by Matt Hilton
‘I never met her supposed attacker,’ Margaret pointed out. ‘Never spoke to him. But I knew what Jasmine was capable of. Always warned her that lies would take her down a dark route one day.’
‘Being stabbed wasn’t dark enough for you?’
Margaret rubbed out the smouldering stub in the ashtray. Immediately lit another cigarette. Tess hadn’t seen her inhale once. ‘When she was in some of those foster homes, she made some nasty accusations.’
‘About her foster parents?’
‘The men in particular. Sometimes her foster siblings too.’
‘Are you talking about claims of sexual abuse?’
Margaret neglected to answer, but Tess watched the skin of her features tighten. Tess waited. Finally the old woman fed her cigarette in her mouth and her cheeks pinched tightly round it.
‘Were Jasmine’s claims ever investigated?’ Tess prompted.
‘They were unfounded.’
‘No smoke without fire,’ Tess reminded her.
‘She was forever crying wolf,’ Margaret responded quickly. ‘But she was too much like her mom to take seriously. Her mother was just like her, used sex to get her own way, then would cry rape when it suited her.’
‘Jasmine was raped?’ Tess felt a cold prickle go down her spine. ‘I hadn’t thought about that.’ When Jasmine was stabbed Tess had assumed it was during a mugging or other violent encounter.
‘I didn’t say she was raped. I said she cried wolf. Turn of phrase. She said the son of one of her foster parents tried it on with her, and she had to fight him off. Said he cut her when she wouldn’t put out for him. You ask me, she cut herself. Wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘She self-harmed?’
Margaret’s gaze went to the visible scar on Tess’s right wrist, and her nostrils flared in and out. She stabbed her cigarette aloft. ‘Teenage girls sometimes do stupid things for attention,’ she said.
Tess didn’t feel the need to explain that her scar had nothing to do with teenage angst, or anything else. She suddenly understood how judgemental Margaret Norris was, and she was the girl’s only connection to her family. She didn’t agree with Jasmine’s actions but understood why the younger Jasmine might have felt so bereft of love that she had harmed herself: to a troubled kid any reaction – even anger and scorn – was better than no reaction at all.
‘When you first contacted me in the hope I’d look for Jasmine, you said you were worried something really bad had happened to her. I believed you, but I thought that was the justifiable concern of a grandmother for her grandchild. But now I believe you were being more specific. Here you are saying how Jasmine was troubled, a liar, a self-harmer, someone who was always crying wolf, so tell me, Margaret, what has changed your opinion?’
Margaret shook her head, smoke again curling through her hair. The lenses of her spectacles reflected Tess’s earnest expression.
‘You said you’d tell me anything I asked about,’ Tess reminded her. ‘If you really do care about Jasmine, you need to tell me.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because that—’
A shout from outside caught the words in Margaret’s throat, and she almost dropped her cigarette. Her head swivelled towards the front door.
Pottery smashed, and there was a rumble of footsteps on the porch steps. A thud. A grunt. The steps clattered to the scuffle of feet again and a second dull thud shook the house. Two male voices rose in anger. One of the voices had Tess out of her seat and bolting for the door.
SIXTEEN
With a Marlboro hanging out the corner of his mouth, Po had rested his hips against his Mustang a few minutes earlier, and took out his cellphone to ring Pinky Leclerc.
The recent incident with the mystery man burning the stolen car and his subsequent assault on John Trojak had got Po worried. He wasn’t normally a man to fret, but that was when he only had his own ass to worry about. Things were different now that he and Tess were a couple. She wouldn’t thank him for his overly protective thoughts, because she wasn’t one to require handholding and would remind him with a stiff reprimand if he ever treated her as the weaker sex. She was tough and brave, both qualities that had attracted him in the first place, but he wasn’t stupid. Strength and bravery didn’t amount to much when you were up against a stronger and more reckless enemy. He wished his earlier notion that he was the target of a hit was true, but the subsequent events had changed his mind, though he should check. The man had been seeking Tess, no doubt about it, and when she’d spotted him he’d reacted in an unexpected fashion. He’d fled, but at no point was he acting like a prey animal running for its life: he had responded more like an apex predator leading its quarry into a trap. Trojak was lucky to be alive. Another more pinpointed hit of the tyre iron and that would have been it.
