by Mike Lawson
“What’s that?” DeMarco said, pointing at the white, yucky stuff.
The waitress flashed her teeth at him. “Why them’s grits, you Yankee devil.”
Grits. He should have guessed. He wasn’t going to eat them.
The waitress lowered long false eyelashes over smoky-gray bedroom eyes. “Y’all gonna be in town long, darlin’?” she asked.
DeMarco liked darlin’ almost as much as shugga. “For a little while,” he said.
“And whatcha doin’ down thisaway?”
It was time to go to work.
DeMarco had to have some reason for asking questions and poking about. He considered telling the truth, that he was a congressional investigator, but he didn’t think that was the best way to get folks to open up. His cover story, albeit flimsy as gossamer wings, was that he was a freelance writer doing research on Billy Mattis, hometown boy, soldier, and Secret Service hero. He wished he had taken the time to obtain credentials to match his cover.
He told the waitress about his bogus mission. After she oohed how cool that was, he asked if she knew Billy.
“Yeah,” she said, “but not real well, him bein’ a few years older than me.”
She said Billy must have been a real fine man, bein’ in the Secret Service and all. Shame about him dyin’. And how ’bout Billy’s mother, did she know her? Yeah, sorta. Knew she lived up Uptonville way, was a waitress there. What about Billy’s father? For the first time DeMarco’s leggy new friend became evasive. She asked to be excused to check on an order but DeMarco thought it was to give herself time to think.
DeMarco watched the waitress walk away, enjoying the view, then glanced over at Emma. She was still talking to the natty guy in the straw boater. DeMarco started to look away but at just that moment a man seated alone at a window table behind Emma turned and stared at DeMarco.
DeMarco couldn’t exactly define the nature of the man’s stare. It was intimidating while simultaneously being coldly indifferent. Then DeMarco realized it was like the look a pro boxer gives his opponent when they tap gloves before the bout starts: an unflinching look that promises a violent yet unemotional beating.
The man’s skin was the color of burnished mahogany and he had a hatchet blade of a nose that dominated his face. His thick black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. Maybe Hispanic, DeMarco thought, but more likely Native American. On his face, on the left side, was a thin white scar that zigzagged from his left eyebrow to the corner of his mouth.
The man stared impassively at DeMarco a few more seconds then his black eyes blinked slowly, a single time, and he turned his head away and raised a coffee cup to his lips. The forearm and wrist of the arm holding the cup were corded with muscle.
The waitress returned to the counter and leaned close to DeMarco, close enough for him to smell floral shampoo and bacon grease in her hair. She said coyly that she had heard a few rumors about who Billy’s daddy was, but she wasn’t the type to go spreadin’ gossip. My ass, thought DeMarco. He didn’t press her but he was puzzled by her reticence. He recalled how he’d hit a similar brick wall when he had asked the high-school vice principal questions about Billy’s sire.
DeMarco chatted with the waitress a bit longer, left an oversize tip, and started to leave when she said, “Hey, shugga. You forgot your receipt.”
“I don’t need a receipt,” he said.
“Yeah ya do,” she said, and winked as she pressed a slip of paper into his hand.
DeMarco glanced over to the table where the man with the ponytail had been seated and saw he was gone. He looked down at the receipt in his hand, read the name Cindy, the “i” dotted with a heart, and a phone number—and the words “If a man answers, hang up.”
This was a dangerous, dangerous place. He wanted to go home.
DEMARCO PARKED HIS car where he had a clear view of the Okefenokee Swamp’s ranger station. At five p.m., three rangers came out the building. DeMarco had received a description of Estep from Emma’s man Mike, and none of the rangers matched that description. Two of the rangers entered a mud-splattered Ford Explorer, the other a midsize Japanese sedan. The sedan followed the SUV out of the parking lot and DeMarco followed the sedan. Five minutes later their small caravan stopped, as he had hoped, at a local watering hole.
