Satan’s Lambs

by Lynn Hightower

  “Just make sure nothing is messed with till my friend gets here. His name is Mendez.”

  7

  The Schneider Collection Agency was on the ground level of a rundown office building at the intersection of Rey and Nold streets. There was a White Castle hamburger place next door, apartments across the street, and a mall down the road. Lena parked the Cutlass and left the windows open halfway. Maynard sniffed thoughtfully, smelling french fries.

  Lena peered through the mesh of the cage. “How’d you like to visit your old daddy, huh? How’d you like to see Ricky?”

  Maynard sniffed thoughtfully.

  “Keep your paws crossed.”

  The outside doors of the building were painted in primary colors. The door of the Schneider Agency had been red, but it faced west, into the sun, and the paint and the wood were chipping. It was more pink now than red. Lena went in.

  The girl in the front office was new. Lena decided she couldn’t be more than eighteen. The girl typed delicately at a keyboard with the tips of long pinkish silver fingernails. Her hair was brunette, permed, and pulled up on top of her head in a ponytail held by a pink velvet bow. She looked at Lena and frowned.

  “Rick in?” Lena said.

  “Mr. Savese is on the phone.”

  “Go back and get him when he’s off, will you?”

  The girl wrinkled her nose. “I’ll see if he can be disturbed. Who shall I say is here to see him?”

  “Mrs. Savese.”

  The brunette’s eyes widened. She got up slowly, glanced over her shoulder at Lena, then went through a door on the left. Lena caught a glimpse of two women and three men at phone stations. The girl left the door ajar, and Lena pushed it open gently and stood in the doorway.

  “Well, screw you.” A woman in blue jeans and a Coors T-shirt grimaced. She caught sight of Lena and waved. The room was hot and stuffy. It looked like a student lounge, with posters on the wall, half-filled coffee cups, Coke cans, and an open box of doughnuts on a desk.

  Rich was slumped at his station, a bored look in his eyes. The oh-honey routine, Lena decided. He had on the glasses, clear lenses, that helped establish the character. Somehow he always knew which approach to use.

  “Oh, honey,” Rick said, and Lena smiled. A boom box played a Phil Collins song. Too loud.

  “You don’t know what she’ll do to me, my boss would freeze hell with a look.” Rick leaned forward. “Oh, yeah, I got the social security number, it’s the policy number I need.” He paused. “Don’t you know it? She would, too.”

  The brunette in the pink bow shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  Rick tapped his keyboard. “Yeah, it’s coming up. Crap, we’re losing it again. New software is a bitch, let me tell you. How much was that coverage for? One hundred thousand? Honey, you saved my life. I wish Memphis was closer to Wisconsin, I might tool down and see you. Oh, Lord, here she comes. See you, and thanks again, babe.”

  “Rick!” The girl in the pink bow spoke in an urgent stage whisper. “There’s some woman here wants to see you. I think it’s your ex-wife.”

  Rick looked up and smiled at Lena. It was a thousand-watt charmer, that smile, despite the wariness behind it. Rick’s hair was dark blond and thick. It looked mussed and windblown, though Lena knew the time, effort, and hair gel it took to achieve the look. Rick folded the glasses and put them in his shirt pocket. The shirt was loose, white cotton, probably about eighty dollars new. His jeans were tight, a faded cornflower blue, and he wore black leather cowboy boots.

  “Lena!” He stood up. “Hey, the earrings are great. Turquoise, I like it.” He smiled at the brunette. “Ellen, I’m taking a break. Where’s Arlan?”

  “In his office talking to the repo guy.”

  “If he wants me, say I’m in the john.”

  He winked, and she blushed.

  “Okay, Rick.”

  She watched him take Lena’s arm and lead her out of the office.

  “I’m hungry,” he said as they passed the front desk. “I haven’t had breakfast.”

  “You had a doughnut.”

  “I don’t eat sweets anymore, Lena. I’m very healthy now.”

  “There’s sugar at the corner of your mouth. But you look great, Rick. The extra weight looks good on you.”

