My face went hot, I could feel the flush creep up my neck and spread across my cheeks. I felt like I had just been slapped awake and had opened my eyes to find I was lying in the gutter. I felt like trash.
“Show me your arms,” he said. “Let’s go. Pull the sleeves up. If I’m getting in the middle of something, I want to know what exactly it is.”
It was like in the dream, when I’d been up on that defense table stripping off my uniform. I recognized what I was feeling, but I’d never felt it like this. Rob was watching out for himself, but that didn’t mitigate the shame that was crawling up my back, curling around my neck.
He took my elbows in his hands, turned my arms toward the meager light dripping over the divider wall. They were clear. The last traces of yellow had disappeared. My arms were clean, but I’d never felt so filthy. I was being inspected, checked for self-inflicted flaws, looked at like a side of beef.
“Hey,” I said, “you asked me, I told you. It happened on a case. On a couple of cases. And then for a while after. I’ve pulled up.”
He released my arms and I felt them drop to my sides. He rolled my sleeves back down and buttoned the cuffs, put his hands on my shoulders.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve known Raynor for close to five years. For most of that, he’s been a damn good cop. He’s taken some sorry, dope-dealing bastards off the street. And he’s gotten this way before. He made it through, he can do it again. But stay away from him. Make your own cases, handle your own business. Denny and me, we’ll talk to him.”
“Rob. I can’t just bail out on him.”
“You’re not. You’re not bailing out. I’ve seen it too many times. You hang with him, you’ll go right back to it. You got to get some distance. For him, and for yourself. Give him room to come around.”
He hugged me, held me tightly, and I put my arms around him and rested my head on his shoulder. I wanted to stand there like that until it all went away.
“You know, “ he said, “I’ve worked a case or two, and the first thing you’re supposed to understand is that one good reason for having snitches is so they can deal with the rig and you don’t have to. It’s a one way ticket to hell, man. Some agents think that’s a chickenshit attitude, but I’m telling you, stay away from it.” He stood holding me, rocking gently.
“You call me,” he said. “I don’t care when it is, if you need anything. Understand? Anything. If you need me, you call.” He squeezed. “God,” he said, “I’ve seen some shit in my life but this beats it. Motherfucker had no business, man, no business at all.”
“He needs help,” I whispered. Rob sighed.
“Don’t we all,” he said.
* * *
The next morning, when I led Rob and Denny to my apartment and unlocked the door, Jim saw them and froze.
“Hey man,” Rob said, “what’s happening?”
“Heavy shit,” Jim said. “I told her.” Pointing the gun at me. “Dudes are coming.” Denny tossed me the keys to his truck.
“You owe me a tank of gas,” he said.
I left them there and took Denny’s truck, driving to nowhere, driving to kill time, driving and thinking about Jim, hoping Denny could reach him if Rob couldn’t, knowing that I had failed. They were talking. Maybe Denny. Jim was talking. Maybe Denny.
I believed I was clear of it, clear of the needle anyway, just snorting, swallowing too many pills, but only on cases, or mostly on cases. Doing it sometimes when I didn’t really have to for the buy, doing it because it was safe, because it put the dealers at ease, because it spread a layer of strength over all that fear.
When I got back to my apartment, not my home, not someplace safe, just an address for regulation’s sake, they were sitting in a circle on the floor, not saying anything. I gave Denny his keys and sat down against the wall.
Jim looked around the room, then at each of us. “Hey,” he said suddenly, hatefully, “why don’t you motherfuckers just take care of your own goddamn business. I can handle mine.” He got up and walked out the door. Denny went after him.
“Just like you described it,” Rob said.
“What did he say?”
“Not shit. Listen to me. You get a call in to that sergeant and you tell him straight up what’s coming down. You make them get Jim some help.”
“And if they don’t?”
“They will. They have to.”
12
Dodd pointed the way down his hall to the guest room. “I’ll be right there,” he said. “Gotta take a leak.”
