by John Oakes
“An Old Fashioned. It practically says classy in the name.”
Julius found the page and poured out the ingredients. “Damn. It says we need a cherry and an orange slice.”
Plimpton emerged from the hallway wearing loafers and a dark purple satin kimono with gold designs across the middle. “You can find all that in the kitchen. Pour one more, young man.”
Julius did so, and Winton followed Plimpton to the refrigerator where the big man pulled out a jar of Maraschino cherries and an orange.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Plimpton said. “I’ll be in the hot tub. Y’all can find swimsuits in the guest bath if you want.”
He walked to a rear sliding door and stepped out onto the deck.
Winton passed by Julius who was bringing three full glasses to the kitchen. “Where you going?”
“Hot tub, baby!” Winton gave a little shimmy. A minute later, he appeared in an overlarge pair of trunks, cinched down at the hips, flowing well past his knees. He took his fruit-garnished drink off the table and made his way outside where Julius was handing Plimpton his drink. Julius found a deck chair to ease into, and Winton made pleasurable noises as he eased himself into the steaming, bubbling water. “This is literally what the doctor ordered,” Winton said.
“Only thing that keeps my knees working,” Plimpton said. “I got a state championship football trophy and twenty-seven years on the force. What’s your excuse?”
“I dunno.” Winton took a long sip of his drink and set it on the deck. “God hates me?”
Plimpton shot out a laugh that made his head recoil.
“I shouldn’t complain,” Winton said. “I’m better than I’ve ever been. Still rehabbing from surgeries, though. So the hot tub is much appreciated, detective.”
“I ain’t Detective Plimpton here. Nah. You can call me Mister Plimpton.”
Winton forgave Plimpton holding them at arm’s length, since he had opened his home to them and shared his liquor cabinet and hot tub. If he insisted on acting like a hard ass curmudgeon, well, that was his right.
They sat in a comfortable silence, until Plimpton said, “You boys like cigars?”
“Sure,” Julius said.
“I haven’t tried many,” Winton said.
“Mister Vincent, be a good man and fetch us some cigars from my humidor. You know what a humidor is?”
“Think I do.”
“It’s in a cupboard not far from the bar.” Plimpton described which cigars to pull out and Julius returned wearing a borrowed pair of swim trunks and clutching three cigars, the cutter, and a lighter.
Plimpton got them all puffing away, teaching them some of the finer points. “You know people think I got some sort of oral fixation the way I got a cheap cigar in my mouth here and there throughout the day.” Plimpton regarded his thick brown cigar with its red bead. “But it’s all so I can come home at the end of the day and appreciate how much better this cigar is.”
All three of them downed their drinks fast after the long day. Julius slipped away to fix them a new round.
“So, what do you do when you’re not in Galveston interfering with the law?” Plimpton asked.
“I run a resort,” Winton said.
“Oh? That’s not what I’d expect.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t rightly know. If I had to guess, I would’ve gone with something academic. Maybe a journalist.”
“Well, I can see why I rubbed you the wrong way at first.”
Plimpton huffed a laugh.
“I was in city planning for a while. That didn’t work out, and one day the resort thing just came along and swept me up.”
“You like it?”
The question struck Winton as funny. Oddly, he’d never once asked himself the question. He wanted to answer in an easy way, to gush about all the people he loved, but all he felt was tired from the responsibilities. “For whatever reason, the only thing I can think would make me happy is seeing justice for Beatrice.” Winton looked up, remembering how he and Plimpton hadn’t seen eye-to-eye on the topic before. “Not to cause trouble,” he said. Then softer, “I know we disagreed. But you know when you feel something in your gut.”
Plimpton sighed. “Well, tomorrow it either goes your way, or it doesn’t. That’s all my gut ever tells me.”
“So that’s it. It’s not that you don’t believe in the importance of justice. You’re just too stoical to believe it comes around.”
Plimpton accepted a fresh drink from Julius who then slipped into the tub with them.
