“Yeah, but you’re the one who did it, so you’re the one I got to thank. This place is like the Ritz compared to what my life was like outside. You dragged me up out of the grave, Charlie. That sloppiness, as you called it, that was my cry for help.” Then Petey had begun to weep.
—
Charlie reached New Paltz at seven thirty. It was an artsy little town with a lot of Victorian second homes owned by New Yorkers. A few stone houses formed part of a museum for the Huguenot settlers who’d bought the land from the Indians more than three hundred years before. Charlie knew this because Petey lived on Huguenot Street, across from one of these houses, and Charlie read an informative sign out in front, because he disliked bothering Petey so early. Petey’s house was a square Victorian, white with black shutters. Crystals twinkled in the windows.
The man who answered the doorbell wore a heavy red robe with golden stars. He had a thick gray beard, a thick moustache and long gray hair in a ponytail. His glasses were round and tinted blue. In one ear was a silver earring of a unicorn.
“Is Petey around?”
The man’s eyes widened and he leapt forward, grabbing Charlie in a bear hug, lifting him off the porch and kissing his cheek. Charlie didn’t care for embraces from strangers. Firm handshakes were as far as he’d go. “Personal space” was a term he liked and he now thought: This guy’s fucking with my personal space.
In the meantime, the man—Charlie knew it was Petey—had his mouth pressed to Charlie’s ear and was saying, “Charlie-Charlie-Charlie.”
Charlie felt he’d made a mistake and his only wish was to hurry back to his car. He struggled to free himself. Petey squeezed him tighter and his moustache tickled Charlie. Charlie hoped no one he knew would see him.
Giving Petey a push and kicking at his shins, Charlie shouted, “Cut it out!” Then he stumbled back and nearly fell off the porch.
Petey stared at him beatifically and waved one hand in a circle over his head. “I owe this all to you!” He wore rings with different-colored stones on eight fingers; they twinkled in the morning light. Then he reached for Charlie to hug him again.
Charlie jumped from the porch. “Quit it, Petey! If you don’t quit it, I’m leaving right away.”
Petey joined his hands in front of his chest. “I’m feeling an inner hum.”
“I’m warning you. Calm down or I’m gone. And stop trying to touch me!”
It took more than this. It took additional threats. And Charlie said he’d only driven down to get a little information and would soon be leaving. Fat chance he was going to hang around. It wasn’t a social visit. Petey responded in a hushed voice, as if he had congenital laryngitis. “Whatever you say, Charlie. Your words are gold to me.” Then the two men entered the house in search of coffee.
Once he’d accepted Petey’s red robe with golden stars, unicorn earring and gray ponytail, the house and its ornamental embellishments seemed, to Charlie, cut from the same cloth. He saw more gold stars and bright red and blue walls, Navaho rugs and heavy Victorian furniture. Hanging from the ceiling were little wooden angels with blond hair and white robes. Oversized, fluffy cats rubbed against Charlie’s legs. Every step of the staircase rising to the second floor was painted a different bright color.
As they entered the kitchen, Petey whispered, “Can I look at your feet?”
“No. Why’d you want to do such a thing?”
“To bring you inner peace.”
“Jesus, Petey, I don’t want any inner peace. I’m a plain, white-bread kind of guy and you’ve moved up to twelve-grain. I came down here because somebody wants to kill me and I don’t know who it is. I thought you might be able to help.”
Petey threw out his arms toward Charlie, who said: “No more hugs, Petey.”
Soon they were sitting in the living room drinking coffee as Charlie described what had happened, starting with finding Mickey dead on his sidewalk. Petey hung on every word, often saying, “I don’t believe it!” Like a pond’s surface on a windy day, his face moved through a variety of expressions. His coffee grew cold.
“Move in here with me,” said Petey. “I’ll keep you hidden.”
“That would be great, except there’s Janey and our daughter, and I have a lot to do at home.” Charlie thought he’d rather lose his left foot than live with Petey.
