The Bones (32 page)

"Creed, why don't you drift?" Mercy says with no love.

"Shut up, alright? I'm askin' you nicely." Then, turning to Frank and trying to ramp the menace in his eyes: "Stay away from
my wife, dude. I know what you're thinking."

"Take it easy, babe. We're having a conversation."

Creed looks at Mercy and says, "Let's go home."

"I'm not goin' anywhere with you."

He reaches over the bar, grabs her arm. "Don't show me up, Mercy."

"Let go of her." Frank all chivalrous.

"Frank, stay out of this," Mercy tells him.

"You're cornin' with me," Creed says, tightening his grip.

"When dogs talk," she says, and he slaps her hard in the face. The slap came so fast Creed surprised himself, but his shock
was nothing compared to what Mercy was feeling, which is shock, too; and also deep embarrassment at being humiliated in front
of Frank.

But before she can say or do anything, Frank draws on the vast storehouse of hostility he's accumulated in a lifetime of disappointment,
rejection, frustration, and regret and punches Creed so hard in the j aw he loosens two of the man's teeth and sends him sprawling.
Recovering with the nimbleness of the ex-athlete, Creed quickly rises, rubbing his face, and starts to circle Frank.

"You're gonna be sorry for that, you little peckerwood."

"Alright, that's enough," Mercy says, her hand to her own face. "Creed, go home. I just finished cleanin' the place up." Then,
turning to Vida: "You wanna help me out here?"

Smiling, Vida says, "This is Tino's place. I don't care what happens." She settles in to watch the show.

Frank reaches into his pocket and produces his gravity knife, which he flicks open, once again startling Okie-bred Creed,
who did not anticipate this urban pansy would be armed with a shiv.

"Go on outside and practice bleeding. I'll be there in a minute."

"I don't think so," Creed says. Knowing his way around a bar fight, he quickly grabs a bottle off the bar and smashes it,
brandishing the jagged business end at Frank, who responds by picking up a barstool and swinging it at Creed, knocking the
bottle from his hand. Creed steps out of Frank's range and picks up a table, which he tosses at the middle-aged comic. He
then leaps over the bar, shoving Mercy out of his way, taking two liquor bottles and smashing both of them, only to be rocked
by the table, which Frank has picked up and heaved back at him. Frank then picks up another table and pitches it at Creed,
who ducks this time, the table sailing over him and crashing into the mirror behind the bar, shattering it and hundreds of
dollars' worth of liquor bottles with it. Covered in broken glass and spilled liquor, Creed leaps back over the bar, and Frank's
waiting, thinking,
If I have to die, this isn't the worst way.

Frank's got his knife, Creed's got two broken bottles, and they circle each other feinting and lunging but no one able to
cut, until Tino barks, "Enough!" and the two of them look over and see a revolver pointing at them.

The gun has a dampening effect on the enthusiasm of the combatants, Creed saying, "How ya doin', Tino? I gotta go," and scuttling
out of the club, no one saying good-bye or even looking at him.

Tino stares at Frank, an engine straining to not overheat. "I knew I shouldn't have booked you, you fuckin' lowlife. You come
in here, you wreck the place . . . " Then he shakes his head in disgust at the level to which humans are capable of sinking,
the thought of the insurance policy he held on the club having lapsed eating at his gut. "Now get outta my place."

"What?" Frank, incredulous, the victim here.

"This was Creed's fault," Mercy says, trying to be helpful.

"I want your opinion, I'll ask." Then, to Frank: "Get out."

"I haven't been paid."

"You destroyed the bar. You think I'm payin' you? Get outta here before I call the cops."

Frank doesn't move. Tino cocks the hammer on his gun, which, in the silence of the bar, is an impressive sound.

"Hey, I'm not unreasonable," Frank says as he turns to go.

Stepping into the parking lot, Frank looks around to make sure Creed has taken his act on the road. Satisfied further violence
is not imminent, he crosses the highway to the 7-Eleven, where he finds a pay phone and calls a cab. When Frank is told it
will take fifteen minutes for a car to get there, he decides to pick up a six-pack of beer. He pays the pimply kid behind
the counter, who squints at Frank—he recognizes him but doesn't know from where—and drinks three Budweisers before remembering
he's got the rental car.

