Sheryl must have been in her early forties, and she slept with guys sixty and older most of the time. Not unattractive, but certainly worn down to the frayed edges. The thing you couldn’t help notice about her was her breasts. Pretty much your average C cup, except that her left was three times larger than her right because of a benign growth the size of a cantaloupe. She tried to have it removed once but nearly died from bleeding before they even got started. She had to learn to live with it.
How’d I know all this? Yeah, I fucked her my first week in town. Had to. Just no way to see those breasts and not wonder. She had to hold the left one up when she was on top. And be careful not to let it hit you in the face—bruised my nose.
I also knew that Spaceman had been stashing away some money so he could send her to a better doctor, maybe even one in Europe. He was tired of all her men treating her like an amusement park ride and then disappearing. So he had planned to surprise her on her birthday. He dealt drugs so his mom might be happy one day.
This time of the afternoon, the diner was mostly empty. Sheryl was perched on a stool, hand holding up her chin, listening to the swap shop on AM radio. She grinned at me, the tired type that highlighted the lines around her mouth.
“We’re not serving breakfast, baby.”
“Slept late. The night shift, you know.”
“I thought you usually came in before you went to bed.”
I set my hat on the counter and took a stool. Our faces were close. She smelled like a deep fryer and vanilla. “Last night I needed something stronger than chocolate milk and waffles.”
“Anything right now?”
“A root beer.”
She grabbed a hard plastic cup, scooped a tiny amount of ice from below the drink machine.
“More ice, please. Remember.”
“Fine, fine. I don’t know how you can stand it.”
I’d found that Minnesotans didn’t like a lot of ice in their “pop” and tea. Say it waters down the taste. They’re right, but we Southerners want it right to the rim anyway. She double-scooped and then ran me a root beer, handed it over. It gave me time to think how I should tell her about her son. Probably some sort of reverse psychology.
I thanked her, took a teeth-freezing sip. Then, “Heard from your boy lately?”
She rolled her eyes. “They get that age, they don’t want to call their mothers as much. It’s been a couple of days.”
“I thought he lived with you.”
“I guess he always will. Not like I’m going to give his room away or anything. Mostly he stays with his friend, you know. I know what they’re into, but I’ve been talking to him and I think he might be convinced to try looking for work in The Cities. Or maybe try college again.”
She sounded a little excited talking about it, but her spirit was broken, heavier than the weight of her huge tit. The way those words cracked at the end. She cleared her throat. I needed another sip to give us both a moment. A caller on the swap shop said, “It’s practically new. My husband liked to shovel the sidewalks himself, you know. He died in December while cleaning the driveway. Anyway, I’d bought him the snowblower and he barely used it, so…”
I said, “Out where I am, there’s no reason to shovel anything.”
“Well, if you ever want to get snowed in, let me know and I’ll come keep you company.”
I raised my eyebrows, pretended that was a nice offer, but my one time with her had been enough. The flirting since was just flirting, at least on my end.
I couldn’t tell her. Let her find out without me. “Sheryl, next time you talk to him, maybe mention he should call me?”
“That’s why you’re here?” She crossed her arms. “I’m a pigeon all the sudden?”
Another sip. Watered down indeed. “How many times I come in here and not ask for anything but breakfast?”
“Why don’t you call him? Seems to me you’re in touch more often than I am.”
“I don’t have time to hunt him down. Probably hiding a new lab from me or something. He still listens to his mother, though. Please?”
I was about to pick up my hat and thank her for the root beer when she stopped whatever she was about to say and looked over my shoulder at the entrance. A second later, bells jingled and a breeze chilled us both.
“Sit anywhere you like,” Sheryl said. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I turned my head. Two Asian guys in ski jackets stomped snow off their shoes. One’s face was acne-scarred. Probably my age. He wore glasses. The other had longer hair, sharp face, pretty striking young guy. He was the one who spoke, very little accent.
“Thank you, yes. We actually were hoping to speak with Deputy Lafitte for a few moments. Deputy, is okay?”
Jesus, they knew me. They worked fast. Goddamn killers standing here being perfect gentlemen to the mother of the boy they killed. They unzipped their jackets. The practiced look of anticipation came easily to them, drawing in those who didn’t know any better. But I was curious.
I led them into the time-warped dining room and sat at a table by the front window. The only cars in the lot were my cruiser, Sheryl’s Subaru, a customer’s car, and the Honda SUV rental of these two guys. Needed to trace soon as we were done.
They took off their coats. Underneath the older man’s was a wrinkled flannel shirt. I also noticed he was trying to grow a beard but wasn’t very good at it. The younger man wore a Vikings sweatshirt, loose-fit khakis, complicated sneakers. Like he’d walked right off a rap video shoot. But it was a front, trying to fit in. Might have worked if they weren’t together. They sat down and Sheryl came over, asked for their orders.
“Water. No ice.” The older one.
“A small salad and water, no ice.” The younger one.
Sheryl didn’t bother to write it down. She turned for the kitchen, bypassed the salad bar.
“What can I do you fellows for?” Twanging it up, playing the bad-ass charmer.