All three men were in their fifties with beer guts and broad butts. DeMarco had been to Yellowstone once, and these guys didn’t look like the rangers he’d seen there. They didn’t look as though they spent hours hiking through woods, blazing trails, and cutting firebreaks. They weren’t clean-cut and outdoorsy; they chain-smoked Marlboros, drank beer at an alarming rate, and made lewd remarks about the shape of the barmaid’s ass. These guys matched DeMarco’s stereotype of corrupt New York City cops: sly-eyed, apple-stealing, on-the-take beat cops like those he remembered strolling the streets of Queens casually swinging their nightsticks. Hiring criteria for swamp tenders, he concluded, didn’t match Yellowstone’s standards.
DeMarco ordered a beer and took a seat at the bar where he was close enough to eavesdrop on the rangers’ conversation. He was hoping to find an opportunity to talk to them so he could eventually turn the discussion to Dale Estep and find out what Estep had been doing in Washington. While he sat there, he thought back on the day he had just wasted.
After breakfast he’d visited the building housing Charlton County’s records and checked Billy Mattis’s birth certificate for information about his father. No daddy was listed. From there he went to property and business records, and searched for links between Taylor, Estep, Donnelly, and Mattis. After three hours he confirmed that Taylor owned just about everything in the region as Senator Maddox had told him, but the other three men were not listed as partners, lenders, or tenants.
He’d spent the afternoon at the Charlton County Herald. To his surprise, he discovered that the man with the straw boater he had seen talking to Emma was the editor. He fed the gentleman the same lie he’d told the waitress, about writing an article on Billy Mattis, and he kindly allowed DeMarco to use his ancient microfiche machine to look at back issues of the paper. The major revelation produced by his research was that Maxwell Taylor rarely made the news. Prior to 1970 there was an occasional mention of Taylor purchasing some piece of land or taking over a business, but after 1970 his name wasn’t mentioned again. This seemed unusual considering the man’s wealth and acquisitiveness. DeMarco noticed the editor of the paper had changed in 1969 and he couldn’t help but wonder if the First Amendment had not been further amended in Charlton County. Regarding Dale Estep, all he learned was that Estep had historically won every contest involving a firearm and was the current county record holder for largemouth bass.
DeMarco turned his attention back to the three beer-swilling rangers. They were now bitching about their wives, all having apparently married local harpies with sharp, nagging tongues. He was about to leave his bar stool to ask the rangers some inane question—Gee, do you guys work at that big swamp over there?—but before he could, another man in a ranger’s uniform entered the bar.
The man was also in his fifties, but unlike his co-workers there was no flesh hanging over his belt and he moved with the fluid grace of a jungle cat. He had high, hard cheekbones and deep furrows on either side of his mouth. His nose was long and straight and his hair was black with a deep widow’s peak. He reminded DeMarco of that actor/playwright, the one married to the actress, Jessica Lange.
DeMarco was sure the man was Estep and his opinion was confirmed when one of the rangers at the table said, “Yo, Dale, come over and have a brew with the hired help.” DeMarco turned on his bar stool so his face wasn’t visible to Estep.
Estep ignored the man who had spoken and said to one of the other men, “Charlie, didn’t I tell you to barricade the north access road today?”
“Yeah, Dale, but—”
“‘But’ my ass. I told you I wanted it done today, that there’s a crew comin’ in tonight, and I don’t want a buncha damn tourists going throu
gh there in the morning.”
“Dale, I was plannin’ on doing it today but we had that problem with the drains. I just didn’t get around to it.”
“So in other words, you just fuckin’ quit at five like you always do and came over here to suck down beer.”
“Well, I guess, but . . .”
DeMarco studied Estep’s reflection in the mirror as he railed at Charlie. When Mike had described Estep, he had said the man had “hunter’s eyes.” DeMarco had not understood what he meant, but now he did. Estep’s dark eyes were always moving, as if searching the brush for game, just waiting for his prey to panic and run squealing from its hiding place. There was something tangibly dangerous about Dale Estep.
“Charlie,” Estep said, “get your fat ass out of that chair. You too, Harv. You two dumb shits come with me. I’ve got the barricades and detour signs in the truck. We’re gonna go put ’em up now.”