“I think there’s a link between something that happened with Mickey in prison and these murders in Saratoga. Did you know him in prison?”
“I don’t like to think about that time, Charlie. I’ve moved on.”
“Well, move back a little just to humor me. Did you know him?”
“No. He got there about a year after I left.”
“But you heard of him?”
“A friend was there when he was there. He wasn’t popular. These are bad memories, Charlie.”
“You remember any stories?”
“If I did, I’ve forgotten them. It was over seven years ago.”
“D’you know the name Dave Parlucci?”
Petey pressed a hand to his forehead. “No, I’ve never heard it.”
“D’you think I could talk to this man who knew Mickey?”
Petey thought a moment and fussed with his many rings. “He doesn’t like talking about that time either. I’d have to ask him and that means finding him.”
“Where does he live?”
“Well, he lives in Tupper Lake, but he doesn’t spend much time there. Mostly he lives in the woods. He’s a bow hunter and traps some. He says that since he’s gone straight, it’s his only chance to shoot something. And he likes camping. ‘Playing savage,’ he calls it. Of course I disapprove. Did I tell you I’m a raw vegan, Charlie? Nuts, berries and grains have changed my life.”
Charlie ignored the question. “So right this moment he might be camping?”
“That’s about it. He tries to live off the land, but he packs some dried food just in case.”
Charlie’s frustration grew with each of Petey’s answers. “Does he stick to any particular part of the park?”
“No, he goes to a different section each year. Like last year, he stuck to Adirondack State Park. This year he might be around Five Ponds or the High Peaks, but, on the other hand, it might be someplace else, like West Canada Lake.”
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“Not with him.” As Petey spoke, his hands made swooping gestures, raising above his head and then zooming down to his belly. Charlie started to ask what he was doing and then decided against it. He pretended not to notice.
“Does he have a wife who might know where he is?”
“He never married.”
“What’s his name?”
“Cracker Johnson—Cracker’s a nickname. I’ve never known his real name.”
“Is he southern?”
“No, he’s a little nuts.”
Briefly, Charlie contemplated life’s injustice. “So he could be anywhere within six or seven million acres?”
Petey’s hands zoomed down again. “He’s a great walker. A few years ago he hiked the Appalachian Trail.”
“And nobody knows where he is?”
“There’re little stores he might check into every two weeks or so.”
“So how can I find him?” Why have I gotten mixed up in this? thought Charlie.
“That’s a problem, he doesn’t want to be found. I taught him how to meditate and he sits outside his tent and meditates. Do you meditate, Charlie?”
Charlie ignored the question. “What was he in prison for?”
“He had a bunch of assault charges, but most of his time up there was for manslaughter. He broke a man’s neck with his hands. That’s why I was teaching him meditation. He’s got a terrible temper. But he’s not a crook; he’d never steal anything. He’s very honest. It’s just that temper.”
“
Great, that’s just great.”
—
Charlie drove home around noon, staying longer than he intended, because, not to hurt Petey’s feelings, he’d asked Petey what sort of work he did. The answer, or part of it, took about three hours and then Charlie called it quits. One more word and he’d either start screaming or weeping. He understood little of what Petey was talking about, and questions led to twenty-minute answers. Basically, Petey was an acupuncturist with a mix of confusing sidelines, though Petey wouldn’t call them sidelines. He spoke of biofield energy healing, channeling universal energy into the sick and suffering, and qigong with various theories of body, breath and mind alignment. He seemed good at what he did and Charlie’s doubts made him feel guilty. He didn’t have time for this new age stuff when he was still trying to figure out the previous age, his own age, his old age.
“May I give you a massage, Charlie?” asked Petey in his hushed voice. “For free? It will make you forget everything.”
But Charlie didn’t want to forget everything.
