I wrote a small article for The Rocket, a few reviews for Alternative Press and something for B-Side. It wasn’t much, but it kept the bank account ticking over. Carson Mack disappeared to the back of my mind. I was done with that story.
The phone rang a little after nine one morning. Rain trickled down the windows in narrow rivulets. Ian had finished breakfast and was playing on a mat in the living room, moving cars around. Soon enough he’d become bored and I’d need to find something else to capture his attention. We’d just gone through one tantrum as he ate his toast and my eardrums were already weary. How could people enjoy having two or three children?
“Hello?” I said.
“Is this Laura Benton?”
“Yeah,” I answered hesitantly. I seemed to have heard that voice somewhere before but I couldn’t place it.
“This is Jim Clark.” For a moment I blanked. Then I realized: of course, James David Clark, Carson’s grandson.
“Hi, Jim. What’s up?”
“It’s my grandfather.” He sounded serious, his voice tense and wound up tight. “Someone shot him last night.”
“What?” For a moment I couldn’t believe what he’d just told me. “Is he…?” I didn’t want to say the word. I liked Carson and I didn’t want him dead, like his son.
“He’s going to be okay,” Jim assured me. “It just went through his thigh. He’s in Providence, up in Everett. They’re going to let him out today. He asked me to call and let you know.”
“Everett? What the hell was he doing up there?” But as soon as I said the words, I knew why. Carson had gone searching for his son’s killer. He hadn’t employed a private detective; he’d decided to do the job himself. From the sound of it, he’d come close to finding him. “What happened, exactly?”
“He wants to tell you himself,” Jim replied, after a moment’s awkward hesitation. “He said he’ll be home later, if you want to stop by. I’m going to pick him up in a while.”
I weighed my words very carefully before answering. If I went along, I was in deeper. But Carson had been shot, and he was a friend. How could I stay away?
“Yeah, of course I will. It’ll have to be tonight, though. He’s really going to be okay?”
“That’s what he said. But I haven’t seen him yet.”
“The two of you have gotten pretty close?” I asked.
“I’ve been over to his place a few times and he came and met my mom. So yeah, I guess we have,” he said happily. “He’s a great guy. It’s just weird discovering someone that you’d always been told didn’t exist.”
“I bet. And the pair of you have music in common.”
“Yeah. I got to tell you, I was scared when he called me from the hospital. He’d decided to find out about my dad’s death.”
“I figured that.”
“I’m going to tell him that he needs to stop. It’s not like my father was even any good. From everything my mom told me, he always had little scams going even when he was supposed to be working. But he never really had a regular job. He’d just go off for days on a card game or a bender. Didn’t tell her where he was headed.”
I glanced over at Ian, absorbed in moving a toy car back and forth. “Yeah, but he was still Carson’s son. I can understand why he’d want to know.”
“You know the only thing my dad left me?” Jim asked
“What?”
“A guitar.”
“He played?” The idea surprised me, but perhaps it shouldn’t. It was probably there in his genes.
“I don’t know. I never heard him play but I never really saw him, either. My mom said he never owned one when they were together. After he died I went over to his place and it was just there in his closet. But it’s a cool instrument. A Gibson J200.” Those were expensive. So at some point the man had some money to spare. Or perhaps he’d simply stolen the guitar. “You know the fret markers? They’re usually mother-of-pearl?”
“Yes.”
“These ones are blue. I don’t know what stuff it is. Plastic, maybe. But they shine and there’s some inlay like that around the soundhole as well.”
“Sounds pretty impressive,” I told him. It did, too, unlike any other instrument I’d seen. It had to be custom-made. “Have you shown it to your grandfather yet?”
“Not yet. It was in this ratty old case. I tossed that and bought a new one. But you know the really weird thing?”
“What?”
“There was a thousand dollars stashed in the lining of the old case.” He sounded as if he still didn’t quite believe it.
“You got lucky,” I said. At least he’d finally gotten something from his father. “You should take the guitar over with you sometime. If Carson’s not too mobile, he’d probably appreciate the company and the music.” There was no response. I let the silence hang for a few moments, then said, “Tell him I’ll be over this evening, okay?”
“Sure.”
“And thanks for letting me know.”
The rest of the day passed slowly. Ian had three more tantrums, each worse than the last. Then he woke from his nap screaming, as if all the devils of hell were after him. I didn’t know what could have been so terrifying. All I could do was hold him close and rub his back. The tears subsided into hiccups and finally to peaceful silence. I’d had enough, so I sat him in front of the television and let that entertain him while I looked for some sanity in cooking. Dinner for us and a casserole to take over to Carson. Dustin would be back about five; I’d go over to Beach Drive after we ate. I wanted to know what had happened, and, like Jim, urge him to stop.
“You’ve got that look on your face,” Dustin told me over dinner.
“What look?” I asked in surprise.
“The saving-someone look.”
