a rear echelon motherfucker,” said Mr. Kuzawa, rich on the scorn.

  I let off the gas pedal and notched us in behind a big tree trunk. The humus on the forest floor raised the earthy odor of decaying leaves. My primed 12-gauge fell at my shoulder. The .44 went in my waistband. “Sizemore is no dummy. Our best chance is to catch him off-guard.”

  Mr. Kuzawa nodded. “If we hit a shit storm, fire at will, and fade back to the woods. We rendezvous here. Don’t get lost. Go in a straight line until you hit the bush road.”

  “Do I go armed?” asked Herzog.

  “No way, lawyer. Friendly fire won’t shoot up my ass. Stay in back with your head down.”

  Guided by a faint, red star—Venus, I hoped—there in the sparkly night sky, we rambled between the dark trunks to the hardwoods. The night bugs played a discordant note like jazz fusion. Encountering no undergrowth or brambles, we reached the property line sooner than expected. The knolls separated us from our target thought asleep in his fortress. Mr. Kuzawa’s bolt cutters snipped apart the four strands of barbed wire. Herzog curling back the strands pricked his finger.

  “Where are your gloves?”
asked Mr. Kuzawa.

  “I lost them somewhere after the truck,” replied Herzog.

  Mr. Kuzawa gave a damn-lawyer-could-fuck-up-a-wet-dream headshake. Toting my 12-gauge at port arms, I trotted a few paces behind them. The distant silhouettes were the horses. The tang of wood smoke I smelled touched a distinct memory of Ashleigh’s pledge sworn in the van of how one day we’d dance and sing on her clouds. The rise and tumble to these grassy knolls in the starlight assumed the physical aspects of a cloudbank. Consulting her tarot cards, she’d predicted it right. Now with each bounding stride, I aimed my raving outburst at her.

  Yo, Ashleigh, I’m dancing on your clouds and belting out our song. It’s a bloody fight song. Can you hear it? Can you carol its lyrics with me?

  I waited, but I got no response from her.

  Ah hey, have another toot off the joint rolled from your father’s pot gardens at Lake Charles. Sing on your clouds how he shoved me to the precipice of hell, and how tonight I’m shoving back, baby. I’m shoving back with all my might.

  You hear me, Ashleigh? Huh? Can you? Speak up, girl. Don’t be shy. Don’t be afraid. Don’t be aloof. I ride low in the saddle like Jesse and Frank James, the badass brothers who roved these same cursed ridges. Just call me a nightrider, a bushwhacker, and a desperado hell-bent to plug you. Your daddy’s barbed wire fences, blowhard threats, and palm sap couldn’t keep me at bay. Talk to me, Ashleigh baby. Speak up. I’m all ears for you.

  For the first time since her death, she’d no pearls to share with me. Her standoffishness didn’t amaze me. She was no real spider woman, just a bad dream. We didn’t alarm Sizemore’s horses or goon squad. As we crested the last knoll, the mansion’s glittery windows vaulted into our eyes. Sweaty and breathless, we knelt at the near slope so our profiles didn’t imprint the starlit sky. The half-dozen or more lit windows arrayed below confused us. My fears banded the muscles in my lower back.