I nodded again.
"About your friend...” he began.
"What kind of man is Gettis?"
"The best kind,” he answered with no hesitation.
"I'm just wondering why Steensen didn't go to him."
Matini shrugged. “This station's closer to where Steensen lived,” he pointed out.
"Okay."
Matini gave me a long look, then said, “You figurin’ on goin’ down to Bayette, nosin’ around, you check in with Chief Gettis, you hear?"
"I will."
He gave me another long look, then got to his feet, his hand extended. “Nice talkin’ with you, Mr. Virginiak."
Before leaving, I got a copy of the map made, then headed back to my motel, showered, and changed into my uniform because I only had one other dry set of civvies that I wanted to save. Then I had an artery-clogging session at a nearby restaurant, and returned to my room to watch the latest news on Amanda, which was then five hundred miles to the southwest and trying to make up its mind where to go next. I debated whether to call Scotty then and there and tell him the hunt for Steensen was done, or to go on to Bayette.
But it wasn't much of a debate.
And because it was just two p.m., and checkout was at three, I went ahead and checked out, then I gassed up the truck and put it on the road, heading south to Bayette.
Under even darker skies now, but with no rain for once, I drove again through Polecat Springs.
When I was about five miles north of Bayette, which according to my road map was a tiny speck nestled along the river, I saw flashing lights in my rearview.
I slowed and moved over, and when the police cruiser slowed itself and came up behind me, I knew I was the object of his attention, so I stopped.
Wondering what the problem was.
I got out my license and registration and insurance, then waited because he took his time. Took a long time, in fact. Ten minutes ticked by, then fifteen, and my edginess turned into irritation. Finally, I saw the door to the cruiser pop open, and a tall, skinny cop, wearing an orange poncho, emerged.
I rolled down my window as he came up to it and looked in at me.
"In kind of a hurry, ain't ya?” he asked.
I hadn't been, but I didn't argue. I just handed up my paperwork, which he didn't take.
"Asked you a question,” he said.
I looked at him.
He was thirty-fiveish, with a dark, pitted face and angry eyes.
"In-kind-of-a-hurry, ain't ya?” he asked again, slowly.
"Not particularly,” I replied.
"Step out of the vehicle,” he told me, standing back from the door.
Right, I thought.
"If I was speeding,” I told him, “just give me the ticket, and..."
"I said, get out of that vehicle, boy!” he snapped, one hand going up under his poncho.
I smiled, nodded, and got out.
"Turn ‘round,” he said, “put your hands on the roof, step back, spread your legs."
I went along with it, not wanting to make more of the farce, and let him pat me down—looking for what, I don't know—but he found only my wallet.
"Turn around,” he said.
I faced him again.
"Got yerself a real fancy rig there, don't ya?"
It was just a truck.
"Pick up a lot'a girls, do ya?"
I hadn't been fighting them off lately, but I said nothing.
He sneered and tossed my wallet at me, which I caught, then he came up close to me and said, “Soldiers comin’ down here, drivin’ like maniacs, got a lot'a nerve, thinkin’ they can get away with anythin’ just cause they got a uniform on."
I guessed it was Old Grand-Dad, but it might have been any bourbon.
"Know what I think?” he whispered.
Not a lot, I thought.
"I think you're all a bunch'a faggots."
I looked down at his name placard that showed just inside his poncho.
"I think you're a faggot,” he went on, trying hard to get a rise from me. “You got a problem with that?"
I said, “Which way is Bayette, Officer Mongon?"
He blinked, frowned, then made a sound of disgust and stepped back. “You ask me, you should just keep on goin',” he told me.
I pointed down the road. “About five miles south, right?"
"Bayette ain't for you, ya’ hear?"
I smiled. “Thanks for your help,” I said.
"You hear?!"
I waved, got back into the Explorer, and started it up.
Mongon got into his own vehicle, and fishtailed out from behind me, onto the highway—and was out of sight in seconds.