Before Charlie left, Petey agreed to call if he heard from Cracker Johnson. Charlie felt this was the best he could hope for and he walked back to his car. Getting home about two, he sat down at his computer, went to the Department of Corrections website and clicked on “inmate search.” Soon he gave it up. Cracker Johnson wasn’t listed, most likely because the Department of Corrections had listed him by his real first name, which could be anything from Joey to Nebuchadnezzar. Later, when Charlie told Janey about his day, her response was “I can’t believe you gave up a free massage.”
Time passed; the new year began. Some days it snowed and the snow accumulated. Charlie waited for the phone to ring. It was even hard to go to the Y for fear he’d get a call while he was swimming. Twice he called Petey, but Petey’s protestations of devotion were so awkward that Charlie decided not to call again. Instead, he’d wait.
The Benelli was in the bedroom closet and Janey kept urging Charlie to put it in the attic. Another week of inactivity and the shotgun would disappear upstairs among boxes of mementos, empty birdcages and dusty suitcases. Charlie guessed if he heard someone breaking into the house at night, it would take him ten minutes to rush up to the attic, unlock the case, find the shells, load them into the magazine and then go downstairs again. A lot of bad things could happen in ten minutes.
Charlie called Lieutenant Hutchins to see if anything new had turned up. It hadn’t and Hutchins told Charlie not to call again. Actually, he shouted it. He shouted it was none of Charlie’s business. He also called Shawn Smith, the investigator with the Racing Protective Bureau. He, too, had no news. Although he was politer than Hutchins, he made it clear that he didn’t want Charlie to call. “I’ll call you the first I hear anything,” he said. Charlie also visited Bad Maud, but he was barely through the door when she yelled: “I haven’t learned fuckin’ squat. Didn’t I say I’d call you?”
So Charlie was waiting for four phone calls. He was even hesitant to take a shower in case someone called. He slept with his cell phone under his pillow, and might wake up once or twice to see if it was working. During the day he’d stand silently in the middle of the living room waiting for something to happen. Police cars drove past his house more infrequently. Sheriff’s deputies visited Artemis and Fletcher Campbell only two or three times a day.
“Charlie, you’ve got to do something,” said Janey. “You’ve got to keep busy.”
So Charlie fixed a leaky bathroom faucet; he replaced a cracked pane of glass in an upstairs window; he shoveled snow and scattered sand on the sidewalk; he tidied up the garage; he washed dishes even when they were clean. He didn’t feel like reading; he didn’t want to watch TV; he didn’t play backgammon with Emma. He was the first to admit he was being pathetic. “I’m pathetic,” he said. Every so often he took his cell phone from his pocket and shook it.
“Why don’t you go for a walk?” suggested Janey.
“There’s nothing I want to look at.”
“You could try to find the snake.”
“Be reasonable.”
“Charlie, it would be something. That’s all that matters. You’ve got to keep busy. Go see Victor.”
“Cell phone reception’s not so good out there.”
In truth, Charlie didn’t want to leave the property, as if even going next door would make him miss a call.
And if he received a call from anyone else, he’d say: “I’m sorry, I’m expecting an important call.” And hang up. Several weeks passed like this. Janey and Emma no longer gave him sympathetic looks.
—
In early February, Petey LaBarca finally called late in the morning. Charlie was polishing Janey’s great-grandmother’s silver tea set to pass the time.
“Cracker doesn’t want to talk to you, Charlie. He hates cops. I said you were a retired PI and very sweet. He said that PIs were cop-like and that cop-like was too much like cop for him. I told him all you’d done for me. I mean, Charlie, you saved my life! So he wants to know exactly what you want to know.”
Charlie explained what he wanted to learn about Mickey Martin. “But make sure he understands that Mickey is dead, and Parlucci too, if it makes any difference. Explain this has nothing to do with him. Just Mickey. I want to know why Mickey served only three years of a fifteen-year sentence.”
“Okay, Charlie, I’ll get back to you.”
“D’you know when?”
“Hopefully today.”
It turned out to be the next morning.
“He’ll see you, but he doesn’t like it. He’ll meet you at this little pizza place in Long Lake. He loves pizza. It’s one of the few foods he hasn’t shot or fished for. He’s camping near there. He’ll hang around from between one and two o’clock.”