‘Hey, Pinky,’ he said as his call was picked up.
‘Nicolas!’ Pinky Leclerc’s voice was high with emotion. ‘So you finally got round to calling me back, you!’
‘Been meaning to say hi,’ Po reassured his friend.
‘At least you didn’t wait a dozen years this time.’
‘It’s only been a coupla months!’ While recuperating from his encounter with the deranged knifeman Hector Suarez, Po and Tess had returned to Baton Rouge for a brief stopover on their trip to New Orleans, and had enjoyed Pinky’s hospitality. But since then, Po had been remiss in making contact. Thing was, unless he’d anything specific to say, Po wasn’t one for making small talk.
‘I hope pretty Tess has been an attentive nurse to you? I told you, you want me to come up there and play Florence Nightingale, I’ll be on the next flight, me.’
‘I’m good, Pinky. Tess too.’ Po flicked his cigarette in a drain.
‘Then why ring, you? This time of night, you didn’t call me to share pillow talk. Though I’m open to offers.’ Pinky smacked a kiss down the line. ‘What’s up in the dreary north?’
‘Working a case with Tess. Missing person.’
‘And you think I can help? I’m a lot of things, but I’m no bloodhound, me.’
‘Was wondering about the latest news coming outta New Iberia,’ Po said.
‘Those Chatards?’ Pinky sniffed. ‘They still grumbling and groaning, them, but that’s all. Pissed that they missed you last time you were in N’awleans, but I ain’t heard nothing new.’
‘There’s this guy been hanging around Tess …’
‘Nicolas, you got to accept something. When you get with a woman so beautiful, you got to expect other men to come sniffing. Even me, with my particular persuasion, I go all jellified round pretty Tess.’
‘It’s not like that,’ Po said, and sure hoped he was correct. He wasn’t blind, he’d noted the kind of looks Tess caught from other guys, but he’d never been jealous before. He was confident that their relationship was strong, that her head wouldn’t be easily turned. ‘This guy’s up to no good.’
‘So sort him.’ This was the other side of Pinky Leclerc belied by his genial manner, his camp demeanour. Where necessary Pinky could be stone cold.
‘If it comes to it,’ Po said. ‘First I thought the Chatards had sent someone after me, now I’m not so sure.’ He told Pinky about the man’s visit to Tess’s house, how he was lurking outside the autoshop and made off when spotted.
‘Sounds creepy.’
‘F’sure. And dangerous.’ He mentioned how Trojak had given chase and ended up almost getting his skull caved in.
‘So, I say again, me. Sort that creep good and proper. Those aren’t the actions of a man with good intentions.’
‘I fear you might be right.’
‘What? Nicolas Villere is frightened? Oh, my!’
‘Turn of phrase, Pinky.’
‘Good. You had me worried for a moment, my fearsome friend. Ooh, did I say fearsome? I meant fearless.’ Pinky chuckled to himself, while Po rolled his eyes.
‘Do me a favour, buddy,’ said Po. ‘Before I come across this guy can you just check w
ith your sources that I’m not mistaken about the Chatards sending a hitter?’
‘I’ll ax around, me.’ Pinky thought for a moment. ‘Things are a bit slack at this end, wouldn’t mind checking out your neck of the woods …’
‘Pinky, you’re always welcome to come and visit.’
‘I wouldn’t cramp your macho style?’ Pinky wondered.
‘As long as you don’t expect me to accompany you on a tour of Portland’s pink triangle.’ Po grunted in mirth. He wasn’t even sure there was such a place in Maine, let alone his adopted hometown.
‘Was going to suggest we go scouting for girls, but I guess now you’ve got Tess you’re out of that game.’
‘Wasn’t exactly in it before I met Tess,’ Po replied. ‘And I know as sure as hell you never were.’
‘I like girls. Just not in the same way as you. So … if I’m visiting the bleak north, how should I dress?’
‘Leave your high heels at home,’ Po advised.
‘Nicolas, I’m just shy of three hundred and fifty pounds, me. If I wore high heels I’d end up nailed to the sidewalk for the duration.’
