Bad To The Bone (21 page)

The guard caught his eye and motioned to his
watch. "Sorry, buddy. Time's up," he warned Price. "Meal call."

I rose to go. There was nothing more Robert
Price could tell me anyway. I was officially on my own. “Thank you
for talking to me," I told him.

He stood and nodded, then stuck out his
shackled hands. I grasped his arms above the handcuffs and he
gripped my forearms back. We stood for a moment, locked in a
curious embrace that signified—what? I wasn't sure. Thanks,
perhaps, a passing of strength between us, or maybe even a
blessing. Whatever it was, I left the room with a feeling of having
been honored in some way.

I spent the weekend trying to track Jeff
down in dive bars, watching Burly slide into a depression and
talking strategy with Robert Price's lawyer. By Sunday night, I
couldn't decide whether to get drunk, slit my wrists or sue
someone.

Price's lawyer, at least, was cooperative.
He agreed to my idea after his client endorsed it and even made a
few suggestions of his own. Now it was show time.

We held the press conference on Monday
morning in time for the local noon broadcasts. If Tawny Bledsoe
could manipulate the media to weasel out of trouble, I could
manipulate the media to start it. Price's lawyer was the perfect
man for the job. He was one of North Carolina's liberal elite, an
ex-hippie who naturally lived in Chapel Hill with the rest of the
state's NPR-loving heathens. Better still, he oozed sincerity and
subdued righteousness in just the right proportions.

He now waited solemnly in front of a dozen
cameras. The white granite archway of the Wake County Public Safety
Building framed him. The jail loomed in the background, an ugly
brick tower with horizontal slits for windows. Faces stared out the
slits, gazing down curiously at the crowd beneath them.

I was in the array of hangers-on lined up
beneath the archway and I wore a tight red dress that stood out in
a sea of dark suits. My face was masked by sunglasses as I did my
best to project the attitude of a Nation of Islam bodyguard. I
looked like I was starring in a Robert Palmer music video, but the
outfit was strategically chosen. I wanted Tawny to notice me, so
she'd know I'd had a lot to do with what she was about to hear. At
the same time, there were still certain people—say, the entire
state of Florida—that I wanted to keep in the dark about my
whereabouts. I didn't know how far the broadcasts would reach, so I
wore the shades just in case.

Price's lawyer cleared his throat promptly
at ten o'clock and held up a hand. Television cameras whirred and
news anchors quivered with anticipation as they jostled for a good
position.

"As you know," he said gravely, "I represent
Robert Price, who has been charged with capital murder in the
shooting death of Bernard W. Cockshutt. My client is currently
being held without bail in the facility you see behind me.”

Cameras panned to the jail walls, then
zoomed in on the front door as if the cameramen were expecting Sean
Penn and Susan Sarandon to come walking out, hand-in-hand.

"As you are also no doubt aware," the lawyer
continued, "my client's estranged wife has left the area and is
refusing to cooperate with authorities, despite her status as a
material witness. She claims that she fears for the safety of
herself and her child."

His face hardened and the reporters leaned
forward, microphones outstretched. They knew something big was
coming. Price's lawyer gave it to them.

"My client has remained silent on the issue
of his estranged wife in deference to the feelings of his daughter,
but finds that he can no longer remain mute in light of the recent
allegations made by Ms. Bledsoe." He paused a moment, letting the
"Ms." sink in, knowing it would cost Tawny conservative support.
What a ham bone. The media ate it up.

His nostrils flared in lawyerly indignation
as he delivered his outraged rebuttal: "My client categorically
denies ever having physically hit, abused or emotionally battered
his wife in any way. Acting on my advice, he hired an experienced
private investigator who has uncovered evidence that Ms. Bledsoe
sustained some of her injuries in a barroom brawl and faked the
remainder of them for the purposes of the photograph recently
printed in a local newspaper."

The assembled crowd murmured at this news,
the N&O crew looked embarrassed and I resisted the temptation
to flip Tawny the bird via news satellite.