“And if I said yes,” Plimpton said. “You’d just accuse me of being a defeatist do-nothing. So let’s not have this conversation.”
“I missed what happened here, but I’d rather not watch Mister Plimpton drown your ass,” Julius said.
Winton picked up his fresh Old Fashioned from the deck. “To tomorrow then.”
Plimpton raised his glass, eyeing Winton.
A chime sounded inside the house. Plimpton set his drink down, laying his cigar atop it. “That’ll be for me.” He rose from the water, and it poured off his thick body onto the deck as he toweled off quickly and walked into the house wearing his kimono.
“How the hell does a policeman afford a place like this?” Julius asked. “I got a peek around. Three thousand square feet, four bedrooms, two and half baths, two car garage, a good parcel of land, designer kitchen. This place cost him some serious overtime.”
“Or it cost him something else,” Winton murmured. “Just saying. Cops sometimes…”
“You think he’s dirty?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You thinking this is just an elaborate trap?” Julius asked. “Shit man, no one’s ever this nice to us.” Julius held up his drink and cigar, looking down at the bubbling water.
At the mere suggestion of a trap, Winton’s mind raced at the possibility. Memories of crooked cops doing deals with the devil surfaced, making him feel exposed and unsafe.
“Who d’you think he’s meeting at the door?” Winton stood out of the water, trying to find a sightline. “We’re defenseless.”
Winton looked around for a weapon and spotted a gardening trowel stuck in a potted plant. He stepped onto the deck and toward it, when the sliding door opened behind him. He turned to find Plimpton leading a younger woman through the doorway, wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini and high heels. She had short hair, light brown skin and a pair of breasts that strained at the structural integrity of her top. Plimpton remained inside, and she walked gracefully to the hot tub and kicked off her heels, little muscles flaring in her toned legs. “Roy said he had surprise company.”
“Julius Vincent.” Julius eagerly stood to shake her hand. She took it and used it to balance as she stepped down into the hot tub and sat. She spread her arms on the back and gave Winton a look. He remained frozen, hunched to the side in reach of the trowel. “Uhh.” He stood straighter. “Hi.”
“Hi.” The woman laughed.
“I’m Winton.” He walked toward them and into thin air, splashing down into the tub, coming up to the surface near her. He cleared the water from his face and held out a hand. “Winton Chevalier.”
She shook it. “Y’all can call me Miss Vicky.”
“Miss Vicky,” Julius said.
“Did you mess up my make up?” Miss Vicky winked at Winton and dabbed at her eyes where Winton had splashed her.
“Miss Vicky, you are stunning,” Julius said. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
Plimpton emerged from the house holding a large glass of red wine which he handed to Miss Vicky. He sat down next to her, and she leaned in close to him.
“Well, aren’t we four peas in a pod,” Miss Vicky said.
“Sorry,” Julius said. “If it’s too uhh… cramped, I can—”
“No, no.” She waved a hand, then set it on Plimpton’s chest. “I’ve just never seen you have company over.”
Plimpton’s expression grew brig
hter with Miss Vicky near. “From time to time I have to bring a little work home with me. These are potential clients.”
Miss Vicky didn’t seem phased by that. Plimpton gave them both a look commanding them to play along.
“I just didn’t see a reason for them to stay at some Days Inn when I got a homier set up and plenty of space.” Plimpton relit his cigar. “I do enjoy sharing my luxurious home.”
“That’s so sweet,” Miss Vicky said. “Where are you from?”
“New Orleans.” Julius tipped his head.
“I love New Orleans,” she said. “The food and the music. To die for.”
“You know, Miss Vicky, I’m getting a little pruney.” Plimpton held a hand out of the water. “Might be time for me to retire to my boudoir.”
Plimpton got out and offered Miss Vicky a hand. As she turned her back to them to step out, Winton thought he could hear something breaking inside Julius like a tray of glasses hitting the floor. He looked over. Julius’ eyes were strained and his jaw clenched, clearly pained from the sight.
