The District Manager (15 page)

“I know. Me too. Do you think the dogs got him?”

“God, I hope not. All I know is he obviously barked up the wrong tree. What concerns me now, other than Ella’s survival and finding Jules—if he’s alive—is the roots of this wrong tree that Jules barked up. No puns intended.”

“Man, you’re kind of cold aren’t you? Talking about kin like that.”

“Not cold, but hard.” Rusty grabs his bottle of beer and takes a huge swig. I imitate with a grimaced sip of my Jack and Coke, which is light on Coke. He continues, “Ever heard of Harry Spencer, Representative Harry Spencer?” He wipes the foam from his lips.

“Isn’t he the Rep. before last in House District 100?”

“That’s right. He was the Rep. for House District 100, two cycles ago. He got beat by that rock-n-roll reprobate, J.D. Dothan.”

“Dothan’s considered a sort of hero in certain quarters; for foiling that whole secessionist scheme.”

“He had almost nothing to do with blowing that open. He just takes the credit for it because he almost died.” I take another sip of my drink. “So what about Harry Spencer?”

“Mason, I’m a private investigator, former Alabama State Trooper and Marine MP, which is where I met Jules, by the way. I owe my marriage to that man, and would do anything for him— that’s why I’m here. But I digress. Harry Spencer hired me a couple of years ago because he was not just beaten by Dothan, but humiliated. That race destroyed his life.”

“Shit yeah, Spencer was the pervert who fucked underage whores and died…well…kind of…sick really…”

“Kind of what?” Rusty clearly does not appreciate my commentary, and actually rises a little from his chair. But he takes a gulp of his beer—killing it—and returns to his normal position. “I’m actually glad you made that comment, come to think of it. Because that leads into what I think is actually going on here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Harry didn’t just die, he was murdered. And yes, I know what you were going to say, that it was kind of in a fucked-up way. Harry died, as I presume you already know, from auto-erotic asphyxiation. But it wasn’t voluntary, it was executed.”

“By whom?”

I don’t know, but I suspect the same people running this crime ring in Wagoneer County. I can’t prove that…yet.”

“But….”

“But wait, let me finish. I’ll probably answer whatever your question is. Harry was murdered because he had direct knowledge of the secessionist plot. By hiring me, I discover that Reed Jackson, one of the two legislative kingpins in that plot, had been behind his defeat at the hands of Dothan. Are you following me?”

“Yeah, but I need another Jack and Coke,” I answer as I signal the waitress.

“And I’ll take another beer. Hell, bring me a pitcher, if ya’ would, Miss,” Rusty chimes in after me. “Can I continue?” he asks after she leaves for the bar to fetch our drinks.

“Continue.” This man is used to giving orders.

“Harry, though he never told me he was going to do this… Harry penned those letters, blowing open the whole school bus bombing and its purpose. Reed Jackson and Ron Martinez had to have him knocked off. Not that they had knowledge of the letters—at the time—but because I’m certain that Harry, being the emotional fool that he was, threatened Reed. And, when I think back on our conversations, Harry dropped hints at all of this. After Harry was killed, and he was killed in a way that was in character, I knew I had to get the hell out of Texas, at least.”

“Why?” I inquire as the waitress returns with our respective beverages and leaves quickly.

“Harry was my client. We had correspondence. Harry would have had that correspondence most likely in his possession. And even if there was a chance he didn’t, I couldn’t risk it. So I left Texas.”

“Well, this crime ring that you speak of, they wouldn’t be limited to Texas necessarily.”

“That’s right. But they would have been searching for a phantom if they sought me out anywhere else.”

“What do you mean?” My sips are getting bigger.

“Because I practiced under the name of ‘Rusty Stern,’ a nickname I acquired in the troopers because I was such a hard ass.” He laughs his gumbo laugh, and then carries on, “But that working name only exists in the Lone Star State. I moved my wife and me back to Alabama from Houston, and resumed a life under my birth name: Russell Sturnhauser.”

What strikes me most about this man is how he can weave in and out of colloquialisms into literate speech. This man is no dummy.

