Authors: James Newman
The reporter rattled off the phone number for the Tryon Police Department before the video was shown one last time. Halfway through, the clip froze, giving viewers a final look at the drugstore burglar.
Nick and Leon rose from their seats, and stood together in front of the TV like two men captivated by a nail-biting turn of events in some live sports spectacle.
The man on the screen was hefting a crowbar above his head, preparing to destroy the camera. He was a short, stocky man with a receding hairline, a salt-and-pepper goatee. The store’s cash register was visible behind him, and beyond that tall white shelves stocked with hundreds of pill bottles. A black duffel bag sat beside the register, unzipped and empty but waiting to be filled.
Nick couldn’t believe his eyes. Sheriff Mackey hadn’t lost his mind after all.
The man in the video looked
exactly
like the man who had broken into his room at the Sunrise Motor Lodge...a thug who now lay in the Polk County Morgue with a hole in his throat.
He was even wearing the same clothes he had worn the night he tried to kill Nick in his sleep: Dark suit. Western-style bolo tie. The only difference Nick could see was his demeanor, if one could judge such a thing from a single image. Where the gunman at the motel had never raised his voice, had in fact seemed almost
kind
at first (the fact that he had been trying to murder Nick notwithstanding), his doppelganger appeared full of rage in the footage captured by the drugstore camera. His teeth were bared, his eyes wild. His forehead glistened with sweat.
“Who is this son-of-a-bitch, Leon? Where can I find him?”
“Can’t help you with his name,” said Leon, “but I’ve seen him around for sure. He hangs out sometimes at the Skin Den.”
“What the hell’s a
skindin
?”
“It don’t really have a name. Everybody just calls it that. The Skin Den. It’s a titty bar off Highway 64, just this side of Morganville.”
“Tell me about him. Tell me everything you know.”
“Not a lot to tell. Once in a blue moon, if I’ve got a few bucks to burn or I can con some other fool into buyin’, I’ll drop by the ’Den for a shot or two. Slide some dollar bills in some thongs, watch some asses shake.” Leon gestured toward the TV, but by now the pretty reporter had moved on to a piece about a dog show at the Asheville Civic Center this weekend. “Every now and then, this dude shows up.”
“How often?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dammit,
think
, Leon.”
“It ain’t like I hang out there all the time myself. Maybe once every couple o’ months. I’ve seen him about every other time I’ve been in there.”
“Is he a popular guy? Big spender?”
Leon shrugged. “He usually just sits at the same table in the corner. Keeps to himself.”
“Have you ever talked to him?”
“Nobody says much to anybody in a place like the ’Den. They’re either lookin’ down at their beer or starin’ up at titties. Usually the titties.”
Nick was desperate to learn more. He wanted to grab Leon, shake more info out of him. At last, a potential path to Sophie had presented itself. It was vague, obscured by the swirling fog of so many unknown factors, but it was there.
“What about Eddie? Did he hang out at this
Skin Den
?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ever see him talking to the guy in the video?”
“Now that you mention it, I think I did,” Leon said. “Hey! You asked me before who Eddie worked for. You reckon this guy mighta been his supplier? Maybe with Eddie gone, he’s hurtin’ for cash, and he’s plannin’ to sell whatever he stole from the drugstore!”
“No,” said Nick. “There’s more to this than what’s right in front of our faces. This thing goes deeper than Eddie playing truck-stop pimp, selling dime bags to you and your buddies.”
Nick turned off the TV then, took a few minutes to fill Leon in on all of the details not provided by the news program: how the drugstore robbery was connected to Sophie, and how the man who had absconded with the pharmacy’s entire supply of Lamictal appeared to be the same man who had tried to murder him.
Leon listened, grinding his teeth the whole time. His eyes were huge and alien-like behind his Coke-bottle glasses.
“Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, hoss?” he said when Nick was done.
“Depends. What are you thinking?”
“Maybe this dude’s some kinda
ghost
?”
Nick didn’t dignify that with a response. Since speaking with the sheriff, he had decided on a more logical explanation: identical
twins
. But it was uncanny nonetheless, seeing that face on his TV screen...the face of a man whose violent death he had witnessed less than seventy-two hours ago.
Abruptly, he turned and scooped his keys off of the nightstand.
“Whatcha doin’?” Leon asked him.