“I do not. Shit.” I glanced at Ian but he hadn’t noticed. I’d tried to tone down my language ever since he was born. “Look, I’m just going to make sure Carson’s okay and try to stop him from going back and getting himself shot again.”
“You just want to know what happened.” Dustin was smiling, his eyes twinkling.
“Of course I do,” I admitted. I wanted to know what Carson had discovered, and how he’d ended up with a bullet wound.
“The bet we made still stands. You’ll end up looking for the killer.” He was grinning, but I could see the worry flickering behind his eyes.
“Nope,” I replied firmly. “I mean it, Dustin. You don’t know what I went through back then.”
“We’ll see,” was all he’d say. I didn’t want to discuss it further; there was nothing to talk about. And, after my day with Ian, I just needed to be out of there. Away from the house, away from my son, no matter how much I loved him.
“And just for that, you can do the dishes and put Ian to bed.” I stuck my tongue out at him. “Right, I’m gone.”
The path down to Carson’s house was covered in moss and slippery after the rain. I wondered how he’d managed it with an injured leg. But there he was, yelling at me to come in as I knocked on the battered screen door.
He was wearing sweatpants and a paint-spattered old sweater, his left leg extended, and a stick by one side of his chair. The big difference was in his face. He looked sallow and drawn. The stubble on his cheeks showed white against his skin, and the lines around his eyes and mouth could have been chiseled into his flesh. The scar on his cheek now stood out sharply. I knew he was sixty, but right now he looked a good ten years older than that. It was as if all the energy had drained out of him. Rode hard and put up wet, as my father used to say.
“I brought you some food,” I said, trying to make my voice sound bright as I held out the casserole. “I’ll put it in the refrigerator. Just nuke it when you’re hungry.”
He didn’t move as I walked past him. There was a glass of bourbon on the table beside him, half empty, and a bottle of Maker’s Mark, along with the pack of Marlboros and an ashtray holding five crushed butts.
“You want to talk about it?” I asked as I sat do
wn.
“Got my ass shot,” he said with a shrug. He sounded hoarse, his voice like gravel. So that was how he wanted to play it: John Wayne stoic.
“No shit,” I said, and that seemed to mellow him a little. “But your grandson said it’s not too serious.”
“In and out the meat of the thigh, they said. Just a flesh wound.” He gave a small laugh. “You remember when they used to say that in the Westerns? The hero would just tie a rag around it and carry on?” Carson looked at me. “Don’t believe a word. It hurts like a motherfucker.”
“Who shot you?” That was the big question
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see him. That’s what I told the cops up there, too. But I don’t think they believed me.”
“Why the hell were you even looking into who killed your son? Why didn’t you hire someone?”
“I checked into private detectives, and I don’t have the money they’re charging. Not if they’re going to do it right. So I decided to do the job myself. I’m his daddy, and I owe him that. It’s the only thing I can still do for him.”
I shook my head at his stupidity. “You must have been making progress if someone bothered to shoot you.”
“Got further than I thought, I guess,” he said wryly. “Goddammit, all I did was ask some questions.”
“You must have been asking the right ones, then. So, you found out more than you expected.” I wasn’t going to let him off the hook too easily. There’d be sympathy, but I wanted him to realize how dumb he’d been. And the frustrations of my day needed an outlet, anyway. He just happened to be on the receiving end.
“Yeah, I spent last night in a hospital bed figuring out what a lucky bastard I am. I got a hole in my leg. It could have been in my head.”
“For Christ’s sake, Carson, what did you think you were doing? You’re not the Lone Ranger. What were you going to do if you found the guy, anyway?”
He shrugged and winced as fresh pain spasmed through him.
“Seems to me that all I found was a whole load of nothing. I trailed around pretty much every bar up in Everett, asking if anyone had known my son. I ended up in a place down by Hewitt and Hoyt. A couple of the guys there remembered him.”
“What did they tell you?”
“Pretty much what I already knew, that his family was better off without him.” He shook his head. “The truth is that my son was a low life. He drank a lot, didn’t care who he stole from.”
“Maybe he stole from someone he shouldn’t.”
“You could say people shouldn’t steal from anybody,” Carson pointed out. “That’s what’s it says there in the Bible. But yeah, that’s what I thought. Basically, my son sounds like he was a stupid fuck. It’s not good to learn that about your own kin.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “I can see that.”
“Doesn’t mean whoever killed him shouldn’t be punished, though.” He looked me in the eye. “Maybe especially now.”
“Let it go, Carson,” I said. “You just agreed you were lucky. Next time you could be dead. You had a lesson and got off lightly. Look at it this way: You’ve got a gig to play. You’ve got bands covering your material. You could have a whole new career.” I said it with a smile but I tried to put some iron behind my words. “I’m sorry your son’s dead, but whatever you do now won’t change that fact. And maybe it’s better left alone.”
“Then you find out for me.”
“When people are shooting?” I asked, shaking my head. “No. Simple as that. No.”
“All you need to do is ask a few questions. And down here, not up in Everett.”
I was confused. “I thought that was where your son lived.”
