Authors: Edward Lee

The Minotauress (38 page)

BOOK: The Minotauress

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A dopey, fat ‘neck with a buzzcut got out and stood with his cohorts. "Huh-huh-howdy, sir. We-we-we ain't done nothin' wrong."

Stu let them see his hand on his holster. "This your car?"

"Yes, sir, it shore is."

"What's gonna happen one minute from now when I run the plates?"

"Nothin', sir. I gots my insurance'n registration right here... "

Stu studied the three of them. "Which one of you used the stolen credit card?"

Oddly, the two rednecks both looked to White Shirt.

"Stolen?" White Shirt whispered.

"Make it quick, guys. If I hear one word that sounds like bullshit... I'm busting all three of you."

Silence.

"Sir, there's been mistake," White Shirt stepped up. "I used the credit card." Next, he looked at it with a puzzled expression. Then he sighed. "And you know what? This one's not mine. I know what happened, Officer. About a month ago, I found a man's wallet in the parking lot of the Qwik-Mart in Luntville, and I returned it to him immediately. It was a man in a Rolls Royce, and he even gave me a $100 bill as a reward for returning the wallet. But after he drove away, I discovered that one of his cards had fallen out of it... "

"And you've been using it ever since," Stu said.

"Oh, no, that's not the case at all, sir. I had every intention of calling the credit card company the next day to report it misplaced but I simply forgot."

Stu tapped his foot. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"

"I assure you, sir. I'm not prevaricating in the least."

"Prevaricating, huh?" This was starting to stink. Stu glared at Long-Hair and Fattie. "You two guys looks like townies—" Then he glared at White Shirt. "—and you look like a librarian. Something's not right here. You three guys know each other?"

"Actually, no, sir, not really," White Shirt stepped right up again. "I was walking home tonight and these gentlemen kindly offered me a ride, and in their generosity, I thought it only fair for me to buy them some gas."

"With a stolen credit card?"

"No, sir," he said, slightly weary now. "I intended to use my own card but I used this one by mistake." He raised the card in emphasis. "This card, that I found and intended to report lost."

"But forgot to?"

"Precisely."

Stu's eyes flicked back to the rednecks. "Is that true?"

"Aw, yeah, it shore is... sir," answered Long-Hair. "We'se just offered him a ride's all."

"Don't really know him," Fattie said. "We'se was just bein' neighborly."

Stu ruminated further.
I don't have probable cause to bust the rednecks or do a search.
"Mind telling me what's in the U-Haul?"

"Just some old furniture'n stuff we'se movin' to my Daddy's house down the way," Long-Hair said.

Hmm.
Stu kept tapping his foot.
Make the decision.
"You," he said to White Shirt. "Turn around, hands behind your back."

He took the credit card, did a quick pat-down, and cuffed the guy. "Don't move," he ordered. He walked right up to Long-Hair till their faces were an inch apart.

"You look like a con," he said.

Long-Hair didn't bat an eye. "I don't know what'cha mean... sir. All I been doin' tonight is mindin' my own business... "

I don't know what's wrong here,
Stu realized,
but I don't have anything to take them in for.
"You boys be on your way." He started back toward White Shirt but paused to take one last glance at the shining El Camino. "Nice car, by the way."

"Why-why—thank ya, sir!" Fattie enthused. "Just you have a good night!"

Stu walked White Shirt to the cruiser. "In the car, and—" He pulled a small, very old book out of the guy's back pocket. He looked at the title, bewildered.

"
The Account of the Incubi of Vasr Monastery?
London, 1787? What the
hell
is this?"

"It's a grimoire, Officer, since you asked. For your information, I'm a Harvard graduate, and one of my fields of study involves antiquarian literature. I'm also a nationally published novelist. Perhaps you've heard of me. My name is—"

"Just get in the car," Stu said, and pushed the guy in back.

He drove back to the station, disappointed. "I'm going to have to arrest you for the credit card. When we get to the station, I'll read you your rights and give you a piece of paper to sign stating that you
understand
your rights."

"That's fine with me, sir," the guy said, quite cheerily.

Stu lit a cigarette.
Still. There's something funny.
"So what have I got? A Harvard grad with a two-hundred-year-old book in his pocket hanging out with two redneck deadbeats in a hotrod at two in the morning?"

Oddly, White Shirt seemed relieved. "Well, since you're arresting me, I guess I'll have my day in court."

"Yeah, you will. And you know what else? You don't seem to care in the least that you're going to jail."

The guy smiled in the rearview. "Perhaps it's my predestination. All experience is
life,
Officer, and all of life is experience, and the
truth
of that experience is what I crave, to infuse into my novels. My books allegorically bid the question: How Powerful Is The Power Of Truth?"

Great. A wack-job...