"My client Robert Price also denies having
had anything to do with the death of Bernard Cockshutt and extends
his sympathies to the victim's family. He asks the public to
examine the evidence rather than relying on emotional statements
made by individuals who have a vested outcome in tainting a future
jury pool."

That was tantamount to
saying Tawny had done the deed. I tensed, knowing the kicker was
coming. "Look like a bad ass," I reminded myself. "So she knows who
arranged this all." I smiled into the cameras.
Take that, you blond bitch,
I was
thinking.
Let's see if you're woman enough
to come after me for this.

“Tawny Bledsoe is a dangerous, mentally
unstable woman with a history of deceit, financial impropriety,
moral unfitness, promiscuity and a propensity to make false
statements while under oath," the lawyer said loudly. A couple of
the news anchors gaped. This was slander territory.

"I challenge Ms. Bledsoe to return to this
state and charge me with slander if she believes I am lying," the
lawyer continued. "We would welcome the opportunity to prove our
charges in a court of law. Particularly since we have hard evidence
that she abandoned two earlier children by a prior marriage and
that she is currently wanted by the Raleigh Police Department on
charges involving financial crimes." Several print reporters pulled
out their cell phones and began dialing. If we had not agreed to
keep Tawny's blackmail pursuits private, they'd have been
hyperventilating.

"In addition," the lawyer said, "Ms. Bledsoe
is under investigation by the North Carolina Department of Social
Services for abandoning her four-year-old child repeatedly without
supervision. Naturally, it causes my client great distress to know
that his daughter is in the custody of such an irresponsible
individual." A phone call made over the weekend had set this last
charge in motion.

"Anyone who believes Ms. Bledsoe's
allegations about Robert Price is a fool," the lawyer stated
flatly. "Anyone who harbors her is breaking the law. We challenge
her to return to this state for questioning and we urge anyone who
knows Ms. Bledsoe's whereabouts to contact the Raleigh Police
Department. My client believes that his daughter's life is in
danger as long as she remains in the custody of Tawny Bledsoe and I
concur with his concerns. Thank you."

As the lawyer finished, he folded the
prepared statement and stashed it in an inner coat pocket, ignoring
the shouts of the reporters. He turned his back to the crowd,
glanced at me with a smile, then stepped into a waiting car.

Unsure of what to do, the television crews
panned the supporting players. I waited until I was sure a camera
was on me, then slid my sunglasses down my nose, stared straight
into the lens and stuck out my tongue at Tawny Bledsoe.

The plane to Tampa took off in late
afternoon. As always, flying made me melancholy. There was
something about leaving the earth beneath and ascending into the
clouds that caused my mind to do an inventory of my life below.
What, I wondered, was the source of this vague sense of
self-loathing that was nibbling at my self-confidence, leaving me
with a feeling of impending doom that bubbled in the pit of my
stomach like stew gone bad?

Maybe it was just that I had no idea what I
would say or do to get my mother-in-law to help me locate Tawny. I
had a copy of the press conference video tucked away in my carry-on
bag, but who knew if that would be enough. Plus, Bobby D. had been
his usual worrywart on hearing my plans to track Tawny to Florida.
He'd insisted on knowing exactly where I was going, then tried
again to dissuade me from my task. But I stood firm. She had to be
stopped.

But the real problem wasn't my mother-in-law
or Bobby, I decided. The real problem was that Burly, my boyfriend,
was not there for me. It hurt. So did what he did when he was
depressed. I had phoned him Saturday night, badly needing to hear
his voice. He was nowhere to be found. I called all his favorite
bars without luck then, unable to leave it alone, I checked the
entertainment section of the Independent and saw that his favorite
group—Dave's Little Blues Band—was playing at Fat Daddy's. I
decided to go find him in person, hoping to atone for my lack of
support when he was feeling blue and, probably, in hopes he would
be happy to see me.

Fat Daddy's is an unlikely bikers' paradise
that looks like just another prefab restaurant from the outside.
That night, Harleys lined the parking lot and clouds of smoke
wafted out each time the bouncer opened the door. Burly liked the
bar because most of it was on one level and it had a pool room with
tables spaced far enough apart for him to maneuver his wheelchair
between them.

