Heads You Lose (12 page)

“Night-vision goggles,” Terry replied.

“Why do we need them?”

“Because the human eye lacks a
tapetum lucidum
,” Terry deadpanned.

“Of course,” Paul said. “Look, Terry, remember when I mentioned the corpse that keeps coming back to my property? This is not a great time for me to get arrested.”

“Not gonna happen,” said Terry. “I just need a lookout. You’ve done most of your job already—I couldn’t risk driving my own car here. This deal is going to be worth it for everyone, man. You and Lacey included. I guarantee you.”

Paul just looked down at the goggles he was still holding.

“I need this, brother,” Terry pleaded.

Paul and Terry crept through the woods toward We Care.

“What are we doing on the Babalato property?” Paul asked.

“Need-to-know,” Terry repeated.

When they were within sight of the rear office, Terry ripped off his goggles.

“Damn it, there’s a light on,” he said.

Paul moved his goggles down around his neck.

“What’s the problem?” Paul asked.

“I got to get in there,” Terry said.

“Why?” Paul asked.

“I just need some information.”

“Can you ask for it?”

“Nope.”

A figure passed by the window.

“What’s the plan?” Paul asked.

“Follow me,” Terry replied.

They snuck over to the building, then duckwalked around the side. Standing on their toes they could see through the window. An old man in a wheelchair was facing Jay Babalato, who sat behind his desk. The conversation was barely audible above the chirping crickets.

“We Care takes care of its own, Mr. Portis,” Jay said. “There’s no need to worry about the IRS.”

“I don’t want to go to jail,” Mr. Portis said, and shook his head sadly.

“No, of course not. And we don’t want that either. I just need a little more information from you about your financial affairs. Then we can provide the IRS with all they need to sort out this little mess. Of course, that will require some work by a professional, which isn’t free.”

“What do you want from me?” said Mr. Portis.

“A check made out to Franklin Fisher for twenty-five hundred dollars. He’s our community accountant. He’ll sort out this matter for you. He’ll simply need your bank statements for the last few years.”

“My son usually handles that stuff. This doesn’t feel right.”

“Why don’t you give me his number and I’ll explain everything to him.”

The sound of heavy footsteps on dry leaves interrupted the eavesdropping. Paul turned his head to the left, toward the approaching sound, and then froze with fear. When he managed to turn his head back toward Terry, Terry was gone. Paul started scurrying toward the trees.

He’d gone a couple of steps when Big Marv turned the corner and caught sight of him in the light of the window. Marv just stared at him silently, then walked over slowly.

Paul waved casually, but he couldn’t hide his nerves. Or the night-vision goggles around his neck.

“Hey, Marv.”

“What are you doing here, Paul?”

“I was just hiking around, trying out these goggles. I thought I’d stop by and show them to Lito. Is he around?”

“Nope,” said Big Marv, cocking his head to the side. “You alone?”

“Yeah.”

A cat howled and Paul jumped. Marv didn’t take his eyes off him.

“That’s Mr. Skittles,” Big Marv said.

“Ah. Who?”

“We Care’s longest-residing resident,” said Big Marv with a smile.
¹⁴

“All right. It’s been nice running into you,” Paul said.

“My pleasure,” Marv replied.

Big Marv seemed more bemused than angry. He took Paul by the shoulders and looked him in the eye.

“Listen, Paul. I know you sell pot at my place, and I let you do it. I have no problem with it. I suggest you take a similar attitude toward my affairs.”

“Okay,” said Paul. The clear thing to do was to leave it at that and hope to slink away unscathed. But something about the man in the wheelchair wouldn’t let him. He heard himself adding: “It’s just that . . . these people have put their lives into your hands. I just hope—”

The last thing Paul saw was Marv’s eyes closing as they launched into Paul’s forehead.

Paul woke up standing with his cheek against a hard wall, wearing an uncomfortable scarf, and then realized he wasn’t standing, the wall was a parking lot, and the scarf was his night-vision goggles. He rolled over and recognized that he was in the parking lot at Diner, a good twenty miles from We Care. His cell phone and wallet were in one front pocket.

