Dirtbags (13 page)

One of the scumbags rose from the couch. He wiped his face with Corrina’s pants. The policeman called for backup, said something in Spanish to the scumbag. It returned to the couch and returned to sleep.

“Who are these people?” Corrina asked.

“Dear God,” London breathed, “she doesn’t even know what she’s done. I came for my scheduled visitation, and this is what I’ve had to deal with, officer.” He shook his head. Of course Corrina didn’t know these men. London had let them in after she’d passed out the night previous. He let them in and had given them enough dope to scatter their brains to the winds. “You never saw me,” he told each of them as he distributed fifty-dollar bills and eight balls. In their states of mind, they probably hadn’t.

And her, half-conscious as it were, still reeling from whatever it was London had thumbed from the pill bottle, ground into fine dust, and dropped into each glass of wine. Weeping and moaning, “My son! Where is my son?”

“He’s leaving with the father,” the officer said.

Corrina wailed and tried to stand, but couldn’t. She collapsed to the floor in a mess of legs and tears. The officer looked to the other and nodded. He ushered London out the door and instructed he and Jason to drive back to Virginia. London carried his son down the steps, burying his head in his own chest so as he wouldn’t see his mother like this. He held him tight and stroked his bright, blond hair and whispered that everything would be fine, everything would be okay.

He put him in the car and blocked the view from the child’s car seat. Once good and buckled in, London snuck a look over his shoulder and saw Corrina being ushered out of her apartment by the cops, her in tears and still not wearing pants. The cops were a little rougher with her, perhaps out of disgust that a mother could do this to her child. She wailed and, in her stupor, kicked a pale leg here and there as she was dragged down the steps.

London held his ground. He knew if his son saw his mother this way, he would never erase the image from his mind. London took that responsibility quite grave. So, as the police hauled her toward the squad car, at the closest proximity to London and his son, he deftly stepped aside, offering his son a full view.

The boy screamed and beat his little hands against the window glass—his own face a mess of tears—and London quickly rounded the car, hopped into the driver’s seat, and made tracks for home.

And that, for all eternity, was the last time they saw Corrina London.

11

London went for a haircut. His wife hated him going to the barbershop, and to be honest, he reckoned that a good portion of why he did it. Still, he preferred not to run into any of the hair girls from those fancy salons. He’d had his way with more than enough of them over the years and old habits were hard to break. He often felt the fear as he and Reyna passed each other between appointments, him leaving and her showing up for a perm from his last Saturday night’s squeeze. It was not the sin that was unforgivable, said his good Catholic upbringing, but rather the
situation
of sin, so he favored the red and white pole.

Let an old timer trim it, he said. Who better to give a proper haircut, make him look good and spiffy? And Charlie Fetter was certainly an old timer. He’d been cutting heads since high school, cleaning his daddy’s barber shop since before that. Nobody ever bothered wondering what Charlie Fetter would do with his life. Leave worrying about that kind of stuff to another lot.

Charlie cut seventy heads per day back when the mill was up and running. He’d even taken on another fella to help him, business was so good. He’d often told London he went to bed every night wondering if he should fix up the place, put in another chair. Good thing he didn’t. Mill closed, people left, and the town went directly to the toilet. Now he fought with two other shops over the small amount that stayed, and he was lucky to see six, seven heads a day.

London usually had a story to tell when he came for a trim. Some dumb waitress did this, can you believe what his Mexicans did, his wife was making him go to this party or another. Folks appreciated the laugh. London’s best virtue was knowing how to divine a good laugh. He didn’t tip for shit and shouldn’t be left alone with anyone’s daughter, but he could get a good laugh when he wanted. Sometimes, folks that weren’t making money appreciated hearing stories from folks that were.

The day after London found out his ex-wife had been brutally murdered was not one of the days he cared to be funny and to entertain. He said the cursory hellos and how are you doings, but once he took the barber chair, he stared straight ahead into the mirror and looked at somewhere none the rest of them could see. Charlie Fetter got the clippers humming and went to work.

