Show Me (Thomas Prescott 4)

by Nick Pirog

  “Which begs the question: why exactly are you doing background checks on me?”

  “Just doing my due diligence on the newest member of our community.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He glared at me, then said, “As for your request, that’s not gonna happen.”

  I held his gaze.

  “And just out of curiosity,” he asked, “what is your interest in the Save-More murders?”

  “Just doing my due diligence on my new community.”

  He didn’t respond to this, and I said, “You know, there’s probably a video on YouTube that will show you how to apply sunblock properly.”

  If he found this amusing, he didn’t show it.

  He said, “You think that just because you were some hotshot homicide detective, that because you were on the cover of Time, that because you come from the city, you think you can just waltz in here and demand to see our files. You got some nerve.”

  “First, I was on the cover of Time and People. Second, I have no idea how to waltz. And third, I didn’t demand anything, I asked to see your files.”

  He stared at me for a long second, then said, “Your old boss said you were a prick.”

  “That might be the case. But if you did your proper homework on me, then you would know I’ve put a shitload of bad guys away, that I helped track down four serial killers when I was working with the Feds, and that I broke open several cold cases that were considered not cold, but frozen in ice.”

  He put his hand up to speak, but I wasn’t finished.

  “I’ve seen more murders, more depraved shit, more death, and closed more cases than everyone in your little podunk police department combined. You should feel blessed that the gods have looked down upon you that I might offer my services and take a look at your case files.”

  He stood. He was taller than I would have thought, at least six-three. He said, “Forgive me if I don’t bow down and wash your feet. And for the record, I was a homicide detective for nine years in St. Louis before I came here, so I can assure you, I have seen just as much depraved shit, and I can guarantee I solved more cases than you. And if Sherlock Holmes himself walked through those doors, I would tell him the same exact thing I’m gonna tell you: it will be a cold day in hell when I let anyone outside of this department look at a sensitive case file.”

  If I were a dog, my tail would be between my legs hiding my genitalia. If this were a rap battle, I would have just been booed off stage. If this were Hell’s Kitchen, Gordon Ramsay would have just told me to “get out of his fucking kitchen.”

  After a few recovery breaths, not to mention a couple Stuart Smalley self-affirmations that I wasn’t a complete loser, I asked, “St. Louis?”

  St. Louis was routinely ranked as one of the most dangerous cities in the United States.

  He nodded, his jowls hiccupping up and down.

  “I guess I had you all wrong,” I said. “But just so you know, Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. I think you might be confused about that.”

  “I know, I was just making a point.”

  “It’s just you made it sound like he was a real person who could come walking through the door, but he can’t.”

  “I kno—”

  “He’s not real.”

  It would seem I’d officially worn out my welcome, and he pointed to the door. “I think it’s time for you to go.”

  When I was halfway through the doorway, I turned and said, “They sell it at most grocery stores. Heck, they probably even sold it at the Save-More. You know, before the murders.”

  “What?”

  “Sunblock.”

  I winked at him, then made my way back to the entrance. I hit the reception desk, and the woman called out, “Mr. Prescott. Your ID.” She held up my license.

  I took it.

  I could feel the piece of paper taped to the back of my license the moment I took it from her, but I didn’t dare look at it until I’d driven from the parking lot and down a few blocks. Peeling the small white piece of paper off the back of my license, I unfolded it and read the message:

  Talk to Mike Zernan.

  Then there was an address.

  And so it began.

  Chapter Nine

  There were seven churches within the town limits, and I was invited to three of their summer revivals.

  Two Lutheran.

  And one Baptist.

  Walk into a bar.

  Just kidding.

  Apparently, the festivities lasted all day Saturday and most of Sunday. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings and I decided to make a pit stop at all three. My plan was to hit a couple today, then one tomorrow.

  I contemplated dressing May and Harold up and taking them with me, but I wasn’t sure what the rules were with pigs and churches. Deities? Dinner? It was a slippery slope.

  Anyhow, I put them in the pigpen. When I walked away, they both started oinking up a storm.

  “It’s okay, guys,” I kept saying. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  I could still hear their whining as I drove from the farm. I did a U-turn, came back, and let them into the house.

  I was not the alpha.

  I started my revival marathon at Randall’s church. I was starving, and he promised delicious barbeque.

  Holy Trinity Lutheran was on the south side of town, and I pulled into the parking lot. All of the one hundred black people who lived in Tarrin, plus another twenty white people, were dressed in their Sunday best and hovered under four large white tents set up on the church’s front lawn.

  The men were wearing suits, and the women were clad in dresses of every color imaginable.

  According to Randall, over the course of two days it would be many hours of preaching, followed by long stretches of eating, plus games and activities for both the kids and adults.

  I parked the Range Rover and stepped out.

  I was dressed to the sevens, which was about as high as I could go with the clothes I packed—at least the ones that still fit. I was wearing tan slacks and a blue button-down, which, due to my increased girth, was testing the limits of the cotton gin. I nearly added a tie, but after three failed attempts at tying it, I gave up.

