Beluga (20 page)

He had on one of Gil's blazers. I'll call it deep peach. The color was close to a ghastly postcard sunset. He must have been wearing Gil's pants as well. They were nappy blue velour.

When I let go of Larry's foot, he crawled back in to where he'd been. Combined with the sniveling, that truly set me off.

“Get the hell out here,” I told him.

“Uh-uh.”

I grabbed him again and pulled in such a way as to let him know I didn't care if his leg came off at the hip or not.

Even then he tried to crawl back. He made me all but pick him up. Then he bent low and peered around like he was being stalked by a tiger.

“Did you see her?” I asked him.

He nodded.

“Where?”

He pointed back toward the electronics department.

“She come out of nowhere,” he told me.

“She does that. Where's Skeeter?”

Larry shrugged. “We both took off.”

Larry pulled up his blazer sleeve and showed me a scrape on his forearm. “Bitch hit me with a goddamn tennis racket.”

We heard sirens out front. The Greenwood PD finally rolling up.

“What's that about?” Larry ducked again. He had a con's natural aversion to cops.

“Come on,” I told him. “Let's find Skeeter and get out of here.”

Larry followed me. He stayed right behind me with one hand on my back as I headed deeper into the store, past the ladies' underwear, the religious book section, the DVD bins, and full into electronics.

“Saw her here?”

Larry nodded. He pointed. She'd waylaid them by the iPod display.

We continued full to the back TV wall, where I could see the entire breadth of the store in both directions. Nobody. But there were some sort of tracks on the floor at the layaway alcove.

It was blood, all right. Slender feet had stepped in a pool and tracked it. I followed the footprints down a corridor to where the restrooms were.

“Stay here,” I said and parked him against the wall.

The footprints came out of the men's room. I listened at the door but didn't hear a thing. I eased it open. More blood inside. Not pools but streaks and splatters. I stepped entirely into the room. I could see Skeeter's legs underneath the stall wall. There was a severely dented and bloody tennis racket on the floor.

I pushed the stall door open. Skeeter was sort of laid back on the toilet. He was a bloody mess from the crown of his head down. Just red and black all over until he opened a lone eye.

“Jesus, I thought you were dead,” I told him.

Skeeter made a noise in his neck.

I didn't even hear the bathroom door open, but suddenly I had company. I glanced around and there he was, a huge black guy in a Greenwood city patrolman's uniform. He had his service revolver—a big black Ruger—pointed at my head.

“Hey here,” he told me.

What could I do? I raised my hands and told him, “Hey.”

 

EIGHTEEN

The interrogation room at the Greenwood police station was fragrant in an unsavory sort of way. Not Dupont fragrant but more like a Turkish prison's men's room after a sorority mixer. Like a sweaty, unkempt fellow who'd been dipped in a septic tank. It was a powerful stink. A staggering bouquet. I couldn't for the life of me understand why the cops didn't seem to notice it.

The big black one who'd arrested me—his name was Officer Earl—was the guy who hauled me into the station and cuffed me to the interrogation table.

“Sweet creeping Christ,” I said. “What is that?”

He shook his head and asked me, “What?”

They'd put Larry next door. I could hear him sniveling. He was going on at some length about how he hadn't had his lunch. It was too hot in his room or too cool or too bright or too dark or something, because he seemed to be complaining about all of that as well. Then there was a sharp, concussive sound, and Larry didn't say much after that. I made a mental note to thank the cop who'd hauled off and smacked Larry. I hoped it was Officer Earl. He'd seemed decent enough.

I would have arrested me, too. Skeeter was in foul shape, and I was handy, and then there was the pair on the far end of the store, and they were in tough straits as well. So there was plenty to sort out and just me and Larry available to sort it. I'd tried to get Officer Earl to look for the ninja schoolgirl assassin, but he'd just slapped a pair of cuffs on me, walked me to the lot, and advised me to watch my head as I was banging it on the cruiser frame.

The guy who came in to question me was dipped in sandalwood cologne. It was sweet and spicy and married poorly to the septic stench.