Nobody knew what to say. There probably wasn’t anything to say. Folks heading back from the feed store caught it on their CBs, which meant it hit the donut shop by noon and, from there, the beauty salons where there would be no stopping it. Everyone knew about it, but nobody knew what to say.

Nobody except Branch Gilmer, who always had plenty to say. He also had different ways of saying it. If you were lucky, he said it with his mouth. Folks trespassing his land often heard it said from his shotgun. Folks out at the 809 heard it plenty often with his fists or work boots. He sold tires and plugged tires and did anything you ever thought necessary with tires and went to church on Sunday, so he figured his opinion good and wanting. He was the first to speak up.

“They catch the fucker that done it?” he asked.

Charlie worked over London’s ears with the clippers. “Branch,” he said, “we don’t have call for that right now.”

“I just want him to know we’re thinking about him is all,” Branch said. London looked up from the mirror. Branch stared back at him. Other folks in the room didn’t say anything. “So did they catch him?”

“No.”

London returned his eyes to that spot in the mirror. Folks thought him gone and it best to move the conversation somewhere else. Gil Tanner and Captain Munson shook their heads and talked politics a bit. Then London spoke up.

“They carved into her.”

Nobody knew what to say to that, but again, that didn’t stop Branch Gilmer. “We heard,” he said. “They said there was numbers carved into them. A one and a two. Who the hell does that?”

London said nothing.

“I bet you’re just going crazy, ain’t you?” Branch pounded his palm with his own fist. “I’d be going batshit, let me tell you. If it was me, if I hear some piece of shit killed my ex-wife . . . ”

“What I’m sure Branch is trying to say,” Gil said, “is that you’ve got to be feeling horrible. We’re saying prayers for you, Tom.”

London said nothing.

“Is there anything we can do, Tom?” Captain Munson asked. “Anything at all?”

“No. Thank you.”

Charlie sprayed water onto London’s head and combed back the hair. “You going out for her funeral? Where is it, Dallas?”

London nodded. “I have to take Jason. She was his mother.”

The men closed their eyes and shook their heads.

“Horrible,” Gil Munson said. A few others muttered curses and let that sit. Charlie kept at it, snipping hair through his fingertips. Charlie only ever let Fox News play on the TV, but kept the sound off. Folks stared up at that box for lack of anything decent to say.

“How far is it to Dallas?” Branch asked.

“We’re taking a plane. We’ll fly out tomorrow night and be back after the funeral. Maybe Friday. It’s about a three-hour flight. More if we have to lay over.”

“I ain’t never been to Dallas. I used to watch the TV show, though. With J.R. You ever been up there?”

“Only to get my son.” London returned his gaze to Branch. "About a year back now."

“Real shame for him,” Gil said. “Real shame indeed.”

“He’s a strong boy,” London said. “His mother died a long time ago, if you ask me. She died when she chose drugs over her son.”

Charlie put a hand to London’s shoulders as though to steady him some. It did no good.

“What kind of a person does that?” London asked. “Pretty soon everybody’s going to know that Jason’s mother was high off her mind when she got herself killed. That kind of filth could have been raising my son, if I hadn’t stepped in like I did. He could have had one of those numbers carved into his little chest.”

“It was the Christian thing to take him from his mother,” Captain Munson said.

If London feared laying it on a little thick, he certainly didn’t show it. The anger, far from manufactured, dripped from every word. “I’m going to take my boy up there to bury his mother, but I’ll have no problem hating her until she’s good and in the ground and even some thereafter because of what she’s done to him. And me, I guess, for not protecting him from it.”

London took a deep breath. He collected himself. His head stopped shaking. Not even Branch had anything to say. Folks suddenly reckoned it best to talk about the weather. A storm brewed out west and was expected to blow in any day. The Tigers had as good a shot as anybody to win the division this season. Clarence’s BBQ didn’t taste as good lately, and they all thought it was on account of the new kid not doing this or that like Clarence used to.

Then it happened. First Gil’s cell phone buzzed. He flipped it open and looked at the number. “Hold my spot,” he said to no one in particular and stepped out the door. He hadn’t been gone but a half-minute before Branch’s phone rang as well. He answered it.