Paul dusted himself off and went into Diner. He sat down and ordered a coffee and fries. In the reflection of the napkin dispenser, Paul saw the welt on his forehead, shining like a supermarket Braeburn.

Paul had never been headbutted before, or even knocked out. His introduction to both experiences was serving as a convincing argument to heed Marv’s suggestion to mind his own business. Paul could take issue with Marv’s chosen manner of punctuating it, but the suggestion itself had some indisputable merit. Maybe it was time to start acting like a minor-league pot grower again. No more trying to help anyone out but himself and Lacey.

After he finished his fries and coffee, Paul went outside and called Terry on his cell. No response. As he hung up, he noticed Diner’s dumpster—the one where Lacey had allegedly tossed her shoes two nights before. It was padlocked tight.

NOTES:

Lisa,

Sorry to interrupt the Nancy Drew escapades, but I thought we could use a little more serious action. I wasn’t deliberately ignoring your request—Terry Jakes was simply the right man for that job. In fact, he’s the right man for many jobs.

And nice try with Brandy Chester, but you can’t keep a smart woman down. My hope is that your Brandy defeat will convince you to build up some compelling characters of your own rather than trying to tear mine down.

Dave

Dave,

Bravo with Brandy. You know what, in the interest of a peaceful collaboration, you can keep her IQ points. But remember, I can take them away anytime I want.

Sure, I’ll give the story a bit more edge if you think that’s what we need. Although I’ll probably steer away from headbutting. I’ve never understood that as a mode of assault. It has the element of surprise, but it’s like punching yourself and someone else at the same time.

I’m hopeful that you’re going somewhere with this Babalato business.

Any news on the plane crash?

Lisa

CHAPTER 11

Paul scrolled through his internal Rolodex, deliberating over the right person to call when you’re stuck at Diner and you’ve just been headbutted unconscious by Big Marv Babalato. The obvious choice was Lacey, but he needed to keep her as far from this entanglement as possible, or he’d just have another knot to undo. He also didn’t want to bring Brandy into the whole mess.

“Darryl, I need a ride,” Paul said, after surveying the parking lot for cell reception.

Paul provided his coordinates and Darryl promised to leave right after his show,
Pulverize That
,
¹⁵
was over. The series involved men (generally unemployed engineers) building giant, state-of-the-art blenders and trying to decimate items that you wouldn’t think could be decimated. Since the show had no narrative hook and a website where you could learn whether the indestructible item was destroyed or not, it troubled Paul that his friend wouldn’t skip thirty minutes of watching an easy chair transform into a smoothie to help him out. Paul reentered Diner and ordered fries and a bag of ice.

Paul sat at the counter, resembling a man with a red welt on his forehead minding his own business. But he couldn’t escape the quiet echoes of conversations that traveled through the bright lights of the dingy eatery.

“Did you hear there was a murder in Mercer?”

“Serial killer, they say. He cuts off their heads.”

“Mercer has always been a magnet for the unwashed and unwanted.”

“I heard it was drug-related. Somebody stepping on somebody else’s turf.”

“I wouldn’t live in that shithole if you paid me to.”

Paul felt the usual Mercer loyalty and it took all his will to control his urge to set the Diner patrons straight. Hell, they came from a town that consisted of a gas station; a motel; Diner; and a mailbox, photocopy, and pet supply store all under the same roof. Who were they to judge? In Emery, there were only fifty people total to kill. Paul had had his fill of Diner, but when Darryl arrived, he was hungry, so Paul sat and waited while Darryl ate his fries.

“What happened?” Darryl asked.

“Don’t ask,” Paul replied.

“Okay,” Darryl said, dunking his fry into a soup bowl of ketchup.

Paul thought a real friend would ask again, but then he realized he didn’t have too many real friends, except Terry, who was feeling more like an albatross every day. He tried Terry one last time and left a message explaining that Darryl would drive him back to his truck.

While her brother was trying to escape from Emery, Lacey was at the Timberline, drowning her confusion in whiskey and beer.

A patron or two asked her where she’d been turtling herself, to which she replied, “Look it up in the dictionary. It’s not a word!”

