Two for Flinching

by Todd Morgan

  I parked in the circular driveway. The grey stone house sat on a little rise, the rye grass green in the dead of winter, a magnolia tree towering over the yard. I tucked the Colt in the holster at the small of my back and climbed the steps. A man was in the rocking chair on the porch, waiting for me.

  Luther Drake was recently retired, his hair gone to grey, eyeglasses a few years out of date. Normally, he was a dignified African-American, smartly dressed and stiff-backed with a military bearing. Today he was in a sweat suit, unshaven, a half empty bottle of Evan Williams at his feet. And a shotgun cradled in his arms.

  “The war hero to the rescue.”

  “Morning, Judge.” I took the white rocker next to him. “What’s going on?”

  “Fucking power company.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Parked their big ass truck right there on the road. Engine running, diesel fumes making me sick.”

  “You didn’t like that?”

  “Hell no, I didn’t like it.” Drake reached for the bottle and helped himself to a long pull of whiskey. “I asked them nicely to move along.”

  “And they didn’t?”

  Luther shook his head. “Said something about a bad transformer.”

  “Why don’t we go inside?” I suggested. “Maybe have a cup of coffee?”

  “Ain’t got no coffee made.”

  “I’ll make it,” I said. “Come on.”

  He grunted and stood. “Let me check that twelve gauge.”

  He grunted again, but handed it over. I racked the slide. “Luther, this gun isn’t even loaded.”

  “I’m drunk, not stupid.”

  We went into the house, through the dining room, and into the den. The house was in a mild state of disarray. Three days worth of newspapers scattered on the floor, magazines on the couch, a couple of empty glasses on the end tables. It was much neater than my home. In the kitchen, I got the coffee going. I knew where everything was. It wasn’t as if this was my first visit.

  As the maker started making, I went back into the den to find Luther in his battered easy chair. The bottle was next to him. I had left the shotgun by the door. “Where’s Rochelle?”

  “Gone.”

  “Kind of figured that,” I said, “you being drunk and all and it’s not even noon. What happened?”

  “She left me.”

  “Again?”

  He shot me a dirty look. “Says I been cheating on her.”

  “You do have a history of it.”

  “Not in four years.”

  “Well.”

  “I think this time it’s for good.”

  “You say that every time.”

  He rubbed his face with the palms of both hands. “Yeah. I reckon I do.”

  “She’ll be back.”

  “Probably.” He picked up the bottle of Evan Williams. “How you doing?”

  “I ain’t bragging.”

  “Don’t guess you are,” he said. “You still practicing?”

  “I hit the bag yesterday for a while.”

  “The bag?” Disgust spread across his face. “Your form is what counts.”

  Luther and his form. Always the form.

  “I know, I know.”

  Drunk as a skunk, he stood and executed the Shim Jun form—all eighty-one moves. Every movement precise, the steps crisp, the punches and kicks snapping cleanly. Finished, he fell back into the chair. “That’s what I got from ten years in Korea,” he said. “That and the clap.”

  “Don’t hold anything back.” I went into the kitchen and returned with two steaming mugs. Luther poured whiskey into his, offered me the bottle. I shook my head. “Judge, you can’t keep doing this.”

  He sipped from his cup. “Why not?”

  “We put a black man in the White House,” I said. “You keep pulling guns on people and being a minority politician won’t be enough to keep you out of jail.”

  “Who told you that?”

  ***

  Mid-afternoon, I pulled into the garage and waited for the door to close behind me before getting out of the Jeep. My home was probably safe, what with the care Dumb and Dumber had taken around Sarah. Probably being the key word. I was probably overreacting. The care I had taken leaving the office, the erratic driving, trying to make a tail. Probably. Something was definitely in the air. Until I found out what it was, I was going to take the proper precautions.

  Blondie and Sarah came running when I pushed into the kitchen. I kneed the dog away and scooped up my daughter. She hugged me and I slapped a loud kiss on her cheek. That moment always made everything else seem small, inconsequential. “Hey, baby, how was your day?”

  “Not good.”

  “No? What happened?”

  She pouted. “I spilled my milk.”

  “You don’t even like milk.”

  She frowned.

  “So maybe it was a good day and you didn’t know it.”

  “I spilled it on my favorite pants.”

  News to me. I didn’t even know she had favorite pants. “Maybe it was an average day. A little good, a little bad.”

  “I’ll have to think about that.”

  I found Erin sitting Indian style in the middle of the couch, textbooks and notebooks stacked on either side. “You busy?”

  “No. I like reading Trig for the fun of it.”

  “Good. Time to earn your keep.”

  “Finally,” she said. “A chance to contribute.”

  I dug the laptop out my bag, sat it on the kitchen table and powered it up. A business card was on the table. Detective Randall Rogers, Indianola Sherriff’s Department. “What’s this?”

  Erin went into the fridge and came out with a Grapico. “It was stuck in the door when I came in.”

  I turned the card over. Please call me at your earliest convenience in relation to an ongoing investigation. We believe you may have some valuable information.