“What is it, honey?” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m getting my hair cut.”

The phone on the wall rang. Charlie finished brushing London’s hair, excused himself, and scooped it up before the second ring.

“Barber shop,” he said. He listened. “I can’t right now. I got customers.”

“Are you sure?” Branch asked into his phone. “Where did you hear it?”

“I can’t,” Charlie repeated. “I told you, I have customers.”

Branch looked up. He stared at London. He spoke into the phone. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll call you back.” He fingered the screen on his phone and pocketed it.

“Just say it,” Charlie said, “or let me call you back.”

Gil Tanner stepped back into the barbershop. He stopped in front of the heater, and it felt momentarily cooler, as if someone had inhaled after breathing on the back of a neck. He didn’t take his eyes from London.

“What is it?” asked London.

“Tom . . . ” Gil steadied himself with the back of the chair before sitting in it. “Tom . . . ”

“What is it?”

Charlie slowly hung up the phone. He stepped away from London.

Captain Munson’s pager beeped. He tilted it at his belt and thumbed it quiet.

“My son,” he whispered. He didn’t move.

“Goddammit, Charlie . . . Branch . . . What the hell is it?” He stood, jerking the front cloth from his neck and sending all his locks to the floor.

“That was Pamela. My wife, Pamela,” Branch said. “She talked to Paulette over at the sheriff’s office about an hour ago. She said they found two more bodies.”

“Where?” London looked to the others. Back to Branch.

“New Orleans,” Gil said.

“So?” London put a hand to his stomach. His face contorted and stayed that way.

Branch licked his lips. He didn’t like saying it. He didn’t like hearing it, but he sure as hell didn’t like saying it. Especially not to London. The words treacled from him.

“They was a couple,” he said. “Like your Corrina and that other fella. They found them carved up too. They had numbers on them also.”

London figured Branch didn’t need to say it, but he did anyway.

“They was a three and a four.”

***

This time, when Sheriff Lorne Axel came, he was more than thorough. This time, they spoke at the station, clear over in Tucker. He phoned ahead and asked London would he like Deputy Shackle to come pick him up, give him a ride. London asked if it could wait until after the funeral. Sheriff reminded him that it most certainly was not okay if it waited until after he left town. London showed up on his own.

This time, they wouldn’t be speaking alone.

“I hate to do this,” said Lorne, “but we have a new set of questions to run over with you.”

We
meant Federal agents. It was too early to know for sure, but recent developments in Corrina’s murder warranted a visit by the FBI. London was at his wit’s end. He’d already sucked down a pack of cigarettes before he reached the sheriff’s station over in Richland. He figured he could suck down another just sitting there before Lorne Axel and the FBI.

First agent was long of face, looked like an accountant. His name was Roger or Rogers, and he insisted on being called one of them, but London didn’t note which. The other was young and dumb and didn’t do anything without the older guy’s say-so. London didn’t get his name. He didn’t like their tone. He didn’t like being hauled down to the station when he had so much on his mind. He kept reminding himself to feel that way, but found it difficult to act indignant when he was half scared out of his mind.

“It appears your ex-wife was part of some bigger situation,” said Roger or Rogers. “Our investigation is now casting a wider net.”

London shook his head. “I don’t know what any of this mess has to do with me.”

“Do you understand what they are saying?” Lorne asked.

“This has to do with the couple in New Orleans,” London said. “You think my wife is the victim of a”—the words were hard—“a serial killer?”

“We’re not saying that,” said the younger agent.

“No, we’re not,” said the other, “but we have plenty of reason to keep our eyes on it.” He held a file folder in his hand. He itched to open it. “When was the last time you saw your wife, Mister London?”

London told the shorter version of the story. Went to Dallas to fetch his son, found her apartment had become a crack house, took his son.

“There should be a record of it,” he said.

“There is,” said the younger one, tapping a different file folder.

“Then why am I here?”

“And you never saw her again after that?” Rogers asked.

“That’s what it means when I said it was the last time I seen her.”