And I followed, but at a slower speed.
Bayette wasn't much of a town—it took only an ounce of gas to run the length of Main Street—but what there was of it seemed pretty enough. There was a hardware/feed store, a tiny grocery, a diner, a drugstore, a place called Dixie's Bar and Grille, and a touristy-looking little hotel, the Congaroo.
At either end of Main Street, on opposite sides, were The First Baptist Church of Bayette and The First United Baptist Church of Bayette. I imagined there was some interesting history there.
The police station was just off of Main Steet—a small, redbricked building with a huge flag flapping hard in front. The Bayette elementary and middle school, done in the same redbrick, stood opposite, next to a library. A new-looking Bayette Clinic stood on the broad, heavily treed levee that edged the Tar River.
I parked in front of the police station, right behind officer Mongon's cruiser, and headed inside.
Where the air-conditioning hit me like a cold fist, and where in a large outer office cluttered with boxes, a huge, uniformed woman sat behind a counter, hand painting a road closed sign, one of about a dozen that were stacked by the counter.
She moved her eyes reluctantly toward me and said, “He'p you?"
"I'd like to see..."
"The hell you want?” Mongon shouted.
He'd just entered the outer office from somewhere in back.
To the woman, I said, “I'd like to see Chief Gettis..."
"I asked you a question,” Mongon demanded, coming up to the counter.
"The man wants to see the chief, Carl."
"Ain't talkin’ to you, Belle!” he snapped.
"You don't take that tone to me, Carl Mongon..."
"You got a complaint to make,” Mongon told me, “you make it to my face, ya’ hear?"
I said, “My complaint, Officer Mongon, is about your face.” I looked at the woman, who smirked. “You know what I mean, don't you, Belle?"
She snorted.
Mongon, a little purple in his cheeks, pointed a finger at me just as a door in back opened slightly and a voice boomed, “The hell is goin’ on out there?"
Mongon's eyes flicked worriedly back to the door, then to me, as he started to say something, then changed his mind, making a sound of disgust and stalking out.
Belle gave me a wink, then got up and waddled to the opened door in back, poked her head inside, said something, then turned to me and waved me forward.
So I entered the office of Bayette Chief of Police Harold Gettis, who sat behind a broad oak desk, feet up on the corner, building a fish fly.
"Chief Gettis,” I said, as I entered.
"Uh-huh."
"My name's Virginiak.” I handed him my ID, which he took and squinted at briefly, then returned, and went back to the fly.
Gettis was sixtyish and grayhaired, with a lined, weathered face and bright blue eyes. He was a tall, heavy-shouldered man, with a big man's calmness about him.
"I'm sorry about Carl,” he said wearily.
"You should be."
His eyes looked up at me now, as if I were a walking lawsuit. “He give you a ticket?"
"No, but he did stop me for no reason."
Gettis sighed, shook his head, put the fly down, put his feet on the floor, and waved me to a chair saying, “All I c
an do for you, Mr. Virginiak, is apologize."
I took the chair.
"He's had some ... family problems,” he explained.
Above him on the wall was a bronze plate with the words to serve and protect etched into it, surrounded by about a dozen plaques, attesting to the law-enforcement virtues and community-spiritedness of Harold Gettis, and about half as many framed photographs of him handshaking different people, including a past president.
"Think we can just forget it?” he asked.
"It's forgotten,” I told him.
He nodded, then squinted at me. “So, what can I do for Army Counterintelligence?"
"Nothing,” I assured him. “I'm here on personal business.” I took out Steensen's picture and put it in front of him. “I'm looking for a man. Name's Steensen, Ralph Steensen, and I was told by..."
"Oh God,” Gettis said, picking up the photograph and looking rattled. “I knew him."
"Knew?"
He blinked at the picture, then at me. “He a friend of yours?"
"A friend of a friend,” I said.
He looked back at the picture and shook his head sadly. “Well, I'm sorry to say, he's dead."
"I see."
