Sendoff for a Snitch (15 page)

“Just not patient enough.” Tigerman patted his pockets, looking for a match. “When you’re boosting cars for export, you can’t do a damn thing until the right ship is port, with the right set of dispatchers and night watchmen who’ll look the other way. You got to get the merchandise and get rid of it quick. And the ship should be just about ready to sail. So you can go a few weeks sometimes between jobs.”

Banjo pulled out a lighter and handed it to Tigerman. He asked, “So they decided to do something to fill in?”

“Yeah. Some of us tried to tell ’em they was playing with fire, but Razorback—he used to run the excavation business with his old lady. But I think she ran it more than he did—he told them they could use the garage if he got a cut.”

I nodded.

“You hear about Razorback?” Tigerman asked.

“He’s history,” I said.

“Yeah. He’s dead. His old lady Black Rose is gonna go down for it.” Tigerman leaned back and looked at me. “What did you say your name was?”

“Jesse Damon.”

“The same Jesse who Black Rose tried to frame for Razorback?”

“The same.”

Tigerman reached down and picked up a jug from behind the desk. “Here. Have a drink. No piss test is likely to pick this up.”

“True, that.” I didn’t really want a slug of whatever they had in the jug—probably dago red wine, maybe mountain dew from a backwoods still—but if I wanted any more information from them, I’d have to play along. Alcohol didn’t stay in the system the way drugs did. It would work itself through in less than a day. I hefted the jug up to my shoulder, balanced it on its side, and put my mouth on the opening. When I raised my elbow, it tipped up and flowed right down my throat.

Mountain dew, hell. White lightening was more like it. Or rotgut. I took a few gulps, trying to keep from coughing it up. My nostrils tingled, and my eyes watered.

Banjo grinned and reached for the jug. “Good stuff, huh?”

I passed him the jug and wiped my mouth. “I haven’t had anything like that in a long time.” Ever, if I was honest, but I wasn’t going to tell them that.

Another biker lurched into the office from the warehouse. He stood unsteadily, his eyes not focused, and reached for the jug. I handed it over.

He was Funky Joe, the guy I’d had a few problems with. But if he wasn’t challenging me, I was more than willing to let bygones be bygones.

Balancing the jug precariously on his shoulder, he took a huge swig and passed it to the next guy. When it came back to me, I tried to just take a small sip, but when I hefted it on my shoulder again and tilted it up, I got a lot more than I’d bargained for. I gulped it down, trying not to choke.

Funky Joe peered at me. “Where do I know you from?”

I held out the jug, but he didn’t take it. I put it on the battered desk.

“Ain’t you the guy Old Buckles had me bring here once?” He raised his fist and took a step toward me. “And then you beat the crap out of me? What the hell are you doing here?”

Tigerman stroked his unkempt beard and looked at me thoughtfully. He reached out a boot and prodded two other guys who had slept through the conversation to this point. They got to their feet. Someone’s hand went into a pocket and came out with something that looked like a closed switchblade.

I straightened up and looked Funky Joe in the eye. I clenched my fist, but I didn’t raise my hand.

“Hey, maybe we better be going,” Banjo said to me.

Sounded like a good idea, but I had to figure out a way to do it that wouldn’t put either one of us in danger.

“Wait a minute,” Tigerman said. “Ain’t you the guy was doing Old Buckles’s little girl?” That would be Kelly, who didn’t fit too many people’s definition of “little girl.”

Banjo took a nervous step toward the door. “Didn’t you say you had to get back?” he said to me. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the street. You in touch with any of the guys from the old cell block?”

I ignored Banjo. To Tigerman, I said, “Sometimes I hang with her, if that’s what you’re saying.”

He sneered. “So Buckles, he told everybody to kind of leave you alone, did he?”

“If he did, that’s on him. I never asked for no protection.”

Funky Joe moved forward, his fist still raised. “Well, Buckles ain’t here right now. You and me got a score to settle.” He swung his fist at my head.

Not a smart move for a person who’s as wasted as he was. I stepped back. Funky Joe missed and stumbled, falling to his knees.

One of the men snickered.

Scrambling to his feet, he ran at me, his fists flailing. I would have expected him to fight smarter than that.

This time, I feinted a step to the left, then quickly moved to the right.

He staggered past me and lost his footing, falling again.

The snickers grew louder.

He muttered something that sounded like, “You bastard,” and got to his feet. Glowering, he lowered his head and charged at me.

I stepped aside, and he ran headlong into the wall.

