I tossed the front page aside. Cash offered the Sports section, but I waved him off.
“I don’t even want to see it, not unless the Braves pulled off a trade for J. R. Richard.”
Cash glanced at the headlines, then set the section back in his lap. “Keep on dreaming,” he said.
We were sitting on the bow deck of the Cash Register, the rechristened houseboat that Cash had just acquired from one of his clients, a guy who’d been sent up the river due to a penchant for check forgery. His final payment to Cash had been the boat’s title, which, to everyone’s surprise, had turned out to be an authentic document. Cash held this notion that he’d eventually spruce up the vessel and live there like some sort of TV character, partying with all of his friends. I could relate, even though that tub was not, in any way, fit for habitation. It would have taken God, Noah, and a whole set of Time-Life repair books to bring that thing up to par.
There truly was no end to the boat’s deficiencies. Its cabin was infested with mice, the deck slick with fetid bilge water, the hull decrepit, the paint peeling, and the twenty-horsepower Evinrude flat-out dead in the water. It also gave off an odor reminiscent of the hotel Dumpster during Yuri’s Seafood Extravaganza.
I pushed myself up from the lawn chair and walked over to the railing, gazing across the line of boats docked in the marina. Labor Day had just passed, and most of the vessels were battened down for the season. They creaked and clanged against the sway of the water.
“What would you do first?” Cash asked.
I understood he was talking about the houseboat, so I turned and tried to evaluate the entire spectacle. Cash was sitting in the lawn chair while his future home slowly took on water.
“I’d probably buy some insurance and sink the damn thing.”
Cash made a face. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”
“Welcome to the team.”
I leaned back against the railing, though not before I’d tested its sturdiness. “To hell with this boat,” I said. “Are you ever gonna race again?”
Cash shrugged. He’d been dodging the question for a couple of weeks, ever since we’d gotten his Cougar back into fighting shape. His duel with Speedy had done some serious damage—to the tune of $600—and he wasn’t eager to jump back into the fray.
“That’s not exactly an answer.”
“All right, then. Here’s your answer: I don’t know.”
“What’s not to know? You own a race car, you’ve got a damn good pit man, and you’re probably the best fucking driver in hobby stock. You could be out there winning trophies if you weren’t afraid of getting a scratch on your car.”
Cash looked up from the newspaper. “Why are you trying to start this shit with me?”
“I just want to know if you’re ever going back to the track. I wouldn’t mind winning a race before I leave town.”
Cash smiled. “So how’s Little Miss Tempo doing, anyway?”
“She’s fine.”
“Where is it y’all are running off to again? Chicago?”
I reminded Cash that it was Champaign and not Chicago. His response was a grunt and a shake of the head.
“It’s cold as shit up there,” he said. “Wouldn’t be my first choice.”
“So where would you suggest we go?”
He tapped his chest, acknowledging the Philadelphia 76ers T-shirt he was wearing. It was the exact response that I’d expected.
“Yeah, like it’s fucking sunny and warm up there,” I said.
“At least they’ve got good teams.”
Cash’s affinity for the City of Brotherly Love was a fairly recent phenomenon and could be traced to the previous spring, when he drove to Philly in pursuit of a bail jumper. When he finally located his man, the guy was scalping Sixers tickets outside the Spectrum. Cash was a big Dr. J fan, and it was a play-off game against George Gervin and the Spurs, so Cash obliged himself to a couple of ducats, even taking his bounty along so he could keep an eye on him. The guy still snuck away at halftime, while Cash was at the souvenir stand loading up on T-shirts and hats. But the lost business didn’t seem to bother Cash. The experience had somehow transformed him into a Philadelphian. He started talking about moving up there and joining forces with a bondsman he’d met. He wore his Sixers stuff all the time and even pulled for the Phillies when they played the Braves. That shit got annoying. But I understood where he was coming from. Like Nick had said: Who wants to finish in last place every year?
“You think you’ll ever move up there?”
“Couple years, maybe,” Cash said.
“Why a couple years?”