  He looked down at his stomach. “I like wearing this shirt out, Lena. I could tuck it in if I wanted to.” He put his arm around her shoulders. Counting the heels of the cowboy boots, he came in just under five feet seven.

  The office door shut behind them. Rick looked up and squinted.

  “Look at that sky. We’re going to get it. Let’s go in your … Lena. You still driving the Cutlass?”

  She shrugged. “If it embarrasses you, we’ll take your car.”

  “I’m, um, having a small problem with the payments. It’s in hiding right now.”

  “What are you driving?”

  “Miata.”

  “Rick. You can’t afford a car like that.”

  “That’s why it’s hidden.” He opened the passenger door on the Cutlass. “Who is this, now, who is this? John Maynard Kitty, how are you, sweetie?” He stuck a finger in the cage. Maynard purred. “You remember me, don’t you?” He smiled up at Lena. “He still loves me. I should have got visiting rights.” He looked down at the cat. “What a name she gave you, Maynard. Should have called you Olivier, yes we should. He misses me, Lena, I can tell.”

  “I think you’re right, Rick. He does seem to miss you.”

  “You just don’t like to admit he …” Rick looked at Lena across the seat of the car.

  “Get in,” she said. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

  They sat in the front seat of the Cutlass, parked discreetly in the corner of the White Castle parking lot, just out of view of the Schneider Agency. A rain-scented breeze swept through the open windows and ruffled the white bags of food.

  Rick snapped on the radio and took a sip from a steaming Styrofoam cup. “Why don’t they have beer here?” He fooled with the knob, conjuring irritating bursts of static. “Hey, the Beatles. Remember that song?”

  “No, I’m too young.”

  Rick grinned. “Sure you are.” He took a large bite, consuming half of a small square hamburger. Maynard purred loudly and climbed into his lap. “Watch, Lena, see if he’ll still do it.”

  He stuck a french fry in his mouth. The cat put his paws on Rick’s chest and delicately took the french fry from his lips.

  “There, see, he remembered!”

  Rick peeled the plastic cap off his coffee and poured some into the lid. He blew on it and stuck his tongue in.

  “Okay. It’s not hot. Here, Maynard, here boy.”

  “Rick, he doesn’t want that.”

  The cat sniffed the coffee lid, then lapped the brown liquid.

  “There, see, he likes it.”

  “He’ll eat anything you give him, Rick. So watch what you feed him.”

  “It’s just a little coffee.”

  “No beer. No alcohol of any kind.”

  “What, you see beer anywhere?”

  “Because I think you’re right, Rick.” Lena opened a bun and pried the pickle loose. She handed the hamburger to Rick. “Maynard misses you.”

  “Did I say you could have my pickle?”

  “You always let me have your pickle.”

  “That’s what I love about Judith. She doesn’t eat my pickle.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Good.”

  “Don’t be jealous. She likes you. She’s not jealous.”

  “I like her, too. And I’m not jealous.”

  Rick frowned. “Why aren’t you jealous? It’s unnatural. The two of you should be at each other’s throats. I should have to referee.” He chewed thoughtfully. “Why do I always get involved with such abnormal women?”

  Lena ate a french fry.

  “So,” Rick said. “How long do you want me to keep your cat? I assume that�
��s what this has been leading up to?”

  “Not sure.”

  “That you want me to keep him?”

  “Not sure how long.” Lena took a drink of Orange Crush. “Did you know Hayes got parole?”

  “No.”

  “It was in the paper. I forgot, you only read Variety.”

  “Lena. God. I’m sorry.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “They should have fried that sucker. Down in Florida, they would have.”

  “I’m worried about leaving Maynard alone.”

  “What? He has big parties while you’re gone?”

  Lena told him about Hayes.

  “My God, he came into your house? Your bedroom?” Rick ate a handful of french fries. “And he left that song on your machine?” He took a sip of cold coffee. “God, I remember that so well. Whitney up on the stage … ‘We’re little black sheep, who’ve gone astray.’ … Remember how she leered when she sang that part? Too campy, I thought, but the guys ate it up. ‘Gentlemen rankers out on a spree, Damned from here to Eternity!’”

