A Living Grave (18 page)

“Bad guys talk about snitches. They call people names like that to try to control them. They try to make it sound like you owe them something, but you don't. They would dime you in a second to help themselves. You need to help yourself now, Moon.”

“How?” he asked, again looking into my reflection.

I smiled at him. “Tell me this: What kind of people are cooking meth?”

“The bikers.”

That was what I wanted to hear. Truth be told, Moon probably would have answered all my questions there in the car. That would have helped me, but not him, and I really didn't want to see what prison would do to him.

“Let me make a call,” I told him.

Sometimes being in law enforcement means straddling uncomfortable fences. You make deals with demons to get the goods on devils. Sometimes you get a deal you can feel good about. The problem was that I didn't trust Moon to make his own deal. The only way I was going to feel good about how he was treated was to cross a line or two. My call was to a friend. A lawyer friend, named Noble Daniels.

Generally it is frowned upon for cops to give legal advice to suspects. Just another reason the sheriff would have to put me out of his department when my crap pile gets too high. The thing is, if it gets these bikers, takes meth off the streets, and shuts down a lab, I'm okay with saving the state the cost of incarcerating Moon. And saving Moon the cost of his humanity. If I didn't prime the well, though, the state would take the bikers and Moon and make no distinction between them.

My friend Daniels would help Moon make the best deal possible. If it turned out that he didn't have much to offer, Daniels would still do his best for him. Sometimes that's all you can ask.

“You're not a bad guy, are you?” I asked Moon as soon as I hung up the phone. “And it was just pot, right?”

* * *

Moon never stopped talking all the way back to Forsyth. He was actually a likable guy. Despite that, I was never so happy to hand someone over to Duck. There was one thing to be taken away from Moon's ceaseless chatter, though. With him, there was no way to ignore my status as a cop. And if I really took a look at that status I'd have to say I was coming up short. In fact, I would have had to say that lately many of my actions were coming down on the wrong side of the line. Worse, the only problems I'd been paying attention to were my own. Maybe what I needed were fewer long, contemplative drives and more putting my ass to work. So that's what I did.

Since I was already in the jail, I decided to try again with Danny Barnes. As soon as I stepped in front of his cell he started yelling. “It's your fault,” and “You'll get what you deserve.”

I took it. He ran out of rage after only a minute.

When he was only screaming with his eyes I asked, “What's my fault?”

“Look at me,” he said. “Where I am. What's happening to Carrie. All of it. All your fault.”

“What's happening to Carrie?”

Danny tried to sneer but it looked like rigor mortis. “What do you care?”

“I care,” I told him. “If something bad is happening, I can help.”

“We had help until you showed up.”

“I don't understand, Danny. What kind of help?”

“We had Leech.”

Suddenly the rigor twitched and Danny darted his eyes at something only he could see. I couldn't tell if he was faking.

“Leech? How did you have Leech, Danny? Is he even real?”

“We had Leech. And he had us.”

“But you don't anymore?”

“That just shows what you know.”

“I don't know, Danny. Help me to understand. It might help you too.”

“You'll never understand. And if Carrie gets a baby we'll have Leech forever.”

“Is that what's happening to Carrie? Is she pregnant?”

“It's all your fault,” he said quietly. Then he screamed it. “All your fault. Your fault, you bitch. You fucking bitch. I hate you.” He kept screaming, this time adding venom and vulgarities until Duck came and pulled me back down the hall.

* * *

When I made it to my desk there was a voice-mail response to one of the calls I'd made. I called right back and had the luck of connecting with Detective Deveraux of the New Orleans Police Department.

“They call him Figgs. Member of the Marciano family,” he said as soon as I asked him about Byron Figorelli.

“Marciano?” I asked.

“Yeah, like the old fighter. They claim to be related. Who knows?”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“I can tell you he's a fuckup dancin' on his last dime. Probably worse than I heard if he's up there with you. These guys travel for business only when things are real good or when they are real bad. The family business is in liquor, moving it quiet-like, under-the-table sales . . . They force bars to buy product with fake tax seals, then squeeze 'em for protection. Figgs got involved with two things that put him on the hook. First was the wrong guy's wife. Second was some idea to sell legal booze in restaurants. Turns out, trying to do things legal gets a lot of unwanted attention. City, parish, and state jumped on that bandwagon. I don't know how much money it cost to get the family out, but Figgs has got to find a way to make good.”

“I guess that's what he's doing up here,” I said.

“That and waiting for Joey D to cool off.”

“Who's Joey D?”

“Joseph Dio Marciano. It was his wife Figgs tapped. Like they say in the previews for those movies,
This time it's personal
.”

He laughed at his own joke. We talked a little longer but there wasn't much more to tell. There didn't need to be. It all fit. Unfortunately, this part of an investigation is like doing a jigsaw puzzle upside-down—all the pieces fit but you have to show the picture to prove it.

After that call I filled in my case logs and time sheets, added up mileage, and wrote my longhand report for the sheriff.

There was a reason for focusing on the busywork. Guilt is one of those emotions that feeds on itself. With every bite it gets a little heavier. I had not seen or called Nelson since early the day before. That made me feel guilty, so I put off calling and tried not to think about it. Not thinking about it meant that I hadn't even asked him about his medical appointment. That left me feeling really guilty, which forced me to deal with paperwork rather than face my failure as a human being. Another night spent drinking added to the load, so I hesitated about that. No wonder they say confession is good for the soul. Even better is when all is forgiven without the confession.

Nelson called me. He wasn't angry or complaining. He said he would be caught up for a while but not to worry. He added that he wanted to see me that evening if I could. Okay, it was a cheap way to get out from under the guilt, but I was more than willing to let him lessen the load.

