The Inside Ring

by Mike Lawson

  DeMarco stared into the deputy’s mirrored sunglasses. “Give me a minute to change clothes. I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  34

  DeMarco followed the deputy’s car up a long gravel driveway and parked in the shade of a weeping willow next to two late-model pickup trucks. Considering what he knew about Taylor’s income and his influence in the region, the man’s home was a surprise. DeMarco had been expecting a mansion, but Taylor’s house was a simple two-story white house with green shutters and green trim. It was large and handsome and well made but no grander than several other homes DeMarco had seen in the area.

  A swing was creaking on the broad front porch and the screen door at the main entrance was banging gently in time to a slight, much welcome breeze. The deputy rapped lightly on the screen door and a large black woman wearing a white apron over a black housedress appeared.

  “Why how you doin’, Deputy Pat?” she said. “You here to see Mr. Taylor?”

  “No, Tilly, but this fella is. Mr. Taylor asked me to bring him by.”

  Tilly nodded at DeMarco. “If you’ll just wait here a minute, mister, I’ll go tell Mr. Taylor you’re here. What’s your name?”

  “Joe DeMarco.”

  “I’ll be right back, Mr. DeMarco.”

  After the maid left, the deputy tipped his hat to DeMarco. “I’ll be seein’ you around, partner,” he said. It sounded like a threat.

  DeMarco fidgeted on the front porch until the maid returned. He wasn’t sure what approach he should take with Taylor: go straight at him or beat around the bush. The maid returned to the front door before he had made up his mind.

  “You go on down the hall to the first door on the right,” she said. “Mr. Taylor’s there in his office.”

  Entering the room, DeMarco saw a young woman and an older man he assumed was Taylor standing together next to a large hand-painted wooden globe. The globe was three feet in diameter and rested in a mahogany floor stand. With one hand the man was pointing at a spot on the globe saying, “You see, Honey, that’s where they all came from.” His other hand rested lightly on the woman’s hip.

  Voluptuous. It was the first word that came to DeMarco’s mind. She was the most voluptuous woman he had ever seen. She was barefoot and wearing a light cotton dress that revealed more than it hid. The material barely contained her full breasts and wide hips, and you could see the dark outline of large nipples and the shape of strong thighs through the thin material. The top three buttons of the dress were undone showing a natural cleavage not requiring a bra for accent or support. Her legs and arms were tanned to the perfect shade of gold that was promised on the Coppertone bottle, and tousled blond hair hung to her shoulder blades. The hair framed a flawless face with perfect features, and one absolutely devoid of any sign of intelligence. She was Daisy Mae, a Southern breeding machine—and she was no more than fifteen years old.

  DeMarco finally tore his eyes away from the girl and was embarrassed to find Taylor studying him. DeMarco could tell Taylor was amused by his reaction to the girl.

  Taylor was in his sixties. He was tall, six three or six four, with a lanky, muscular frame. He was wearing new work boots, jeans, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a gaunt face, with deep furrows on either side of his mouth. His hair was full and white, and beneath bushy white eyebrows were deep-set dark eyes that glowed with the stern intensity of a country preacher’s sermon. Standing next to the blond child-woman, all Taylor needed was a flowing white beard to resemble a harsh God who had evicted Adam from the garden while keeping Eve for Himself.

  Taylor left the girl by the globe and walked over to a large desk made from the same wood as the globe stand. The girl glanced at DeMarco then ignored him, and began spinning the globe as if it were a large toy top. She seemed mesmerized by the blending colors as the world swirled beneath her slim fingers.

  “Take a seat,” Taylor said, pointing DeMarco to a chair in front of the desk. It was an order, not a polite offering. To the girl he said, “Honey, be a little darlin’ and go fetch Morgan.” The girl acted as though she hadn’t heard him and continued to turn the globe.

  “Honey, I’m talkin’ to you,” Taylor said.

  Without looking at him, she said, “Don’t like Morgan, Uncle Max.”

  Uncle Max? She was his niece?