“Ah, Dale, can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’ll get up early and—”
“Charlie, are you refusing to obey a direct order?”
“Nah, Dale, I’m just sayin’—”
“What would you do Charlie, you and your fat fuckin’ wife and your fat fuckin’ kids, if you actually had to work for a living? Do you wanna find out?”
Estep stared at Charlie until he lowered his eyes like a whipped pup, then said, “Let’s go. Both of you.”
The two men rose and started to follow Estep from the bar when the third man said, “Hey, Charlie, how am I supposed to get home? You drove today.”
Before Charlie could respond, Estep said, “Just sit there and get drunk, Junior—like you do every night. I’ll bring Charlie back in a couple of hours when the job’s done.”
After Estep and the two rangers left the bar, the one called Junior sat for a while drinking before he walked over to a pool table and began to rack the balls. DeMarco let him take a few shots then asked if he’d like to play a game.
Junior looked at DeMarco, taking in his clothes and up-north accent, and said, “You ain’t some kind of Yankee pool hustler, now are you?”
“Nah,” DeMarco said. “Just a guy who likes to play once in a while.” Actually, DeMarco was a pretty fair pool player but he had already decided to let ol’ Junior win a few games.
“Well in that case,” Junior said, “let’s make it interesting. Say two bucks a game?”
It turned out DeMarco didn’t have to let Junior win; the bastard played like Minnesota Fats. While Junior was whipping him at eight ball, DeMarco said, “Sounded like that guy wasn’t too happy with your friend Charlie.”
“Fuckin’ Dale,” Junior said. “He was up in Washington for two goddamn months sittin’ on his ass and then he comes back here and tries to work us to death.”
“Really?” DeMarco said. “I’m from D.C. What was he doing up there?”
“Nine ball, corner pocket. Oh, he was takin’ these classes the Department of Interior puts on. Environmental shit, land management, that kind of crap. Five ball, side pocket.”
“Sounds interesting. Suppose you guys are always going to school to keep up on environmental regulations and things like that.”
“Yeah, right,” the ranger said. “None of us ever gets to go to any damn schools, and this is the first time Dale’s ever gone to one. Hell, Dale hardly went to school when he was a kid. All he did was hunt. And goddamn Florida land developers care more about the environment than he does. What he did up north was sit on his ass all day and chase city tail all night. Didn’t even bring back a damn book. Rack ’em up, city boy. That’s eight bucks you owe me.”
While DeMarco was setting up the next game, he said, “You said he was a hunter. What do you hunt around here?”
“I don’t hunt nothin’, but Dale, he’ll kill anything with hide or feathers. Bastard just loves to kill things.”
“What does he hunt with? Bow and arrow? Rifle?”
“Rifle. And can that sumbitch shoot!”
“Is that right,” DeMarco said.
“Yeah, like one time we had to go out and kill this fox that had rabies and while we’re trackin’ the fox, I see this flyin’ squirrel jump from one of the trees. I like them little flyin’ squirrels. Fuckers can glide damn near a hundred yards. Anyway, I say, ‘Hey, Dale, look at that little fucker,’ and goddamn Dale raises that rifle, barely looks, and blows that squirrel right out of the sky. That sumbitch can shoot the eye of a June bug at three hundred yards. But goddamn, why kill a little flyin’ squirrel? Crazy bastard.”
DeMarco realized this line of questioning, though mildly interesting, was of little value. Colonel Moore had already confirmed that Estep was a crazy bastard who could shoot. DeMarco thought he’d see if Junior knew Billy Mattis and if maybe he could tell him who Billy’s relatives were. He was trying to think of a way to steer the conversation in that direction when he noticed the pickup with Dale and the other two rangers pull into the parking lot of the tavern. Crap. Estep had said they’d be gone two hours.
DeMarco looked at his watch, said, “Oh, shit, look at the time,” and pulled out a ten and dropped it on the pool table. He shook Junior’s hand and started to leave but Junior said, “Hey, wait up. You got some change comin’.”
“That’s okay. Gotta go,” DeMarco said.