Frank enters his room at the Trade Winds just after one A.M. and sees a red message light flashing on the phone. He picks
up the receiver, presses the code on the keypad, and waits. In a moment he hears Milo's sick voice saying, "Frank, sorry I
had to ball but I need to see my own doctor, so I took a plane back to L.A. tonight. I told Robert and he said he's going
to try and find someone else to send out. I hope the show went okay. Sorry again, man." Frank places the phone back on the
cradle and sits on the bed. Looks at the illuminated numbers on the bedside digital clock and knows he will have to wait until
the morning to call Robert and tell him he's ready to eighty-six the comeback tour. Frank stays up for another hour drinking
beer. The television is on but he isn't really watching. He's thinking about his father again and what was the tipping point
for him, the moment he knew he couldn't do it any longer, that he lacked the will to face another morning, another day of
life on this happy planet. When did he know it was pointless to continue? Then he blacks out.

Just before eleven o'clock the following morning there is a loud knock on the door of Frank's room. Fast asleep, Frank doesn't
stir at the sound. There is another knock but still Frank doesn't move. After a moment, the door opens and the hulking figure
of a man dressed in chinos and a shapeless light blue sports jacket appears. As the large man pushes the door in, the room
floods with light and Frank's eyes open a crack and register his size; the guy is at least six-eight. Frank sees the figure
of a female motel employee skittering out of sight behind this leviathan.

"Frank Bones?" the man says with the local twang in a resonant bass.

"Yeah?" He's groggy but his tone says this better be good.

"I'm Detective Faron Pike, Tulsa PD. I work robbery and homicide." At the word
homicide
Frank's ears; fine-tune.
What's this?
Suddenly he's a lot more awake. "How'd the show go last night?" The big man making small talk.

"Fine." Frank struggles to sit up, the lying-down conversation too redolent of therapy.

"It's a nice club. Shania Twain's sister sang there last month," Pike says, throwing him off, Frank thinking,
If there was trouble, this wouldn't be the lead. Maybe the guy's a fan.

"Can this wait?"

"Not really."

"Let me get dressed, okay?"

"Please," Pike says, turning around and noticing three empty beer bottles.

Frank quickly pulls on a pair of black pants and a T-shirt. Fastening his belt, he says, "So what do you want to talk about?"

"The murder of Tino Suarez." Faron looks at Frank, trying to read his reaction and sees only what appears to be genuine shock.
This guy's a good actor,
he's thinking.

"Someone killed him?"

"Last night. We heard you two had a beef."

"From who?"

"His grieving widow."

"Tino's dead?"

"I'm afraid so, Frank."

Frank thinks about this a moment, wondering at the appropriate response. He didn't like Tino and Frank isn't one of those
guys who's sentimental about death, doing an about-face on some guy just because he turned toes up, particularly a guy who
was pointing a gun at him at the end of their last encounter. Still, he's never had his sleep interrupted by a murder investigation.
It's a disorienting feeling.

"How'd he die?" Frank asks, genuinely curious and stalling.
Jesus, does this anthropoid think I did it?

"Two bullets. What was going on with you two?" Faron says, trying to come off friendly, maybe catch Frank off-guard. Frank
needs coffee right now; his mind is too wooily, trying to focus.

"He owes me some money." Frank turns his own words over in his mind. It's more of a problem now, this owed money, than it
was twelve hours ago.

"How bad did you want to collect the debt?"

Frank instantly knows where this is going. "Not bad enough to kill him."

"We'd like you to come down to the station and talk about what happened."

The interrogation room is bare except for a table and four chairs, two of which are occupied by Frank and Faron, who is still
working the friendly act. He has driven Frank down here, not wanting to give him the opportunity of changing his mind, and
talked sports the whole ride, thinking it was the shared language of all heterosexual men. Frank was unresponsive and now
Faron is wondering if, along with being a habitual criminal, Frank is gay, too. Turning on the video camera that sits unobtrusively
at the side of the room, Faron settles his bulk into his chair and says, "Why don't you tell us about last night?"

"I'll talk when I have a lawyer," Frank says, having seen enough cop movies to know to keep his mouth shut. Faron eyes Frank
in a way that barely masks his suspicions. He thinks he has his man and Frank knows it. "I want to make a phone call. Can
I do that?"

