County Line

by Bill Cameron

  Jimmie recognizes Pete, waves with a kind of forced affability. His eyes don’t quite go two directions as he takes us in, but almost. “McKrall. What’n hell you doing here? Long drive from Turdnut Creek.” Whatever he’s drinking, it’s not his first. He points at me with his glass in hand. “No one could ever forget that neck.”

  Peter lets me take the stool next to him. Jimmie knocks off the last of his drink, eyes at half-mast. “You never told me you were an astronaut, Kadash.”

  I glance at Peter, eyebrows raised. “Just an ex-cop.” I emphasize cop, not so much ex-. Not sure what good it’ll do me, but there’s an edge to his tone I hope will be dulled if he thinks I’m in a position to give him some shit.

  But he doesn’t care. “You fly your rocket ship down here, astro-cop?”

  “I’m not following you, Jimmie.”

  “James.”

  “I’m not following you, James.”

  “You called me like an hour ago or something. How the hell you get here so fast?”

  I turn to Pete. “Maybe we should let him sleep this off, try again in the morning.”

  But Jimmie grabs my forearm. “Fuck that. You flew your space shuttle all this way, might has well have a drink.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Park it.” He throws up his hand and leans across the bar. “Darryl, we’re dying down here, man.”

  I presume Darryl is the bartender. He’s at the far end of the bar drawing a couple of beers. He passes them off to a waitress, then slides our way. A small fellow, Chinese maybe, with black, slicked-back hair. When he speaks, it sounds like he grew up in Brooklyn.

  “Hey, what can I get you fellas?”

  Jimmie slaps the bar. “G-and-T’s all around.” But I shake my head.

  “Big glass of water for me and a cup of coffee.”

  “Christ, Kadash, you flying again so soon?”

  Darryl smiles, accustomed to Jimmie. “And you?” He nods at Pete.

  “Something light, whatever you have on tap.”

  “You got it.”

  I lean toward Jimmie, but Pete pipes up before I can speak.

  “Hey, James, I wonder if you can help us out.”

  Jimmie stares suspiciously into his glass. “I hope you aren’t here to borrow money.”

  “Nothing like that.”

  He laughs and stirs his finger in the leftover ice of his dead drink. “What’d she do to you this time?”

  “She didn’t—”

  “Fucked ya and dumped ya. That’s something, you ask me. Good riddance. Bitch.”

  I shift on my stool. Darryl returns, takes Jimmie’s glass and replaces it with a fresh one. Sets the coffee, water and beer in a tight little line.

  Pete puts a hand on my forearm for an instant, then tries again. “Here’s the thing, James. She has taken off and no one knows where.” I can tell he’s struggling to keep his voice steady.

  Jimmie doesn’t notice. “You buying?” He rolls his head until he’s looking at me. “Is he?”

  I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, Jimmie is back to his drink.

  “Seriously, you get Cap’n Crunch to buy my drinks, maybe I’ll help you.”

  I take a sip of water and hold it in my dry mouth before swallowing. “I’d think you’d be worried about your sister.”

  “Fuck her. She takes care of herself.”

  I’ve interviewed more than a few belligerent suspects in my life, so Jimmie doesn’t ruffle my feathers. A cop who lets his personal feelings get the better of him isn’t much of a cop. But a cop, a real working cop, also has leverage I don’t. The threat of arrest or criminal charges can do a lot to loosen reticent tongues. I raise my hand, wave Darryl down. “Something else?”

  “When the time comes I’ll be taking care of my friend’s check.”

  “Okay, sure. No problem.”

  I fix Jimmie with a stare. “We good?”

  “I’m good with anyone who buys me a rack of G-and-T’s.” He knocks back his drink like it’s water and slams the glass on the bar. “One more, Darryl!” Then he grins. His teeth are straight and as white as eggs. “Okay. What?”

  “You don’t know where she is?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “When did you last talk to her?”

  He thinks for a moment. “A month, maybe.”

  “About?”

  “What’s that got to do with where she is?”

  “You tell me.”

  “It wasn’t anything.”

  “Then it shouldn’t matter if you tell me.”

  Darryl delivers another drink. He shows no concern for how drunk Jimmie is.

