Boogie House: A Rolson McKane Mystery (24 page)

"Huh," I said, propping an elbow on the counter. I started talking real loud. It felt like my Fletch moment. "Did he hitch a ride?"

"I don't-"

"Because his car's parked out back in the alley, and it's not like him to hide that car of his. You know it registers a hundred and sixty miles per hour?"

"Mr. Brickmeyer, he just-"

"Well, I tell you," and at this point, other people in the office began to stare, so I raised my voice, "he said something very interesting to me yesterday
at the graveside service for Emmitt Laveau
-"

"Hold on a moment, Mr. McKane," the blond secretary said. She was from out of town, and I had never met her before. Her name was Debbie, and she looked like a child who has messed her pants and cannot find the courage to ask the teacher for a bathroom pass.

However, she was saved from her lies, because the man himself appeared hastily in the doorway, sweating somewhat and bearing a wild-eyed countenance.

"Rolson," he said, smiling, using his father's kiss-assy, phony political posturing. The man was politically illiterate. Or completely literate. I couldn’t tell. "Don't pester Debbie just because I told her I didn't want visitors.”

“Covering for liars is not something that should go on her resume.”

“It's not her fault a wolf walked into the building. Come on back."

I followed him to a neat and sparsely-decorated office. Almost totally unexpected from the bedraggled man to whom the office belonged. It was a space entirely without style or personality, with only a lone portrait of his father hanging on the wall behind the desk. The eyes solemnly watched us from on high. I couldn’t imagine working eight hours a day with that hanging over me, but I guess Jeffrey really looked up to his old man.

I seated myself across the table and waited for him to start. He scratched at his stubble, which was quickly turning into an unkempt beard. He watched me for a long time before he spoke.

He said, "My father would castrate me with a rusted spoon if he caught me talking with you. In one of his offices, no less." He pulled a hand from under his chin and began to chew madly on a fingernail. "I feel like I'm being set up for something."

"Aw, he's so busy, he doesn't have the slightest idea what you and I might talk about."

"And what is that?" He sighed, but it rang hollow. "I'm so bored with the Emmitt Laveau thing. I've already said all I've got to say on the subject. Being the go-between is driving me crazy."

"No, no," I said, shaking my head, feigning casualness. "That is the farthest thing from my mind at the moment. Like your dad, I'm a busy man. I've got a lot of interests."

"Like what?" he asked, in a mocking tone.

"Land."

His eyes grew steely and opaque under the artificial light. "What kind of land?"

"Stolen land."

He made a skeptical huffing sound. "Give me a break, McKane."

"What? Am I being too dramatic? Should I have brought a sad 40s orchestra with me?"

He dropped his hands on the desk in exasperation. "You have done everything under the sun but call my family a bunch of slavers. Murder, land theft, political corruption. What are we not capable of?"

"The more that is leveled at you, the farther you and your family recede into secrecy."

His eyes gleamed. "And let you turn it into a witch hunt? If we begin to answer these ridiculous charges, they won’t stop until we've been caught in some tiny, insubstantial lie. If we don't drown, we will be put to death. If we drown, we are not witches. It is a no-win situation."

I smiled. "Covering up for the old man is a bad idea, given the history you have with the Bullen family. He's a cop, and he's not going to worship at the Brickmeyer altar if he thinks he's been wronged. Just keep that in mind."

"His father was a drunk who regretted giving away the one thing in his life that had value."

"Giving?"

"Selling. Whatever. Don't get caught up in semantics, McKane. You're not smart enough."

"And yet, I'm the person who pointed out someone who might have enough of a vendetta against you to act on it. Most people, they lie down and take it because you're local royalty. Not Ronald Bullen. He'd do something about it."

"So?"

"So, you don't seem too concerned about it."

He pulled a small trash can from underneath the desk and flicked a piece of nail into it. Then he started chewing on another one. He talked from behind his hand. "I trust the authorities. They've got the public's best interests in mind. You should know that."

“And your daddy has got his political future in mind. I know that, too.”

Jeffrey leaned up. He wasn’t being insincere before, but he put on his best sincere face for my benefit. “A lot of people want to see him fail. It isn’t a secret that envy shows pretty green on the townspeople’s faces sometimes, even though my family has brought plenty to Lumber Junction over the years.”

“So then it must be that
they
don’t see what it is. If you can’t sell a product to the public, ultimately it’s not the public’s fault. It’s the salesman’s.”

“You know how it is maintaining a public persona.”
 

“Do I?”

“Your name has been all over the local vent page, the web site where all the gossips go to air out their grievances.”

“Oh,” I said. “Luckily, I don’t give a shit about the internet.”

“Either way, they’ve got a lot to say about you, and I have to admit I’ve not been an advocate on your behalf. But I want you to understand something: people have got my family all wrong, especially my father. He’s not a bad man. He’s worked hard to overcome his upbringing.”

“That big house must have gotten lonely.”

Brickmeyer the younger glared at me. “My grandaddy was an old school southern kind of man-”

“A racist.”

“Well, yeah. He was better than his own grandparents, but each age is a progression. He wasn’t a monster, but he was no better than the men of his generation.”

“So, your daddy had to shrug off all the black hatred indoctrination he suffered at the hands of your grandfather? That it? Is that your family’s big struggle? Trying to accept all human beings as human beings?”

“That’s the
South
’s struggle, McKane. It isn’t out in public as much anymore, but it’s still there, and my father, as much as any man I’ve known, has agonized over how he was raised, and he made a vow years ago to change. Not out loud, maybe, but he’s a different man, changed in all the ways most people only wished they could be different. And he put that into me, so I’ve gone even farther than he has.”