Nelson lightens my load
.

It was a good thought. And true. As soon as I hung up the phone, my day was better. My attitude was certainly better. Sitting there at an ancient, gray metal government desk I realized for the first time that my life was better with Nelson Solomon in it. More confusing maybe, but better.

It was late afternoon and I was feeling good—really good, actually. I couldn't say why; wouldn't say why. Maybe the load was lighter but it wasn't gone. Besides, it wasn't just Nelson. Maybe the answer was in work.

Or in giving myself the chance to be happy. It was probably in a lot of things or maybe there weren't any answers. Anyway, I was ready for a weekend and for doing it sober. I'd turned a corner, I decided. I was shutting the door on self-pity and saying the big up-yours to therapists everywhere. It felt great. So great, in fact, that I stopped and bought wine and flowers.

Most of the time I had spent with Nelson had been beer and lake time. We needed something different. Not completely different, it turned out. My next stop was to fill up the truck. Down the street there was a big station, the kind with twenty pumps and an attached store that supplied quick groceries and kept the fishermen in beer and ice. As I was pumping my gas I noticed a few guys were crowding around the back of a pickup the next pump over. The owner had pulled out a stringer of fish and was showing off his catch. Not a good idea. On the far side of the lot, at a diesel pump, Mike Resnick was filling up his big green 4x4 with the Missouri Conservation Department logo on the door.

That gave me an idea and a momentary pang of abuse-of-authority guilt, but I got over it. After capping my tank I wandered over to the guys checking out the fish. The proud fisherman had an almost full stringer of six rainbow trout.

“That's a nice catch,” I said as I stepped into the middle of the men.

“Thanks,” the one holding them said. “Best day I've had in a long time.”

“Just you?” I asked him, looking around at the other men.

“Yep. Just me. Wife has me working all weekend so I called in sick to work. It was all worth it.”

“Well,” I said, looking the stringer over. “I think ten bucks will be worth it too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Five a fish. I'll take those two.” The pair I pointed out were nice fish, almost two feet long, but I left him the largest.

“What makes you think I'm going to sell you my fish, lady?”

I showed my badge and he no longer looked so confident.

“You're over your limit. Only four trout per person. And I'm assuming you have a valid trout stamp.”

The onlookers started fading away and the fisherman tried one last stand.

“So what,” he said. “You ain't no game warden.”

“He is.” I waved over and caught Mike's eye. He waved back. When I turned back to the fisherman I held up a ten-dollar bill and asked, “What's the over-limit fine these days?”

He handed over the fish and I put them in the back of the truck while I went inside and bought a Styrofoam cooler and a couple of bags of ice. One layer of ice, then the fish, another layer of ice, then two bottles of Pinot gris.

After that I stopped and picked up some fresh rosemary and thyme, a couple of lemons, some wild rice, and broccoli. Dinner was planned. It amazed me how happy I was to think of making dinner for Nelson as I drove away.

* * *

Nelson wasn't home when I got there, but it was for the best. His kitchen was a mess. Not that he was a slob, but it hadn't been used in quite a while. The counters and table were layered in dust and the refrigerator was mostly stocked with condiments and limp celery. There were a few cups of yogurt that were past their expiration too. Even the pots and pans were grimy with dust. I split the flowers into two small vases I found and started cooking, cleaning what I needed as I went. Since the day was beginning to cool I set the table on the deck.

When he got home, Nelson looked tired and drawn like he had been through a mangle then tossed over a line. He perked up when he saw the flowers, then looked at me like he had a secret.

I put a glass of wine in his hand and kissed him. He kissed back with a strength that surprised and impressed me.

We both have a lighter load tonight
.

I smiled and thought about asking, but didn't. If there was some kind of spell happening I didn't want it to break. “I set the table outside,” I told him. “Would you rather stay inside? It's still hot.”

He took a sip and a deep breath, then said, “No. I like all the outside I can get.” Once we sat at the table he told me, “I missed you last night.”

I caught myself touching the scar at my eye. The reflex of a bad habit—what did I have to worry about at that moment? I dropped my hand away, then said, “It was a busy time. I had a lot to do. And to think about. My week was spent with possible gangsters, a possible rapist, a moonshiner, a pot farmer, and one trout poacher. It's been exciting and in the case of the poacher, pretty delicious, if you ask me. None of that was what I was thinking about.” I opened my mouth to say more, then closed it. I touched the scar again before asking him, “Two whole days without me around. What did you do?”

“About the same,” he said. “Instead of criminals, I spent the day with doctors and lawyers. You know, the other criminals.” He laughed then. Harder than the joke warranted but it was genuine, warm, and lively. It sounded good.

We ate our dinner. Nelson even ate all of his fish. As the sun set, we watched the sky shade to a brilliant red that burned even deeper on the underside of the clouds as it got lower on the horizon. It was an easy time with hands held gently. I told Nelson the joke that Moon had told me and then shared Moon's life story. We laughed again and wished him well.

“It really does sound like you did a little good today. Can't ask for much more than that,” Nelson said as the tail of the pig went over the fence.

“To days well spent,” I said and lifted my glass. We touched the stemware and took sips, looking at each other. “I know about the gun,” I said. It was done without thought or plan. Words I didn't even know were there fell from my mouth, exposing my worry and my snooping. Nelson looked confused at first, then he glanced through the window toward his work space and he knew what gun I meant.

Then I said, “Things aren't that bad.”

“For a long time I thought they were. I was expecting to be stuck in a bed with a morphine drip and sad-faced strangers watching me disappear into nothing. I'd decided not to let that happen.”

“And now?”

The thought, the knowledge of his mortality, lay there between us. It was another carcass, the deadweight of loss like a hole in the future.