  Taylor smiled slightly, either amused by her childish pout or by her attitude toward this person Morgan. “Morgan won’t bother you, Honey. Now get a move on it.” He spoke softly but his impatience was beginning to show. Taylor was a man used to having his orders obeyed instantly.

  The girl looked at the spinning globe a final time and reluctantly turned away from it. Taylor’s eyes followed her, enjoying the motion of her full hips and the play of muscles in her bare calves as she walked slowly from the room. His lust was transparent, and considering the girl’s age, sickening.

  Whatever pleasant thoughts he had been having disappeared when he looked back at DeMarco. “Bob Storch over at the newspaper said you were askin’ about me. I thought I’d better see what you’re up to.”

  All DeMarco had done was ask the newspaper editor if he knew Taylor—the editor had said no—but that one question had apparently been reason enough for the editor to alert Taylor. The man had an early-warning system better than NORAD.

  “I’m a writer, Mr. Taylor. I freelance for magazines. I read about Billy Mattis, how he lived his life, how he died, and I thought he’d be a good subject for an article. I’m here doing research.”

  “You got identification?” Taylor demanded.

  Shit. DeMarco took out his driver’s license and handed it to Taylor. Taylor looked at it, then took a pen from his desk and wrote down the information from DeMarco’s license.

  “Go on,” Taylor said.

  “That’s it. I’m just a guy doing some research for a story.”

  Taylor was still holding DeMarco’s license. He stared at DeMarco as he tapped the laminated card on the surface of his desk. “So why were you askin’ about me?”

  “Did you know Billy Mattis, Mr. Taylor?”

  Annoyance flared in Taylor’s eyes and he opened his mouth to snap out an angry response; DeMarco was asking questions instead of answering them. But then Taylor restrained himself, the effort noticeable, and his lips twitched in an insincere half smile.

  “Sure I knew him. I’ve lived here all my life and know damn near everyone in the county. If memory serves, Billy was a hell of a shortstop for the high-school team. Probably could have gone to college on a scholarship but he decided to go into the military. Now answer the question I asked you. Why are you askin’ around about me?”

  DeMarco shrugged. “Your name just came up. Somebody said they thought you and Billy were related.”

  “Who told you that?” Taylor said, his eyes blazing.

  “I don’t really recall, Mr. Taylor. It may have been Billy’s wife.”

  “You talked to Billy’s wife?”

  “Sure,” DeMarco said. “So is it true that you and Billy are related?”

  “No it’s not true and I don’t appreciate you asking questions about me behind my back, mister.”

  “Mr. Taylor, I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about. I’m just trying to write a nice piece about a local hero. I would think—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you think. My experience is you damn journalists never have anything good to say about anybody. But we’re gettin’ off the point here. I don’t like strangers asking questions about me. I won’t put up with . . .”

  Taylor stopped speaking and looked over DeMarco’s head. At the same time DeMarco heard the sound of a boot scraping the hardwood floor behind him. He turned to see who was there and saw the man from the diner, the one with the ponytail and the lightning scar on his cheek. He was wearing scuffed cowboy boots, black jeans, and a gray sleeveless T-shirt that showed off a weight lifter’s hard biceps. He looked at DeMarco just as he had that first time in the diner—his face expr
essionless, his eyes unemotional yet intimidating.

  DeMarco exercised. He was in relatively good shape and the man standing behind him was only slightly taller than him and at most twenty pounds heavier. Yet DeMarco had the same feeling he had when he once shook hands with the starting middle linebacker for the Washington Redskins. The linebacker hadn’t been much taller or heavier than DeMarco either, but DeMarco had known immediately that the linebacker was of a stronger, more violent species, one which would rule the earth if it came down to unarmed combat.

  DeMarco looked back at Taylor. Taylor could see that DeMarco didn’t like having Morgan at his back and his lips twisted into a thin smile with all the warmth of a winter’s eve. “This fella’s from Washington, D.C., Morgan,” Taylor said, speaking to Morgan but looking at DeMarco. “Says he’s a writer. He thinks that gives him the right to go around asking questions about people behind their—”

  “Mr. Taylor, I wasn’t—”

  “Shut up,” Taylor said. “Don’t ever interrupt me when I’m talking.”