He asked me to call him Donnie. He was a conspicuous idiot. “Now, mister,” he kept saying, “I might not know much, but don't none of this seem right.”

Except for the badge and the gun, I would have guessed he'd dropped in from the barbershop and was just having a bit of a hoot at my expense. He spent a solid minute trying to figure out how to work his pen. Did you push it or did you twist it or did it have a button or something? It was like he'd fallen out of the mother ship. On his head.

“Why don't we run through this thing,” Donnie suggested. “Go on. Let's hear it.”

“All right.”

Donnie fooled with his pen some more. He snorted and brought up something. He told me, “Hold on,” got up from the table, and spat in the trash can in the corner. Then he groaned and muttered like he'd just come in from plowing behind a mule. He dropped back into his chair. He fooled with his pen. “Go on,” he told me.

“Ran out of floss. Went over to get some.”

“To the Walmart?”

“To the Walmart,” I told him. “Drugstore's probably a dollar more.”

“I hear you,” Donnie said. He went digging in his ear and then noticed a crusty stain on his shirtfront and scratched at that with his nubby finger. Donnie was thick all over, like he'd been living on bacon and beer, and his clothes hadn't quite kept up with all the swelling. His shirt buttons were under some appreciable stress. I half expected one to fly off and put my eye out when he shifted.

“I like the minty waxed kind,” I told Donnie.

He said, “I think we've covered the goddamn floss.”

“You said every last thing.”

“I know what I said, but I don't see no floss. Got your keys and your billfold and shit. Even got a gun off of you.”

“I've got a permit for that,” I told him.

“Didn't see no goddamn floss!”

“Didn't get to it,” I said to Donnie. “Saw a guy I know.”

“That one,” Donnie said and jabbed his thumb toward the wall behind him. We could both hear Larry chattering in the next room over. He was talking like somebody would cut off a finger every time he stopped. I couldn't quite hear what he was saying, but, knowing Larry, it was a potent blend of spirited shinola and single malt horseshit.

Donnie checked a document in front of him. It looked like Larry's rap sheet.

“Lawrence Carothers.” He read the name.

“Beluga LaMonte,” I told him.

He looked up at me, back down at the sheet.

“Changed his name in Parchman,” I said.

Donnie found the pertinent line on the form. Laid a finger to it. “Oh yeah,” he said. Then he looked my way like I knew he would and said to me, “Beluga?”

I shrugged.

“Ain't that a fish or something?”

I nodded. “Or something,” I told him.

Then he shook his head and snorted, and he seemed to expect me to do the same. It was the white high sign for
I'll never, as long as I live and breathe, understand your coloreds.

I just sat there and waited, didn't join in.

“How exactly,” Donnie finally asked me as he made a show of studying Larry's rap sheet, “did that boy in there get to be a friend of yours?”

“I know his sister. He kind of came with her.”

“What are we going to find when we look you up?”

I shrugged. “Shitty credit. What do you want to find?”

“You been locked up with him?” He jerked his jowly head.

“Nope.”

Just then the door opened, so we got a draft of slightly fresher air from the hallway. It came with another Greenwood detective. This one was rail thin and Delta Italian or something. Dark and with an eyebrow that extended straight across. He had jet black hair and a widow's peak and hands the size of dinner plates.

“Used to be a cop,” he told Donnie and shoved my particulars his way.

Donnie perused my sheet, his lips moving. He looked up and said to me, “Virginia?”

I nodded. “Just past North Carolina. Cradle of democracy and all.”

That irritated Donnie a little more than I'd expected. He looked like he was about to tell me he hailed from the Shenandoah Valley or could trace his family lineage direct to Grandpa Walton. Instead he just bristled and sneered at me. He said, “I seen a map.”

The dark, wiry guy sat down as well. His name was Kevin, and he looked the part. Half Chicken Shack night manager, half real estate appraiser. He was far too antsy and transparent to hope to make for much of a cop.

“What you doing down here?” Kevin asked me. Then he chewed on the end of his thumb.

“Live here.”

Donnie went back to my sheet. “Not seeing nothing local.”

“Indianola. Been here about a year.”

“Doing what?” Donnie asked me.