“Going for a drive. And you’re coming with me. How far is the club from here?”
“Hit the interstate, you could be there in twenty minutes. Is there any particular reason I have to tag along?”
“You know this joint, Leon. I’m going crazy just sitting here. My granddaughter needs me. I’ve got to
do
something.”
“There’s Bingo at the VFW every Friday night,” Leon suggested.
“You know what I mean. Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”
Leon’s bony shoulders slumped, and as he followed Nick to the door he mumbled, “I’m tellin’ you, dude...before all this is over, you’re gonna get me killed.”
“Look at the bright side. At least you’ll die happy, get to stick your face between some double-Ds before we throw you in the ground.”
“There is that,” Leon said.
†
Nick made a quick detour across town first.
“Sit tight.” He left the engine running. “This will only take a minute.”
Leon sank down in his seat, gave his idol a sarcastic salute.
Nick knew it was a long shot, but he had driven to the Polk County Sheriff’s Department hoping that Sheriff Mackey might supply him with a hard copy of the video capture shown on the news. Better than walking into the club empty-handed, asking if anyone had seen a stocky middle-aged dude with thinning salt-and-pepper hair. That undoubtedly described ninety percent of the Skin Den’s clientele on any given night.
The station was quiet, the building empty save for three lonely souls. A Latino woman pushed a mop around the foyer while her little boy hunched over a handheld videogame. Sheriff Mackey sat behind his desk, nursing a headache with a bottle of Tylenol and a can of Diet Coke.
When Nick told the sheriff that he hadn’t expected to find him so easily, Mackey said, “I’ve forgotten what home looks like. Probably why I’ve been through two divorces, working on my third as we speak.” He tore a low-quality reproduction of the freeze-frame from the drugstore video—the scowling burglar in his fancy suit, gripping a crowbar in one hand—off of a cluttered corkboard. He made two copies on the department’s Xerox machine, handed them over without pressing Nick too hard about why he wanted the photo. It was obvious Mackey had a million other things on his mind. And perhaps he had decided that he would take all the help he could get, at this point.
Twenty minutes later, the big man’s Bronco rattled and quaked as it cruised down the interstate. The sky had taken on a surreal orange hue with the coming of dusk, as if the region and all of its inhabitants were prehistoric bugs stuck in an enormous block of amber. On the Bronco’s stereo, Sunnyland Slim sang “The Devil Is a Busy Man.”
Beside Nick, Leon stared out his window like a misbehaved student on his way to a visit with the principal. Every so often he tapped two fingers on his jittery knee in time with the music.
“Nervous?” Nick asked him.
“That’s one word for it,” said Leon. “Another way to put it is I’m scared to fuckin’ death.”
“I’d bet this is the first time anyone’s had to twist Leon Purdy’s arm to get him out to the strip club.”
“Never went to one lookin’ for a dude who’s supposed to be six feet under.”
Nick sped up to pass a minivan. In the thickening darkness on either side of the highway, fireflies danced in the summer heat like the blinking eyes of otherworldly voyeurs.
Leon slid a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his jeans, didn’t ask permission to light up.
Nick glanced over at his twitchy passenger again. “Can I ask you a question, Leon?”
“What’s that?”
“Have you ever thought about getting clean?”
Leon blew smoke out through his nose, took three quick puffs on his cigarette before tossing it out the window as if he had never wanted it to begin with. “It’s too late for me, hoss.”
“Bullshit. It’s never too late to try.”
“I tried. This one time. It didn’t work out so good.”
“What happened?”
“Used to have this pit bull. His name was Ron Perlman. Like the guy from
Hellboy
, and that
Sons of Anarchy
show. I love that dude. I loved that fuckin’ dog. He was older than dirt, and he was blind in one eye, but he was a good dog.” Leon paused, licked his chapped lips. “One night last winter it was snowin’ real heavy. I let Ron Perlman inside the trailer so he wouldn’t freeze to death. But...I fucked up. I went to take a piss...and that’s when he got hold of it.”
Nick said, “Jesus Christ, Leon.”
Leon’s eyes grew wet as he remembered: “I came back in the room, he was lyin’ on his side. He was shakin’, wheezin’, pukin’ all over the place.”
“He ate your dope.”