“Man, I’ve got responsibilities,” he said. “Hell, I own a boat.”
I seriously doubted that Cash was going anywhere. For starters, he wasn’t one to take those kinds of chances. And unlike myself and Nick, he actually had a few good reasons to stay in Green Lake: his business, for one, plus a couple of women I’d seen him with, and yes, even the boat. His wasn’t a first-place life, but it wasn’t the cellar either. He’d always have his Philly teams to make up the difference.
Dewey finally showed up. He hadn’t seen the boat yet. He hollered out to Cash while he was still halfway down the dock.
“Arrr, matey! Let the pillaging begin.”
Cash just shook his head. “What the fuck is he talking about?”
The plank groaned when Dewey crossed it. I went to shake his hand, but he gave me a hug instead. It was the first that we’d seen of each other since I’d moved out. We’d purposely maintained a communication blackout after the cocaine incident.
I probably should have said hello, or congratulated him on getting his driver’s license back. But instead, I asked if anybody had followed him from Nick’s house.
“Why?” he asked. “Has Muskgrave been tailing you?”
“Not him, but some of his Oompahs.”
Dewey sighed. “They came in and tore up the house a couple days after Nick left, but I haven’t seen any action lately.”
I wished the same could have been said for Rachel’s apartment, but that cruiser was parked out front almost every time I needed to go somewhere. Muskgrave had to be aware of my driving habits. One of his numb nuts had even tailed me to Hillin’s house a couple of times. But he’d passed on the chance to haul me in. My guess was that Muskgrave wanted to see if I might lead him to something more valuable than my own sorry ass.
Dewey asked how I’d gotten to the marina without a Crown Vic escort.
“I walked through the woods in back of Rachel’s apartment. Cash picked me up at the 7-Eleven.”
“Just like some TV bullshit,” Cash said. “I felt like I had Wo Fats riding around with me.”
Dewey lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the slimy water on the boat deck. I was more than a little worried the sludge might be flammable.
“So, still no word from Nick?” Dewey asked.
I told him I hadn’t heard anything. “But that’s not a bad sign. Nick said he was gonna lay low for a while. He said he’d be back in touch when he got to Shreveport.”
“What about Claudia? How’s she getting along?”
“I’d say fair, at best. She’s still in town. I don’t think she’s in any hurry to get back to Charlie.”
“She still talking to Wade Briggs?” Dewey asked.
“Yeah, they talk on the phone every day. According to Wade, Chuck’s father went out and hired a good lawyer. So, Chuck’s not talking, at least not yet. He’s trying to make a deal first.”
Dewey blew out a mouthful of smoke. “I don’t have a good feeling about any of this. I think that motherfucker’s gonna hang Nick out to dry.”
Cash agreed. “They’ll use this guy Sosebee if they can. He ain’t no big deal to them. They’re hunting for the big boys.”
“Well, what about us?” Dewey asked. “You think there’s any way they can tie us in?”
“Compared to Nick, you two are sitting pretty,” Cash said.
We finally dro
pped the subject. It was hard to consider it all for more than a few minutes at a time. My thoughts always returned to Dot Knox and how I’d felt that she had gotten me all wrong. I couldn’t say that about myself anymore. Even if I slipped the noose on all of this, I still had its shit all over my shoes.
Cash treated Dewey to the grand tour. When he asked for Dewey’s opinion of the boat, Dewey made no attempt to sugarcoat the reality of the situation.
“Somebody fed you a shit sandwich, my friend.”
Cash frowned. “And held the goddamn mayonnaise.”
The sad captain walked over to his mop and started slopping the bilge water. Dewey and I retired to the rear deck before he could put us to work. We watched for a moment as a Chris-Craft worked its way out to the NO WAKE pylon, its wooden hull shining in the sun.
“I hear you’ve been doing some work for T-Bone Rex.” Dewey patted his belly. “Is he paying you by the pound, or what?”
I told him I wouldn’t exactly call it work. “All I do is make pickups for him.”
Dewey narrowed his gaze. “What kind of pickups?”