The man rambled on. "I don't mind the experience of arrest, for I've never
been
arrested before. It's something I can later write about... in truth; and I'm certain I'll be exonerated once I have some discourse with the judge. As for the personages I was cavorting with previously?" The man paused, smiling meditatively. "Good or bad, all people are part of the truth of the world, sir. An unlikely trio indeed, I'll admit. But as a writer, I learn from
everybody.
"

Stu was sick of the chatter. "I guess on that note I'll remind you that you have the right to remain silent."

"Of course, but one last thing, if I may, in response to your query. Isn't it possible that
people,
good or bad, can be
symbols
for something else, something much more esoteric, even daedalic? Almost like characters in a work of fiction, but fiction with a meaning extant between the lines. You can only hope that it's a
worthy
work, hmm? See, I'm a writer but in a much deeper sense, I'm a
seer.
What I long for more than all else is to
see.
And, alas, I've seen much tonight, and for that I give great thanks... to God."

"Are you on drugs? You don't look the type but if you are, things will be easier on you if you let me know in advance."

"The only drug I'm on, sir, is one that's quite legal."

"Yeah?"

"
Irony...
"

Stu smirked as he pulled into the station. "I think you're a weirdo, and you're getting on my nerves. I need you to be quiet."

White Shirt said nothing more, but that subtle smile never left his face, almost as though it were part of his spirit.

Courtney looked up, alarmed, when Stu gently shoved the guy into the booking room.

"Well what have we here?" the woman enthused. "You shore don't look like a bad guy."

"I'm a speculative novelist," the man said.

"Shut up," Stu ordered. "And sit down."

"What he do, Stu?"

"Ripped off a credit card and tried to buy gas with it."

White Shirt opened his mouth to object, but Stu pointed at him.

White Shirt closed his mouth.

"Oh," Courtney added, "and look. The chief's tickets to the Testicle Festival were in the mail."

"Good." Stu stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. "Now he'll be in a good mood tomorrow, and a better mood when he sees that I got a bust. Shit, I haven't had a solid arrest in a month."

"Good work, Stu... " But Courtney, now, seemed to be looking at White Shirt with some scrutiny. "Ain't I seen you before, on TV? Some show on one'a them weird cable channels?"

White Shirt beamed. "The Signatures show, on Ovation Channel, yes! I was interviewed last year about my most recent novel,
The NEW American Tragedy.
"

Stu paused between puffs, looking cockeyed at the guy.

"This guy's a famous book writer, Stu—"

"Not actually famous in the popular sense but critically acclaimed," the man interrupted. "Raymond Carver wasn't terribly
popular
either; nevertheless, he remains perhaps the great American prose writer of the century, modernity's answer to, say, Sherwood Anderson."

"Shut up," Stu told him again. He rubbed his temples.
Maybe this guy ISN'T bullshitting.
Stu looked right at him. "What the hell is a critically acclaimed novelist doing in Redneckland?"

"Searching for errant truths, Officer. See, I infuse relatable modern fiction scenarios with charactorial demonstrations of the existential condition. Allegorical symbology, it's called, rooted in various philosophical systems."

Both Stu and Courtney stared.

The guy kept it zipped as Stu rolled an arrest report in the typewriter but before he could even begin to ask the prelim questions, Courtney peeped, "Uh, Stu?"

"Yeah?" he grumbled.

"I gots somethin' ta tell ya... "

Stu frowned at her. "What?"

She seemed sheepish. "Them Testicle Festival tickets weren't the only thing that come in today's mail... "

Stu snapped his gaze on her. She was holding up an envelope.

He gulped dryly. "Is it... "

"For Sergeant Stewart Cummings, from the Richmond Field Office of the Bureau of Alcoholic, Tobacco, and Firearms... "

"Speaking of tobacco," White Shirt interrupted again, "would it be all right if I smoked?"

"Be quiet!" Stu yelled but kept his gaze horned in on Courtney. "Aw, shit, I'm sure it's the rejection letter. If ATF was going to hire me, I would've known weeks ago," and then his hand reached over to take the letter.

But she didn't give it to him. "Stu? Don't be mad, but—"

"But what!"

"I, uh, well, see... I was so curious... I opened it... "

Stu's face reddened. "You had no right—"

Her broad peaches-and-cream face broke into a grin. "They hired ya, Stu... "

Stu snapped the letter away, read it, then jumped up and shot his hands to the air. His chair flew back against the wall, and he shouted, "I'm finally out of this no-horse town! I'm finally going to be a REAL cop!" Maniacally, he ran to Courtney and gave her a big wet sloppy kiss.

"Hate ta see ya go, Stu," she said, tearing up, "but I'm happy for ya."

"Thanks, Courtney!

BOOK: The Minotauress

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