I stood at the front door, hesitating,
knowing what I would find inside: Burly, glass of whiskey in hand,
cigarette hanging out of his mouth, biker babe drooling over his
aluminum handrails in anticipation of sex that would let her lie
back while someone else did the dirty work for a change.

In other words, he would be surrounded by
all the accouterments of a life that had ended when he'd crashed
his Harley into a tree.

Burly never thought about the old days, it
seemed, except when he slid into a funk. That was when he returned
to his old stomping grounds hoping, I suppose, that by inhaling
enough Wild Turkey and tobacco he could convince himself that he
was still the baddest neck-stomping biker ass this side of
Oakland.

I didn't much like him when he got that way,
and I usually avoided being with him when he was. I wondered if
that wasn't a good policy to maintain. Should I go inside or
not?

"Casey?" Weasel Walters brushed past the
bouncer, trailing a cloud of tobacco smoke in his wake. "You coming
in? Burly's here."

Weasel was a friend of Burly's from the old
days and one of the few that I liked. He was a tiny man, with
thinning hair and a pencil-thin mustache that did nothing for his
ferret-like face. But he also had a big heart, was gainfully
employed as a computer technician in the Research Triangle Park
and, rare among Burly's pals, was a card-carrying member of AA. He
also had terrible luck with women. I had a soft spot for him
because of his failures and admired his fortitude. If you're going
to be a loser, be a sober one. It's far less pathetic that way.

"Hi, Weasel," I said, slapping his palm. "I
figured he'd be here."

"Looks like your boy's having a bad one this
time," Weasel told me. "Burly's already drunker than my daddy on a
Sunday."

"I'm not surprised. He's been playing
nothing but Van Morrison CDs for the last two weeks. That's always
a bad sign."

Weasel nodded in agreement; he'd stood by
Burly after the wreck and knew his moods as well as I did.

"Who's the biker babe this time?" I asked,
wondering which of the always-younger groupies was most curious
about the sexual abilities of a paraplegic.

"You got X-ray eyes or something?" Weasel
nervously lit up a cigarette.

"I know Burly when he gets like this."

"Bonnie Calhoun's been sniffing around him
all night," Weasel admitted as he inhaled with furtive puffs.
"Denny's younger sister. The usual. Tall, blond, wearing these
killer black suede boots that go up to her thighs. But I wouldn't
worry. She's a head case, especially when she gets a snootful." He
looked at his watch. "Burly should be figuring that out right about
now."

"I'll pass on going in," I decided. "I just
wanted to know he was okay."

"Probably a good idea," Weasel mumbled.
"It's mighty buzzed in there tonight. Too many Johnston County boys
in one place, I expect. I think you'd be too much woman for them to
handle." He gave me a crooked grin.

I managed a smile back. "I've got to go out
of town tomorrow. I don't know how long I'll be gone. Keep an eye
on him for me, will you?"

"Sure, Casey. I know how to use his hand
controls. I'll drive him home, if that's what's worrying you. I can
put my bike in the back of his van."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Burly's other
bad habit while in a self-destructive mood was trying to finish the
job he had started eight years before. No matter that he'd already
ruined one person's life other than his own, he still climbed
behind the wheel and drove too fast when he was feeding his blues
with booze.

"Thanks," I told Weasel. "You're a good
friend." I planted a wet one on him and tasted the lingering tang
of Marlboros. For a moment, his sharp face was transformed, a wide
smile animating his Ratboy features.

"Sure thing," he called after me. "Thank me
again any old time."

It was weird, but Weasel's smile was what
stayed with me on the plane that afternoon. There was something so
familiar about his face. The pointed chin, the sunken eyes and
sharp nose. He was straight from the bottom of the Florida genetic
pool, the descendant of dirt-poor Scottish outcasts who had been
scrambling since time began to make a decent living. I knew the
look well, since it was my own heritage, even if I had escaped with
cheek and jawbones intact.

Did I really want to be going home again? I
wondered, as the plane broke through a cloud bank. Especially when
the mother-in-law from hell awaited me in Tampa? I had put off
thinking about her but now the memories were inescapable.