The room was white, the four-poster bed covered with a white lace spread. The cushions on the rocker matched it, and above the headboard was a framed picture of Jesus, a silver globe resting in his palm, yellow light shining from behind the purple and red of his exposed heart. I sat in the rocking chair in the corner and listened as Dodd’s wife sang to their little boy behind a closed door down the hall. I felt like a burglar who’d stumbled into the middle of a fairy tale. I had forgotten this kind of thing existed.
I heard her ease a door shut and then she came in and asked if I cared for iced tea. Dodd walked in behind her.
“Not now,” he said. “We got stuff to talk about.”
The first thing he said when I told him was, “Oh, Jesus Lord, man, I gave him some goddamn balloons of heroin and some hits of speed to start out with. He told me he needed them. Jesus Lord.” I think my mouth dropped open.
“Sergeant,” I said, “we’re talking about a life here.”
“I’m trying to think.”
“Forget about the dope, “ I said. “It was metabolized long ago.”
“What?”
“He’s strung out. Whatever you gave him went straight into his arm.”
“We’ll have to take his badge. He can’t be carrying the badge.”
“Hey fuck the badge, man! He’s killing himself.”
“He still can’t be carrying the badge. How many cases are bad?”
“I don’t know. I have no idea. Probably most of those he’s made in the last month or so.”
“We’ll have to meet with the Chief. Can you get him to come to a meeting?”
“I’ll try,” I said. “I don’t know.”
“Chief’ll want to talk to you first. I’ll call you later and set up a time. You sure about this now?”
“You know,” I said, “there’s this concept that got drilled into me from the day I became a cop. It’s called taking care of your partner. I believe in it. If I thought there was a way to get him over this without telling you or Nettle or another single soul, I would do it. I’ve tried. I can’t. The man is killing himself. Now get us some goddamn help.”
* * *
On the side of Farm to Market 105, just west of Sour Lake, Rob and Denny and I stood leaning against Denny’s truck, waiting for Nettle.
“I don’t like it,” Denny said. “I don’t like it at all.”
“What was I supposed to do?” I asked. He kicked at the sand with his boot.
Nettle pulled up in his department Chevy, got out of the car twisting his head back and forth, looking for observers.
“Kristen,” he said, “what exactly is going on?” I started at the sound of my own name.
“What you’ve got,” Denny said, “is one plenty fucked-up agent. Your man is firing up daily.”
Nettle cleared his throat, looked at Rob.
“We tried talking to him,” Rob said. “He’s paranoid as hell.”
Nettle looked at me, a grim smile on his wormy lips. Even in the afternoon breeze his hair stayed glued in place. I almost expected him to bow his head and offer a prayer for Jim’s recovery.
“What do you think we should do?” he asked.
Denny scuffed his boot again, cupped a hand over his crotch, and spat onto the roadway.
“Shit,” he drawled, “we ought to just chain the son of bitch to a toilet and leave him there till he kicks this thing.”
The Chief laughed, Rob laughed, we all laughed. Nettle stop
ped suddenly and looked hard at me.
“Bring him to Dodd’s house tonight at seven. Tell him those are my orders.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
“Bring him.” He turned and headed toward his car. “Thank you men for coming out,” he said over his shoulder.
When he was down the road, Denny looked at me and said, “Hell girl, it’s only noontime, you don’t need to be spending all day looking forward to tonight. I know a damn good barbecue joint just down the road. Let’s get some dinner.”
“Thank you men for coming out,” I mimicked. I got into Denny’s beat up green pickup and slid to the middle of the seat. Rob and Denny sandwiched me between them and Denny hunched over the steering wheel, squinting his eyes as he leaned to check the roadway.
“What’s it look like?”
“Hold up,” Rob said. An old Falcon full of teenagers roared past and disappeared around a curve.
“Okay,” Rob said.