“Where the heck is Long Lake?”
“It’s a little dimple of a place about twenty miles south of Tupper Lake. You better hurry if you expect to get there between one and two.”
The Long Lake pizza place was about ninety miles north of Saratoga, with the first third on the Northway. The day was clear but it had snowed earlier in the week and the snow grew deeper as Charlie got farther north. The temperature was in the midteens. At Warrensburg, he turned north on Route 28. Plows had shaped high banks of snow along the verge of the road that at times rose above Charlie’s Golf. Snow-covered trees poked out of the landscape, mostly pine and leafless maples and birch, interspersed with frozen marshland. He passed frozen lakes and a few villages with a dozen or so houses, but mostly he looked out at a white landscape of snowy trees. He pictured Cracker Johnson prowling through the snow with one of those compound bows that looks like a Transformer robot, with a draw weight of seventy pounds and a quiver full of carbon arrows, as he tried to control his temper. Cracker had already been prowling around the woods for several months and by now, thought Charlie, he’s probably barely human; he’s probably reverted to wolf or catamount, creatures that would laugh at his Benelli.
The village of Long Lake was divided by a bridge that separated two parts of the lake, which was fourteen miles long and shaped like the blade of a sword. It was frozen and snow-covered; snowmobile tracks zigzagged across the ice. Snowy pines edged the shore. The pizza place was one of those log cabins that arrives as numbered pieces on the back of a flatbed truck. Inside, the logs were golden with polyurethane. Milk, bread, eggs, canned food, beer and soft drinks made up the grocery section. The restaurant section had six tables. Only one was occupied.
Cracker Johnson was in his midforties. He wore paint-spotted jeans and a green-and-black-plaid shirt. White thermal underwear poked through his worn elbows and knees. He might have been five-foot-eight, but because he was sitting it was hard to tell. Ten-inch insulated boots stuck out from under the table. His brown hair was cut short and his pencil-thin lips were barely visible within a straggly beard. He called to mind a fisher, that smaller cousin of the wol
verine, known for its ferocity. His eyes were dark brown like a fisher’s, with large pupils as cool as cubes of ice. He had a triangular face with a pointy chin and high cheekbones. A green down jacket hung over the back of his chair.
Cracker stared at Charlie without expression. He was a type that Charlie labeled “small-scale bully”: small but very strong men who loved to thrash muscular and much bigger men. They attacked and attacked until their adversary fled, or formed a pulpy mass on the floor, or was saved by the police.
Charlie approached with some uncertainty. On the table were the remains of a large pizza and an empty bottle of Budweiser. He held out his hand. “You’re Cracker Johnson; I’m Charlie Bradshaw.”
Cracker stared at the hand, but made no other movement. Charlie withdrew his hand, pulled out a chair and sat down. The dirt beneath Cracker’s untrimmed nails made dark semicircles. A sour, unwashed smell clung to him like fog.
“Petey LaBarca said you could give me some information.”
“What’s in it for me?” His voice was a whisper.
“What do you want?”
Cracker folded one hand over the other. “A hundred bucks.”
“Twenty-five.”
They settled on fifty. Cracker never looked away from Charlie’s eyes. Charlie understood that he was meant to feel intimidated.
“You’re a friend of Petey’s?” asked Charlie.
“We know each other.”
“What about Mickey Martin?”
“I knew him too.” The ceiling’s fluorescent lights made Cracker’s head look slightly green.
A radio was on in the kitchen, a talk show. Charlie couldn’t hear what was being said, just an angry mutter. He tried to make his expression appear indifferent and sleepy, as if what he really wanted was a nap. Actually, he wished he were someplace else. A coiled spring, a cocked revolver, a drawn bowstring: all the usual clichés that might describe Cracker Johnson came to his mind.
“I want to know how Mickey got out of Adirondack after three years when he was sentenced to fifteen.”
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