Legwork (12 page)

I approached the closest bar and asked the middle-aged man behind it for a margarita, straight up, no salt.

“You gotta be kidding, lady,” he said.
Hmm …
a northern import, no doubt.
“I can give you frozen from the vat.” He flipped a thumb over his shoulder at a large commercial freezer drum, the kind that used to churn frozen custard at Dairy Queens everywhere.
Now you most often found them at yuppie bars, spitting out endless ropes of frozen green goo like some kooky apparatus from a Doctor Seuss book.
I groaned.
Frozen margaritas could really slow you down and I needed a drink to cope with this crowd.
Oh well, what’s a girl to do but risk brain freeze and make the best of it?
I accepted a huge plastic glass of the mixture and noted that, as compensation, the concoction was loaded with enough tequila to put down a moose.
I hoped the party organizers had remembered to line the dance floor with puke barrels.

I wandered through the frantic crowd, bumping into sweating college bodies, shrugging off overeager paws and sympathizing with the occasional adult who stood huddled in solitary misery like a disapproving schoolmarm.
Working my way across the floor was a bruising experience because the place was jammed, but I’m an expert at negotiating crowded bars and I was able to elbow my way to a corner near the empty platform without spilling a drop of the margarita down my well-draped bosom.

“Nice outfit,” a kid inexplicably dressed in a satin smoking jacket told me.
He held a pipe and I wanted to tell him that the days of Hugh Hefner were over.
But at least he wasn’t smoking a cigar.
He admired my dress again.
“Kind of retro,” he added.

I smiled vaguely.
What the hell did that mean?
I refrained from telling him that he looked like Jerry Lewis in The Nutty Professor.

“Like the band?” he asked, blowing pipe smoke in my face.
“I think beach music is sort of passe, but the hordes seem to find it amusing.”

I thought pretentious little whippersnappers who tried to pick up older women were even more pass6, but I kept my opinions to myself.
“They’re perfect for the occasion,” I said instead.
I had noticed mass movement of bodies toward the empty platform over on the far side of the gym and was pretty sure that Stoney Maloney and his crew were heading for the podium.

As if on cue, the band broke into a sloppy version of “Bony Maronie,” originally a Cajun tune that had been bastardized into a rock-n-roll hit in the early 60’s and was now being further bastardized into Stoney Maloney’s theme song.
I clung to my margarita, listening incredulously, as hundreds of young white conservatives raised their voices in anthem, screaming Stoney’s name to the music and throwing themselves on the floor to alligator on their bellies across the now-slimy wood like refugees from a remake of Animal House.
I downed about half of my drink in a single gulp, brain freeze be damned, while I reflected on how silly white people looked when they danced.
Just as Stoney and his aides took the stage, the singing escalated to a roar.
Two hefty young men took up positions on either side of an enormous piece of blue bunting that dominated the wall behind the podium.
Grasping ropes, they tugged on the curtain and it fell to the floor, revealing a huge banner that read
STONEY MALONEY—THE ROCK OF CAROLINA.
A roar went up from the crowd and I almost dropped my drink.
For a moment I thought it said
THE ROCKMAN OF CAROLINA.
The idea opened up endless possibilities.
Why, he could go from door to door seeking out female constituents and…

My dirty thoughts were interrupted when the ambitious young organizer of the fundraiser began to introduce Stoney.
The crowd grew even wilder, hooting and thrusting fists in the air as the kid made one bad joke after another.
Of course, this group was so well-lubricated they’d have sent up a cheer if the guy simply stood there and wet his pants.
I wondered if the band could hear him and if they appreciated the humor, but when I looked over they were nowhere to be found.
Probably smoking pot in a bade hallway.
Anyone who still wore their hair in an Afro these days had to have been smoking pot for a long, long time.

Stoney finally stepped up to the podium and began his speech.
I have no idea what he said as I could not hear a word above the cheers.
But the crowd loved him.
They roared whenever he looked up from his notes, waving their plastic cups of draft beer in homage and squealing approval through drunken lips.
I kept my eyes glued on the podium, searching for a female who did not belong.
Several were scattered among the official party but no one looked particularly smitten by the words of the Rockman.
And, frankly speaking, none of them looked attractive enough to be worth risking a political career over.

Stoney Maloney was nobody’s fool.
He kept the speech short and ended it by exhorting them all to drink and dance their way to victory.
As he raised his hands to a final deafening roar of approval, the band wandered back on stage and obligingly broke into “Tighten Up” by Archie Bell and the Drells. The crowd packed together, dancing itself into a drunken frenzy duly sanctioned by the ability to vote.
I fought my way to one side where I could finish my margarita in peace.

Stoney was lingering on the platform, reaching down to shake hands in the crowd.
He worked the huddled masses expertly, smiling, joking, and ignoring the drunken weaving of his fans.
The coeds loved him and you could practically smell the hormonal overdrive in the air.
But the Rockman kept his distance and lingered with no one too long.
He was all business, with nary a personal smile to break the monotony of his plastic grin.
And he stayed that way all night long.
For the next hour, I dogged Stoney determinedly throughout the coliseum, surveying his entourage, gauging his reactions, keeping my eyes peeled for a particularly favored damsel.
It got me nowhere.
I finally called it a night after some pie-eyed pudge face stole my makeshift blue bow and ran through the crowd with my negligee on his head.
I would have to find out the identity of Stoney’s lady love some other intrepid way.
Political appearances were just too jammed.
I finagled another margarita from the bartender for the drive back home, reminding myself that tomorrow was another day.