He frowned. “You say his name was Steensen?"
I nodded.
"Never did get his name,” he told me. “Had no ID on him. I should've run his prints, but...” He put the picture down. “Well, I didn't."
"How did he die?"
Gettis rubbed a shaky hand over his brow. “He come around here a while back—must'a been last fall—started pestering some folks. I had to put him in the lock-up for a night.” He shook his head slowly. “Hanged himself in his cell."
"Ah."
"Felt guilty as hell about it, I can tell ya."
Right, I thought.
"Still do,” he added.
Steensen, Ralph, 1st Lt., USA. RIP.
"He have kin?” Gettis asked me.
"Just a friend,” I told him. “Just friends."
"It was a helluva thing,” he said quietly. “Finding him like that."
Right.
"I should've run his prints,” Gettis went on. “I thought Belle did it, and she thought I did it, and then, well, the body was cremated, and come to find out, we never got him printed to start with, so he went out a John Doe.” He sighed a tired-old-man sigh and added, “I'm gettin’ too old for this job, I reckon."
Which, I decided, was not my problem.
I stood up, and so did Gettis, extending his hand to me, which I took and shook; then he walked with me out of his office to the station entrance, where we stopped.
The dark, late afternoon sky was in motion, and rain fell.
I put on my hat and said, “Think that hurricane will hit?"
Gettis shrugged.
"They usually do,” he replied, then put a hand on my shoulder. “I am truly sorry about your friend,” he told me. “I truly am."
Walking to my truck, the world seemed suddenly more distant, but realer somehow. As if I were seeing, hearing, and smelling things more acutely but at a remove nevertheless.
It was, I think, the organism telling me to slow down and take stock, to know the world now because nothing lasts. I never knew Crash Steensen, but the loss of him hit me pretty hard.
The rain had picked up by the time I got back behind the wheel, and I didn't want to drive through it, didn't want to do much of anything, so I drove to the small hotel I'd seen and got a room with a balcony that overlooked the river.
I had a cold shower, then just sat and watched the rain for a while, thinking to call Scotty, but I didn't.
Bad news could always wait—both the giving and receiving—so I just sat there, on the balcony, until night came over everything.
The rain stopped around eight p.m., and I watched a little TV—Amanda was still hundreds of miles to the southwest and apparently not showing signs of moving toward land. I caught part of a baseball game, but couldn't stay interested, and finally decided to go out for a beer.
There was a small bar off the lobby of the hotel, but it was empty except for the bartender, and I felt the need to be among people, so I headed out of the hotel.
The Dixie Bar and Grille across the street was closed, the sign in the boarded window read closed by order of amanda, so I got in my truck and started to cruise, south and out of town.
And about five miles along, I found a place—The Last Chance.
It was a small, slate-roofed, pine-walled building, with a satellite dish on top and a business-could-be-a-lot-better air about it that I found appropriately depressing.
I parked next to an old rusted pickup in front, got out, and heard the mournful strains of a country-western song that leaked from the interior. Fighting back a what-are-you-doing-here? feeling that rose up suddenly, I went inside.
There were several tables to my left, at one of which a heavily made-up woman in a too-tight dress sat watching a large-screen TV on the wall in the corner. Several men stood around a pool table to the side of the TV. A wide bar ran along the right wall, behind which a scrawny old man stood, looking at me with what seemed suspicious surprise.
"What can I do you fer?” he asked as I took a seat on a stool.
I asked for a draft and got it, and I'd just taken a sip when the door to the “Gents” at the back of the place slammed open—and Carl Mongon swaggered out.
He went to the pool table, grabbed a cue, looked at the table for a second, then looked up and saw me.
"Well, if it ain't the Yankee faggot,” he said.
Right, I thought.
"How ya'll doin’ tonight, faggot?"
I looked at my face in the mirror behind the bar as Mongon made his way up to me, saying, “Well, well, well."
I had another sip of my beer.
