Sweepers (42 page)

She turned around and surveyed the littered yard. He hadn’t shown up for work, and he wasn’t answering the door. If this was his door, that is.

But the motorcycle rather made her think it was his place. The silence was a bit unnerving , though, and she began to imagine that someone was watching her. She went back to the door and banged louder, but there was still no response. She stepped back from the door to check the windows, but they were covered up inside.

She caught another whiff of sewer gas coming from under the trailer, an4 she stepped back out into the yard again.

A thought occurred to her. Suppose Jack was more than just a bit player in this business? There had been two people putting her into the cart and dragging her down to the river.

Suppose one of them had been Jack? As she stood there in the silence of the clearing, she began to think that being up here by herself might not be such a great idea. Then something moved in the pile of rags next to the motorcycle.

She walked over toward the motorcycle shelter,’being careful of where she put her feet. Then, to her surprise, the pile of rags itself moved, and a pale-faced Jack Sherman sat up groggily among the rags, a confused, disoriented look on his face. So drunk last night he’d never made it to the trailer.

He was wearing a filthy black leather jacket over an equally filthy T-shirt. His black jeans had been embroidered recently with the finished product of the brewer’s art. Karen could see the red of his bloodshot eyes from twenty feet away.

She relaxed: Jack was in no shape to give anybody any trouble. Just as long as Galantz wasn’t lurking nearby.

Jack swiveled his head around until he could focus on Karen. The bright light of morning was making him squint, and she wondered if he secretly needed glasses. He managed a liquid belch, and she decided not to get any closer lest the sight of another human provoke some even more distasteful bodily functions.

“Is that you, Jack Sherman?” she asked.

“Stop yellin’, man,” the derelict said, his voice thick.

“I’m hurtin’ here, man.” His eyes were closed now, and he held one hand up to his right ear, which Karen noticed was crusted with a thin line of blood. He made no move to rise from his nest of rags.

Karen moved a few feet closer, looking around to make sure Jack was alone. An admiral’s son, no less, she thought.

She wondered if this was a sight not unfamiliar to the admiral.

“Aren’t you a pretty specimen,” she said. “That man said there was a snake problem up here. This looks like a rat -problem.

“Snakes,” the kid mumbled, his eyes still closed, his head weaving with the effort to stay upright. Then he giggled as if he was still drunk. “it speaks,” she said. “Hard to believe this is an admiral’s son, but there’s no denying the facial resemblance, is there?”

The boy reacted to that, opening his eyes. “What’re you talking about, bitch? I ain’t no admiral’s son. Never was, never will be. -Fuck all admirals. And fuck you, whoever the hell you are.” . Karen moved a step closer. “You’re telling me that your father isn’t Rear Admiral W. T.

Jack rolled slowly all the way over in his bed of rags, squinting hard now, staring at her, pushing himself up on one arm to look at her, and then she saw a wave of recognition cross his face. “Hey, it’s you,” he said. “From the base. Where’s your bodyguard?”

“Not all that far away,” Karen lied. “But we thought we’d try asking our questions nicely, so he’s waiting in the car.

“Well, fuck that noise. I ain’t answering any ioddamned questions. Even if you do have a great ass.”

Karen cocked her head to one side. “You talk to all the girls that way, Jack?” she asked. “Or are you just attracted to asses in general?”

It went right over his head, and he waved a hand at her as if to make her just go away. He belched again, and for a moment, she thought he was going to be sick. But then he was looking at her again.

“Like I said, fuck you, lady. I don’t hafta talk to you.

Besides, you oughta be thankin’ me, man. He was gonna plug your ass before we dropped you in the river. Whadda ya think a that, bitch? Hey, you like your little ride in the river, huh?”

Karen felt a wave of anger swell up inside her chest. But Jack was getting up now, staggering to his feet, holding on to one of the two-by-fours.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve got a great ass, lady, Commander, ma’am, sir, whatever the hell you’re called. I took a little look, see, right after my old man popped his flashbulb in your face. You don’t remember? I do.

Great ass, like I said, sexy panties and all. Love that shit.” He was trying to move toward her, but he was still too drunk to stay upright without the help of the two-by-four. Then he stopped, looked into her shocked face, and made the mistake of laughing.