“We want some information.”
“About?”
“You. What you do. What you do that you don’t tell your sheriff.”
Pretty direct. I said, “You boys know what the term ‘wired’ means?”
They laughed. The younger said, “That’s not us. We’re not your police. We have friends who speak highly of you.”
“On which side?”
“What?”
“Well, do they speak highly of me as a cop, or as, maybe, just a regular guy?”
The older one spoke softly to the younger in their native tongue, I supposed, getting a nod. Then the older said in not-so-perfect English, “What he means, you are smart. Want what’s best for your people.”
The younger said, “We have been told you could help us if we played by your rules, and we do not want any interference. We regret the misunderstandings that have occurred.”
I leaned back and waited until Sheryl returned with two waters and a fully prepared salad that had definitely not come from the salad bar. They bowed their heads at her as she stepped away. When behind them, she mouthed, What’s going on? I winked at her. No worries.
“Those misunderstandings. How do you plan on resolving them?”
The younger man ate his salad while the older spoke. “Two have been resolved. We take care ourselves. The other, maybe you help with?”
My stomach cramped. They wanted me to get rid of Ian.
He said, “Our business, very well. Good money for everyone. Would be glad to pay for our error if it would help.”
I had to ask. “How much?”
Another blast of their language. Nothing recognizable.
The older one said, “Thirty thousand.”
Expecting me to go up? That’s what it felt like, holding back just enough. Like I said, I knew how to think like the dealers. “Fifty.”
Quiet. He fought a grin. One of those As we expected things and I’m thinking the same but not letting on. Just a dumb hick cop in bed with the meth folks, willing to do anything for money.
That bothered me the more I thought about it. A good businessman wouldn’t have done what these two just did. Walk in and proposition a lawman? Murder for hire within five minutes of meeting me? Throwing around just enough money—they could afford more and had they offered six figures, I’d be on my way to top the kid immediately—but low-balling to begin with? Apologizing to me for their error?
They weren’t pros.
The younger man took over. “For fifty thousand US dollars, you take care of our loose end?”
This sucked. The dialogue would barely pass muster on Walker, Texas Ranger. I laughed. It started like a cough but spread all over until I teared up. Reached for my hat and stood, tossed a fiver on the table. “I’ll get your lunch. Let’s go outside.”
*
We stood next to their SUV. I said, “What you two just did was pretty stupid. I want to crack your skulls and drag you into the station, but that means a lot of other things might get exposed. You understand?”
I didn’t let them answer. Kept going, “You killed a couple of people under my wing. Granted, they weren’t smart themselves, but if I had their bodies and some proof, you gentlemen would be dead already.”
“You do not frighten us, Deputy Lafitte.”
“Good, because if you’re not scared you won’t see me coming. Like I said, today’s your lucky day. I’m in a cooperative mood, want you to learn something from all this.” Truth was I didn’t want my connection to Trigger and Spaceman exposed, or to incur revenge from whomever these two were working for. Personally, I planned to hunt these bastards down later and smoke them, but I needed more time, more intel. “I’m going to follow you out Highway 212 for a little while, get you started towards The Cities. When I stop following you, keep going. Don’t come back.”
The younger one said, “What about the money?”
The older man hissed and shot a few words that caused his partner to shrink.
I said, “I do nothing for you. You do nothing for me. We don’t know each other. Whatever it takes to erase your memory of this place and what happened here, do it. Climb in your vehicle and keep it at the speed limit. I’ll be in your rearview.”
They took it well. No sneering or vows of We’ll be back. Instead, nods and straight faces. I jotted down their plate number as we eased through the sludge-filled parking lot to the Highway, and I followed them about twenty miles outside of town before pulling to the shoulder and watching their Honda fade to a speck.
SEVEN
The message light on my cell phone was blinking. Good time to check it out. Drew’s number. Always good to hear from her, heartbreaking as it was. I dialed back and she picked up on the first ring.
“Oh my god, Billy, it’s like the best news. I don’t believe it.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“We’ve got a gig! A real gig.”
“Here? Or Marshall?” They had a few more bars than Pale Falls, but I wouldn’t think they’d go for psychobilly.
“No, it’s The Cities. Minneapolis. All I know is that Adam got a call from some guy saying he’d heard of us through some college students who were over there, and that he’d had a cancellation. Tonight! Isn’t that, like, just the coolest? You know, it’s short notice, but he said as long as we’re there by eight to set-up, it’s a ten o’clock show.”
“He paying you?”
“Adam said it would cover gas, dinner, and maybe some pocket money. Who cares? It’s a friggin’ gig, man, at a club and all that.”
I checked my dashboard clock. Four-thirty. “You in the car now?”
“I told Adam to take the stuff over and I’d meet them there. I just pulled out of the driveway.”
Some cars passed me, and I was aware of being in the wrong county. So I swung a U-turn and headed back to Pale Falls while calculating—about three hours to Minneapolis, closer to two if I were to take the cruiser and fly. Maybe I could catch most of the show if I hurried up taking a photo of the brand on Ian’s ass.