“Nah, just hold up,” Junior said. “I got some ones in my wallet.”
Shit. Before he could get away Estep entered the bar. DeMarco took his change from Junior, shook his hand again, and told him what a pleasure it had been getting his ass kicked in four straight games.
Estep’s eyes tracked him as he walked from the bar.
32
DeMarco lay on the bed in his hotel room, a towel still damp from his shower wrapped around his waist. The air-conditioning, now working when he didn’t need it, was giving him a chill but he was too lazy to get up from the bed and turn it off.
He was speaking on the phone to a lady named Becky Townsend who worked at the Department of Interior. DeMarco had dated Becky a few times after his divorce but she could see that his heart wasn’t really in it. She liked him though, and had hopes that he would one day heal. She was more than happy to do him a favor.
DeMarco asked Becky to find out if Dale Estep had indeed registered for any classes sponsored by the Department of Interior. He told her that he also wanted to know if Estep had really attended the classes, and in particular wanted to know if he was in class the day the President was shot. He didn’t actually say “the day the President was shot”; he just gave her the date. When Becky asked why he wanted to know all this, DeMarco said he suspected Estep had misused government funds and hadn’t really gone to school.
“Crimes in low places, Becks,” he said casually. “I think this redneck may have pulled a scam on our Uncle Sammy.”
“Wow,” Becky said. “Hookey-gate.”
“Go ahead and snicker, but yours truly is diligently rootin’ out corruption in Guv’ment.” He hung up, promising her a souvenir from the Deep South—maybe a plastic statue of George Wallace in a wheelchair. Becky didn’t find that amusing.
He slipped into shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops and walked over to Emma’s room. Since their plan was not to be seen together he looked around carefully, feeling foolish as he did so, to make sure no one was watching when he knocked on Emma’s door. While DeMarco had been searching records, Emma’s job had been to look at real estate in the area. DeMarco thought such an activity would provide a lead-in to asking folks about Maxwell Taylor as he owned almost all the real estate.
Emma took her time answering the door, and after she let DeMarco in he noted she moved slowly and deliberately back to the only chair in the room. Since there was no place else to sit, DeMarco flopped down on the bed.
A baseball game was playing on the television set. This was odd as Emma had stated on more than one occasion that her idea of hell was to be strapped to a chair and condemned to watch a no-hitter for eternity.
“Who’s winning, Emma?” DeMarco asked. The Atla
nta Braves were playing the Dodgers. DeMarco disliked Ted Turner almost as much as he disliked the owner of the Orioles—he was glad Jane Fonda had left him—and he hoped LA was kicking the crap out of Turner’s Braves.
“I have no idea,” Emma said, speaking the same way she had moved earlier: slowly, precisely, deliberately. She fumbled for the television’s remote control, pushed a button, and changed the channel; she pushed another button and increased the volume to a deafening level; she finally pushed the button that turned the television off.
She was drunk, DeMarco realized. Glassy-eyed, shit-faced drunk. He had never seen Emma even the slightest bit tipsy, and here she was smashed to the eyeballs and trying not to let DeMarco see it.
“So how was your day?” DeMarco asked.
“Interesting,” she said after several beats.
“Are you going to tell me what you learned?”
Emma paused, burped silently, and said, “Excuse me. I learned what we already knew: that Taylor owns everything in the county. I stopped at three or four real estate offices to find out what was for sale, and every one of them told me the same thing: if I wanted to buy land I’d have to talk to Max Taylor. But they wouldn’t tell me squat about Taylor himself. Seems he scares the hell out of people for some reason.”
“Any connection to any of the others?”
“Nothing I could find.”
“So the day was a total bust.”
“Not quite,” she said. She reached for a water glass on the small table next to her chair and knocked it over. “Whoops,” she said. She rose with some difficulty and walked stiff-legged to the bathroom to refill the glass, bouncing one shoulder off the door frame as she entered the bathroom.
DeMarco couldn’t stand it anymore. He laughed and said, “Emma, you’re smashed! How much have you had to drink?”