  Randall was huddled with two men and two little girls. He spotted me as I strolled across the grass and headed in my direction. He looked dapper in a black suit with a red tie and his beard was a half inch shorter than it was a couple days prior. It was the first time I’d seen him without his trademark straw hat, and his bald head reflected the noon sun.

  “Dergen!” he shouted, pulling me into a hug.

  “She told you?”

  “I took Roscoe in for his checkup yesterday, and she told me.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Could be worse. Your first name could be Holy!”

  He laughed at his own joke, then ushered me back toward the group and introduced me to his two brothers-in-law and his two daughters. The girls were twins named Keesha and Kaylin. They were seven. Keesha had on a bright yellow dress, and Kaylin’s was lavender. Their skin was a caramel brown, and I guessed their mother was white.

  Next, Randall ushered me to a table stacked high with barbeque. There was a beautiful woman behind the table. She was curvy with brown hair and sharp green eyes—Randall’s wife, Alexa.

  She came around the table and gave me a long hug, thanked me for giving Randall some work, then loaded my plate high with ribs and pork shoulder.

  “She seems great,” I told Randall, sidling up next to him at a picnic table.

  “She’s the best. She teaches English at the high school.”

  “How long have you guys been married?”

  “Nine years.”

  I didn’t know how to phrase the question so I just came out with it. “I know this isn’t exactly the South, but how does that go over in a small town?”

  “Interracial marriage?”

  I nodded.

  “It’s gotten a lot better here over the past couple of decades. A lot of the h
ate died off with the last generation. Sure, it’s still there. Hell, Alexa’s dad didn’t take to me for about three years.”

  “And now?”

  “We’re like this.” He crossed his fingers.

  He wrestled down half a rib, then changed the subject. “So, your farm?”

  I knew where he was headed and I said, “I’m in.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “It’s not gonna be easy.”

  “Why live on a farm if you’re not gonna fucking farm?”

  He laughed, nearly choking on the meat in his mouth.

  I patted his shoulder. “Careful, I can’t have my head foreman dying on day one.”

  He slapped his chest with his hand, coughed, then said, “How ‘bout I stop by on Monday and we can go over what needs to be done?”

  “Sounds good.”

  There was a loud whistle, and Randall said, “Eat up. The service is about to start.”

  A sixty-something black preacher gave an impassioned sermon about resisting sin during these next three months of summer. He pleaded with the youth to stay away from the “devil’s brew” and to chasten themselves against the “temptations of the flesh” on those hot, humid nights.

  The sermon lasted two hours. Make that, I lasted two hours. The sermon could have lasted six for all I knew. I slipped out under the guise of using the bathroom, then darted to the Range Rover, and found my way back to Main Street.

  Tarrin Baptist was on the south side of Main Street. Lutheran United was across the street on the north side. More than two hundred people permeated the front lawns of both churches, and many tents were sprawled on the street, separating the two. If there were any resentments between the two factions, they’d set aside their differences for the day.

  Or so it seemed.

  It took me a few moments to locate Annie from the home goods store, who, to my great pleasure, was standing behind one of the tables in the buffet line. In front of her were two metal dishes stacked high with glistening fried chicken.

  I guess I would start my diet tomorrow.

  Annie forced me to take four pieces—two breasts and two thighs, which she thought was hilarious—and I happily obliged her.

  I was headed back to snag a drumstick when a woman grabbed me by the arm.

  “We need you,” she said.

  I traded glances between the metal pan of glistening chicken and the enchanting blond woman tugging on my arm.

  “Can I just grab—”

  “No!” she yelled. “There’s no time.”

  “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “The tug-of-war,” she said, pulling me across the street toward Lutheran United at a jog.

  I couldn’t help but notice the uppermost of her pink dress bouncing up and down as she ran.

  We made it around to the back of Lutheran United where there was a large grass courtyard and a sand volleyball pit. The volleyball net was gone and lying across the length of the sand was a rope.

  “We’ve lost five years in a row,” the blond said, coming to a stop.

  For the first time, I got a good look at her. She had light blue eyes and high cheekbones. Her lipstick was the exact shade of her dress, a light pink. She was barefoot, yet she was only an inch shorter than me.

  She was a tall blond goddess.

  She dragged me to the pit where two pastors stood across from each other on opposite sides of a thick rope. Both men’s faces were stern, and both were doing stretches.

  This was Yankees vs. Red Sox.

  “Pastor John, look what I got,” the blond said.

  Pastor John appraised me to the point I thought he was going to ask to see my teeth, then said “Nice work, Caroline.”

  Caroline.

  “I hear you’ve lost five years in a row to Lutheran United,” I said, unable to think of anything else.

  Pastor John shook his head. “We are Lutheran United.”

  I turned and looked at Caroline. She’d poached me from the Tarrin Baptist front lawn.

  On this note, a woman ran over and said, “Oh, no! He’s with us.”

  It was Annie.

  “Not a chance, Annie,” Caroline barked. “He’s with us.”

  “Thomas?” Annie asked.

  “Thomas?” Caroline echoed.

  I froze.

  Brain: Thomas, you know the right thing to do.