  There was an arrogance about Taylor that was palpable. It was the kind of arrogance DeMarco had observed all too often in powerful politicians: men so accustomed to being catered to, so confident of their authority, so used to unquestioning obedience, that they come to believe they are untouchable.

  “You need to understand something, mister,” Taylor said. “You’re not in Washington goddamn D.C. right now, and I won’t tolerate you sneakin’ around this community.”

  DeMarco guessed a real writer would go into First Amendment orbit at this point, explaining he had the right to do anything he damn well pleased.

  “You won’t tolerate it?” DeMarco said.

  “That’s right. I won’t. In fact, I think you better leave town tomorrow. That would be the smart thing for you to do.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Taylor?” DeMarco said. Talk about a dumb question.

  Taylor smiled at him; his teeth were like small tombstones.

  “Can I have my driver’s license back?” DeMarco said.

  Taylor tossed it to him.

  DeMarco rose from the chair and turned to leave the room but Morgan was blocking his exit. He didn’t budge when DeMarco said, “Excuse me.” He just stood there, staring impassively into DeMarco’s eyes, the same way he had stared at DeMarco in the diner. DeMarco apparently wasn’t leaving until Taylor dismissed him.

  DeMarco didn’t scare easily but Morgan . . . he raised the short hairs on his neck. DeMarco sensed that there wasn’t anything inside the man.

  DeMarco turned back to face Taylor. Taylor’s dark eyes were shining with satisfaction. He had made his point. DeMarco was on his turf, playing by his rules. The sheriff’s office was a limousine service that brought people to him. This was not, as he had said, Washington goddamn D.C.

  “I want you out of Charlton County tomorrow,” Taylor said. “Do you understand?”

  DeMarco nodded.

  “Let him by, Morgan,” Taylor said.

  Morgan let DeMarco squeeze by. He executed the move like a boxer circling an opponent, shuffling slightly to his right, his hands ready, his eyes locked onto DeMarco’s.

  DEMARCO PULLED HIS rented Mustang out of Taylor’s driveway and then stopped at the side of the road. The sky looked threatening and he decided to put up the convertible’s top in case it started to rain. He latched down the top and was about to start the car again when he looked over at Taylor’s house and saw the girl, Honey. She had just come out the front door and was taking a seat in the porch swing.

  She put her legs up on the porch railing and with the short dress she was wearing, her shapely, tanned legs were exposed to the tops of her thighs. DeMarco stared a minute, then shook his head in self-disgust. She was a teenager; you had to draw the line somewhere. He began to turn the key in the ignition when he saw Morgan walk around the side of the house. Morgan also saw the girl sitting on the porch.

  Morgan moved slowly toward the girl, placing his feet carefully so as not to make any noise. He reminded DeMarco of a panther closing in on its prey. Morgan stopped less than three feet from her, his body hidden by a large rhododendron, then he stood there, still as a statue, and stared at the girl. They stayed that way for a few minutes—DeMarco watching Morgan, Morgan watching the girl—then the girl sensed Morgan’s presence. She jumped up from the swing, pointed a child’s accusing finger at Morgan, and ran into the house. Morgan didn’t move after the girl left, but continued to stand motionless, almost invisible in the shadows and foliage surrounding the porch.

  He was still standing there when DeMarco drove away.

  35

  Emma was not in her room, she didn’t answer her cell phone, and she had left no messages for DeMarco. She should have returned from visiting Hattie McCormack hours ago. Where the hell was she?

  Since Emma wasn’t available to discuss strategy, he called Becky, his friend at the Department of Interior, to see if she had completed her homework assignment. She had. She confirmed what DeMarco had suspected: that Estep had been registered for a series of classes sponsored by the Department of Interior and his attendance in class had been sporadic. However, since this was voluntary adult education, no one took roll call or kept track of the days he had missed. Regarding the day DeMarco cared most about, Becky hadn’t been able to confirm if Estep had been there or not. Once again, no hard data; just another bit of inconclusive circumstantial evidence further indicating that Estep could have been involved in the shooting as DeMarco suspected.

