Dirtbags (12 page)

“She was involved in some bad stuff,” London said. “Drugs.”

“Oh?”

“It was no secret,” he said. “It’s why we separated. It drove us apart. It’s why little Jason had to come live with me.” He put his head in his hands and wept.

Lorne clamped his hand on London’s shoulder. “There there.”

“She chose drugs over me. I can accept that, if I had to. But she chose them over Jason, too.” He continued to sob. “I always knew it would end like this.”

Lorne swallowed. “I don’t know if it was just drugs that did it, Tom.”

London looked up. His face was red and tear-streaked. “What are you talking about, Lorne?”

“Look, I don’t know what kind of trouble they got out there in Dallas. What, with the Mexicans and cartels and all. Gangs and whatnot. But what happened with your wife . . . to your
ex-wife
 . . . well, that was a little much. Even for a Mexican.”

“What are you talking about?”

Lorne looked around the room. He’d been there before. Once, there’d been a get-together thrown by London’s current wife, Reyna. She fancied herself a socialite and loved entertaining. Lorne knew her since she was knee-high and thought her a pip even then. The type who couldn’t be kept busy enough. Marrying a guy with a restaurant had certainly been in the cards for her. She’d thrown a small reception after they’d gotten married, and folks from all across the county came for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres from London’s restaurant . . . and not just regular folk, but a who’s who. Judge Grimm Menkin came, there was a state senator, a fella from over in Tucker who owned three local supermarkets . . . Lorne himself, for whatever reason. The room seemed so much bigger then.

Lorne took his hand from London’s shoulder and considered each word carefully. “The person that killed your ex-wife,” he said, “went a little overboard.”

“How so?”

“There was another fella in there with her, you see. They don’t know much about this guy yet, but it seems they were high on stuff. She had enough shit in her system to fry a steer.”

London choked on something in his throat and shook his head. “Damn her,” he muttered. “Damn her for doing this to Jason.”

Lorne nodded. “So they was real high, but that ain’t the end of it, I’m afraid. You see, they think the drugs is what killed her, but the other fella had been shot up.”

“Shot up, like with a needle?”

“No,” the sheriff said. “Like with a gun. He’d been shot three or four times and bled out.”

“Who shot him? Corrina?”

Lorne shook his head. “It don’t seem so. After they were dead . . . after they were murdered . . . it seems like whoever done it had a little bit of fun.”

London’s eyes narrowed. Something funny came across his face. Lorne couldn’t blame him, though. He didn’t think he used quite the right words, but challenged anyone in his shoes to do better. London opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Instead, sputtered a series of half-words and coughs. Lorne returned the hand to his shoulder.

“What do you mean a
little bit of fun
?” he demanded. “What are you talking about, Lorne?”

“Calm down, Tom. I—”

“I most certainly will not calm down.” London rose to his feet and stared down at the sheriff. Lorne quickly stood as well. London put a finger to his face. “You better tell me right now what the hell is going on. I don’t much care for fooling around.”

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m real sorry. Look, it ain’t a pretty scene over there. I don’t quite know how to say it.”

“Just say it, dammit.” London got close enough for Lorne to smell vodka on his breath. “Spit it out.”

“They carved her up,” the sheriff said. “Carved her and the other fella up. After they were dead, they bled out, and the sick son of a bitch carved on them.”

“Carved on them?” London looked as if he might sick up his breakfast. “What do you mean . . .”

“Numbers.” Gooseflesh rose along the sheriff’s arms just talking about it.

“Numbers? Lorne, what the hell are you talking about?”

“They found Corrina and that other fella in the bedroom of her apartment,” Lorne said. “And they found them with numbers carved into their chests.”

London sat down. He’d gone pale. He stared at the fireplace, stared
past
the fireplace.

Lorne continued: “The bastard cut the number
one
into her chest. The other fella had the number
two
.”

“Sick son of a—” London didn't look away from the fireplace.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Lorne said. “Not in all my days.”

London said nothing.