  Rick was a baritone, his voice resonant and rich. One of his better features.

  “You should be in pictures,” Lena said.

  Rick grinned. “Remember I slicked back my hair—”

  “And had a cigarette dangling between your lips.”

  “A Camel. God, I can’t believe we ever smoked those. So bad for the voice.”

  “Wasn’t the worst thing you ever smoked.”

  “Lena, you were so cute then. So exuberant and happy and … energetic. Just enough of a bitchy streak to make you interesting, but not scary.”

  “Don’t speak ill of the dead. Will you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Keep Maynard.”

  “Anything,” he sang. “For my baby …”

  “Good. I have another favor.”

  “Don’t tell me you have a dog now, because a dog will make me sneeze.”

  “It’s about a case I’m working on.”

  “Now, a goldfish is a possibility—”

  “Pay attention, Rick. This was a robbery, and I need you to do one of your telephone routines, and worm some information out of an insurance clerk.”

  “Prime meat, my sweet, what would you like to know?”

  She told him about Eloise Valetta. “My main problem,” she said, “is I can’t get hold of the insurance investigator, and I need to talk to him. Should be no trouble for you to find him?”

  “Naw. I can tell you anything about anybody, ain’t no privacy no mo’, babe. And hey, I see you’ve been off the pill awhile. You just saying no?”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “If you charge it or write a check, I know what and when you buy it. I also peeked at your medical records. Dusty, girl, dusty. You ain’t been sick in years.”

  “You won’t get in trouble with Arlan for doing this for me?”

  “Naw, it’s just the odd tidbit here and there. Besides, Arlan treats me with care. Good skip tracers are hard to come by. Particularly artistes like myself. Though there’s no telling how much longer I’ll be available.”

  “Something up?”

  He smiled, blue eyes bright and animated. “Going to Louisville next week for an audition.”

  “A good one?”

  “You bet. By invitation. ATL.”

  “Actors Theatre? Rick, Rick, Rick.”

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  She looked at his face and she was lost, suddenly, in another time and place, seeing the preaudition shine of hope and terror in his face. How many times had she heard the lines, heard the fears, massaged the knots out of tense shoulders?

  Back then she had been that other person, the one with a career plan, a life, all that trust and energy. Hayes had put an end to everything. Sorry, but true, no going back, the old Lena had died, and Rick never liked the new one.

  “What you thinking, Lena? You got that look.”

  “Just maybe I shouldn’t eat your pickles anymore.”

  He lunged across the seat, scattering cardboard hamburger boxes and french fries.

  “Eat ’em.” He put his arms around her. “Come stay with me till this stuff with Jeff blows over.”

  “Wouldn’t be room with Judith there.”

  “Hmmm. Hell, Lena, she probably won’t care. God, you smell so good.”

  “I smell like hamburgers.”

  “No, it’s you, the way I remember.”

  “My natural musk.”

  “Don’t talk dirty, Lena, my pants are tight enough already.”

  8

  Mendez met her at the black iron cemetery gate, right at closing time. Newcomb had told the custodian to stay and wait. Lena recognized the navy blue Mazda before it turned in the drive. Mendez had his lights on. It was just on five o’clock, but the sky was dark and heavy.

  Lena was sitting on the hood of the Cutlass, and she saw Mendez smile, as if the sight of her, cross-legged on the car, amused him. He rolled down a window.

  “Car trouble?”

  Lena shook her head, though car trouble was something of a constant with the Cutlass. “I’m waiting for you.”

  “How far is it?”

  “Couple miles.”

  “Hop in.”

  She dusted off her jeans and got in.

  “Getting cold again,” she said, closing the window. She reached for the seat belt, then didn’t use it, on the off chance that Mendez might be annoyed. “Bear left here, then take the first right. It’ll meander awhile, then I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  She glanced at Mendez. His tie was neatly knotted still, here at the end of the day. Though for Joel, it probably wasn’t the end of the day.

