Butch Karp: Absolute Rage Part 19

Freddy Phat smiled politely. He was always polite, but never friendly. Lucy imagined it was because he resented his employer's relationship with her as something that made that employer vulnerable. Which it did. "He's engaged, just now. Come into the house. Mrs. Diem will give you tea."

That person, gray-haired and severe, all in black, did so, at a wrought-iron table under an umbrella on the brick terrace behind the house. With the tea were croissants and sliced mangoes arranged in elegant spirals. The boys were not interested in the tea, but remained subdued under their sister's eye, and under the spell of the mysterious Tran, whom they had not seen since their infancy, but who was a legend in the family circle. They knew that he was a gangster, and since they had never met an actual gangster (aside from Mom), they were keen with antic.i.p.ation. Giancarlo hoped to see a suitcase full of $100 bills. Zak wished to see a machine-gun in full blast. Both longed, without much realistic expectation, to watch a vehicle explode.

As if to pique them, a young Vietnamese man dressed entirely in black emerged onto the patio from the house, nodded to them, and walked past through the gate that led to the driveway. When he raised his arm to lift the latch, Zak said, "Wow, he's got an Uzi under his coat."

"Don't stare," said Lucy. "It could be a Skorpion. They use those more."

She watched the man depart. In her experience, Tran employed two sorts of people: either quiet, sad, hard men in their forties and fifties, veterans of the American war, old comrades and alumni of the regime's reeducation camps, like Tran himself; or people like the man in black, younger brothers and cousins of the former type, whose childhood the war had consumed, gangsters from the cradle.

"What should we do when he comes?" Giancarlo asked his sister in a subdued voice. "Do we have to bow or something?"

"A bow is always appropriate when meeting an Asian gentleman," said Lucy. "He doesn't speak much English. If you want to know something, ask me and I'll translate."

The boys had finished the last of the food and were, despite themselves, growing restless, when Tran stepped out on the terrace. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and dark slacks, with woven leather sandals on his feet. Lucy immediately arose and embraced him, receiving the canonical three kisses on her cheeks.

"My dear, I am so happy to see you," he said, holding her at arm's length and studying her. "You have become a young woman overnight. As I have become an old man." This in French, in a peculiar colonial accent spiced with antique Parisian slang. He had been a student there and a Left Bank busboy, before he returned to the long war.

"You never age, Uncle," she replied, but she was surprised to observe many signs that he had. She had never thought much about it before, but she imagined that he must now be in his midsixties, or perhaps even older. Just slightly taller than she, he was still erect and sinewy, but his eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets and the skin was pulling away from the bones of his face. Their eyes met, and he smiled slightly, turning away. She felt a blush; he always knew what she was thinking.

The boys had risen. Tran said in slow English, "I hope you're not in danger, Lucy. You travel with such tough bodyguards."

She said, in the same language, "My brothers, Giancarlo and Zak. Boys, our uncle Tran."

At this Zak bobbed his head uncomfortably, but Giancarlo delivered a bow that would not have insulted the emperor of China. No one laughed. Tran nodded gravely and showed them around the garden, which was formal in the French manner: paths of white gravel between geometrically clipped hedges, neat flower beds, miniature fruit trees, and exotic tropical flowers in large wooden or ceramic pots. A small greenhouse held orchids, hibiscus, and cyclamen. A large fishpond, fed by a waterfall, contained huge carp, each of whom had a name. Tran showed them how to feed them by hand. Giancarlo found a paper bag and made an origami boat. Zak built a raft from twigs. They amused themselves and waited patiently for the gangster stuff to begin. Lucy and Tran sat on a stone bench in the russet shade of a j.a.panese maple.

"They seem to be fine boys. Exactly alike to look at, but very different as people."

"Yes. Totally different. It's a wonder to science."

"Remarkable! And you? Your studies progress well?"

"I'm not flunking out, another wonder. I spend most of my time on the languages and being a lab rat. Studying holds little interest, I'm afraid. It seems like a delay before I do what I'm meant to. The other students seem like children; that, or worried old people in young bodies. Of course, I don't expect to fit in anywhere."

"Oh, you poor child. Pardon me while I weep bitter tears."

"Well, it's true."

"Yes," he said after a pause, "but you should be used to your fate by now. Has anything vocational presented itself?"

"Rather an embarra.s.sment of riches, Uncle. Offers from banks, from the UN. Also there are people who come to watch my demonstrations who are definitely not from the scientific community."

"Well, yes. You would be G.o.d's gift to any intelligence service. Are you interested in that sort of work?"

"Not at all, or rather not for a government. I might want to do something for the Church, though."

"You are still religious, I take it."