“I have to ask you something serious,” Lorne said. “I don’t like it, but I have to ask.”

London stared straight ahead.

“Do you have any idea why some fella would carve numbers into your wife’s body?”

London looked up at the sheriff. “Excuse me?”

Lorne threw up his hands. “It’s something I have to ask, Tom. You can think about it. Think about it all you want. If something comes to you, feel free to call me. Night or day. I don’t like asking this, but I have to do it.”

London returned his gaze to the fireplace. No one spoke for a moment. Then, London asked, “Who was the other guy?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Number Two.”

Lorne shook his head. “Nobody knows. Just some fella, I guess. Wrong place, wrong time. Maybe someone from that drug clinic where she worked, they suspect. They said she was taking on some hard luck cases. Could have been a boyfriend. They’re looking into it.”

London said nothing. His wheels turned overtime.

Lorne took a seat on the sofa next to him. He sat closer than necessary. “Tom, I have to ask you something else.”

London shrugged.

“You aren’t going to like it.”

“Ain’t stopped you yet,” London said.

“I have to ask where you were the last two days.”

London’s head swiveled slow toward the sheriff. His eyes, calm and devoid of anything behind them but pain and sorrow and loss, looked him up and down, then his head swiveled slow again to the fireplace.

“It’s important that I ask,” Lorne said. “I have to put something down on the report.”

“I been here, Lorne.” London’s voice was weary. “I been to the restaurant and here.”

“What about Tuesday night?”

“Tuesday night?” London took a second to think. “Tuesday night I was at the Tiger game.”

“The one against Tucker High?”

London nodded.

“Good game,” Lorne said. “I hear the Nelson kid went off for thirty-six points. They’re really good this year.”

London said nothing.

Lorne wiped his hands on his slacks. “That’s all, Tom.” He stood. “I hate it. I hate it more than anything in the world. This is the worst part of my job. A good man like you doesn’t deserve this. First her up and leaving you with the kid, then this. You know, I went to Dallas once. That’s about what you can expect out there, I reckon. I wouldn’t send my in-laws to Dallas, given the chance.”

London stood as well. He walked to the front door. He held it open until Sheriff Lorne Axel made it to the threshold. They shook hands.

“If you think of anything . . . ”

“If I think of anything, I’ll call.” London looked him square in the eye and thanked him.

Lorne replaced his hat and tipped it. Then, he was off.

***

London shut the door. He walked slowly at first toward the kitchen, then picked up the pace a bit. Once in the kitchen, he rushed to the sink and vomited, chucking up everything he’d eaten that day and perhaps the day before and, for all he knew, everything he’d ever eaten in his entire life. He heaved and gasped and lurched until there was little left but bile and warm spit and yet still managed to sick up more until eventually he collapsed to the linoleum in a heap and lay there for god only knows how long.

So be it that the last time Tom London saw Corrina would forever be the last time, although he had no way of knowing it back then. About a year before, he'd left her with her mouth open as if she’d just been slapped or told that spacemen had descended from the skies in search of better days. Her face flushed and hands and arms at her side, unsure of just what they could do if she could manage to do anything at all. Her, stuck in his memory in perpetual shock that her husband, ex or not, could sink to lower depths than even she thought possible.

Tom London always surprised her.

It had been an endearing quality in the beginning. Him, a kid from a good, solid upbringing, and her from the other side of the tracks. He’d always known he would cook for a living and, while some kids went to school to learn it, he cut his teeth by getting his hands dirty. If there was one thing drove Tom London up a wall, it was paying for something when it could be had for free. So he worked in as many kitchens as he could and, one day, met the waitress that would become his wife.

Corrina was a bit younger than him and somewhat less privileged, so when he said something, she hung the moon around it and encased it in gold. He would catch her looking at him while he cooked. He’d never had someone so completely in love with him, and he found it charming so, after she got pregnant, figured what the hell and made an honest woman of her.