I slept like a college drunk that night, dead to the world and all its ambiguities.
When I woke the next day, I reminded myself of how good it felt to be clear-headed instead of hung-over, not to mention unencumbered by a snoring young man who would hoover up my pantry’s contents within the hour. But I doubted this lesson in sober self-reliance would last.
I knew myself too well.

1-40 was remarkably deserted, the empty lanes stretching out invitingly in the morning breeze.
I could have driven forever, but duty called.
I made it to downtown Raleigh in under thirty minutes.

“Looking good, Casey,” Bobby D.
whistled through a mouthful of the ubiquitous cheese and peanut butter snack known in the South as “nabs.” Garishly orange crumbs peppered his chin and masked the twinkling of his single gold tooth when he smiled.
“You get a makeover down at Thalheimer’s or something?”

“Yep,” I replied.
“And I’m scheduled for a personality transplant at noon.” His little dig did not bother me a bit.
I did look good—and for good reason.
I was considering storming the gates of the Citadel that day, or at least trying to see the great white hope himself.
If Stoney Maloney was in the mood.
So I was dressed accordingly in white linen pants and a short matching jacket over an ivory tee shirt.
I felt like a giant vanilla ice cream cone, but I looked respectable and that’s what counted.

It’s hard to look respectable when you’re built for trouble.
I am a big girl and, since I have no choice in the matter, I try to make the most of what I’ve got.
My grandpa explained it to me when I was twelve years old and brokenhearted over my treatment at the hands of the enlightened local youth during a disastrous school dance.
Now, these young men were fated to grow up and possess an average of six teeth apiece, while I was fated to grow up to be strong enough to relieve them of those teeth.
But at the time, I didn’t know it.
I just knew that I had stood against the wall of the school gym without having a single boy speak to me for a solid three hours, except to call me Refrigerator Butt.
When I got home and confessed all to my grandpa, he sat me down and set me straight.

“Casey,” he said.
“You’re gonna be a big girl like your grandma was.
No doubt about it.
So you can either be one of those big girls that eats like a bird and looks like a corpse or you can work those muscles until you’re strong enough to whip the tar out of anyone who takes offense to the good body that God has seen fit to give you.
If you’re willing to stop whining, I’m willing to show you how to get strong and stay strong.
We can start tomorrow morning.
Ain’t nobody gonna be messing with you if you’re strong.”

I chose door number two and Grandpa turned out to be right.
By a year later, there wasn’t anyone in the entire county that dared call me or my butt a name I hadn’t chosen for myself.
And I grew to like the feeling of being able to take care of myself.
Today, I look chubby at first glance and stocky at second.
Or strong as hell to those in the know.
My shoulders are wide and my rib cage is a barrel.
But I don’t have to take any crap from anyone but the strongest of men and I feel it’s a fair trade-off over all.

I took off my jacket and hung it on the back of the door, where Bobby’s greasy fingers were unlikely to wander. “Any messages?” I called out as I inspected my drawers for signs of snooping.

“Hell, yeah I got messages,” Bobby bellowed back.
“Whole stack of ‘em.”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me when I walked in the door?” I was once again struck dumb by his cheerful stupidity.

“Well, babe, I was busy complimenting your personage,” he said.
He sighed and leaned back, folding his hands over his big belly.
That meant he had some real news for me and could afford to make me beg.
I smiled at him.
He smiled back.

“Give it,” I demanded.

“Half the triple fee,” he countered.

“Done.” I was in no mood to bargain.
“But it better be good.”

He consulted the tattered yellow legal pad he keeps by his phone.
That pad ought to be designated as an historical marker.
I don’t believe he’s ever used a fresh one since I’ve known him.
“First of all, the SBI has dropped any action against your client.
They announced that forensic tests prove that the Mary Lee Masters vehicle was not driven in the vicinity of the murder spot.” He pronounced vehicle “vee-hick-el,” like it was something I could suck on.

“What a revelation,” I remarked.
“Damn, those guys are good.”

Bobby ignored me.
“Instead, they are focusing on Ramsey Lee, the eco-terrorist fellow on account of he owns the land across the river from where this guy was shot.”

“Another big surprise,” I said.

Bobby regarded me coolly as he took a swig of Budweiser.
“He also was involved in blocking that Neuse River Park project you asked me about.
But I guess since you know all this, there’s no need for me to run down the list of investors in it.
I apologize if I have bored you this morning.”

“Give it, Bobby, or you die.”

He smiled in triumph and consulted his notes.
“Just who you’d expect.
Mitchell was the biggest investor, which is unusual because he likes to be the general partner and avoid putting his own cash on the line.
A dozen or so smaller individual investors, the usual suspects from the ranks of local real estate hustlers.
No one mentioned yet in connection with the murder, but there are two companies listed as investors.
I’ve got someone down at the secretary of state’s office looking into the ownership of them now.
I think we’re gonna find out what we need to right there.
Follow the money, I told you.
Always follow the money.”

“What was that about Ramsey Lee helping to block the project?”

“I know a gal works at the city council meetings,” Bobby explained.
“She takes down notes, helps the T.V. crews tape the meetings, kisses the mayor’s ass.
She’s the one who placed the microphone that caught that damn fool mayor calling the rest of the council a bunch of fuckin’ idiots last week.
Only thing he ever said I could agree with.
Anyway, she says that there’s some smart group of environmentalist types who are using the threat of court action to force developers to back down on projects around these here parts.
They think Ramsey’s part of it and that his family money is bankrolling their efforts.”