by Gregory Ashe
For the first time since coming into the office—maybe for the first time since Hazard had met him—Hoffmeister smiled. “Yeah, I guess I am. How much do you charge?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m not just saying that. I don’t know, I really don’t. I’m fucked, ok? You heard that psycho bitch at the tree lighting yesterday, right?”
“The one who said, ‘Officer Hoffmeister must die’? Yeah, I heard her.”
“It’s bullshit. It’s fucking ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to wear a target on my back because some rainbow-sprinkles snowflake is upset that I did my job.”
“You know that woman?”
“Fuck no.”
“But you know what she’s upset about.”
“They’re all pissing their panties about the same thing, Hazard. The same fucking thing: I did my job.”
“This is all wrapped up with the lawsuit, is that it? Assault and battery—is that what it is?”
“Fucking bullshit.” Waving a hand, Hoffmeister added, “Union rep says it’s just a dustup. You know, everybody’s hot under the collar about police. My job, you know what it is? Keeping order. Keeping this town safe. And now I do my job, and what happens? My ass gets slapped with fucking criminal charges.”
“I heard that Ozark Volunteer guy, the one pressing charges, I heard he got hurt pretty bad.”
“Jesus, I knocked him to the ground. That’s it. And he was in the middle of felony assault, for whatever the fuck it’s worth.”
“It’s all just a dustup.”
“Sure, but shit, you know how it goes. This drags on and on, and I’m at a desk like an asshole. And then, when this finally clears, that son of a bitch is going to come after me for money.”
“Do you have money?”
“Fuck no, but that won’t stop him. Just hiring a lawyer is going to cost me a fortune.”
“So hiring me probably isn’t a good idea.”
“Money’s no good to me if I’m dead, dumbfuck. That’s why I’m here.” He leaned forward and drilled a finger into the desk. “Me. Alive. That’s how I want to stay.”
“You think that woman at the tree lighting is really a threat?”
Hoffmeister contracted, slouching in the seat again, chewing a thumbnail. He stared past Hazard, fixated on something Hazard couldn’t see.
“What?” Hazard said. “What happened?”
“Fuck it. This was a stupid fucking idea.”
“No, sit down. Instead of giving me the opening lines from your defense, tell me what’s going on.”
“Why? So you and Somers can have a laugh tonight? Fuck off.”
“You’re here because, for some reason, you don’t think you can take this to the police. Is that right?”
Hoffmeister didn’t answer.
“Fifty dollars an hour. A thousand-dollar retainer. I itemize expenses, and I send a report at the end of every week.”
“You can keep me alive?”
“Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll tell you what I think I can do. Then you can decide if you want to hire me.”
Still chewing a nail, Hoffmeister seemed to consider this. Then he shrugged. “I’m fucked, man. Universe has me fucked.”
“Let’s see if we can un-fuck your life.”
“You ever worked for someone? Jesus, I don’t want to be your first. Probably end up in the funny pages, one big fucking punch line.”
Hazard thought of Mitchell Martin, crutching through the Savers.
“You weren’t worried about that when you walked in here,” was all he said.
Tearing his nail from between his teeth, Hoffmeister blew out a breath. “Screw it,” he said, and then he started to talk.
CHAPTER SIX
DECEMBER 17
MONDAY
10:31 AM
WEIRD SHIT HAS BEEN HAPPENING,” Hoffmeister said, adjusting his posture in the seat, probably trying to hide the way he glanced over his shoulder, as though checking for something behind him. “Not just normal shit. Truly weird. Paranormal Activity kind of shit.”
“Ghosts?” Hazard said.
“Hell, I’m not an idiot, ok? I’m an asshole, and I’m scared as shit. But I’m not an idiot. I’m just saying, weird stuff. Like somebody wants me to crack. Like maybe—” He cut off, thumbnail between his teeth again, picking up where he’d left off. After a moment, he said, “Maybe they want me to, I don’t know, do their job for them.”