“Maybe you should go jump in the cold pool,” Winton said.
“Don’t mock me and my pain.”
“That was pretty brutal. I’m sorry, man.”
“How am I hurting for a lady, but Plimpton’s got her? He’s a fifty-year-old schlub with a crotchety attitude.”
“Dude. He’s probably paying her.”
“How d’you know?”
“It fits with the overall scheme of things.” Winton twirled a finger at their surroundings. “Drug money he got paid off with.”
“Dang,” Julius said, looking off in his shellshocked state. “You think I could get her number?”
Winton eyed him, hands aloft. “I mean… I wouldn’t ask for it right in front of Plimpton. But that’s not the point.” Winton sputtered, trying to form words. He leaned in close. “What if that’s why he’s been so hesitant to go after the doctors?”
“Wait, are you really suggesting Plimpton is being paid off by Jansen somehow?”
“It might help explain why he wouldn’t listen to the evidence about Bea’s murder. Why he was happy to end the investigation.”
“Then he coulda told Jansen we’re onto him. The dude could be in Mexico by now.”
A commotion sounded from inside. Miss Vicky’s voice sounded upset. Plimpton’s low grumble was hard to parse. As Miss Vicky stumbled out into the living room, her words became audible through the sliding door. “What drug money? Hey.” It took a second for Winton to realize she was calling to him. She opened the door and stepped out, still in her bikini bottom but wearing only a short jacket over her torso, barely containing her bosom. “What’s this you’re talking about drug money? And me being a prostitute?”
Winton slowly slinked backward through the water until trapped in the far corner.
“We weren’t…. How did you…”
Miss Vicky advanced. “And something about a murder?”
Plimpton arrived behind her, wearing only a towel around his waist. “Miss Vicky, come back inside. These two were talking about something else, I’m certain.”
“Nah, I heard them plain as day, through the window screen,” she said. “They think I’m a prostitute.”
Winton rose and splayed his hands diplomatically. “It was just a theory.”
“We didn’t really think that, Miss Vicky.” Julius said. “If we’re his clients, why would he just get a hooker for himself? Poor hospitality like that might ruin a deal.”
Winton gave him a harsh look.
“Sorry.” Julius shrunk down. “It sounded better in my head.”
“I ain’t a hooker.” Miss Vicky pointed to her chest. “I got a Ph.D. in Linguistics, you asses, and we—” She motion rapidly back and forth between her and Plimpton. “—met at a church conference.”
“Outta the tub, you damn nincompoops,” Plimpton bellowed. “It’s curfew. Stop drinking my liquor and smoking my cigars.”
“Who are these men, Roy, and why are they here?”
Plimpton coaxed her into the house again and mumbled some explanation. Whatever he said, it wasn’t enough to convince her to stay. She left quietly after packing her things and dressing. Afterward, Plimpton walked in step to a funeral dirge into the living room, slow and plodding in his dark purple robe.
Winton and Julius stood awaiting the confrontation, now in their clothes, but still damp from changing quickly.
“Before you tear us new assholes,” Julius said, “we just got confused about what was going on.”
“Don’t apologize,” Winton said. “We didn’t do anything wrong. This wouldn’t have happened if ole Roy here wasn’t lying to his girl.”
“I do that to keep my personal life and private life separate,” Plimpton said.
“Fine,” Winton said. “So it’s just a misunderstanding.”
“But you see a black man with some nice things and immediately start guessing he’s on the take and buying whores.” Plimpton raised a finger at Julius. “I’m mostly disappointed with you. A black man gets something in this world, and another brother’s always there quickest to tear him down.”
“Now hold on,” Julius said. “It ain’t a black thing. It’s a thing where I ain’t never seen a cop living like this.”
All three men were upset. They stood there looking at one another, waiting for someone to start the argument up again.