"Yes. Did you think it would fade?"

He looked at her consideringly. "Perhaps not. And what of love? Do you lie on riverbanks under blossoming trees with beautiful young men?"

"Oh, yes. I have a little machine, like in the butcher's. There are so many they have to take numbers."

"I am glad to hear of it. It should serve to distract you from an excess of piety."

"I am joking, Uncle, as you must know."

"Why must I? You seem fascinating to me, and delicious: slim, elegant, and graceful, when you are not distracted by self-consciousness. Very like our women, I think. Most Western women seem like cows to me. In fact, were we in a civilized land, like France or Vietnam, and were I only a little younger, I would certainly try to seduce you myself. I see I have succeeded in shocking you. This will only serve to confirm my reputation as an evil man."

Lucy was fl.u.s.tered, rather than shocked, since it had never occurred to her that anyone could find her delicious. Broaching the subject, however, brought thoughts of Dan Heeney to her mind, which had brought the color to her cheeks. Did Dan find her delicious? He had certainly not made a pa.s.s at her, although since no one had ever done so, perhaps she had missed it. It was just a phrase, after all. There may have been a whole series of obvious openings that had slipped by. The movies made it seem simple, but the movies also made shooting people seem simple, and from what she had observed of her mother's life, it was not at all thus. Maybe they lied about s.e.x, too. She had an impulse to tell Tran all about Dan Heeney, but suppressed it. Why? She couldn't have said.

"Speaking of which," she said, to change the subject, "how is the gangster business?"

"Flourishing, although the Indians at Foxwood are cutting into the gambling somewhat. I have some more restaurants, and a restaurant supply business, and some other businesses. I have dispensed with the girls."

"Why?"

"It became annoying. One finds an unpleasant type of person in that business. I still extend protection to some ladies of a superior cla.s.s, but no more happy-beer places. Then there are the loans, and protection for the Vietnamese community. If they did not pay me, they would have to pay someone else, who would undoubtedly be greedier than I am." He sighed. "I'll tell you what it is, my dear. I am used up and cranky [grille et grogne]. I was not meant for this life, and the life I was meant for no longer exists. I don't even wear my own name anymore. I smoke more pipes than is good for me. My a.s.sociates are perhaps getting nervous. From time to time, I must eliminate an overly ambitious young man, and what for? Even Freddy sometimes looks at me in a way he should not. I would despair to have to eliminate Freddy. Sometimes I think, 'Oh, Tran, drive to the airport, board a plane for Vietnam, and sit at a cafe in Saigon, smelling the air and drinking little cups of coffee until someone finds you and puts you out of your misery.' " A tiny pause. "Tell me, how is your mother?"

She was bored and irritated at the same time. She had not had a decent cup of coffee in ten days, since McCullensburg appeared to be in the vast Bad Coffee Zone of the United States, and she was drinking a little more wine than was good for her. Given the situation, she really had nothing to do. Her husband would soon come, and she suspected that one of his first acts would be to spring Mose Welch, which made her continued presence here otiose. And it was hot. And there were gnats.

Cursing without energy, she went into the house, took her second shower of the day, dressed carefully, and drove to town. Her only remaining useful activity was visiting her client once each day, to bring him a pint of chocolate ice cream and play a game of Chinese checkers with him. She had purchased the Chinese checkers herself in the Bi-Lo and taught him the game, and she did not let him win. Mose was getting better at it, though, either that, thought Marlene, or I am losing my marbles, so to speak. Or maybe playing Chinese checkers with a moron in a county jail is about my speed.

They had spectators, too. The cops came by to kibitz, and Sheriff Swett often found time in his busy schedule to stop by for a chat, as now.

"How're you doin', Mose?" called the sheriff heartily. "That pretty good ice cream?"

"It's pretty good ice cream, Sheriff," said Mose happily. "It's chocolate."

"Well, I can see that, Mose. You got it up to your eyes. I would say you look half like a n.i.g.g.e.r, but Ms. Ciampi here would report me for racial insensitivity."

"I would not, Sheriff," said Marlene. "I would give you a pa.s.s on that. I would report you for incompetence and corruption, maybe."

The sheriff laughed. "Well, then it's a good thing for me you'll be leaving soon."

"Yes, it is. Did you check out that pistol I took off Bo Cade?"

"Yes, I did. But I'm so incompetent, you probably don't even want to know what the state lab found out. I probably can't even read the report with my tiny little brain."

She moved a marble and gave him a considering look. "I take it back, then. You're not incompetent. You're competently corrupt. What did it say?"

"Wasn't the .38 that killed Lizzie Heeney, is what."