“What? Like, kill yourself?”
Hoffmeister just shot him a sour glance.
“Ok,” Hazard said, pulling open a blank document on the computer. “Let’s make a list.”
“Bad milk.”
“What?”
“Milk went bad.”
“Do you have a cow or—”
“No, you fucking retard. Milk in a fucking plastic gallon jug. I bought it, and the next day, it was bad. Black. Curdled. I didn’t even open the top to check, I just dropped it in the trash.” Hoffmeister seemed to think about this statement. “Then I took the trash down to the road. Two days early, damn it.”
“Milk goes bad all the time.”
“You want to know why you’re sitting in an empty office, with nothing but your own farts keeping you company? You want to know why you don’t have anybody in here, wanting your help? Because you’re a fucking know-it-all. And a dickwad.” He chewed the nail. “And a real cunt.”
Hazard thought of the Mack truck again. Then, drawing a breath, he thought of building an agency. His own agency.
He needed clients.
He needed history.
He needed a reputation.
“I’m sorry. I just meant—”
“I know what you meant. I’m just blowing off steam. Milk doesn’t go bad like that, you know? Black. Maybe it curdles. Maybe it goes sour. But not like that.”
“Anything else? Besides the milk?”
“Somebody’s going into my house. Must have a key, although I don’t know how.”
“Do you have an alarm system?”
Hoffmeister shook his head.
“And no signs of forced entry?”
“I said they must have a key, didn’t I?”
“How do you know someone’s been in the house?”
“And my car, too. Someone’s been in the car. Messing around.”
“Ok, go back to the house.”
“And somebody followed me one time.” Hoffmeister’s words tumbled out, gaining momentum. “And shit on my door. And shit in the mailbox. And a fucking note, ok, a fucking note. And cherry bombs. And that goddamn fill-up out on Route 17.”
“Go back to the house, Hoffmeister. Tell me in order.”
“The house wasn’t first.”
“Was the milk first?”
“No.” He seemed to think for a minute. “I guess it was shit in the mail. Literally. I’ve got one of those older houses, not really much of a yard in front. The mailbox hangs on the side of the house, next to the front door. I came home, got the mail, and carried it inside. I could smell it as soon as I picked up the mail, but it wasn’t until I was inside that I saw it: regular envelope, business size,” Hoffmeister modeled with his hands, “but dark, stained through. I knew it was shit. Knew it. But I opened it anyway, and sure enough, it was shit.”
“What’d you do?”
“Called Lloyd.”
“Why?”
“We’ve been partnered since we were cutting our teeth. We watch each other’s back.”
“And?”
“He told me to bring it in. I did. Cravens got one whiff and said it was a prank, told me if I wanted to take it seriously, I had to get a mail inspector, make it federal. So, end of story. Then, a couple of days later, I was up, having my coffee, and I smelled it. I walked outside; there it was. Someone had smeared shit all over the door. Caked it on. I called Lloyd. I called Cravens. She was steamed and said she’d put somebody on it. Want to
guess how that went?”
“Who’d she put on it? Peterson?”
“Bingo. And you know what that asshole did?”
“I bet he did it all by the book.”
“That’s right. By the goddamn book. Came over. Took a statement. Pictures. Even bagged a sample. Talked to the neighbors. Moved about as fast as a car on blocks. That’s the kind of help I get. Almost twenty years on the force, and that’s what I rate: Peterson with a fucking pencil behind his ear. Thanks for your service, go fuck yourself.”
“You expected Cravens to do something else.”
“I expected Cravens to handle the asshole who was doing this.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, Hazard. You’re the brilliant detective; why do you think I’m coming to you?”
“The way you said that a moment ago, though, it sounded like Cravens hadn’t done what you wanted. What did you expect her to do?”
Hoffmeister shifted in his chair. “Jesus Christ, do you have anything to drink?”
“Water. Paper cups in the bathroom.”