  I found that kind of odd. If Randy wanted to talk to me, why not call? I crumpled the card and tossed it on the table.

  Erin had taken her seat in front of the computer. “What are we doing?”

  I reached over her and navigated to the Looking4Mine page. My faux knockout had received plenty of attention since this morning. Fifteen looks and five winks. One of those winks had been from J-love.

  “Oh goodie,” Erin said. “The honey pot.”

  “That’s you.” I clicked on the J-love profile. “And that’s the fly.”

  “Not really my type.”

  “Mine either. Wink back and let’s see what develops.”

  I opened the back door and went out onto the deck. Blondie bounded off into the fenced backyard. I had another two months—hopefully—until I had to start working on it again. I fired up the grill and went back inside. If it wasn’t for barbeque my daughter and I would have starved long ago.

  “That was fast,” Erin said. “He’s already invited me for an online chat.”

  I wasn’t surprised. I figured this was the best time to catch Jenks, before he went home and had his wife looking over his shoulder. Or went to the Chickasaw Inn. “Perfect.”

  “Can I be a Penelope? I feel like a Penelope today.”

  “Fine with me. Do your thing?”

  She tapped on the computer. I pulled a pot from the cabinet, filled it with water, and sat it on the stove.

  “What’s my story again?”

  “Divorced, looking for fun. Professional.”

  “What exactly does that mean? Professional?”

  “Whatever you want it to mean.”

  She pursed her lips in thought. Just like her mother. “I think I’ll be in the medical field.”

  I took out some pork chops, placed them on a plate and sprinkled rub on them. I got the box of macaroni, the margarine and the milk and set them next to the stove. I opened the door. Blondie rushed in. I scraped the remnants of the last meal from the grill and went back into the kitchen. Blondie bounded out.

  “He wants to get together for a drink
.”

  “Get a picture first.”

  “Right.” I had done something like this countless times before, but Erin was much better at it than I was. Nobody sounds more like a young, attractive woman than a young attractive woman. I dumped the macaroni in the pot, took the chops to the grill and put them on. Blondie ran back into the house.

  “Got it.” Erin opened the email. “Not a very handsome fellow.”

  “Don’t tell him that.”

  “What about that drink?”

  “You doing anything tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t exactly look like Penelope. Do I have to actually meet this guy?”

  “No. I need you to watch the princess while I meet him.”

  “Gotcha.” She tapped on the keys.

  “Make sure you save the conversation.”

  “Way ahead of you, Uncle Bees.” More tapping. “It’s a date.”

  I pulled out my wallet and handed her a hundred dollar bill.

  “Ooo,” she said. “A paying gig.”

  ***

  I sat on the back deck looking up at the stars. Dinner had been eaten and the mess cleaned up, the princess bathed, stories read, and had finally gone to sleep. Hopefully. Erin had retired to the master bedroom, presumably to study, but most likely to talk on the phone in private. It was probably too cold to sit on the deck. The rum helped.

  This was one of my favorite places on earth, next to my tree stand and most reliable fishing hole. Naked dogwoods lined the back of the lot, bushes of unknown origin were on the left. The right side of the fence was bare, allowing me to look into Steven and Amber’s backyard. They had a kidney shaped swimming pool, covered until spring. If Steven hadn’t been so cheap and had put up a privacy fence like most pool owners, none of this would have happened.

  Light spilled out from their den into the backyard, but otherwise the house was dark. I hadn’t heard from Amber since the incident at the Holiday Inn. Our conversations were almost as sporadic as our liaisons. She was terrified of Steven and went to great lengths to keep him from finding out about our affair. Sometimes we went several days without talking, often a week or more. She was always the one who initiated contact, waiting until it was safe to call or text. I wondered what happened Sunday. Or Monday.

  It was always quiet, peaceful, in my backyard—aside from Blondie’s sudden eruptions. The perfect place to look at the stars. And enjoy a drink.

  The phone rang, my cell. Blondie began barking. I checked the caller ID. Unknown. Two in one day. I almost let it go to voicemail, wanting to stay in the rare still moment. But it could be about a job and I couldn’t afford to pass up work. Or maybe it was Amber, calling from a payphone.

  ***

  “Hello.”

  “Uh, yeah, this is Detective Randall Rogers with the Indianola County Sherriff’s Department.”

  “Hey, Randy. How you doing tonight?”

  “Uh, fine. Thanks for asking. I’m calling because you may have some information on a case we are working on.”

  “I got your card.”

  “My card?”

  “What’s the case?”

  “Well, it’s a little on the delicate side. I’d rather not talk about it over the phone.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’d be happy to come by your work or home if that’s convenient.”

  “No, I’ll just stop by your office in the morning. It’s on my way.”

  “My office?”

  “At the Sherriff’s Department.”

  “Oh. I guess that should be fine.”

  “You going by the gym tomorrow?”

  “The gym? I’m not sure. What’s a good time for you?”

  “Nine?”

  “Perfect. Just ask the duty sergeant for the detective’s and he’ll show you up.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can find it.”