“Mostly liquor and pain pills, but some crazy shit, too. Banana cream pies, rat traps, ammunition. He paged me the other night because he wanted the Street & Smith’s college football preview. Hell, it was almost midnight. I had to drive to Atlanta to find a place that was still open.”
“I wouldn’t put up with that shit,” Dewey said, “not unless I was getting paid some big bucks.”
“Well, he’s an all-pro tipper,” I said. “There’s no doubt about that.”
“What kind of cash are we talking?”
“I got fifty bucks on a case of Michelob last week.”
Dewey whistled. “Damn.”
“Tell me about it. I can’t decide if he’s the most generous person I’ve ever met, or the craziest.”
“Well, maybe you should fix him up with Claudia. It’d be kind of nice to have a filthy-rich stepdad.”
“I don’t think so. Money or not, you could only take this guy in small doses. Besides, I think Claudia’s got a crush on Wade Briggs. The only thing she’s done since she got home is drink Smirnoff and wait for Saturday night to roll around. That’s when she goes over to the fish camp to get her weekly dose of the singing deputy.”
“Sounds like a vicious circus,” Dewey said.
“I think you mean a circle.”
“Whatever,” he said, “it’s vicious.”
And the circus wasn’t pulling up stakes anytime soon. Claudia had been ignoring Charlie’s pleas to come back to Jacksonville. She even lied and told him the house was infested with termites. When Charlie sent over an exterminator to take a look, she told Charlie that I’d gotten into more trouble with the police and needed her help.
I had to take offense at that one.
“Well, it’s believable.” She smiled in a sly way. “And Charlie didn’t bat an eye. He even offered to send me some extra money in case you needed a lawyer.”
“You didn’t take it, did you?”
“Well, of course I did.” She laughed.
I’d stopped by the house after a Hillin run (Percocet, nail clippers, and peanut M&M’s), and now she and I sat at the kitchen table trying to be civil to each other. It was not a problem that we’d ever encountered in the past.
“I can’t believe you’re talking shit about me.”
“Relax,” she said, “it’s just Charlie.”
She was sipping Smirnoff and Tropicana from a coffee mug, as if the vessel might convince someone that a screwdriver was the sort of thing you should be drinking at eleven o’clock in the morning. The radio in the window was playing “Good Hearted Woman.”
“Are you going through the change?” I asked.
The question caught her in midsip. She snorted and set the mug down hard on the table. “What’s that suppose to mean?”
“It’s just something I saw in one of Rachel’s Cosmo magazines. Menopause.”
She waved her hand through the air and laughed.
“Well, this article said it could cause some emotional—”
“Luke, this is not a subject I’m going to discuss with my sixteen-year-old son. Now if you want to know my opinion, I think that maybe you should stick to looking at the busty women on the cover and not worry about the articles.”
She had a point. One minute I’d been gazing at Adrienne Barbeau’s rack, the next I was reading about hot flashes. It wasn’t right.
“Either way,” I told her, “you oughta think about cutting down on the screwdrivers a little. Charlie’s turned you into a booze hound.”
She was standing up now, checking her reflection in the oven window. She was already dressed in her singing clothes, the jeans and the Western shirt, even though the fish camp didn’t open for another six hours.
She turned around slowly and fixed me with a somewhat sober gaze. “I know what you’re saying. And believe me, I appreciate the concern.”
“I’m not trying to be an asshole,” I told her. “You just don’t seem yourself lately.”
She tried to smile in a reassuring way. “It’s hard to explain. So much has happened since last spring, I’ve just kind of let it all get away from me. I think maybe it happens to everybody at some point or another. I don’t see how it couldn’t, anyway.”
“Is it because I got in trouble?”
“No, of course not. It’s not that at all. And I don’t want you thinking that, either. You’re nobody’s burden. Do you understand?”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
“Besides,” she said, “this right here is the first time anybody’s ever acted concerned about me. Even since I was a little kid. So, how could I be mad at you?”
“I was just saying you might want to ease up on the Smirnoff a little.”