Denny eased the truck out and we puttered along at about twenty-five. He kept the truck mostly in his lane, but occasionally wandered across the double yellow stripe. Each time he did it, Rob would tell him to pull to the right.
After about the fifth time, Denny turned toward Rob and said, “Ease up, man, I drive all over the county by myself.”
“Well you goddamn shouldn’t,” Rob said. “Hell, you’re blind. Don’t even have a damn driver license.”
“Long as I don’t hit any cows or children, I’m happy.”
I listened to their banter, knowing it was for my benefit, but I couldn’t stop the dread that was working away inside me. Tucked in there between them, shoulder to shoulder in the dusty cab of Denny’s farm truck, a lariat curled on the floorboard under my shoes, the scent of pine coming in through the windows, I searched for something, anything, to think about. But all that would come was the image of Jim wrapped in that sheet.
I could feel the muscles in Denny’s arm as he worked the steering wheel, driving in a world of shadows, looking for movement that would signal something living, something to steer away from, on the roadway.
The aroma of burning mesquite wood hung over the parking lot, and the tang of barbecue made my mouth water even though my stomach felt as though it had been inflated with helium. I couldn’t remember what it was like to have an appetite. The restaurant was an old barn, with sawdust-covered wood floors and red leatherette booths scarred with black electrical tape patches. There were miniature jukeboxes at each one, listing Merle and Hank Jr., Willie and Waylon, Tammy and Patsy. Ray Charles was on when we got there, singing “Georgia.”
“Ever been there?” Denny asked.
“I grew up in Atlanta,” Rob said. “You know that.”
“I was talking to Kristen.” Denny rubbed a hand across his jaw, gave Rob a look.
“No,” I said. “You grew up in Georgia? Really?”
“Six brothers,” Rob said, “three sisters. On the edge of Atlanta. I hightailed it out of there at eighteen. Worked offshore out of New Orleans for a while, got tired of busting my ass. Joined the Highway Patrol in San Angelo. Then transferred to Narcotics.”
He dropped a quarter into our jukebox and punched up “I Fall to Pieces.”
“Play some Johnny Paycheck,” Denny said.
“Sometimes I think about going back. Working those oil rigs. Paycheck ain’t half bad.”
“What about Mel Tillis?”
“Yeah. He’s here.”
“Play him.”
“But those rigs,” Rob said, “Dangerous. A man can lose body parts.”
Denny put down his menu and stared at Rob.
“You little son of a bitch,” he said. “You don’t usually get shot at on the rigs.”
Rob didn’t look up from his menu. “Hey. I got kids to feed, you know?”
The waitress took our order and returned a few minutes later with large oval platter piled high with ribs and potato salad and ranch-style beans.
“I guess a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do,” Denny said. “Maybe I was the lucky one. Least I got retired out of it.”
“You just don’t know, man.” Rob put his fork down and stared at Denny. “You got no idea.” He picked up a rib and bit it viciously. “Pass that sauce there,” he mumbled. “No, the tabasco.”
I picked at some potato salad while Denny and Rob attacked their platters, sucking the ribs down to clean white bone and licking sauce from their fingers.
“You better eat, girl.” Denny said.
“I can’t.”
“On account of you fucked up.”
I looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you shouldn’t have got Nettle involved in this. Mistake. I’m sorry, darling, I love you to death, but I think you fucked up and I feel like I should tell you. It don’t mean I don’t love you as much as ever. I just think you’re in for some grief.”
I looked over at Rob, who sat gnawing on a rib.
“I had to,” I said, wondering why Rob didn’t say anything.
“You just watch yourself,” Denny said. “Nettle strikes me as the kind of man who would put your ass in a sling without even blinking.”
* * *
He was just as I’d left him, leaning against the wall, wrapped in the sheet, holding the shotgun and staring at the door. How many days growth on his face, greasy hair, the smell of speed in his sweat. I sat down facing him.
“You’ve got to stop,” I said.
He stared past me.
“Jim.”