“Water? What the hell kind of detective are you?”
“Brilliant, according to you. What did you expect Cravens to do?”
“What we used to do. The right way of handling problems. If you’ve got a guy stirring up shit, not enough to make a case out of it but still shit, you take care of it yourself, right? You send a couple of men out there, no badges, and you explain things. And if he doesn’t understand, you explain things again, a little more carefully this time. And then stupid shit like this stops happening.”
“You wanted Chief Cravens to send off-duty police officers to beat some sense into whoever was doing this?”
“Jesus, you sound just like all the other snowflakes. You ever think about the fact that law and order are worth something?” He sneered. “Of course not. But that’s all I’m saying: keep the law, keep things in order, keep people being civil to each other.”
Due process, Hazard might have said. Or something about the Constitution. But he just nodded. “What did Peterson find?”
“Nothing.”
“And then?”
“And then the milk went bad. Black, like I told you. Other stuff, too. I’d come home and all the faucets would be on. I’ve got a slow drain in the kitchen, and the water had overflowed, ran all over the place. Ruined everything down to the subfloor. I came out one morning, turned on my car, and some jackass had put the radio to full volume, set to some fucking death metal shit. Can’t do that while the car is off, not the model I have. So somebody turned it on, set it that way, and left it just to make a fucking goose out of me.”
“You said there was a note.”
Hoffmeister patted himself down, produced a folded piece of paper, and slapped it on the desk.
“Have you printed this?”
“Cravens doesn’t want to hear about it anymore. I showed it to Peterson; he claims he couldn’t lift anything off it. I’ve been carrying it around like that, so you can just pick it up. Not like it matters anymore.”
Unfolding the note, Hazard flattened it against the polished wood. It looked like it had come from a laser printer. The Only Way To Peace Is A Rope.
“Somebody likes capital letters.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Where’d you find this?”
“Hung on the fridge. With a magnet.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means somebody wants me dead.”
Hazard read the note again and raised an eyebrow. “That seems like a stretch.”
“Fuck you, all right? I know what it means, even if you and Peterson and that cunt Cravens have your heads up your asses.”
Hoffmeister snatched at the note, but Hazard slid it out of reach. “Tell me about the fill-up station.”
For a moment, Hoffmeister wobbled, as though he might just take the note and storm out. Then he dropped into the seat and said, “It’s that place out on Route 17. Slick’s. You know it?”
Hazard had a vague recollection of a sprawling, timber structure with a lone pair of fuel pumps. “It’s more of a bar, isn’t it? Dancing?”
“You’re fucking right it is. It didn’t always used to be that way; for a long time, it was just a cheap place to get gas. Then they built that addition, got a liquor license, and started serving. It got bigger and bigger. You can still get cheap gas there, twenty cents cheaper than anywhere else in the county. But a lot of assholes drink there. A lot of bad shit gets done there.”
“You went there for cheap gas?”
“It was on my way,” Hoffmeister said. “I was headed out to see some family near Joplin. I stopped at Slick’s to fuel up. Nothing to it; done it a hundred times before. Only I went inside to get something for the road, and I bumped into these two big assholes as they were coming out. One of them said something to me. I said something back. Next thing I knew, they were dragging me around the side of the building. Three o’clock in the fucking afternoon, and nobody around to see it. The place was goddamn deserted. I figured they were going to drag me into the woods, bang bang, the end.”
“But they didn’t.”
“They didn’t because I got a can of pepper gel on my keychain, and I blasted one of the sons of bitches in the face. He started shouting and let go, and then I blasted the other one. I got in my car and drove the hell away.”
“And you reported this?”
“To Peterson. Of course.”
“And?”
“Security cameras are angled out, toward the pumps. They didn’t catch any of it. And, like I said, nobody around to see it happen. So I look like an asshole.”
Hazard let several moments pass, processing the information, mapping data and possible connections. Then, he said, “Who do you think is behind this?”
“At first, I thought it was the asshole.”