“Every man has his prejudices, Jeff. It’s not just your family that struggles with identity and race and all that, even in a small town.”

“Brickmeyer Ag & Timber employs more minorities than any company in five surrounding counties. My father is polling at over half of the black vote, which isn’t bad for a man with an R next to his name.”

“Let me change subjects. I hear that, in addition to giving back to the police force, the Brickmeyer family is committed to showing educators how charitable you are."

"If you're referring to the teacher's dinner, yes, we try to have one every year, but with the way the economy's going we may have to skip it this spring. It's a shame, but that’s the reality of things these days."

"Who handles the hosting and invitation duties?"

He leaned back in the chair and interlaced his fingers. He debated a moment before saying, "It's a communal effort. Mama does some of it. I do some of it. Daddy handles other things. We have a party planner, too, so that's not a real easy question to answer."

"But you are in charge of some aspects of the party, right?"

His jaws began to work from side to side. "Right."

"Are you the one who invited Emmitt Laveau a couple of years ago, or was it your father?"

“So we knew him a little bit.”

“It’s the cover-up and not the crime-”

“He was one of a few dozen people there. You think any one of those people died in the last few years, and people would be tying our names to the death?”

“How well did you know him? Was he your dealer?”

His eyes flashed. I’d hit bone. “Out,” he said.

“Or did the two of you just get high together?”

"Out," he said, through clenched teeth.

"I bet that fact hasn't seen the light of day, has it?"

"Get out, or I'm calling the police," he said. "And you'll see how loyal the LJPD is."

I stood up and nodded. "Have a nice day, Jeffrey."

*  *  *

The cruiser caught up with me ten minutes later and threw on the flashers immediately. I made a U-turn and drove downtown to a public spot before pulling over.

I rolled down my window and smiled past Ricky, whose stomach blocked my view, to Owen Harper, who was glancing around nervously. "My old friend," I said. "Owen, how are you?"

"Out of the car, alkie," Ricky said. He was furiously chewing a piece of gum and staring somewhere off in the distance. Behind him, Owen fidgeted with his shirt front, pulling it away from him like it was sticking to his flesh.

"I'd like to know what it is I've done wrong."

"Come with us, Rolson," he said, adjusting his sunglasses, smiling in a way that suggested he'd like to see me  buried next to Emmitt Laveau, "or I'll make sure you're on the front page of the paper as the lead suspect in our town's little homicide."

"You don't have that kind of authority," I said. Behind Ricky, Owen did a sort of nervous dance, moving from foot to foot, hands resting on his hips. I caught sight of his mangled hand and then looked away. “And if we’re being honest, if I’m the best you got, y’all sure are doing a shitty job down here.”

Ricky spat his gum on the cement next to me. Spittle misted my face. "I can make it my business, and I can make it stick long enough to make you go away."

"If you had influence, you would have done it already." I tried to maintain a steady voice, even though I was on the verge of slamming the door into Ricky's gut. "Leland Brickmeyer would have you put me in jail without hesitation."

I looked into the dark lenses of Ricky's glasses. I saw the outline of his eyes behind them. Then I said, "Give me whatever bogus traffic ticket you've dreamed up and let me get the hell on my way."

Ricky paused, thinking. He pretended to run one hand along to the top of the car. He gave it a once over with his eyes, tilting his head to get a look at the front and back ends. The corners of his mouth turned up, and he glanced back at Owen once before returning his gaze to me. "I don't remember you getting a new vehicle, Rolson."

My hands tightened on the wheel. I could see where this was going, so I kept quiet. Ricky could drum up any sort of reason to arrest me, but I figured that, as long as I stayed in the car, I'd be all right. Lord help me, if they got me in the backseat of that cruiser. The last place they would take me was the police station.

"Why don't we take a look at your license and registration, please, sir," he continued, smiling wider. "Once we make sure your paperwork's all in order, you'll be free to go. If not, we might have to bring you with us until it gets, you know,
sorted out
."

"Something tells me that if I go with you, I'm the only the thing that will get sorted out."

Ricky actually laughed at that. "I tell you what, McKane. You hop out the car and take a ride with us, and I promise to return you in one piece. You don't, and you will end up regretting ever taking a stroll into that old nigger joint."

"Owen," I said, talking past Ricky. "You don't agree with this, do you?" I was appealing to his sense of decency.

"My wife just had a kid, Rolson. I've got to keep above water," he said. His eyes wouldn't meet mine.

What choice do I have now? I thought.

Just as I was about to get out of the car, though, a second cruiser pulled up, and out stepped Ronald Bullen. He adjusted the belt on his enormous waist and lumbered over. His eyes were restricted to small, angry slits. "What's the holdup here?"

Ricky shriveled noticeably. "McKane's driving a car isn't his. He flat-out refuses to show his identification."

Bullen regarded me with irritation, no different from normal. "McKane?"

I rapped the steering wheel with the heels of my hands, trying to push down my frustration. "It's a rental. Jarvis Garvey lent it to me. Somebody slashed my tires, and, well, you know what the case is with my other car."

"It's a wonder anybody would let you touch a vehicle." Bullen wasn’t pleased with anybody here.

"Touche," I said.

"He's been causing trouble all over town," Ricky said.

Bullen ignored him. He was focused entirely on me. "You give Ricky cause to pull you over?"

Ricky raised his hands in frustration. "Aw, Christ, Bullen."

"Ricky, please," Owen said.

"Shut up, Ricky," Bullen cut in. "I'm talking. If you had any gumption, you'd have gotten him out of the car by now. Rolson, these men bothering you?"