  Becky finished telling him what she had discovered about Estep then launched into a breathless account of her day battling political villains on Capitol Hill. DeMarco envied her optimism. He wondered, with a twinge of self-pity, what had happened to his own optimism. He didn’t want the call to end but before long she claimed to have some power broker blinking on her other line.

  By six p.m. DeMarco’s annoyance at Emma’s absence had changed to concern. He called the operator to obtain a phone number and address for Hattie McCormack. She was unlisted. Next he called the local hospital to see if anyone fitting Emma’s description had been admitted and fortunately drew a blank.

  Not knowing what to do next, he decided to get something to eat. He left the motel and drove around until he found a restaurant that was almost empty. He wanted to think and he didn’t want to be surrounded by people. He went into the restaurant and took a seat at the bar in the lounge.

  Before his butt hit the bar stool, the bartender came rushing over to serve him.

  “What can I get for ya, podna,” the bartender said. He was a scrawny old guy who hopped around behind the bar like an organ-grinder’s monkey, baring stained teeth obsequiously in his desire to please. He was nattily dressed in a white shirt with a Western string tie and blue jeans—Georgia black-tie apparel, DeMarco opined in his sour mood.

  “A draft beer and a cheeseburger, please.”

  “You betcha.”

  While waiting for his dinner he used his cell phone to call the motel. Emma still wasn’t back. He thought a moment and dialed the number of a guy he knew who worked at the IRS. The guy owed him. DeMarco cajoled, pleaded, and finally had to bribe his friend with a case of Canadian beer before he agreed to go back to his office and look up the address on Hattie McCormack’s tax returns. DeMarco wasn’t sure a woman who made her own booze paid taxes, but it was the only way he could think of to get her address.

  The bartender brought his beer. As he sipped it, he thought back on his meeting with Taylor. Taylor could have schmoozed him, been nice and friendly, and answered his questions with glib lies. Was he related to Billy? No, just an old family friend. There was no reason for Taylor to get high-handed with him. DeMarco concluded that Taylor couldn’t even pretend to be humble if it was in his own best interest.

  The bartender asked if DeMarco wanted a refill.

  DeMarco knew no one would talk to him about Taylor, but maybe he could find out something more about Morgan or Estep.

>   “Sure,” DeMarco said, “and pour one for yourself. You know what they say: you start drinking alone, you gotta go to those meetings.”

  Although there was no one else in the bar, the bartender looked around, checking to make sure he wouldn’t be caught nipping on the job. “Well, maybe I’ll just have a wee one to be sociable.” He poured three fingers of Jack Daniel’s.

  “I saw a guy today.” DeMarco said. “Looked Indian. Had a ponytail and this scar.” DeMarco traced a scar with his finger from his left eye to his mouth. “Got any idea who he is?”

  “Why you askin’?” the bartender said, suddenly less sociable.

  “He just looked familiar. The way he was built, I wondered if he used to play ball or something.”

  The bartender showed his teeth. “Play ball, that’s a good one.”

  “So you know him?”

  “Oh, yeah. His name’s Morgan, but if he played any ball it was on a jailhouse team.”

  “Jail?”

  “Yeah, he did a little time. Was raised wrong, I guess you’d say.”

  “Is that right,” DeMarco said.

  “Don’t know who his father was, but his mother was crazy as a bedbug.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She just was, livin’ out there on the edge of the swamp in a shack with no ’lectricity. She’d come into town every once in a while to get supplies and she’d walk down the street mutterin’ to herself, lookin’ at people all odd. She was scary. She’d bring Morgan into town with her when he was young and he was always filthy. She treated him like an animal.”

  “Didn’t he go to school?”

  “Not till his teens. One day he showed up in Folkston by himself. Someone asked him where his mother was and the only thing he’d say was that she was gone. That’s all, just gone. The sheriff went out to where they lived to look for her but she’d disappeared like Morgan said. No one knows what happened to her.”