Karen lost it when she heard that laugh. She reached into her bag and pulled out Frank’s .45, and, almost as if she had been shooting one for years, she snapped back the hammer in one smooth motion and let one -go in Jack’s general direction. The two-by-four just below his hand shattered, blowing wood splinters all over the place. Jack yelled and went windmilling backward, toward the bike.

Karen stepped forward and fired again, the huge automatic kicking up in her hand and shocking her right -wrist.

This round pulverized the bike’s headlight, sending shards of glass into Jack’s face and causing him to fall sideways over the bike. The bike tipped and then fell over in a crashing heap, with Jack now pinned under the front wheel.

Karen walked toward him, the gun pointing right at him.

“What did you say, you son of a bitch? You put me in that bag, did you?

So that was you, Jack?” She fired again, aiming just over his head and hitting the back tire instead, and this time Jack was screaming for her to stop. She walked up close, her own hands trembling now, and lowered the muzzle to point right at his face. Jack started to babble and cry.

It Vas the sudden acrid smell of urine penetrating all the gunsmoke that brought her to her senses.

She backed away a step and slowly lowered the big gun.

Jack was curled into a protective ball underneath the front wheel of the bike, his right arm across his face. He was blubbering incoherently, his noises blending with the hiss of escaping air from the tire. Karen just stood there for a minute, taking deep breaths, struggling to wipe away the red mist of rage from her vision. She physically had to fight the urge to bring the gun up again and blow his damned head right off, and Jack sensed it.

“Get up,” she ordered. Her voice was flat and hard, and there was a strong metallic taste in her mouth.

“I can’t. I can’t,” he sobbed, still not looking at her.

“Do it, Jack, or I’ll put one in the gas tank. Get up.

Now! ” it took a moment for her threat to penetrate, and then he scrambled out from under the upset motorcycle, tearing his jeans and scraping his shins on a hub nut. He scuttled back away from her, farther into the hooch, a trembling hand still up in front of his face. There were shards of bright white glass on his T-shirt, and a large dark stain at his crotch.

“I said, Get up, Jack. I want you out here where I can see you, not just smell you. Get up!” She raised the .45 again.

He swallowed a couple of times and then crawled to his feet, suddenly very sober, his eyes locked on the black maw of the .45.

“Now,” she said, “we’re going to have a little talk. Or rather, I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to give me some answers. Call me bitch again and you’ll have to learn sign language, understand, Jack?”

He wobbled a little but nodded. She swung the gun around in the direction of the trailer. “In there.”

Jack walked carefully around her, eyeing the gun, his face pasty. He wiped his lips a couple of times on the way to the door. She could indeed smell him as he went past. He opened the front door and pushed it wide against some trash behind it. She followed him into the trailer, then told him to open some windows. The trailer stank of marijuana, with an overlay of sewage. The living room area was pretty much bare, with only -a sleeping bag rumpled up on a thin. and filthy mattress at one end, and two overturned boxes that apparently served as chairs. There were beer cans, wine bottles, old magazines, motorcycle parts, plastic jugs of oil, and assorted clothes scattered along the wall. A single overhead light hung by a broken fixture from the ceiling, and a telephone sat on the floor. She could smell the kitchen but could not see it, and she didn’t want to. A single hallway led back to the part of the trailer that had been smashed by the tree, but the hallway was blocked by a pile of clothes that looked as if they had been rescued from a Dumpster.

Jack stumbled unsteadily over toward the mattress. Karen followed him into the room, watching him carefully. Jack flopped down on the sleeping bag, then reached under it.

Karen brought the gun up instantly.

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Drink,” he said quickly. “Gotta have a drink. Goddamn, lady, you made me piss my pants. Gimme a break here.

Karen debated with herself. Maybe let him take a hit, steady his nerves.

If he was a full-blown lush, she might get more out of him if he steadied up. She nodded once. “Use one hand,” she ordered.

With his left hand in the air, he carefully felt around under the rag bag and there, with exaggerated slowness, extracted a long-necked brown bottle with no label. He undid the screw cap, still watching the gun, and took a long swig. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then swallowed, coughing as whatever elixir of the gods went down. Then he put the bottle down and pulled the sleeping bag over his lap. He had to put both hands down on the bag to keep himself upright. He looked at her expectantly.