The snickers became guffaws.

Funky Joe lay on the floor, dazed. Or worse.

Tigerman stepped up to him and nudged him with one heavy boot. Funky Joe jerked his arm and moaned.

“Well, he ain’t dead,” someone said.

All eyes turned toward me.

“What ya gonna do?” Tigerman asked.

I looked at the men standing around, then down at Funky Joe. “Leave,” I said. “Can’t kick a man when he’s down.”

Tigerman nodded. “Good plan.”

Banjo took my elbow and steered me out. “Come on.”

When we got through the warehouse and out on the truck yard, he said, “I don’t think Funky Joe likes you much.”

“You got that right.”

“Maybe you best not come around again,” Banjo said. “What do you want to know about this dude Aaron for, anyhow?”

I thought about how much I should tell him. Not much, for his own sake. Thinking before he blurted something out was not Banjo’s strong point. What he didn’t know even the best interrogator in the world couldn’t manage to pull out of him. Otherwise, all bets were off on what he’d say to whom.

“I got my reasons,” I said. “And I’d say you ought to lay off looking too hard for him, too, at least for a bit.”

He looked thoughtful. “You mean not ask any questions, either?”

“The questions part is probably okay. That’d be up to you. How much you find out so far?”

“Not a whole hell of a lot. You know his mama inherited money or something from his daddy? And they hadn’t even been an item for a long time. She’d even gotten married and had a kid by somebody else.”

I nodded. That kid would be Benji.

“I was figuring maybe Aaron got some money, too, and disappeared with it. From what I hear, though, the disappearing’ll only last as long as the money lasts. Which will be until he stuffs it all up his nose. Or mainlines it into his arm.”

I nodded again.

“He’s got two older half brothers, y’know. His daddy’s kids. Different mama. They might want some of that money, too.”

I tugged the jacket collar closer around my neck. “Yeah? They think they’re not gonna get their fair share?”

“Aaron’s mama already got her fair share and then some. I’d be pretty pissed, myself, if my daddy’s ex got a hunk of his hard-earned money and I didn’t get none.”

“Have you talked to the two older brothers?”

“Not yet. One is this guy, Jumbo George. He’s supposed to be real fat. Obese, like, as in can’t get around too good. He’s got a head shop over on Middle Street. And Nick, who I guess is normal-sized, drives a truck.”

“Local or long distance?”

“Long distance. He’s an owner-operator. One of those Peterbilt Cabovers with a sleeper.”

That was an expensive truck. He’d have to be doing pretty well for himself if he was the owner.

We reached the guardhouse, where the occupant now lay on the floor, snoring loudly.

Banjo looked at him. “That’s how you got in without anybody knowing. Great lookout.”

I chuckled. Was I being fair to Banjo, not telling him Aaron was dead? I didn’t want him to get in any trouble if it came out he was poking around, and even if he thought he was being careful, he’d probably say things that could be interpreted as threats. “Hey, dude. I mean it when I say don’t go looking too hard for Aaron.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I take it you got a reason for telling me that?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re not gonna tell me what it is?”

“’Fraid that’s right. At least for now.”

“But you still want me to tell you anything I find out about him?”

I shrugged. Put that way, it seemed pretty unfair. “Yeah.”

“Look. I’ll see what I can find out without being too obvious.”

“Okay. Meet you back here tomorrow?”

Banjo shook his head. “I think you’d be better off not coming by here again so soon. How about we meet in a bar or something?”

“No bars open until the electric power’s back on.”

“They’ll restore it to commercial places quicker’n to residential areas. And downtown quicker’n other places. You know Mickey’s Bar, down by the courthouse?”

“Yeah.” By the conditions of my parole, I wasn’t allowed to drink. And I wasn’t supposed to be in bars. But what were the chances I’d get caught, especially with all the cops working round the clock on disaster relief?

“About eight or nine tomorrow. If it’s open.” Banjo said.

“Okay.”

“Or no later than eleven,” he said.

That wasn’t a particularly helpful time frame, but I knew Banjo well enough to know there was no point in trying to pin him down further.

“Otherwise, I’ll meet you in the alley that runs next to it.”

I could see myself waiting in the alley for a few hours tomorrow night and Banjo never showing. But I knew I’d take the chance. “You got it,” I said.

“I’ll tell you what I can find out. If I do, though, you got to give me something back, too.”

“Don’t know what I can tell you.” Since I knew Aaron was dead and Banjo didn’t, that wasn’t entirely true. I said, “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow night.” But I didn’t make any promises.