So imagine her surprise. Not the last time he saw her, rather well before that. He’d stayed late at the restaurant as he had done so often in the early days. He’d been there, drinking a few more cocktails than absolutely necessary and the phone, the phone ringing off the hook. He’d take another drink and the phone would ring again and again. Dammit.

“Don’t you think you better get that?”

London smiled at the waitress. The kid had her fair share of white wine and he had a few more bottles at the ready, should she feel so inclined. He took his hand off her chest and put a finger to her lips.

“I don’t hear anything,” he said.

“What if it’s your wife?”

“Then I certainly won’t be answering.” He took a quick pull from his cocktail and put his face back into her ample bosom and didn’t come up for air until Corrina barged into the restaurant, damn near kicking open the door. She couldn’t have timed it better had she tried. London had the waitress up on the bar, face-first into her crotch and hands to grabbing.

Corrina hit the roof. She threw a candlestick at them both, her aim a bit wild, then tried again with a vase. The waitress hopped off the bar and scurried, pants in hand, toward the back door. She never returned for her last night’s credit card tips. Corrina kept chucking things until London up and calmed her down, insisting this wasn’t what it looked like, urging her to relax, assuring her this and that but knowing all the while he’d finally been busted and there was little chance of talking his way out of this one. They had a house together. They had a kid. Hell, her name was on half the restaurant’s paperwork. London fancied himself good and fucked.

He came home to find her packing. Packing her things and little Jason’s who, at the time, was only two. He cried and screamed, no idea on earth what was happening. Corrina made her own share of noise and sent London to spend the night in a booth at the restaurant. The next morning, she was long gone. She’d taken the boy across the country to be near her parents in Dallas.

But that wasn’t the last time he saw Corrina. No, later, he went for the boy. He’d driven to Dallas in a snit and found her in a fleabag apartment in the shitty part of town. The part of town where half the signs were in Spanish and nothing had been repaired since its heyday. London showed up at her door bearing gifts, but it wasn’t the gifts she wanted. She fell into his arms.

“What do you say?” he asked, holding up two bottles of white wine. “For old time’s sake?”

She’d never been big on white wine, but she was happy to see him and would have chewed off her arms to keep him around that night. She turned up first one glass, then a second, then after polishing off the first bottle, said what the hell and asked for another. They fooled around. She cried and accepted his apology. She said she waited around at her parent’s house as long as she could, then got a place of her own. She told him how hard it was to raise Jason by herself. She told him she missed him and begged forgiveness until she passed out cold with him standing over her.

Still, that was not the last time he saw her.

The last time was the next morning, when he arrived with the cops. They beat on the door until some fella nobody knew answered and let them in. She was passed out on the carpet, where London had left her. A couple scumbags lounged around across the room in varying states of consciousness. At some point, one of them had gotten Corrina’s britches off. In the back room, Jason cried and screamed like the dickens.

London pushed past the police and charged toward the back of the apartment. They tried to stop him, to restrain him, but he gallantly shoved them aside and charged toward the cries of his child. He declared to anyone who would listen that Jason would be coming home with him, that he wouldn’t spend another moment in that hovel, that drug den. One of the officers did his best to roust Corrina while the other kept an eye on the scumbags.

She came to, groggy. She looked about and smiled when she saw London and her son, but the other shoe dropped when she saw the badges.

“What’s going on, Tom?” she asked.

“You disgust me,” he spat. He shielded his son from the sight with his hands. One of the cops poked at the scumbags with a stick. “What is the matter with you?”

Corrina didn’t know what to say. Corrina didn’t know a lot of things. Where were her pants? Who were these men? Why were the cops here? She looked this way and that, searching for clues or hints that may help put things together.

“Ma’am,” said one of the policemen, “you’re going to have to come with me.”

“Why? What’s the matter?”

“Please put some pants on, ma’am.”

“Jason?”

London placed his son just outside the door and stepped inside. He spoke with a low, hissing voice. “I cannot believe you would do this to Jason. To our family. He’s coming home with me.”

“But . . . ” She searched Tom’s eyes for . . . what? London’s indignant gaze held fast until she put her head in her hands.