“I’ll handle it.” He nodded slowly, weakly, his eyes narrowed. “I’m here waiting on the dudes. I’m ready.”
“Right,” I said. “You’re ready.”
I stood up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Really sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about. You wouldn’t talk to Denny, you wouldn’t talk to Rob.”
“Fuck Rob. Fucking motherfucker, fucking coward. He ran. Dude ran when Dennison was down. Topwater floater, don’t know what down is, fucking lightweight, fucking hot dog mother fucker. Fuck him. Yeah, you know all about that, right? Fucking Rob.”
“Don’t twist it!” I yelled. “Nothing is going on. Jesus Christ, nothing is going on. Not with Walker, not with Rob. Do you understand strung out? Paranoid? Can you hear me? Am I talking to you?”
“Dude’s partner ought to stand with him when there’s a hassle coming down.”
“That’s right,” I said. “But the only hassle coming down is in your head. You’re skitzed out. Walker’s got his finger on the pulse, nobody in town is after you. Nobody even suspects you anymore. Jesus!”
He hugged the shotgun to his chest and looked at me with syrup-coated eyes.
“Walker’s a punk boy, he don’t know shit.” He cheeks were cavernous, his skin flushed red.
“I brought you some ribs,” I said. “You need some food.”
“I want my partner here with me when the shit starts.”
I sat down, took the shotgun from him, laid it next to me and pulled him toward me until he gave in. He settled himself on the floor with his head resting in my lap and one bony shoulder digging into my thigh. I stroked his hair. I waited until I felt him relaxing against me.
“We have a meeting,” I said. “This evening.”
His eyes popped open and he jerked his head up.
“With who? About what?”
“I didn’t know what to do. I talked to Dodd, and I talked to Nettle.”
He was on his feet instantly, headed for the front door, but stopped halfway there and reeled to face me. I stayed seated, tucked the shotgun behind me.
“What the fuck do you mean?” he screamed. “What did you tell them?”
I sat silently, staring at him. He crossed his arms and stood trembling, his nostrils flared, his eyes pinched.
“Tell me,” he said sharply.
I sat, saying nothing, looking at him, waiting. I don’t know
how much time passed. Finally he went into the bathroom, the water ran, he came out calm. He sat down across from me.
“Damn it, girl,” he said. “Talk to me. You owe me that much. You owe me. Let me know what I’m walking into.”
“I told them everything,” I said. “I told them cases were bad. I told them you were strung out.”
His head dropped and he pressed his palms to his eyes.
“Why,” he asked.
“Because I had to.”
“You had to. Hell of a deal. What a hell of a deal.”
“Yeah it is,” I said. “Indeed it is. At last I get your attention. We’re supposed to be there at seven.”
“Seven. You know what you’ve done?” He pressed his finger against his temples, shook his head slowly. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. Just like you’re always saying, man, I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got.”
“Like hell.” He raised his head and looked hard at me. “You’ve probably just landed both our asses in the joint.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” I said. “You were overdosed, Jim, that wasn’t your fault. Nettle hired me to look out for you, to help you. I’m doing it. All you have to do is tell the man the truth. They can’t put us in jail for that.”
* * *
In Dodd’s living room, just at dusk, I sat at one end of a furry purple couch. Jim sat in the matching chair, frowning, tapping his foot rapidly against the carpet, rubbing the finger of one hand against the palm of the other. His hair was still greasy and hung in sloppy curls, but he’d put on a fresh shirt, the cuffs buttoned tightly about his wrists.
Dodd was between us, at the other end of the couch, and Nettle was a few feet away, catty-cornered to Jim, in an upright recliner. The lamp in the room lit a small circle that included the couch and Jim’s chair, but only Nettle’s legs were outside the shadow that hovered over the rest of the room. I saw his knees, the trousers stretched tight over them, and in the gap between his ankle-high socks and the cuffs of his trousers, the fishbelly white of his legs.
He cleared his throat with a tiny, dry cough.
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