“The whole bag. I took him to the animal hospital across town. I knew he was dyin’ fast, but he was still breathin’ so I hoped they could save him. He died in my arms right there in the waiting room. Docs figured out what happened, called the law. They busted me for animal cruelty—like I would ever hurt Ron Perlman on purpose! To make matters worse, they found a bag o’ crank in my back pocket that I forgot I had on me.”
Nick shook his head.
“Next mornin’, Sheriff Mackey comes to see me. He brings this drug counselor geek to my cell. Says he’ll drop all the charges if I promise to talk to the guy.”
“That was really decent of him,” said Nick. “You accepted his offer?”
“I went to see him a few times. But it only lasted through the winter.”
“He could have helped you. Why didn’t you stick with it?”
“That counselor fella, I didn’t like him too much.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t care for the way he looked at me. Like he’d never seen anything so sexy. I told him Leon Purdy don’t swing that way. But he kept callin’ me and callin’ me. Said he only wanted to help. Yeah, sure—he wanted to help himself right into my tight lil’ butthole!”
Nick said, “It must have been your charm. Your way with words.”
“Maybe.”
Nick sighed. Wondered how he had gotten himself mixed up with this bizarre little man. And why, stranger still, he actually liked the guy.
“I got one for ya,” Leon said. “What’s the difference between a crackhead and a tweaker?”
“I give up.”
“A crackhead steals all your shit. A tweaker steals your shit then helps you look for it.”
That earned a chuckle from Nick. He punched Leon on the arm like two guys who had been buddies forever.
“Ouch,” said Leon.
They rode on toward Tryon as the last rays of sunlight died on the horizon. The Bronco’s tires hummed on the asphalt. Nick flicked on the vehicle’s headlights as he passed a semi with the logo BATESVILLE CASKET COMPANY on its side. He tried not to think about signs and omens. Had never believed in such bullshit anyway.
After a few minutes of silence between them, Leon fidgeted in his seat. He said, “Can I ask
you
a question, hoss? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Just somethin’ I been wonderin’...”
“Go ahead,” said Nick.
“You ever think about gettin’ revenge for what them fuckers did to you?”
“What?”
“Them psychos that took your face. You ever fantasize about breakin’ into wherever they are now, smashin’ their heads against the wall till there ain’t nothin’ left but jelly?”
Nick’s grip tightened on the wheel. “I used to. Not anymore.”
“I wish I could get five minutes alone with them fuckers. I’d hold ’em down, spit in their eyes! Like you used to do when a match wasn’t going your way.”
“I didn’t really spit in anyone’s eye.”
“I’m just sayin’. That’s what I’d do. For you.”
Truth told, while Nick
had
learned to control his rage—accept the things in his life that he could not change, blah, blah, blah—he still wondered on occasion what it would feel like to have his way with the fiends who stole his face. Was a time when he got
hard
thinking about it. These days, though, such thoughts were fleeting when they came. Even if he’d wanted to act on such fantasies, what was he supposed to do—book a flight to Texas, somehow disguise his six-foot-nine, three-hundred-pound frame and stroll through the front gates of the Sharon James Asylum for the Criminally Insane to confront Rebel Yell and One-Arm any time he felt the urge?
He decided to change the subject: “Did you talk to Sophie much?”
“Nah. I dropped by Eddie’s place to score, she was always in her room. And when she wasn’t, Eddie gave me the hairy eyeball.”
“How do you mean?”
“One time her and her mom was headin’ out just as I was walkin’ up to do some business with Eddie. I asked ’em how they was doin’, just makin’ polite conversation. Eddie got up in my face, and he said, ‘Don’t talk to her, asshole. You ain’t got no reason to ever talk to her!’ I thought at the time he was talkin’ about his old lady, but I’d spoke to Melissa before. Later on I realized he meant the kid. I might be a lot of things, but I ain’t no short-eyes.”
“What about Eddie? Do you think he might have been?”
“Short-eyes? I don’t know. But I don’t think so.” Leon leaned forward in his seat, peered through the windshield. “You wanna take this next exit. We’re almost there.”
Nick whipped the Bronco over into the right lane, behind a tractor-trailer hauling a trio of yellow forklifts.
“Eddie always seemed super-protective of Sophie,” Leon said. “Like he really cared about her. Sometimes I wonder if that’s what got him killed that night.”