  “She was all up in my face about Pacific West demanding she buy them out.”

  “Buy them out of what? Uncommon Cup?”

  “What else?”

  “I thought you were her partner.”

  “It’s complicated. You know, money shit.”

  “Right. A guy like me rarely gets to see actual money. Lucky for your bar tab, I brought my marble collection for tradesies.”

  He tries to indicate disdain with a raised eyebrow and fails. “I sold my interest to Pacific West when I left. Roo thought I should have given her a chance to finance the buyout herself, but I didn’t have time for that. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  I try to catch Pete’s eyes, but he ignores me. His back is straight. I have an idea what Joanne was calling about, but I can’t see what it would have to do with Ruby Jane’s disappearance. “Why do they want out already?”

  “Too small for them, probably. They were doing me a favor.”

  “What made you decide to sell?”

  He slaps the bar, then just as quickly shrinks into himself. Darryl looks up at the noise, but when Jimmie sags he looks away again. No one else pays any attention.

  “Jimmie?” He won’t look at me. “What’s the problem?”

  “Fucking Biddy, or whatever he calls himself.”

  “Biddy who?”

  His head is flopping on his shoulders now. “Dudn’t matter.” We’ve passed a threshold, one gin-and-tonic past ataxia. Another drink and I could lose him. I grab his shoulder, try to drag him back to me.

  “James, here’s the deal. Ruby Jane left suddenly, told no one anything. She didn’t even take her cell phone.”

  “She’s always been unpredictable. Isn’t that right, Petey-boy?”

  Ruby Jane is one of the most rock solid people I know. But it’s obvious Jimmie doesn’t see her that way, and somehow views Pete as his ally. I can’t be sure where this is going, but before it can devolve into a litany of past wrongs I switch directions.

  “Tell me about Biddy.”

  His face goes carefully blank. “You’re drunk, man.” It’s taking all he has to keep his eyelids off the bar.

  “Might Ruby Jane’s disappearance have something to do with this Biddy character?”

  It takes him a long time to answer. Pete is a stone beside me, useless. Or agitated. Maybe he’s mad I blew off his attempt to control the conversation. I don’t care. Some kernel of knowledge marinates inside Jimmie’s gin-sodden brain. I just need to figure out how to coax it out of him before Darryl calls an ambulance.

  He sits up abruptly, his head at a precarious angle. “I bet she went home.”

  “Trust me, if she was home, I’d know.”

  “Not Portland, idiot.”

  “Where then?”

  “Long, long way.” He drops his head between his shoulders, and his face droops. For a moment I wonder if he’s going to start crying. He gazes into his gin-and-tonic like he’s looking into a crystal ball. “All the way back.”

  “Where, Jimmie?”

  He looks up, startled as if just now realizing I’m there. “Where who?”

  “Where? James. Kentucky?”

  But he’s far away now, drifted off, perhaps, to wherever he imagines Ruby Jane to be. When he talks again, his voice is low, barely loud enough to be heard over the cheers an
d shouts and laughter all around us.

  “When you find her, ask her about that night on Preble County Line Road.”

  “Preble County? In Kentucky?”

  “Why do you keep talking about Kentucky?”

  “She told me you guys grew up in Louisville.”

  That amuses Jimmie. “She would.”

  Pete hunches over his beer. “She told me that too—at first. But then we actually got to know each other.”

  Aggravation—or humiliation—flares in me. I don’t know if Pete is trying to rile me on purpose, or reflecting on what he’s lost. Either way, I ignore him. “What are you saying, James?”

  “The seminal events of our young lives took place out in the sticks between West Alexandria and Farmersville, Ohio.”

  “Your young lives.”

  “Hers, mine. Others. Someone tries to tell you how bad high school was, take it from me, they don’t know shit.”

  “What happened, Jimmie?”

  He stands, brushes his hands together like he’s shaking off dust. “You want a drink? I’m having a drink.” He lifts his arm to signal Darryl.

  “I think you’ve had enough.”

  “Going cheap on me now, astro-cop? C’mon. G-and-T? That’s what I’m having.”

  “Jimmie, sit down.”