“Yeah, but he was killed in Seattle.”
“The cops will have already followed up any leads. It was four years ago. You read the reports in the papers for yourself.”
“I got a couple names from the people I talked to.”
“Carson…” I warned.
“I’d go myself, but I can’t. Not until my leg’s healed.”
He was playing me. We both knew it.
“No. I mean it.”
“Okay.”
I made sure everything he’d need was in easy reach, and gave him a hug before I left. He smelled of tobacco, booze and antiseptic. I didn’t believe him. He’d given in too easily. He’d be back, asking me again. And he’d get the same refusal.
In the car I inserted a cassette of Carson’s second album and pressed play. I’d found the LP at the St. Vincent de Paul in White Center, and taped it. It came from the early Seventies, a time when the lush country-politan sound was still big in Nashville, before raw outlaw country tried to take back the music. Strings swept over everything, making even the harshest song into something saccharine. All the roughness in the voice, the thing that gave it character, had been smoothed out. It was bland. A few years ago I’d have thrown it in the trash, but now I knew the guy, I listened. I still didn’t like the album but Carson could certainly write a song. And he knew how to turn a phrase to bring something alive. I could understand how someone might listen closely, see the beauty under the dross and decide to cover it. Whatever they did would be an improvement. “Idaho Sweetheart” came on, one of his big hits. Now that I knew Carson’s history, the lyrics made sense. The song had been all over AM radio back in ’72. Hearing it, I recognized it instantly. It took me back to driving with my dad in his big old Delta 88, sitting at the other end of the bench seat with my hand hanging out the window as we crossed the Aurora Bridge.
Then I was home. Dustin sat in the living room, watching a sitcom. He raised his eyebrows as I walked in.
“Well?” he asked. “Have you agreed to anything yet?”
“No!” I told him. “And I’m not going to.”
It must have been something in my tone. He stared at me, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what to think. A trace of anger, resentment, sadness? It was hard to tell.
“Just don’t get yourself into anything you can’t get out of,” he said finally. Then he reached out and took my hand. “I know you, Laura. Even if you don’t want to do it, you will in the end. That’s all I’m saying. Help the guy if you want, but make sure you keep yourself safe, okay? Nothing dangerous. It’s not just you anymore.”
“I know. But I’m not going to do it. Jesus, the guy just got shot. I don’t want to be anywhere close to that.”
“Has he asked you?”
I nodded. “He wants me to talk to a couple people down here.”
Dustin shook his head, as if it was what he’d expected. “Are you going to do it?”
I flopped down next to him and let out a long sigh as I leaned against him, hearing the steady beat of his heart.
“He just wants to find out about his son.”
“I know.”
“It’s not my family, and I’m better off not knowing about it.”
“But?”
“Why would there be a but in there?”
“I can see it on your face. You don’t want to do it but you’re torn.”
I sat up quickly. “I thought you’d be glad I didn’t want to be involved.”
“I am.”
“Then quit trying to push me toward it.” I could feel my temper flaring.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not. Really.”
“It sounds like it.”
“It’s just…” He sighed, trying to find the words. “The last few days, I can tell you’ve been unhappy. I thought it was with me.”
“No.”
“I figured that out after a while. But it’s because you don’t have anything to keep you busy.”
I opened my mouth to say that Ian kept me busy. But I stayed quiet. He was right.
“I know you don’t want to risk anything. I don’t want you to. All I’m saying is that if you do decide you want to do it, I’ll be behind you. And it seems to me like there’s a tiny little part of you that’s interested.
“Maybe,” I admitte
d. I’d thought about it on the way home, as Carson serenaded me through the speakers. The writer in me wanted to know what had happened. Or maybe it was a desire to let him put it behind him and start the second chapter in his career. And, whether I liked it or not, I really was involved.
“Think about it. The only thing I’ll ask is that you don’t put yourself in any danger.”
“I never would.” I felt the shadow of the past slide over me. “Not again.”
“Then that’s good. But if you decide you want to do a bit more, it’s okay.” He paused for a heartbeat. “It’ll still cost you the five bucks, though.”
I laughed. “Figures. What if I welch?”
“I’ll take it out in trade.” He winked. “Seriously, I can take a day or two off work,” Dustin offered. “There’s not much happening, anyway, at least until the Montana trip next week.”
I’d forgotten that was coming up. Four times a year he had to go into Idaho and Montana to catch up with his accounts there. He scheduled the trips from spring through fall, avoiding the snow and bad roads over the passes. For me it meant a few days of just me and Ian, with no one else to pick up the strain. I could cope, but the days and nights would feel very long.
“You’re sure there’ll be no problem taking time off?”
“Positive. I’ve got plenty coming. The boss won’t mind. He’d rather I took the time owing than have to pay me, anyway. And I might not be there much longer.”
“The guy from Elliott Bay called?”
“Uh-huh. He wanted to check I was still interested before he brought it up with the rest of the board. I told him I was.”
West Seattle Blues Page 6