I didn’t have much experience with alcohol at all. As I left the warehouse and the sidewalk rippled in waves in front of me, I realized this must be what drunk felt like.

The weak winter sun peeked through the clouds, shimmering oil slicks on the pools of water lying everywhere. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Maybe I’d better go back to Kelly’s and get a nap before I checked out my apartment.

Jeez. My head was spinning. What did people see in getting drunk like this? If this was how people felt when they were partying, I sure didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Right now, I would be happy if I could keep on my feet.

A few blocks farther on, and my head was spinning. I leaned against a lamp post, trying to get my bearings. An odd glow surrounded me on the sidewalk. Trying to puzzle that out, I looked up at the light. The light was lit.

The electric power must have come back on, at least in this section of town.

Moving my head like that was not a good move. I grabbed onto the pole to keep from falling.

My head spun worse. I was puking into the street before I realized I was going to be sick.

A car came by, giving me wide berth. I leaned over, my sides heaving. At least I was getting rid of whatever alcohol was still in my stomach.

A sour taste filled my mouth. I wiped my lips with the side of my hand, bringing away a rope of slimy saliva and puke.

Hunching inside my jacket, I stepped back up on the sidewalk and made my way to Kelly’s house.

The steps up to the porch seemed steeper than the last time I was here. And they’d somehow gotten uneven. By gripping the handrail, I managed to climb up the steps.

The curtains were drawn, but I could see light around them. So Kelly’s power was on, too. We could cook and do some laundry.

But first, I needed to get some sleep.

It took me a few tries, but I stabbed the doorbell.

The door opened, surprising me. I don’t know what I expected, but I took a step back to keep from tumbling over. Chris stood there looking at me.

“Mom!” he shouted. “It’s Jesse. He’s drunk.”

Chapter 14

C
hris opened the door for me. I stumbled toward the sofa and collapsed, closing my eyes.

When I looked up, Kelly was standing over me, her arms folded. Chris was staring at me, and Brianna was hiding behind her mother’s legs.

“Kelly.” I was having trouble forming words. “I…”

She shook her head. “Just lie down and get some sleep,” she said, pushing my shoulder back and reaching for a blanket.

How was I going to get my boots off? Was it worth the effort?

I felt someone—Kelly—lift my feet up onto the sofa and begin unlacing the boots.

Everything was spinning, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

When I woke up, the room was dark. My head ached, but dully, not like the brain-splitting headaches I’d heard some people describe as hangovers. I licked my dry lips. My tongue was dry, too.

Quiet voices and the scent of frying bacon came from the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry, but the smells didn’t make me want to throw up.

The room was pleasantly warm. I sat up and took off my jacket, tossing it onto an overstuffed chair. I was a little dizzy when I leaned down to put on my boots.

I stood in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe and taking in the homey scene. A pot of soup simmered on the stovetop. BLTs seemed to be on the menu. Kelly sliced tomatoes. Chris manned the toaster. Brianna, kneeling on a chair, carefully spread mayonnaise on slices of toast and lay strips of bacon on them. I could have stood there forever, just watching them.

Chris looked up. “Jesse!” he said. “You want a sandwich?”

Kelly turned and glared at me, her eyes smoldering.

My voice was dry and cracked. “No, thanks. I’m not that hungry.”

“You’re hungover,” Kelly said in a steely voice. “You can fix yourself a cup of coffee.”

That sounded really good. “Thanks,” I croaked, and then moved to take a mug and the jar of instant coffee from the shelf.

“You were drunk.” Kelly turned back to the cutting board. Her knife chopped down on the tomato, cutting uneven, ragged slices.

“True, that.” I filled the mug with water and put it in the microwave.

“After you got me feeling bad about my drinking.”

I sighed. “You’re right.”

“And made me get rid of my booze.”

“Yeah.” Not a good time to point out that I’d found the bottle in the linen closet.

“So what’s with that?”

“I know what it looks like—”

“Looks like hell. I know what it is.”

Did I have any possible answer to that?

Chris took two finished slices of toast, handed them to Brianna, and put two more in. He looked at me, a worried frown on his face. “There’s some vegetable soup, too, Jesse. From the stuff you got us. Maybe you want some of that?” There was a hitch in his voice.

“Thanks, no.” The water wasn’t finished heating up, but I grabbed it out of the microwave and dumped a spoonful of instant coffee in it anyhow. The water was lukewarm, and the coffee crystals clumped.