  Instead he backs away from the bar, bumps into a chair behind him. A girl spills her drink, turns to yell at him. He doesn’t notice. I reach for his arm, but he jerks it away. “You know what? Fuck you guys.” Then he’s moving toward the door like a sailor who’s lost his sea legs.

  I start to follow, but Darryl materializes across the bar.

  “Pete, stay with him.” I fish for my wallet, lose track of them both. Darryl takes my credit card as I hear Pete shout Jimmie’s name.

  Pete hasn’t reached the door yet. I glimpse a flash of Jimmie’s cheap green suit as he collides with a woman getting out of a silver SUV, catches himself on the hood, and runs into the street. I lose sight of him as I follow Pete through the bar and out onto the sidewalk. The woman from the SUV screams, the sound drowned out by the shriek of tearing metal. There’s a loud crunch, the sound of breaking glass, rubber on the road. Screams rise as the squealing tires fade. Pounding feet, shouts. Pete and I charge across the broad street, swept along by a crowd which seems to materialize out of the very walls of the buildings around us. I see the body on the far sidewalk in a pool of blood, head jammed against the dark green base of a city garbage bin.

  “Oh god—”

  “—pancaked him—”

  “—gone. Just tore outta—”

  A man leans over the body, checks him with the authority of someone who’s done this before. I recognize Jimmie’s shoes, one brown wingtip still on his foot, the other in the street a dozen feet away. As his blood drains into the gutter, following the straight-edge line of black tire rubber across the sidewalk, I have an odd thought: he might have jumped clear if only he’d been wearing sneakers.

  - 9 -

  Population: 937

  The air is heavy in a way I haven’t experienced since I mustered out of the Army at Fort Leonard Wood in 1975. It’s not merely humidity; Saigon was hotter and soupier, much more of a steam bath. This is different, a muddy vapor which is less damp than dense. Every breath is like trying to suck a boiled egg through a window screen. I’m wearing a plain white t-shirt and a pair of jeans I picked up at the Target across from Peter’s complex, but I feel crushed under the weight of fabric. I wonder if my boxers can pass as shorts.

  I feel a little better once we get into the car, a rental hat trick which tests the breaking strain on my credit card. At the counter, there’s some confusion. GPS is an add-on, and they tell me they’re out. We’re going to have to use a map.

  “You navigate.”

  Peter grunts. “I printed some Google maps.”

  “We’re saved.”

  “At your age, I’d think a paper map would be a comfort.”

  It’s been a long coupla days.

  He guides me to the interstate, and soon we’ve crossed the Ohio River and are heading north through Cincinnati, a city similar enough tox Portland that its differences make it truly alien. Billboards blare with unfamiliar local radio hosts alongside Hannity and O’Reilly. The highway is a lane too wide, the hills too soft and round. Absent are Doug firs and monkey puzzle trees, long-needled pines in their place among familiar elms, oaks and broadleaf maples. The woven highways close to the river make Portland’s modest system look like a series of wagon trails. I see more rusted-out hulks on the road in ten minutes than I see in a year back home, the result, Pete tells me, of winter road salt.

  “Must be great for everyone’s blood pressure.”

  “They don’t eat it, Skin.”

  “No, they breathe it.”

  “It’s not such a bad town. My family used to drive up from Lexington for Reds games. Riverfest too. It was fun.”

  I struggle to imagine Pete’s past life. My eyes feel like they’re full of sand. I slept on the plane. But squeezed into a seat designed for an underfed ten-year-old is no way to get any rest.

  The AC set to arctic struggles to combat the sweat on my neck. While I drive, Peter is on the phone, dialing numbers from a print-out.

  “Hello. My name is Peter, and I’m looking for an old friend from high school. Ruby Jane Whittaker … okay, sorry for bothering you.”

  According to the online directory, there are over seventy-five Whittakers in the area around Farmersville, four times what I found looking for Jimmie in the Bay Area—we didn’t limit ourselves to the initial J. I’m not expecting much, but it gives him something to do.