Tate served Lacey another drink. Her manners surfaced long enough for her to say, “Thank you.”

“I see you’ve reached the anger stage of grief,” Tate said.

“I’m not angry,” Lacey replied, sounding angry.

“Well, you’re something,” Tate replied.

“I’m determined, that’s all.”

“Determined to do what? Drink yourself blind?”

“I’ll be fine once I figure out who killed him.”

“Maybe you should leave that to the cops.”

“Murder is not their specialty, Tate.”

“Is it yours?” Tate asked.

“Now it is.”

For the next hour, Lacey roamed the bar like a drunk Columbo and made casual conversation. Then, as she moved on to the next patron, she would say, “One more thing . . . when’s the last time you saw Doc Holland?”

Lacey’s interviews offered no new information and so she sat back down at the bar, pulled out her notebook, and started compiling a list of people who required interviewing in Mercer. Too bad she couldn’t locate Doc Holland, because he was number one on her list. Next was Marybeth Monroe, Hart’s mom, who lived on the side of the mountain with her second husband. While Hart and his mom had never been close, Lacey wasn’t sure who he was close to. She then listed Darryl as a person of interest and, finally, Terry, although she doubted she could extract any relevant information from him. Sometimes you couldn’t even have a lucid conversation about the weather with Terry.

Lacey could feel the air in the room shift. Part of it was the breeze from his sheer bulk, but also his presence made everyone catch their breath for a second. Lacey knew of no specific crimes that could be attributed to Big Marv, but he always made her uneasy. Judging from the slight hush that took over the tavern, she was not alone.

Big Marv sat down on the adjacent barstool. Lacey shifted a few inches over to give him a wide berth. Besides, he smelled like his usual cheap cologne. Despite the layers of body odor that floated through the bar, Big Marv’s scent was the most oppressive.

“Lacey,” Big Marv said.

Lacey was never sure whether Big Marv approved of his nickname. Certainly he knew he was enormous, but sometimes enormous people don’t like having attention drawn to that fact. Or maybe that was a woman’s take on the matter.

“Mr. Babalato,” Lacey said, just to be safe.

Tate served Big Marv a shot of the best whiskey in the house on the house and said, “Do me a favor, just don’t ask her where she’s been turtling herself.”

Big Marv downed the whiskey in a single gulp and slid the glass forward for another pour. Tate obliged, grudgingly.
¹⁶

“You want something for that?” Tate asked, referring to the red mark on Marv’s forehead.

“Nope. I’m good. You should see the other guy,” he said, grinning at Lacey.

She was trying to mind her own business with her note-taking.

“What you got there, Lacey?”

“Nothing. Just a to-do list,” Lacey replied, snapping her notebook shut. “Can I have another?” she said, pointing to the glass.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Tate asked. The tension on the adjacent barstools was impossible to ignore.

“Give her a drink, Tate. It’s on me,” Marv said, showing no sign of reaching for his wallet.

Tate served the drink; Lacey tossed a bill on the bar; Marv slid the bill back in Lacey’s direction.

“I said, I’m buying.”

“Everybody knows you don’t pay your tab,” Lacey replied.

Marv swiveled his wrestler-gone-to-seed physique around on his barstool and looked Lacey dead in the eye.

“What has gotten into you people?”

“You people?” Lacey asked. “What do you mean? Humans? Women? People who pay for their drinks?”

“I just had a chat with your brother, and now you seem to be hunting for trouble. In your case I’m going to let it slide, what with your recent loss and all.”

“What kind of chat?” Lacey asked.

“Nothing major, but you might want to make sure he stays awake for the next twelve to twenty-four hours.”

Only then did Lacey realize that her brother probably had a matching welt on his forehead.

“Where is he?”

“Last I saw him he was at Diner.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I gave him a piece of friendly advice.”

“What?” Lacey asked. “Wear a helmet?”

“The problem with you people is that you’re always nosing in other people’s business. And when I say you people, I mean all you Hansens. Your mama and daddy were the same way. It’s a shame what happened to them. So unnecessary.”