Kelly’s voice rose. “So you got nothing to say for yourself?”

I took a gulp of the coffee. It was terrible and lumpy. But I knew it contained caffeine, and I was pretty sure I’d feel better if I managed to choke it down. “You want me to explain—”

“No need to explain. First you get all holier-than-thou about my drinking and what it’s doing to the kids. Then you go out and get drunk. And come back here. Let the kids see you drunk. A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Of course you weren’t thinking straight. You were drunk.”

I couldn’t deny that. “I guess I shouldn’t have come back here like that. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Kelly’s face was turning red. “You shouldn’t have come back here like that. You shouldn’t have gotten drunk in the first place.”

If I looked hard enough, I thought maybe I would see steam coming out of Kelly’s ears. The kids hadn’t moved, but they appeared somehow smaller, like they’d shrunk. I chugged the rest of the contents of the mug and managed to keep from coughing it back up.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re getting upset. I’m gonna get upset. Let’s discuss this when we’re calmer.”

She took a step toward me, the knife in her hand. “Calmer? Calmer? You want me to be calmer?”

I didn’t know if she and her ex had ever gotten into it physically, but I wasn’t going to take a chance. Especially not in front of the kids.

“I’m going to leave now. Before we say something we regret and can’t take back. Or do something we’re gonna regret.” I didn’t look at the knife in her hand.

“Yeah?” She sneered. “What are you gonna do? Murder me?”

Wordlessly, I turned and went through the living room and toward the front door, snatching my jacket from the chair where I’d dumped it.

A glint of glass poking out from behind the cushion of the chair caught my eye. I paused to take a closer look. A partly empty bottle of Southern Comfort, on its side.

Now was not the time or place to say anything about that bottle, either.

I went out the front door, closing it as gently as I could.

Jumbo George’s head shop was near the bottom of a hill. That part of town that was in flux from solid working class. It was hard to tell whether it was being gentrified by the young professionals who had come to work in the shiny high-tech buildings that were springing up on the edge of town, or sinking into abandonment and poverty, like the section of town where my apartment was.

The perfect neighborhood for a head shop, which was located in a row of older, but picturesque two-story brick buildings.

The streets and sidewalks were damp, but a few areas had standing water. Soggy debris lay everywhere. Where people had started to clean up, upholstered furniture and misshapen boxes sat along the curb. The sound of whirring emergency generators hummed from a few buildings, and a few lights showed in the daytime dimness, but most of the interiors were dark.

If Jumbo George lived over his storefront, would he be there, trying to get his business going again? I thought it was a good bet—certainly what I would be working on if I had a business. A small stack of boxes and garbage bags were piled in front of the building by the street.

As I approached it, the front door opened, and an enormous man backed out, dragging a garbage bag. I caught a damp whiff of patchouli from inside.

The man was not only tall, he was also immensely obese. He wore a tie-dye shirt that was so big, I wondered if its origins had been as a tablecloth. And the seat of his blue jeans were so expansive that the back pockets were actually on the sides.

That had to be Jumbo George.

Halfway across the sidewalk, he paused, panting, his breath coming in big gasps.

I walked up to him. “This going on that pile?” I asked, grabbing the bag and nodding toward the trash by the curb.

He raised his flushed bearded face and nodded. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hung halfway down his back. His clothes had a heavy scent of patchouli, too, but I also picked up an underlying unwashed body odor.

Well, I hadn’t had a shower in a few days, either.

I swung the bag to the top of the pile.

The man straightened up and wiped his face. “Thanks, bro,” he said.

I held out my hand. “Jesse Damon.”

He took my hand in his. It was pudgy and damp and totally swallowed my hand. “George Stenski,” he said. “Most folks call me Jumbo George.”

I nodded. “I worked with your brother Aaron.”

He scowled. “Half-brother,” he said. “Different mothers. He was a cute little monster, when he was a kid.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Have you heard anything about him lately?”

“I heard he was dead,” Jumbo George said, raising the hem of his tablecloth shirt and wiping his face with it. “But I don’t know if it’s true or not. Can’t say as it’d be much of a loss if he was. Except maybe to his mama.”

He pressed his hand to his chest, still breathing heavily. “I got to go and sit down,” he said, taking an unsteady step toward the door.

I grabbed his elbow—it felt like I imagined the Pillsbury Doughboy would feel—and reached to hold the door open.

Bracing against me and the doorframe, Jumbo George struggled inside. Once we got through the door, the scent of the patchouli mixed with a damp mildew smell was so strong as to be nauseating.