Po tried not to picture Pinky with his heels driven into the ground, his oddly skinny arms windmilling for balance, but failed to block the funny image. He wheezed out a laugh, and Pinky joined him.
Po told Pinky about the unseasonable warm spell, but how it was beginning to break. ‘So maybe you’d best bring your furs,’ he added.
‘Let me ax around about those punk-ass Chatards, then I’ll check on flights. I’ll let you know when you can pick me up from the airport. I’ll be the one looks like a big cuddly teddy bear, me.’
After he hung up, Po found he was still smiling. Pinky had that effect on him. He looked forward to seeing his old cellmate from the Farm again. He was positive that Tess would be equally happy to see Pinky, if not for the distraction he would cause. Tess had her teeth sunk firmly into finding Jasmine Reed, and Po wanted to do all he could to help her, and having Pinky around could be an inconvenience in one way, but an asset in another. The arrival of this mystery man on the scene, and his unhealthy interest in Tess, was troubling, so it wouldn’t harm to have an extra layer of protection around, particularly one as trusted as Pinky.
Teasing out a second Marlboro, Po lit up. He didn’t need the nicotine, but smoking gave him a reason to be outside in the North Deering neighbourhood without attracting any untoward notice. Gave him good cover to keep watch while Tess conducted business with Margaret Norris inside. It put him in a great position for watching when the door of a car parked further along the street disgorged its driver on to the sidewalk. Po drew on his cigarette as the guy strode purposefully towards him, albeit with one hand massaging the back of his head.
‘What you doing here, Trojak?’ Po asked.
Trojak came to a halt a few paces shy of the Mustang. He looked over the muscle car with a nonplussed expression, before tilting his gaze to meet Po’s. His expression didn’t change, even at the challenging tone.
‘Public place,’ Trojak answered.
‘Some free advice for you,’ Po went on. ‘Go to the hospital and get that head checked out.’
‘Head’s fine,’ Trojak replied.
‘Trust me, it isn’t. Otherwise you’d have heeded the advice I gave you earlier.’
‘I told your girlfriend earlier; I’ve good intentions. And I’ve the right to be anywhere I like.’ Trojak nodded at Margaret Norris’s front door. ‘I’ve as much right as you have to be here.’
‘You were told to back off. When that dude hit you in the head, did your brains plug your ears?’
‘Look, buddy,’ Trojak said wearily. ‘It’s obvious you don’t like me. Can’t say I think fondly of you either. But there’s no need for this. We both have a job to do, I’d appreciate it if you just let me get on with mine.’
Po flicked away his Marlboro, exhaled smoke towards Trojak. ‘Same here, buddy. You’re getting in our way. Now, if you don’t mind, fuck off why don’t ya?’
‘Is there any need?’ Trojak wafted away the smoke.
‘Plenty need,’ Po told him. ‘We’re searching for a young woman who might be in urgent need of help, and you’re slowing things down.’ He hooked a thumb at Trojak’s parked car. ‘Now do us all a favour and git.’
Trojak shook his head.
He moved to walk round Po.
Po stood in his way.
Trojak moved in the opposite direction.
‘Don’t be an asshole,’ Po warned.
‘Don’t be so crass,’ Trojak responded.
He dodged one way, then immediately the other, but Po wasn’t falling for the trick. He grabbed the sleeve of Trojak’s jacket.
‘Get your hands off me!’ Trojak tried to snatch his arm free, at the same time pushing for the garden gate and on to the short path between the shrubs. Po had to swerve around the gatepost, and lost his grip. He lunged after Trojak, who picked up his pace and made it to the porch steps.
‘Last warning, Trojak,’ Po warned.
‘I’m not leaving until I’ve spoken to Mrs Norris,’ Trojak replied and lifted his fist to bang on the door.
Po slapped down the arm.
Trojak spun on him. His finger came up, aimed at Po’s chest. ‘I’ve tried to do my best to keep the peace,’ he said. ‘Been polite. Offered to work with you guys. Take a look at what’s about to go down here, Villere. Who’s acting the jerk, huh?’
‘Move that finger or I’ll remove it,’ Po snapped.