"Ya know,” Mongon said, tapping my shoulder with the cue, “correct me if I'm wrong, but I told you to pass on through Bayette."
I watched him in the mirror and saw the woman at the table, looking at us with anticipation.
"You remember me tellin’ you that?"
"Carl!” one of the other pool players called out warningly.
"I'm talkin’ to you, faggot!” Mongon said to me, now angry.
There was, as before, liquor on his breath.
I stood up and put money on the counter.
"You hear me?!"
I smiled at him.
"Boy, you'd better answer me or..."
I turned away and started out, but Mongon grabbed my shoulder—and then I lost it.
I turned fast and backhanded him hard across the face, sending him against the bar and knocking over a barstool.
He blinked at me, felt blood coming from his nose, touched it with his fingers, looked at it, then at me, and said, “Oh boy. You really done it now."
I waited.
He straightened up, held the cue out to his side, and said, “That was assault, faggot."
"No,” I told him. “This is assault."
I kicked hard into his groin—harder than I should, but I was pretty worked up—then took the cue from him and whacked him with it on the shoulders and back, until he fell on his face, where he groaned there at my feet, holding himself.
His pool-playing friends came toward me, and I readied myself, but there was, curiously, no threat in them.
We did a stare-off thing for a few seconds, then two of them got Mongon to his feet and over to a table, where he sat and groaned, still holding himself. The third—young and wary—just kept staring, as did the wide-eyed woman in the too-tight dress.
And I felt suddenly disgusted. I tossed the pool cue onto the floor, then walked out.
I'd just gotten the door to the Explorer open when the third man—the young one—came out of the bar and said, “Excuse me?"
I looked at him. He seemed to be about twenty and he was bigger than I was, but no threat.
"I'm sorry about that stuff,” he told me, nodding back over his shoulder.
I wasn'
t sure what he was apologizing for.
"Carl's my cousin,” he told me. “He's not like this—usually."
"That's good to know."
"Picked a fight with me, little while ago,” he added, as if to unmake his point.
"A lot of anger in him,” I agreed.
He nodded, then shrugged and started back inside, but then stopped and said, “His wife run off ‘bout a month ago."
"Uh-huh."
"Went off with some soldier, and Carl's been in a bottle since it happened."
"Well,” I said to the young man, “Carl's going to be sore about a day.” I got into my truck. “Ice is the best thing for it."
And figuring I'd had my fill of Bayette night life, I went back to the Congaroo and took another cold shower. Then I had a pipe back out on the balcony and watched the moon peek through some dark clouds, until I was sleepy enough to sleep.
And I did a good job of it, not getting up until after ten the next morning.
I grabbed a big breakfast in the café downstairs and decided to drive straight back to Raleigh and give Scotty the news about Crash in person.
So, I started packing up the few things I had, listening to the TV news on Amanda, now a hundred miles off the coast, but bearing northeast—it looked like good weather for the drive. I was just stuffing Steensen's sack of “valuables” into my suitcase when I finally noticed the stenciling on that old bag.
Faded to a bare whisper and stained-over, just below the cracked handle, were the words federal reserve bank—atlanta, ga.
I wondered about it as I packed it away. Wondered how Steensen came by such a thing. Wondered enough to unpack it and give it another look-over. Heavy gray canvas, black handle, zippered top, and those words.
Might have found it anywhere, I reasoned, but my head put it together with the map, the “cave,” and the body he'd said he'd found, and I couldn't let it go.
Which has always been my curse—or virtue, as the case may be.
So I didn't check out, after all, I went out, instead, into semi-sunshine and put myself in the Bayette Public Library, behind a computer, putting in hit after hit on “Federal Reserve Bank, Atlanta."
After about an hour, I came up with a headline and story in the Atlanta Constitution, dated fifteen years earlier, which read:
ARMORED CAR GUARDS MURDERED IN MULTIMILLION DOLLAR FEDERAL RESERVE HEIST
AHMM, Jan-Feb 2006 Page 11