Finally, Plimpton relaxed his shoulders, stood a little taller and walked to the bar where he poured himself three fingers of bourbon. He walked past them to the fridge where he dispensed some ice into his glass. “When I was real young, I married a smart woman who worked for Du Pont down the road from here. She was a happy woman, and we didn’t give two licks that she was the bread winner or any of that shit. She stopped being happy when we found out she couldn’t conceive. One day she handed me divorce papers and begged me to sign it.”
He took a long drink from his glass, draining half of it. The ice rattled and resettled as he held it to his chest.
“She told me that it was going to poison us, not having kids, that a childless marriage was a ship without a rudder. And she didn’t want me to resent her in the end.” Plimpton drank again. “I signed to make her stop talking all that nonsense, figuring she’d come to her senses. She left me the deed to the house and fifty thousand dollars from our savings. I never thought I’d spend a dime of it, but then she never was heard from again. Only heard rumors about her from then on out. Her parents said they forgave me, like it was my fault. Can you believe that?”
He finished his drink.
“Some people think I became a police officer to try and find her. But the truth is, I needed a good paying job so I could keep the house nice for my wife when she eventually came back. I couldn’t find good-paying, but the police were hiring. That’s all it was.” He gestured with his arms out. “You see, wanting a thing to be true don’t have nothing to do with reality. And wanting reality to end the way you want it to is a fool’s wish. What will be, will be.”
Winton felt a lump in his throat and a sucking dryness in his mouth.
Julius coughed then sniffed. “Maybe you should let me fill your glass, brother. I’m real sorry about Miss Vicky. You got no idea how sorry.”
Plimpton offered it out to Julius and leaned heavily on the marble countertop.
“Did you ever find her?” Winton whispered.
Plimpton inhaled through his nose. “I did.”
And that was all he had to say about it.
Julius handed Plimpton his refill, and he shuffled off through the living room.
“Hey. You gotta tell me the name of that church conference, Brother Plimpton,” Julius pled. “Lord have mercy.”
Plimpton waved a hand out to the side. “Forget what I said about curfew, gents. And help yourself to my booze. Just be ready to wake up sharp in the morning. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” He disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. “And what will be, will be!”
&nbs
p; TWENTY-FIVE
Winton and Julius woke as bright and bushy as could be and set to making breakfast by seven. Plimpton emerged silent as the grave, eating and drinking coffee at the counter with a grunt of thanks before showering and getting dressed. The first actual word the man said to anyone was when he properly introduced Winton and Julius to the Galveston County Prosecutor, Nora Palmer. She was still an imposing figure, as before, but treated them with civility. She took them behind a double-paned glass that looked in on the interrogation room they’d just been in the night before.
“You two have a habit of getting wound up in investigations like this?”
Her tone was just flat enough, it momentarily froze Winton with fear that she knew about Louisiana. But the gentle lift of her her eyebrows allayed his worries.
“No, ma’am.” Winton looked up at Julius then back at her. “Just came down for a little vacation at the wrong time.”
“Plimpton and Weischel tell me you aren’t private investigators.” She looked up at Julius, letting her gaze linger. “You sure as hell don’t don’t seem the part, but that makes one wonder all the more.”
“I’m no private investigator,” Julius said. “I don’t like getting involved in other people’s business.”
“Yeah,” Winton said, feeling it was more truthful than not. “I got enough problems of my own and a business to run.”
Plimpton opened the door to the interrogation room and let Doctor Jansen in. He wore a crisp shirt and slacks, looking as professional as could be.
“I admit I don’t appreciate being brought in here.” Jansen looked about the cinder block walls with their water stains and moldy corners.
“I do apologize,” Plimpton said. “I just needed your help with a couple of things, and the conference room is taken.”
Jansen sat and crossed his legs. “Of course I’m eager to help. Can we make it quick? Things at the clinic are in shambles. My newly sober patients have just found out their doctor was murdered. I need to be with them.”
Plimpton sat down with his broad shoulders blocking Jansen from Winton’s view, so skirted around the prosecutor to get a vantage from the bottom corner of the window.