“I’ll be okay,” she said.
She finally turned the tables and asked me about school. It was a question I’d been expecting. I decided to lay it out for her in the simplest and most direct way.
“I quit.”
Her shoulders sagged like another burden had just fallen upon them.
“Oh, Luke.” She said it like she felt sorry for me.
“It’s all right,” I told her. “I’m planning to get my GED eventually.”
She left her cup on the counter and sat back down at the table. She seemed puzzled by something, but then she smiled.
“I never liked it either,” she said. “And Nick was the same way, always cutting classes and getting caught. I don’t think anybody in our family is cut out for a routine like that.”
We sat there for the longest time without even saying a word. Even when the phone started ringing—and we both knew it was probably Wade—we still sat there a few seconds longer. I suppose she was thinking the same thing as me: Just what the hell was a Fulmer cut out for?
28
The Peugeot came back better than before, but our escape plan was in jeopardy. The longer the whole Sosebee affair dragged on, the less confident I felt that I’d ever see Champaign.
I began to have trouble sleeping, and even when I made it to dreamland, the cops would burst into Rachel’s apartment and roust me from the sofa, Muskgrave leading the charge.
“We know you’ve got the cocaine, Fulmer. Now where is it?”
I’d try to protest, but I couldn’t even speak. My tongue, arms, and legs were pure liquid. And then one of Muskgrave’s guys would unscrew the back of the TV, releasing an avalanche of cocaine bricks. The same story when they opened the closet doors, the kitchen cabinets, and the refrigerator door. Muskgrave would flash his Pepsodent smile, and then Dot Knox would walk into the living room with those big scissors of hers. That’s when I’d realize I wasn’t wearing any pants. I couldn’t run or scream or do anything.
Most nights, I’d check the window every hour or so, just to see if there was a cruiser out in the lot. Some nights, it was there. Some, it wasn’t. There was no pattern, no rhyme or reason. It was hard to
figure what Muskgrave was thinking, or more important, what he did or did not know.
Hillin paged me one evening, in need of hemorrhoid cream and Raisin Bran. It was around midnight, and the coast was clear, so I hopped in the hearse and started the motor. He’d allowed me to keep the death wagon even after Rachel’s Peugeot had been fixed, just so I’d have a vehicle to make his pickups.
When I stepped inside the log mansion, Hillin was perched in his La-Z-Boy, reading the Sports page. As always, the Panasonic TV was blaring. Wayne Newton was singing a Barry Manilow song on the Tonight Show.
I set Hillin’s stuff beside his chair. He noticed and started to fish through his pocket for some cash. “Did they have the Prep H?”
“Yep, the tube says it’s good for burning and itching.”
“To hell with the burning,” Hillin said. “It’s the goddamn itching that’s driving me crazy.”
He spotted me a crumpled fifty, then raised the Sports page and went back to reading about his beloved Georgia Bulldogs. I headed for the door, but then Hillin started bitching about the Dawgs’ 0-and-2 start on the gridiron season.
“Goddamn that Dooley,” he said. “All he wants to do is run, run, run. He ain’t ever gonna win a national championship playing that kind of ball.”
I already had the doorknob in my hand. But Hillin was gazing over his shoulder at me, waiting to hear my opinion on the crucial matter. I searched for a reply that might hasten my exit.
“Maybe he just needs a really good tailback.”
Hillin snorted and waved me away like I was a fool. “Good luck finding one who’s that fucking good.”
The police car was sitting in front of the apartments when I got back. Something about its presence unnerved me even more than usual that night. I lay on Rachel’s sofa and tried to watch a table tennis match on some new all-sports station. But the quiet started to agitate me, so I switched off the TV and tiptoed back to Rachel’s room. I stood there in the dark for a long time, just watching her breathe. I couldn’t help remembering what she’d told me, how when things are going so well, you have to be on guard for the worst.
I took Brute out for his predawn dump. The cruiser was gone by that time, so I eased my nerves with a joint as we walked through the apartment complex, watching the smoke coil in the cool morning air.
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