  “Tomorrow at nine.”

  “I’ll be there with bells on.”

  Delicate.

  Blondie took off after something, probably a shadow. I finished me drink and stood. Only a little wobbly.

  Chapter Five

  The Indianola Sherriff’s Department was collocated with the jail, the sheriff’s office on the first two floors of the modern brick building, county lockup on the top two. I almost turned into the employee lot before circling around the block to visitor parking. The courthouse was across the street. Rain had moved in during the early hours, a drizzle that promised to stick around. Not much, but it was enough to pull out my hiking boots.

  The uniformed officer at the desk looked up without interest as I pushed into the lobby. He was overweight, balding, about to turn fifty, and counting the days. “You come to turn yourself in?”

  “You’ll never get a confession out of me, Bo.”

  “Bet we could beat it out of you.”

  “Bet you couldn’t. How’s the gout?”

  “Hurts like hell. Hope you didn’t come to get your job back.”

  I shook my head. “I need to talk to Randy.”

  “Gotta leave your piece with me.”

  “It’s in the Jeep.”

  He nodded and pushed a button to release the electronic lock.

  “You’re supposed to give me directions to the detectives.”

  He gave me a bland look instead.

  I took the stairs, figuring the exercise wouldn’t hurt and waiting on that damn elevator would. The bullpen was unchanged, three sets of desks pushed together, a door at the side with Lt. Grant spelled out on the glass, two unmarked doors on the other. A muscle-bound man was coming out of the office, his shirtsleeves tight against the biceps. He gave me a curious look.

  “Sorry, son,” he said, “we ain’t hiring.”

  “Nuts.”

  “And even if we were, it would be a cold day in hell. When you burn a bridge, boy, you burn a bridge.”

  “Morning, Harold.”

  He grunted and made his way past me.

  Randall Rogers was at his desk, in a light blue shirt and a darker tie. Must be a court day. He gave me a double take. “Hey, Beason. What’s going on?”

  “Not much.” I sat across from him. The man at the adjoining double desk—my old desk—gave me a dirty look. “How you been, Larry?”

  Larry Coleman was closing in on forty, his dark hair shot through with grey. His face was deeply lined, in a perpetual frown. He gave me the finger.

  I winked at him.

  Randy said, “What do you need?”

  “I came in to talk to you.”

  “Yeah?” He looked at his watch. “Make it fast. I’ve got an appointment.”

  “Nine, right?”

  Surprise spread across his face. “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “I knew that was your old neighborhood. I thought you had moved.”

  “Got caught in the housing bubble.”

  “You live next to the Noble’s.”

  “Yeah.”

  Coleman laughed.

  “I’m a little confused,” I admitted. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Randy shook his head. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one confused. “We are looking into the disappearance of Amber Noble.”

  “I didn’t know she was missing.”

  He nodded. “Her husband hasn’t seen her since Sunday afternoon.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “It was my understanding that they were having problems.”

  Coleman said, “You should know.”

  I ignored him. “I’m sure she’ll turn up. She probably wanted some space.”

  Randy said, “Her car is gone and she isn’t answering her cell. Her purse was left on the kitchen table.”

  I crossed my legs, bouncing my foot on my knee. I had worn boots for a large portion of my life, for long stretches at a time. I had sworn I would never wear them again. Yet, for some reason, they always gave me comfort. “What does this have to do with me?”

  Randy reached into his desk and pulled out a manila fold
er. From the folder, he extracted a single sheet of paper. “This is Amber’s cell phone records.”

  The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  He slid the paper across the desk to me. One number was circled in red pen. A lot. “This is your number.”

  Coleman said, “I thought only drug dealers used prepaid phones.”

  “I don’t like hidden charges.”

  Randy said, “That’s why we couldn’t find out whose number it was.”

  “So you cold called it and got me.” That explained why he had sounded so strange on the phone.

  “Her husband suspects she was having an affair.”

  I didn’t hear a question so I didn’t answer.

  “Was it you?”

  “How can I help you?”

  Coleman said, “You can answer the fucking question.”

  I leaned back in the chair, thinking fast. I didn’t know where Amber was, nor did I fear for her safety. She had said she was leaving Steven. I hadn’t believed her at the time, but I did now. If I tried to lie, it wasn’t going to look good later. We hadn’t broken any laws. Of course, that’s a long way from saying we had not been doing something wrong.

  “I’m not sure affair is the proper word.”

  “Why don’t you tell us about it,” Coleman said, “and we’ll come up with the proper word.”

  I sighed. There was no way I was getting out of this. “We were occasional sexual partners.”

  “How occasional?”

  “Once a month or so.”

  Coleman said, “Sounds like an affair to me.”

  Once again, I ignored him.

  Randy was crestfallen. “Beason,” he said sadly.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I know.”

  “After everything that happened with Stella.”

  “I said I know.”

  Coleman said, “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Sunday night. At the Holiday Inn. I left her a little after midnight. She was asleep.”

  “Nice,” Coleman said. “Real nice.”