“Repo mostly. Rent-to-own store.”

“On the truck route? That Arab?” Donnie asked me.

“Lebanese,” I told him.

Donnie said, “Well,” like that was about as close to Arab as a fellow needed to get.

Just then Larry let out a yelp from next door like he was having battlefield surgery. Donnie and Kevin both glanced at the wall separating us from him. They exchanged grins.

Kevin turned my way and told me, “Jasper.”

I knew Jasper a little, had met him, anyway. He'd once been a buddy of Dale's before they'd had some falling-out at the gym, arguing over weight supplements or something. Jasper was, if anything, a little dimmer than Dale, but that all gets pretty negligible when the light's that low to start with.

“He's got a way with cons,” Donnie told me. “That boy'll spill it all.”

“Then talk to him,” I suggested to them. “I was just in there for floss.”

“Fellow in the bathroom a friend of yours, too?” Donnie asked me. Kevin sat beside him nodding like he would have asked me just the same thing given the chance to do it.

“Friend of Beluga's,” I told them. “I met him a couple of weeks ago. Don't know much about him at all.”

“Play much tennis?” Donnie wanted to know.

“Never went in for it.”

“We going to find your prints on that racket?”

“Don't see how. Didn't touch it.”

“Whose, then?” Kevin wanted to know. “Somebody touched it all to hell.”

“How's Skeeter?” I asked them.

“Stomped pretty good and busted up,” Donnie said, “but they say he'll make it. Them other ones, too.”

“What other ones?”

Kevin and Donnie had a good laugh about that.

“People seen you,” Kevin told me.

“Doing what?”

“Beating them two.”

I squinted like I was giving the entire proposition some thought. “No,” I told him. “Doesn't ring a bell.”

“Now that's a pair,” Donnie said. He had paper on them as well. “That funny one come all the way from Memphis to get beat to shit down here. You broke the other one's foot in a half-dozen places.”

“I was just in there after floss.”

“Funny one's got a concussion or something. He's a sweetheart. A warrant out for him in Kentucky. Sliced a guy clean open.”

“So you're closing cases. Got to feel good about that.”

“Somebody sure is,” Donnie told me. “But you were just in there for floss.”

I nodded.

Donnie and Kevin consulted with glances. They both pushed back from the table.

“Jasper,” I said.

Donnie gave me his more-in-sorrow-than-anger look. “Half hour with him ought to do it.”

Kevin snorted with laughter.

“Don't I get a call or something?”

“Naw,” Donnie told me. “Works a little different down here.”

They gathered up their papers and both went out, so I was left with just the stink and the ceaseless drone of Larry talking from the room next door. I wasn't savoring the prospect of getting softened up by Jasper. He was the PD's version of a hockey goon, with no investigative chops to speak of. Jasper just menaced people and busted them up when the menacing didn't work. He was built about like Dale but quicker and meaner. Dale mostly liked just having muscles. Jasper mostly liked using his for harm.

I heard Donnie, I had to think it was, stick his head in the room next door and acquaint Jasper with the treat that was waiting for him. He had to be ready for a change by then, given Larry's talent for collapsing and piling up. Jasper liked the illusion that he was battling whoever he was beating up. Just kicking Larry while he was drawn up whimpering on the floor wasn't likely to be satisfying for Jasper.

I took the opportunity to size up my options. It seemed unlikely Kendell or Desmond would drop by to help me straighten stuff out, and I wasn't much tempted to clue in Donnie and Kevin on Lucas Shambrough since I couldn't be sure where his tentacles reached. He was certain to have a badge or two in his pocket. At this point, I trusted Kendell and Tula and nobody else on a county payroll.

That lead me, of course, to think about Tula and be glad she couldn't see me. Cuffed to a table in a stinky room waiting for a no-neck deputy to drop in and scuff me up.

“I'm not,” I told myself out loud, “having the week I'd hoped to have.”

I was fully decided to let Jasper come in and do his worst. I figured I could cover up well enough and take it. Larry could tell them whatever he wanted to, but I'd just stick with floss. It was a good plan, but then Jasper spoiled it all when he came storming in and hit me.