“This is Wahredua; you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Andrew Jackson Junior Strout. How’s that for specific? The son of a bitch has got lawyers climbing up my asshole, and while that might sound like giggles to you, it’s a fucking nightmare for a normal guy.”
“This is the Ozark Volunteers guy, the one you beat the shit out of at the demonstration?”
“The one I stopped from committing aggravated assault. That’s the one.”
“You think he’s throwing shit at your house, doing the rest of it, escalating to hiring guys to kidnap you in the middle of the day? Maybe even murder you?”
Hoffmeister was back at his nail again. He pulled it away long enough to say. “Yes and no.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not sure. Running into those guys at Slick’s, that felt like chance. Like they saw an opportunity, but they weren’t waiting for me. It made sense that Andy-Jack might have asked some friends to fuck with me, maybe even fuck me up if they saw a chance. But like I said, I’m not sure.”
“Why?”
A hint of color worked through Hoffmeister’s cheeks. “I changed my mind is all. That psycho bitch, for one reason. She was up there, shouting that somebody needs to kill me. That’s a pretty powerful reason to change my mind. And that other one, the tranny.” Hoffmeister shook his head. “Fuck me.”
“Explain that,” Hazard said, “and don’t use that word again if you want to hire me.”
“She. He. They. Whatever.
“You’re talking about the pastor at The Hyssop Branch. Wesley. His pronoun is he.”
“He, then. He’s a fucking maniac, ok? He’s been in to see Cravens three times, demanding my resignation—along with a million other things. You’d think he was Jesus fucking Christ himself, the way he goes on. And you saw him at the tree lighting. I mean, we’re all there to enjoy a fucking Christmas tree, the fucking spirit of the season, and that asshole shows up to bitch and moan about how mean everyone is and we all just need to get along.”
“You think a clergy
man preaching peace and love and tolerance is trying to murder you? Or, at the very least, screw with your head?”
Hoffmeister’s eyes narrowed. “He’s a fanatic, all right? Nothing they do makes any sense.”
Hazard grunted. “You’re right about that.”
“Those guys that wanted to drag me behind Slick’s? Andy-Jack might have put a bug in their ear. But guys like that, they’ll take money from anyone. It could have been that batshit pastor. It could have been that psycho bitch that ran up on stage.”
“You really think someone’s trying to kill you?”
“Damn right.” Hoffmeister squirmed to the edge of the seat. “What are you going to do?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to make it stop. If you can’t do that, I want you to make sure whoever’s behind this doesn’t get me.”
“I told you my rates. Do you want twenty-four-hour coverage? I can’t do that by myself, so I’ll have to contract out, and that’ll be more expensive.”
Blowing out his cheeks, Hoffmeister shook his head. “Can’t afford it even if I wanted it. I’ll write you a check for the retainer. For you. And I’m not talking twenty-four-hour stuff. When I’m at work, I’m fine, and Lloyd is being solid and watching my back to and from. I’m not even worried about being home alone, not really. No, I want you out there, hitting the streets, doing what that asshole Peterson should have done.”
“You want me to find out who’s doing this and beat the hell out of them?”
“I want you to make it stop. That’s all I’m saying.”
Hazard braced both hands on the desk. It sounded like a mess. Some of it was Hoffmeister’s particular brand of nasty; some of it was the confused threads that ran through the narrative. And although part of Hazard was itching to try his hand at a tangle like this, working without the parameters that bracketed the police, another part knew he’d be wading into shit. He shook his head.
Hoffmeister jerked his half-chewed nail from his mouth. “Please, Hazard. Please. I’m begging you. I know I’m a shit. I know I’m a fucking asshole. But I am fucking scared, ok? Scared out of my goddamn mind. Please. I’ll pay you whatever you want, all right?”
Bracing himself against the desk a moment longer, Hazard let out a slow breath. “Let me fill out the contract,” he said, opening the template on his computer. “You start writing the check.”