Just after two o'clock that afternoon Frank stands in the hallway outside the interrogation room, his cell phone pressed to
his ear. A Chicano cop working at a desk nearby is watching him. Frank sees this and says to the guy, "I could be on the way
to the gas chamber and my manager would put me on hold." The cop stays with the poker face.

Robert gets on the phone. "Hey, I'm heading into a meeting. What's going on?"

"There may be a little trouble here in Tulsa."

"The show tanked?"

"I might be a suspect in a murder case."

"Murder?" Frank can feel Robert's anxiety spike over the phone lines. "What do you mean murder?"

"Murder, Bobby. As in someone got killed."

"And you might be a suspect? Why are you a suspect? Who got killed?"

"The club owner."

"Tell me this is a joke!"

"He stiffed me and wound up dead. The cops brought me down to the station to talk to me. I haven't been charged yet but .
. ."

"Fucking hell."

"Bobby, get me out of here."

"Sit tight. I'll get you a lawyer."

Two hours later, a brand-new Lincoln Navigator pulls into the parking lot in front of the police station and an imposing black
man in his early forties wearing a cream-colored Western-cut suit and a black cowboy hat gets out. He carries a tan leather
briefcase and holds a roiled-up newspaper as he strides purposefully toward the building. Nods to the sergeant at the front
desk in the manner of a fighter before the bell, and the officer acknowledges him in kind. He marches through the double doors
leading to the heart of the operation, sees Frank seated on a chair outside an office, and quickens his pace. A young white
cop with a crew cut is walking in the opposite direction and the two men bump shoulders. The black man in the cream-colored
Western-cut suit stops in his tracks, saying, "Whoa. Did you do that on purpose? Like we're in high school and you're gonna
play fuck-with-the-nigger? Because we ain't in high school now and we're gonna play sue-the-damn-cop till they throw his white
ass off the force and he loses his retirement benefits. What's your name?" Whoever the black man is, he knows how to mau-mau
Mr. Charlie.

"Clanton," the stunned cop replies in the face of this four-hundred-years-of-pain hurricane.

Then the black man tips his cowboy hat, smiles, and says, "I'm just playing with you," sending the cop reeling on his way,
wondering what hit him. The black man turns his attention to Frank, who has witnessed this exchange, and shows him the newspaper.
"This is the
Tulsa World.
How do you like the way it looks?"

"It's a fish wrapper."

"Well, you're gonna be on the front page of this one tomorrow and that is some damn fine publicity!"

"Who are you?"

"Otis Cain, J.D. I'm gonna be your lawyer."

Frank looks Otis over, not sure how to take this Afro-Western apparition, but impressed with Robert that this is the guy he
called. He was expecting someone more traditional. "Nice lid."

"This?" Otis says, caressing his hat brim. "My great-great-granddaddy was a buffalo soldier, rode out to Oklahoma after the
Civil War and worked as a cowboy. I like to keep the legacy alive." Faron appears as Otis is informing Frank of his distinguished
heritage and barely conceals a groan.

"This your counsel?" the detective says to Frank.

"Sure," Frank says, partial to black people, the white-guilt thing going strong.

Faron indicates the two of them should follow him back into the interrogation room. Watching Faron disappear into the room,
Frank turns to Otis, awaiting instructions. Otis says, "Come on, let's go deal with these rednecks." Impressed with the bellicose
funk Otis exudes, Frank follows him and takes a seat next to his new counsel across the table from Faron, who is not pleased
at having to deal with Otis Cain. Otis, meanwhile, has opened his briefcase and removed a kitchen timer, which he places on
the table. He sets the timer, looks at the big detective, and says, "You got one hour."

"Mr. Cain—"

"My client's a busy man, Detective. If you're not gonna charge him, he's got places to go."

Faron's exasperated with Otis but knows he has to deal with him. Making an effort to stay cool, he says, "Frank, why don't
you start by telling us what happened between you and Mr. Suarez?"

Frank glances at Otis, who nods, indicating this question is acceptable. "I do my set. I get offstage and hang around the
bar. Some mutt tries to perpetrate domestic violence in the bar area."

"Who?"

"Breed or Reed. Something like that. So I defend his wife. Tino pulls a gun and throws the guy out. I ask to get paid and
he tells me he's not gonna pay me so I leave. Peacefully. Imagine my chagrin when I learned someone smoked him since now I
have to collect from a dead guy."