Marlene was somewhat let down by this news, but took care to disguise it. "Well, then, I'm sure you'll redouble your search for the actual murder weapon."

"Oh, h.e.l.l, you know he could've pitched it anywhere in the county, down some mine probably. This is an easy part of the country to lose things in. Is that what you done, Mose? Pitched it down a mine?"

"Uh-huh," said Mose cheerfully, nodding his head and studying the board like Boris Spa.s.sky contemplating a tricky endgame.

"See?" said the sheriff.

"What can I say, Sheriff? It's just like Perry Mason. You've totally outsmarted my client." She moved another marble, hardly looking at the board. "Just between us, now, who do you think really killed the Heeneys? I kind of like Earl and Bo Cade for it, although it's hard to believe that they're organized enough to actually pull it off. There must have been someone else involved."

"I wouldn't know about that." Sheriff Swett grinned around his big teeth and rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand. "And it ain't my job to speculate. I will tell you one thing, though."

"What's that?"

"I think your client just outsmarted you." He gestured to the board, where Mose was just placing a blue marble. He looked up, his mouth an O, and bounced on his bunk like a four-year-old. "I win! I win!" he crowed.

The sheriff and the cops and the other inmates roared. After a while, Marlene did, too.

"It must be something in your water," she said, and thought, grinning up at Swett, you just gave me an idea, Sheriff.

11.

"W HY DON'T WE, " M ARLENE SAID, " FIND THAT GUN ?"

"What gun is that?" asked Poole without much interest. They were dining at Rosie's in the courthouse square, McCullensburg. Rosie's served what Marlene always thought of as mom food, although Marlene's actual mom had not served the sort of food Rosie served, or rather Gus served, Gus being the current Rosie. Gus's meat loaf on Thursday was famous throughout the county, as was the fried chicken on Wednesday and the batter-dipped catfish on Friday. Sugar was the major condiment in Gus's cuisine, and grease the prevailing flavor. The food was, however, always served very hot, and in large quant.i.ties, which seemed to meet the needs of the locale, and Marlene's needs, too, as it was a welcome relief from the food fascismo prevalent at the time in lower-Manhattan upper-bourgeois circles. The place was friendly, the service was swift, the atmosphere was full of the good-natured joshing that pa.s.ses for wit in the provinces, where everyone knows all the jokes and everyone else's foibles. Tonight, Marlene was going with the chicken-fried steak and mashed pot., w/peas; her partner had the open roast-beef sandwich, w/fries.

"The murder weapon," she said. "I think I know where it is."

A fork of Rosie's grayish roast beef was poised halfway to his mouth and stopped there when she said this. "Excuse me, but I thought we had agreed to leave all that to the pros from now on." He ate the morsel. He was eating better since Marlene had arrived. He wondered whether he would go back to being a nonfunctional drunk when she left.

"Yes," she said, "but this is practically a gimme."

"A gimme?"

"Yeah. It was the boots, and something Swett said this afternoon. He said the killers would've tossed the incriminating stuff down an old mine shaft, the gun, I mean. He suggested that Mose did just that. But they didn't, the actual killers didn't do that at all. They threw the b.l.o.o.d.y sneakers into the laurel and the b.l.o.o.d.y boots off the 130 bridge. Why? Because besides not being criminal geniuses in the first place, they were drunk. One of them tosses his sneakers in the laurel when he gets back to the car. The other one doesn't notice his boots are blood-covered until later, and he throws them off the bridge as they pa.s.s by, and at that point he remembers, oh, the gun, the pistol, they can trace that, so the pistol goes in there, too."

Poole looked at her narrowly, still chewing slowly. "If you're serious, I think our pollution is starting to affect your brain. That's not only a stupid idea, it's a McCullensburg-stupid idea."

"Oh? And why is it stupid?"

"It's pure speculation based on a.s.sociating facts that have no logical a.s.sociation, like our fella who thought the weather had something to do with the moon shot. Shoes in the laurel, shoes in the river, hence gun in the river. Why not gun in the laurel? Or shoes in the river but gun down the mine. Or keep the gun. They don't like getting rid of weapons in Robbens County anyway. The people are poor, and they typically have so little to fear from the law. Plus, everyone in the county knows that Dummy Welch goes frogging under that bridge and sleeps there from time to time. Maybe the boots were a crude attempt to frame our client. Which worked, as it turned out."

"You never mentioned that before," said Marlene accusingly.

"The greatest legal mind in Robbens County is more functional than it was a short while ago."

"I think it's worth a look, anyway," said Marlene, deflated somewhat. "There's hardly any water in there this time of year, I'm told. Two, three feet at the most."