‘Do your worst—’
Po’s left hand snapped over the extended finger, and he levered down near the knuckle, while wrenching the finger upward. Trojak had no recourse but sink his butt, while a yelp of surprise curtailed his challenge. Po moved towards him, and now Trojak could only shuffle backwards, or else his finger would snap. Once he was moving, Po released the offending digit, but not before his momentum had taken Trojak on to the steps. Trojak shook his hand, checking his finger still worked correctly.
‘Sneaky move,’ he said.
‘I gave you plenty prior warning. Now do us both a favour and hit the road.’
‘Nothing doing.’
Po opened both his hands, fingers curled back.
Trojak bunched his hands.
Trojak attacked, head sunk into his shoulders, arms up. But this time he didn’t offer a joint to be easily locked, his arms pistoning. Po sank on to his heels, and met the charge as Trojak barrelled into him. He caught the back of Trojak’s head, both hands cupped at the nape, then swung out his left leg, using the move as a dancer would to pivot on his opposite heel. Trojak’s weight worked against him, throwing him around, then past Po’s body. His leading shin butted Po’s extended leg, and Trojak stumbled over the fulcrum, and crashed bodily into one of the porch supports, knocking down a hanging basket and terracotta pot that shattered on the floor. The entire house shook as he shouted a wordless roar, slashing backwards at Po with his bunched hand. Po bobbed back, avoiding the hammering blow, and Trojak had the clearance now to spin and launch a flurry of punches. Po backpedalled, his heels drumming the decking. Trojak’s own footfalls were decidedly lighter. But his voice was raised in high-pitched war cries.
Po slapped aside each of Trojak’s flying punches. His lean face was set in a rictus grin.
‘That all you’ve got, Trojak?’ he asked.
His taunt earned the desired result. Trojak threw himself bodily against Po, and together they hustled the length of the porch, and against the far rail. Trojak hammered Po’s ribs in a combination Rocky Balboa would have been proud of. But Po rode the blows, body weaving, and the fists barely scuffed him. Trojak’s head came up, lips skinned back from his teeth. Po swung an elbow into it. Trojak’s eyelids snapped shut, fighting the white flash of agony through his skull, and were slow to open as he fought the oncoming blackness. In desperation, he threw his arms around Po’s middle in a body lock. Po wrenched loose, but only insofar as he could push an arm under Trojak’s left elbow. He
spun out, and the move folded and twisted Trojak’s arm up his back, bent him forward at the waist. Po could have powered a knee into Trojak’s exposed chin, or slammed him with a blow to the back of the head. He didn’t: there was no need for that level of violence. Not yet.
Po used the back hammer hold to swing Trojak around and towards the steps. He marched his captive the few paces forward, then shoved and Trojak went face first off the porch. He thudded on the path, arms and legs spread wide.
Po stared down at him.
Trojak rolled on his back, wheezing out his pain.
‘Son of a gun …’
‘You going to leave now?’ Po asked.
Trojak thought about it, and shook his head. He slipped his right hand in his jacket pocket.
Po again lowered his weight over his heels, but this time his right hand reached for the inside of his boot.
‘Pull your knife, Trojak,’ he said. ‘But you’d better be prepared to bleed.’
Trojak’s hand remained hidden, but his gaze bore back up at the challenge.
Behind Po the door yanked open, and Tess spilled out on to the porch. In the opening, Margaret Norris stood with both hands covering her mouth.
‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ Tess demanded.
Po straightened, without dropping his guard. ‘Ask the dude sitting on his ass,’ he said.
Tess craned past him. Trojak finally withdrew his hand, empty, and used it to prop himself up. He shrugged.
Tess looked at Po again.
‘For God’s sake,’ Tess groaned. ‘What is it with men?’
‘I asked him to leave, he wouldn’t,’ Po said by way of explanation.
Trojak struggled to standing. He brushed dirt off the knees of his trousers.
‘I’ve business here. I’m not leaving,’ he said, still defiant even after having been made to look a fool.
‘What do you want, John?’ Margaret finally asked, without leaving the open doorway.
‘Daryl wanted me to speak to you again,’ Trojak said.
‘And if I don’t want to speak to you?’ Margaret demanded.
Trojak shrugged again. ‘Your choice, Margaret. But I wasn’t going to leave without asking.’