Karen walked over to the stronger-looking of the two boxes and sat down, putting the automatic in her lap but keeping her right hand on it. She was aware that the hammer was still back, but she decided not to lower it. He might regain his courage after that slug of rotgut and make a move.

One part of her rather wished he would.

“You move and I’ll empty this thing into your face, understand?”

He nodded and then took another hit from the bottle.

“You were there,” she said. “You helped somebody kidnap me and then dump me in that river. Who was it?”

Jack looked away, a glint of fear showing in his eyes.

“My old man,” he croaked.

She couldn’t believe her ears. “You’re telling me that Admiral Sherman was involved in that?”

He still wouldn’t look at her, just kept staring down at the floor. “W.

T. Sherman’s nothing to me,” Jack said.

“I’m talking about my real old man.”

What the hell was this? “You mean Galantz?”

“Never heard that name. He’s always been Mr. Smith.

That’s all, Mr. Smith. Ever since recon training.”

“Where is he now, this Mr. Smith?”

Jack glanced out the back window and shivered.

“Around. I dunno. He comes and gets me when he needs me. He just shows up, man. Always at night. He’s like a goddamned ghost.”

“So Admiral Sherman’s nothing to you?”

“Not’since he did what he did. Back there in D.C.,” Jack said, a hint of the old sneer coming back into his voice. The rotgut, she thought. Watch him.

“You mean when he divorced your mother.”

Jack didn’t say anything, just stared down at the floor.

Even so, Karen could sense the enormous resentment festering in this kid.

“Why do you call Galantz-Mr. Smith-your old man?”

Jack wiped his lips again and glanced sideways at the bottle. “Because he took care of me, back there in recon school, when I was getting my ass kicked by them other guys, the bigger guys. They were gonna wash me out, but Mr. Smith, he stood up, man. He knew about … about what happened to my mother. Said he was gonna be the old man I never had.

Said he’d get me through it. And he did, too.

Them other guys, they were afraid of Mr. Smith. He’s a bad bastard. Not like some a those guys, go around acting tough.

He is tough, man.”

“Yeah, real tough guy. Kidnapping women. Blinding them first, then stuffing them in a bag. Then if something goes wrong, quick, Jack, throw her in the river. A real man, that. A real tough guy.”

Jack’s face went blank as he squirmed around on the sleeping bag. “We was just gonna keep you. Not hurt you.

That’s what he said.”

“Why?”

“I dunno. I don’t ask him questions. He calls, I come. I owe him, that’s all. I owe him big. He told me to get a boat, meet him by the Key Bridge. I did what he told me. I owe him, man.”

“Why? What do you owe him for?”

“That’s personal.”

“Look at me,” she said. He didn’t move. She raised the gup, trying to remember how many rounds were in it. Not that many. “Look at me, Jack.”

Slowly, he raised his head, his face a study in pain and anger in about equal proportions. “I know what happened to your mother,” she said.

“That she shot , herself. “

His eyes blazed. “Because of him, the way he was. I want him dead. You listening to me? I want him dead! All those years, he was always gone.

Off on those ships, no time to come home, no time for us. Always the big fuckin’ deal.

Have to work late. On the fast track here, people. Movin’ right up here.

You got no damn idea, man. My mother, fryin’ her brain with the booze because she was always alone. Going’ to bed drunk, getting’ up drunk, drunk when people came around, drunk when 1-hell, lady, what would you know about any of that shit? You’re one of ‘em, aren’t you? You’re a goddamn officer, just like him.”

Karen took a deep breath. “So you blame him for what happened to your mother?”

“Fuckin’-A, I do. She was-she didn’t deserve that shit, man. Neither of us did. Don’t you think we deserved a little bit of his fucking time all those years? So yeah, when Mr. Smith comes knocking, tells me he’s gonna do a number on that prick over some shit went down in Nam, now that he’s a big-deal admiral, and do I wanta help out a little, I said fuckin’-A.

In a fuckin’ heartbeat.”

“Were you involved in what happened to Elizabeth Walsh?”