  Dick: Yeah you do, buddy.

  Brain: Must I remind you that you were at Tarrin Baptist to see Annie? You were eating her fried chicken. Four pieces.

  Dick: Dude, must I remind you that you haven’t been laid since Gina left? Which was, oh, I don’t know, SEVEN MONTHS AGO!

  Brain: Did you hear the preacher, Thomas? “Chasten yourself against the temptations of the flesh.”

  Dick: Did you see her running, Thomas? That was like some Baywatch style bouncing, my man.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, taking a step closer to Caroline.

  Annie’s face fell.

  Brain: I’m so disappointed.

  Dick: Yahooooooo!

  There were ten spots on each side. Pastor John walked me down the line, and like a baseball manager staring at his lineup card, he switched a couple people around, then put me in the eighth spot.

  I wrapped my hands around the rope.

  Someone yelled, “One minute!”

  The crowd around the volleyball court quickly doubled.

  Let’s go, Lutheran!

  Let’s go, Baptist!

  Lutheran!

  Baptist!

  Lutheran!

  Baptist!

  Someone counted down from ten, then a gunshot erupted. And not some fake starter pistol. A rifle shot.

  Everyone started pulling.

  I heaved, a blinding pain shooting through my ribs.

  Brain: Karma.

  The pain in my side was nearly as bad as when I first fell off the ladder, but Caroline screaming my name—Come on, Thomas! Pull, Thomas! Harder, Thomas!—kept me going.

  Dick: Pull!!!

  A minute later, it was over.

  Baptist won for a sixth straight year.

  Caroline made her way over to me and asked, “Are you okay?”

  I might have been lying on the sand holding my ribs.

  “Uh, yeah,” I groaned.

  I told her how I fell out of a tree and then fell off a ladder.

  “Oh, honey, why didn’t you say so?”

  I filled up the Range Rover at the small gas station and while I was there, I asked for directions to the address the Tarrin Police Department receptionist had taped to my license.

  It took me five minutes to find the place, a small house on the outskirts of town. There was a dirt road leading to a house set back on a couple of acres. A blue Toyota Tacoma was parked in the dirt out front.

  I knocked on the front door, but no one answered. I walked around to the back of the house and saw a man working on a hot rod.

  “Hey,” I announced.

  He glanced up from the engine and squinted in my direction. He had a thick Selleck mustache, and his hands were covered in grease. There was a shotgun leaned against the front tire of the car, and he picked it up and ambled toward me.

  He stopped five feet short and asked, “Whatcha need, partner?”

  “Was thinking maybe we could chat.”

  “What, exactly, would we be chatting about?”

  “The Save-More murders.”

  He glared at me, then looked down at his gun, then back at me.

  “Or we could just talk about the Cardinals,” I said.

  “Now we’re talking.” He stuck his hand out. “Mike Zernan.”

  “Thomas Prescott.” If my name meant anything to him, he didn’t show it.

  “You know anything about cars, Thomas?” he asked, waving me toward the hot rod.

  The last time I attempted any car maintenance myself, I put window washer fluid in the radiator.

  “Can’t say I do.”

  He seemed to second-guess putti
ng his gun away, took a breath, then tilted his head toward the hot rod. “This here is a 1930 Ford Model A Pickup.”

  The hot rod frame was black with an exposed chrome engine. Two exhaust pipes stuck up from the engine like the pipes of a church organ. The wheels were thin, black rubber with concentric circles of white and red. The frame of the truck hovered six inches above a small patch of gravel. It looked in excellent condition, save for the front headlights which were both cracked.

  He said, “I’ve been restoring her for going on a year and a half now.”

  “Looks like you’re almost done.”

  “Yeah, just a few more little projects.”

  “What are you working on today?”

  “Waiting on a couple headlights to be delivered. Supposed to be here an hour ago, if Pete would get off his lazy ass.”

  I laughed. “Who’s Pete?”

  “UPS guy. Probably down at the bowling alley drinking a beer.”

  I didn’t pry further.

  Mike cracked his neck, then said, “Just been fiddling with the engine most of the morning. Trying to squeak out a few more horses.” He leaned over the engine, then said, “Come here.”

  I joined him.

  He fiddled away for a good ten minutes, detailing his every move, then said, “Jump in and give it a whirl, would ya?”

  I opened the driver side door and slid in. The key was in the ignition, and I turned it. The engine rumbled to life.

  “Gas it!” Mike yelled over the thrum of the engine.

  I did.

  The engine rumbled two octaves louder, the entire car vibrating. It made my father’s Range Rover seem like a Big Wheel.

  “Okay, kill it!” he yelled.

  He waved me out, wiped his hands on his jeans, and asked, “What did you think?”

  “Instant Viagra.”

  He smiled. “You want a beer?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He disappeared inside, then returned with two longnecks. He motioned toward the hot rod and said, “Let’s get away from these bugs for a while.”

  We both got into the truck.

  He flipped the radio to an old fifties station, then turned to me and said, “So the Cardinals? What’s your interest in them?”

  “Someone told me to ask you about them.”