“Tell me where. I want to see you guys.”
“You don’t have to,” she said, but I knew her cheeks were glowing when she did.
“Who’s the guy at nearly every show you play? Come on, you know I’m coming.”
She gave me some directions, an address I memorized and would plug into Google Maps later. The dive was called “Gilligan’s”.
“Like the TV show?”
“That would be cool if it was. I mean, not the real Gilligan. He’s dead.” Her signal faded and garbled her next few words.
“I’ve never heard of the place,” I said.
Garbled. “What? It’s new. Be there. I’ll streak my hair purple just for you.”
I smiled. She knew I was a fan of the LSU Tigers, purple and gold. “Stay safe, and I’ll be there on time. Might even force a few drunks to buy your CD.”
*
I had the Elvis Antichrist demo on MP3, so I played it as I drove back to Marshall in the cruiser near sundown. The corn and bean fields were peeking through the snow in spots, but we still had a long way to go. The wind kept trying to force me off the road. I was getting used to it. Sometimes Minnesota could be devastating in its natural beauty, but the next minute you wondered if it had been a cruel trick of light. I’d been told that if you travel up north, you’ve got those ten thousand lakes and the woods and wildlife that will take your breath away. It’s a shame the southwest part of the state looked like it hadn’t been painted in yet.
Elvis Antichrist in one ear, listening for radio calls with the other. The song was “Dig Me With Your Love Shovel”, and I looked forward to seeing them do it live at a real club with a real crowd and real lighting. I was hoping Drew would be mighty buzzed from it all, and then maybe I could convince her to stay the night with me at a downtown hotel. The thoughts kept coming and my dick grew hard and I cleared my throat. Needed one shot of the Ian’s pale ass and then I was outta there.
The road beside the dorm buildings was lined with students’ cars, emergency blinkers on, a cheap way to park illegally while they supposedly unloaded laundry or went to knock on their date’s door. I pulled in beside a fire hydrant and in front of a Toyota from the nineties, when they all looked alike. A girl smoking under the dorm’s awning saw me and took off for her car, two spots down, blinkers flashing away.
I passed her and she said, “Sorry, sorry.”
“Next time it’ll be a ticket.” Not that I had any authority here—Marshall was Lyon County. But to these kids a uniform is a uniform.
“Sorry.”
I winked at her. Not bad. The voice was cute, too. Not enough to keep my mind off Drew, though.
Back up to the sleepy guy’s room. I didn’t expect Ian to be here but hoped he was. If not, a quick call on my new friend Heather would help track him down. After our talk earlier in the day, I was pretty sure she would be glad to help in any way.
Pounded on the door. Heard more than one voice. Tried the handle and let it swing, leaned on the doorframe. Two girls, two guys, a pizza box on the bed, playing a fantasy game on PlayStation.
“Need to find Ian.”
The sleepy guy passed his game controller to one of the girls. Dumb-faced. Got up and stepped out into the hall, pulling the door closed so those inside couldn’t hear.
“He left a few hours ago because I had friends on the way over.”
“I told him to stay here.”
“Yeah, but, you know. Maybe he’s in the library or the student center.”
I leaned closer, spoke directly in his ear. “If anything has happened to him because of you kicking him out…guess what?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Fucking kid. You stupid fucking kid.” I walked away.
*
Back to Heather’s. Didn’t bother with the sneaking this time, just buzzed the front desk and told them I was supposed to escort a robbery witness to a deposition. Maybe the girl who let me in would get suspicious and do some research later to see if I was a liar
, but I doubted it. She was in her pajamas, some fashion trend—lazy chic. A short freshman with messy blonde hair who smelled like cigarettes.
“Um, maybe you should sign in.”
I smiled at her. “Next time. And I’ll even take you for a ride in the cruiser if you want.”
She bobbed her head. “Cool.”
Up the stairs to Heather’s door. I knocked lightly, wanted her to think I was another girl from the floor. No answer. No voices. No nothing. They’d skipped on me. Heather probably thought she was a rebel, liked the game. When I found her, she’d rethink the attitude. I tried the door handle. Locked. It wasn’t goddamned funny. I wanted in that room. I wanted to see if she had a caller ID box, maybe grab a few of her buddies, maybe even her source for the dope, and apply a little pressure. The recipe for instant cooperation, I hoped.
Fuck it. I was probably obliterating evidence, but on the bright side, it was much easier to get a search warrant if you’d already found what you were looking for. Looked like these dorms had been built thirty, forty years ago. The locks built into the handles were simple to pick. The deadbolts only locked from the inside, just like mine more than ten years before. Never changed. But if Heather didn’t want to answer, you pretty much had to either take the door off the hinges or go in through the window.
I took a walk out to the cruiser, grabbed the lock pick kit out of the glove compartment. Never knew when you’d need it. I told Miss Pajamas at the front desk that I had forgotten some paperwork. Then back up to Heather’s door. I worked the lock, had it in about four minutes. I pressed down on the handle. Popped open like a can of soda. The deadbolt wasn’t engaged. It was a wonder more kids weren’t killed or raped with that kind of security.
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