  “Hi, I’m looking for an old friend and wonder if you might be able to help. Her name is Ruby Jane Whit—”

  — + —

  The San Francisco cops had kept us for hours at the scene of Jimmie’s demise. There were plenty of witnesses, but Darryl ensured Pete and I got the lion’s share of the attention. My explanation for why I’d come to town and what we’d discussed with Jimmie didn’t earn us any points with the pair of sunken-eyed homicide inspectors who had the misfortune of drawing the case. Eldridge and Deffeyes: one short, thick and bearded and the other short, thick and bearded. I couldn’t tell them apart.

  “Mister Whitacre was your girlfriend’s brother?” They tag-teamed me in the street outside the bar’s entrance, the flashing lightbars and the murmurs of rubberneckers giving me a headache. Pete waited with a uniformed officer on the opposite corner. I was the lucky one; he had a clear view of Jimmie’s body.

  “His girlfriend. Well, not anymore. I don’t know, really.”

  “You don’t know who’s girlfriend she is.”

  “Friend. We’re friends.”

  “Mister McKrall says she’s your girlfriend.”

  “Friend.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “We don’t know. That’s why we were talking to Jimmie.”

  “James Whitacre.”

  “Right.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He didn’t know where she was either.”

  I knew the cops came off more oafish than they really were. Trying to trip me up, play the fool to see how my story changed as I tried to correct their pointed misunderstandings. But they didn’t trip me up because I didn’t try to hide anything. I shared my worry and confusion, my attempt to reach Jimmie from Portland, my decision to drive down. Obviously they thought I was nuts. After a thorough work-over, they stuck me in the back of a patrol car while they gave Pete the same treatment. The car smelled of urine, but at least it was dark and quiet. I closed my eyes and waited. Apparently Pete was no more useful, though at one point either Eldridge or Deffeyes stuck his beard in the car and told me he’d backed up my story.

  Yay.

  Eventually one of the beards let me out of the car.

  “I called your lieutenant. She vouched for you and your girlfriend’s boyfriend.”

  “She’s not my li
eutenant. I’m retired.” I don’t know why this point is so important to me. Maybe because it’s so irrelevant to everyone else.

  “No one is your anything, are they?”

  That didn’t deserve a response.

  “I still don’t understand why you couldn’t talk to Mister Whitacre on the phone.” The implication being if I’d called, maybe he wouldn’t be lying in a puddle of his own blood outside a Chinese bakery.

  “Like I said, I couldn’t reach him.”

  “So you drove all this way on the off chance you’d run into him.”

  Given the circumstances, I’m not thrilled by his choice of words. “I have a lot of time on my hands, Inspector.” In his shoes, I’d have questions too. Dead man, hit-and-run, last seen talking to two guys who can offer no explanation for why the victim ran into a busy street. The car involved, a blue Ford Focus, was found a dozen blocks away, the interior on fire. Stolen. All I have going for me is the fact I’m an ex-cop and I wasn’t driving the Focus.

  “One more question.”

  I don’t think he could hear my teeth grind. “Sure.”

  “The name Biddy Denlinger mean anything to you?”

  That caught me up for a moment. The mysterious Biddy has a last name. “He mentioned the name Biddy, but he didn’t say who they were.”

  “Whitacre had a note in his Filofax. ‘Biddy Denlinger, 8:00 p.m.’ He’d scratched it out, but maybe this Biddy showed up anyway. Whitacre wasn’t talking with anyone when you got here?”

  “He was alone at the bar.”

  “The bartender doesn’t remember anyone but you and your friend either.”

  “Pete and I didn’t get here til ten.”

  “So I heard.” He sighs. “I’d tell you not to leave town, but gone might be the best place for you.”

  “Maybe the San Francisco tourist bureau would think otherwise.”

  “You planning on spending a lot of money while you’re here?”

  My pension would say no. “Not feeling too welcome, to be honest.”

  “A lot of that going around.”

  Back in Walnut Creek, Pete offered me his couch. I was awake before sunrise, drinking Pete’s coffee and working the Google on his computer under the cool glow of the grow lights on his wall of plants. By the time Pete woke, I’d found Farmersville, found Preble County Line Road. Found my long list of Whittakers. What I didn’t find is Ruby Jane, except as the owner of record of a small chain of Portland coffee houses. Even the mighty Google has its blind spots.