The interior was dim, and it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. He continued to work his way deeper into the shop, shifting to support his weight on the counter that ran the length of the store.

A massive recliner sat in a back corner. Jumbo George struggled toward it. When he reached the end of the counter, he paused. He’d have to let go to make it the few steps to the recliner.

I took his arm again. I could feel the flesh quivering under my hand. Leaning heavily on me, he turned and backed his broad rear end toward the chair. When he was poised above it, he bent his knees and collapsed into it.

His breath continued to come in gasps.

“Hey, man,” I said. “You don’t sound real good. You want I should call an ambulance or something?”

He coughed, his chest heaving, and held up his hand. “No!”

I was afraid he was going to die of a heart attack or something right here in front of me. Something else I’d probably get blamed for. I wondered if 9-1-1 was working now. And if he had a working phone.

He shifted his weight in the chair and closed his eyes.

My throat tightened. “Jumbo George?”

“I’m all right,” he said, his breath coming now in gasping wheezes. “Asthma. Looks a lot worse than it is. I just have to catch my breath.”

“Do you have an inhaler anywhere around here?”

He coughed again. “I dropped it when there was half a foot of water in here. I don’t even know where it is now. And it’s probably ruined. Damn thing’s expensive.”

I looked around. Sure enough, a damp line showed about six inches above the floor on the walls and the counter. I had no doubt the recliner was damp for at least the bottom six inches. Maybe more, if the water had wicked its way up.

“All this dampness can’t be good for your asthma. And there’s probably all kinds of horrible molds and mildew starting to grow.”

He took another shuddering breath. “You’re probably right. But I don’t know what the hell I can do about that right now.”

“Maybe you could go stay upstairs or something until it dries out a little more.”

“Fat chance.” He laughed, but it turned into a deep cough. Rolls of flesh on his chest, neck, and arms trembled and heaved. “I haven’t been able to make it up the stairs in a few years. And if I did get up there, I might never get down again.”

“So where do you stay at?” I asked.

“Right here. The back room’s got a bathroom with a shower. And I got a little refrigerator and a microwave. All the modern conveniences.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“Nah. I don’t want to open the fridge—maybe the food’ll still be good when the power goes on. And I’m not sure I’d trust the water supply. Sewage might have backed up into it.”

That unpleasant thought had occurred to me, too. But the people who ran the shelter at the high school seemed confident that the water was okay. Or maybe the National Guard had set up a water purifying system.

“Look,” I said. “I can’t just leave you like this. What can I do to help?”

He opened his eyes and studied me. “You really mean that?”

I considered. “Well, yeah. I mean, I don’t got much else to do.”

“You could get some of the crap on the floor moved out to the trash pile. I could pay you. A little.”

“Well, okay. But how’s that gonna help you?”

“Any cleanup you get done is something I don’t got to do. I’m not so sure I can get much done anyhow. I sure can’t open up shop until this mess is cleared out. And if I don’t open shop, I got no income.”

I looked around again. I must have been getting used to the patchouli scent. It was still there, but it wasn’t choking me anymore.

It was obvious that Jumbo George needed the help. On the plus side, if I helped him, it would give me a chance to talk to him about Aaron. Maybe find out about his father’s tangled finances, what the possibility was of him having anything to do with Aaron’s death.

Although it was equally obvious that, unless he was a terrific actor and had some help with the physical part of dumping the body, Jumbo George could not have been directly responsible for Aaron’s body ending up in my stairwell.

On the minus side, if Mr. Ramirez, my parole officer, ever found out I was working in a head shop, I’d have lots of explaining to do. As well as potential paraphernalia charges. There was also a good chance Jumbo George was himself a convicted felon and someone I wasn’t supposed to associate with. But if I didn’t ask, I could honestly plead ignorance of that.

Of course, after being at the Predator’s lair and arranging to meet Banjo tomorrow, I didn’t know why I was even worrying about this.

Jumbo George’s chest had stopped heaving quite so badly.

“How’d you hear Aaron might be dead?” I asked.

“This skinny newspaper bitch, she came by. Stuck her camera in my face and took a bunch of pictures. Said she wanted to ask some questions. I thought it was gonna be about getting the business going again after the flood, and any publicity is good publicity. So I said okay.”

It was a long speech for him, and he had to stop to catch his breath. “But then she said some shit like ‘Do you know your brother’s dead? He might have drowned,’ and started snapping more pictures. I guess she wanted me to cry or something.”