  Lena had the urge to say something irritating.

  The inside of the car was immaculate, unlike her own. There was a tape player, and a handful of tapes stacked in a compartment behind the emergency brake. Lena sorted through them. Classical. She curled her lip.

  “We getting close?” Mendez asked.

  “Hmm? Whoa. Passed it, sorry. Back up to that cottonwood tree.”

  The reverse gear made a whirring noise as Mendez backed the car down the narrow lane. He parked by the side of the road. Lena got out, slammed the door shut, then hesitated.

  The wind was picking up and the cottonwood swayed, limbs creaking. Mendez moved quickly, and Lena lengthened her stride to keep up.

  The headstones still lay on their sides, but the inverted crosses had blown over. The wind whipped the grass and made the painted letters hard to read.

  Lena held her hair back with one hand, trying to keep it out of her face. She watched Mendez take it all in. His black hair streamed backward; his pants and sport coat billowed. He didn’t frown or smile.

  “The king of stoic,” Lena muttered.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said did you ever see anything like this before?”

  “Many times.”

  Lena let her hair go and jammed her hands in her pockets. “He knocked over the lamb.”

  Mendez looked at her, then put a hand on her shoulder. She almost pulled away—reflex—but this time she didn’t. Turning the lamb over on a baby’s grave was a violation. For once, they agreed.

  “These are the only graves that were messed with,” Lena said. “Whitney’s and Kevin’s.”

  “It’s Hayes, Lena. You don’t have to convince me. Anything else?”

  “Just the song on the answering machine. I’ve got the tape.”

  “This is the one your sister sang?”

  Lena nodded.

  “I want to hear it,” Mendez said.

  “It’s at the house.”

  “Let’s eat first.” He looked at her. “Can I take you to dinner?”

  Lena looked at him, thinking the hand on the shoulder might be going to his head. “You like barbecue?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll take you. There’s a place still owes me free dinners.”

  Mendez turned toward the car, but Len
a grabbed his arm. She pointed to Whitney’s headstone.

  “What does that mean? ‘L-i-v-e’?”

  “Not ‘live.’ Read it backwards.”

  “Backwards? E-v … evil?”

  He nodded.

  She studied the letters on the grass. “S-i-h. His.”

  Mendez stood beside her. “His Satanic Majesty.”

  “You’re good at reading backwards, Joel.” A raindrop spattered her shoulder, making a dark spot on the red material. “He’s really gearing up again, isn’t he?”

  Mendez took her arm and pointed her toward the car. “We’ll talk about it after we eat.”

  The custodian was glad to see them go. The rain came down as they turned from the blacktop drive onto Fourth Street. Fat raindrops smacked the pavement and beat against the car, and the wind rocked the Mazda to the left. The windshield wipers slashed back and forth, but visibility was negligible. The windows fogged and Mendez turned the defroster on full blast. They forded a deep puddle, the sides of the car cutting into the water with a coarse, grating sound. A Chevy pickup passed in the left lane, throwing muddy splats of water onto the windshield.

  Mendez glanced at Lena.

  Probably checking to see if my seat belt’s on, she thought.

  Deke’s Piggy Palace was on North Lime. By the time they found a parking place, three blocks away, the rain had eased.

  It was good to leave the flow of traffic. The sidewalks were wet and muddy, cracked and ill-kept. The glassed-in storefronts were cloudy with condensation.

  The restaurant was almost empty. A green sign that said Piggy Palace was nailed over the doorway. The front window had been coated with black paint. Tired yellow light glinted through the cracks. The door was propped open with a chipped concrete block, and a swatch of warped brown linoleum lay across the entrance like a welcome mat.

  A tired-looking waitress sighed when they walked in. Lena guided Mendez to a booth upholstered in blood-red vinyl. There was a rip across the back that had been repaired with masking tape.

  Mendez sat across from Lena. He took off his suit coat and folded it neatly, laying it on the seat beside him.

  “Nice place.”

  Lena grinned. “Honest, Mendez. The food’s fantastic.”