"And opaque. What were you planning to do, feel for the gun with your toes? And what if you find it? How is that going to help our client? You expect to find prints on it after weeks in the sort of corrosive water that flows through the lovely Guyandotte? You'd be lucky to find more than a rusted frame."

Marlene shrugged. "Maybe. It's always nice to have the murder weapon." She turned her attention to her steak, although her appet.i.te had faded in the face of the resentment she now felt welling up in her. Now she was getting legal lectures from a man she was recently hosing down in a bathtub to get him sober enough to walk. It was unbearable, especially as the idea she had germinated was revealed as a stupid one, a typical bit of girl-detective nonsense. On the other hand, she had experienced odd ideas in the past that had paid off. She had figured out cases, including ones far more complex than this one, against far smarter criminals than these appeared to be. It was all very well for Poole to dismiss her smugly like that, like a man . . .

Marlene was by no means a doctrinaire feminist. She had never had many problems competing with men, and the one area where she admitted some inferiority was nicely evened up by a two-hundred-pound guard dog and, where necessary, a pistol. But just now, with Karp coming to take the whole thing away from her, and Poole acting as if he just had, some darker mud had been stirred up, thick and toxic like the sludge below the Guyandotte, and she started to obsess.

"Can I get you folks some dessert?" asked Mamie, the waitress. Unlike waitpersons in more civilized places, she did not describe what was on the menu, since nearly everything was displayed in cake stands on the lunch counter, and what Rosie's had on offer had not changed in twenty years.

Poole wanted blackberry pie. Marlene laid some money on the table and stood up. "I just remembered something I have to do," she said, and left.

She drove back to the Heeney place. "What do you think, huh?" she said to her companion. "Don't you ever have instincts where you know you're right? Of course you do. That's all you do have, is instincts. If you were half the dog you should be, you could dive into that river and come out with the G.o.dd.a.m.n gun between your teeth."

And more of the same. The dog let her rant and licked the fragrance of chicken-fried steak from her hand.

"Dan, have you got a magnet?" He was watching a Yankees-Orioles game on the TV, with a thick text on his lap and a beer at hand.

"What kind of magnet?"

"You know, a big, strong one, for dropping in water and pulling stuff out. Magnetic stuff."

"Yes, magnets don't work on nonmagnetic stuff. I speak as a professional physicist here. How about that one?" He gestured to the door to the dining room. At its foot was a black object the size and shape of a small brick, with an eyebolt growing from its center.

"The doorstop?"

"Yeah, we got it from mail order when we were kids. We used to use it to find stuff underwater."

"That's what I want it for. Can I borrow it, and some strong rope?"

"May I ask?"

"You may, but I'd be embarra.s.sed to tell you. Did you ever get an idea that you knew was dumb, but you had to go ahead and try it or you couldn't get any peace?"

Dan felt himself blushing. His idea of that category was to get on a plane and drop in on Lucy Karp, unexpected and uninvited. "Yeah, most of my ideas are like that. You're looking for the gun, right?"

"You got it. Oh, also, do you have, like, waders?"

"Emmett had a pair. I think they're still in the cellar." Dan got out of the bed. "Come on, we'll fix you up."

An hour later, Marlene found herself on the muddy banks of the Guyandotte River, in the shadow of a green-painted steel-and-concrete bridge. The river here was not more than a hundred feet wide, at this season running sluggish and shallow between high, slaty banks. The water itself was red-ocher with an uninviting sheen on it like beetles' wings, and it smelled faintly like the cabinet under her mother's sink. Gog the dog was wisely not splashing about in it but patrolling the bank, investigating holes and sprinkling the shrubbery.

She knew that she now stood on the spot where Moses Welch had found the boots. a.s.suming they were flung at approximately the same time from a moving car . . . She swung the magnet around her head a couple of times and heaved it out into the river. Nothing. Then: a can; another can; nothing; a m.u.f.fler; something too heavy to move; a piece of angle iron; a Delco alternator.

The light was starting to fade, as were Marlene's expectations that this project was anything but what it had initially seemed, a stupid waste of time. No, the murder weapon was not going to magically appear on your magnet, you silly girl.

The dog barked sharply, twice. Marlene looked around. A boy was standing ten yards away, at the head of the little trail that led down from the road. He was about twelve, Marlene estimated, thin, and weirdly pale, like a mushroom. He was dressed in worn bib overalls on top of bare skin, and his feet were in old sneakers with the toes ripped off. His hair was the color of dead gra.s.s, and like gra.s.s on a hummock it stuck up in all directions. The dog bounded up to him and gave him a sniff-over. He neither flinched nor tried to pet.

"Does he bite?" He had a thin, nasal voice.

"Yes, but only bad people."

"Does he mind?"