We finish our food and drinks and he pays the tab. Then we get up to leave.

“So where do we go from here?” I ask him as we loiter out in the nearly empty parking lot, by the Pontiac.

“Well,
we
don’t do anything. My advice to you is to forget this and go about your day-to-day business. This ain’t worth dyin’ over.”

“But this is my daily business. I don’t know if I can just turn a blind eye like the rest of these elected fucks.”

“Why, Mason, is it that you want to get killed? Jules wasn’t kin. I have an obligation to family to try and figure out what happened to him. You have an obligation to your family, whoever that might be…an obligation to stay alive.”

“Why don’t you think the police or anyone seemed to be able to help?” I ask Rusty, changing the subject.

“Fear. The cops are afraid. They want to go home at night too, you know. See their babies grow up. Since there’s not been any public outcry, the politicians aren’t worried. Why should the cops open up a can of worms that’s probably a barrel of snakes? I saw it with Harry’s death. No one really wanted to get to the bottom of it, so they didn’t.”

“Cowards.”

“Mason, sometimes being a coward is the smartest move. People forget heroes. Hell, people shun heroes. It ain’t worth it.”

“So you think the people behind Harry’s death…”

“Not just Harry’s death,” Rusty interrupts, “several others as well. Remember a terrorist attack preceded all of this. They only scratched the belly; never got into the guts of it all.”

“And you will?”

“I’m going to help my sister-in-law. Then, if I can, I’m going to find out who killed my brother-in-law. It’s that simple.”

“But it’s not.”

“Mason, I think you’ve had too much to drink. Maybe it was a mistake to come to a bar. Are you well enough to drive? Can you make it home?”

“Now you sound like a cop.”

“I am. Always. Once an officer of the law, always an officer of the law.” He almost gloats as he manually unlocks his car door. He rolls down the window after sinking into the leather seat.

“So I guess this is it; we can’t work together on this?”

“Go home. You’re way out of your league.” With this, he fires up the Pontiac. “Hell, I am too.”

“One last thing,” I ask as Rusty starts backing up.

“What’s that?”

“Was that Jules’ ladder?”

“Yeah, yeah it was. It’s gone now. Came in handy I guess. Saved your ass, kid!”

Rusty drives off and leaves me standing like a jilted date.

The right thing to do is go home, but the adrenaline is pumping through my veins. I remember I have a bottle of cheap Kentucky Bourbon at the D.O.

I decide to brave the haunted bank.

I kill what’s was left in that bottle, and then I go home.

At home I take a shot of Jack.

The popcorn ceiling looks like a lunar photo from the glory years of NASA as it rotates above my bed. I dump a foot to the floor to stabilize myself. The urinal-like overhead light that I haven’t the motor function to rise and switch off is like a whore inviting me into a public bathroom stall.

I’m what you call spinning nauseous drunk.

I’m trying hard to hang on.

I really fucked up tonight. What was I thinking?

Keith is passed out as usual. And as usual, the pipe is sitting in plain sight and the creased bag sitting near it is nearly empty.

I decided to take a couple of hits.

I feel like I’m floating on Apollo 13.

I forgot to call Brenna. Fuck.

It’s too late to now…

Maybe I should try jacking off. It might help me focus on something other than getting sick.

I start to undress. I only get as far as loosening my belt. No go. Whiskey dick is whiskey dick, no matter if you’ve got a disappointed naked woman before you or Rosy—it’s all the same in that regard.

I feel like I’m going to puke. I lean over the bed and…

I’m fishing through the laundry basket, trying to get ready for work. Keith comes in and interrupts my search for a missing sock.

“Mason, did you smoke the rest of my weed?”

“Uh…yeah, sorry.”

“Well, we’re gonna need some more.”

“Are you sure?” I give up on my search and just grab any sock.

“What do you mean? You said yourself that it’s helping me.”

“That was before you turned into a total stoner, dude.”

“Stoner!” Keith bellows back from his wheelchair, “I’ll fuckin’ show you…you arrogant ass!” He grips the rails of his chair, he hoists himself up. He’s wobbling, struggling to stand.

“Arrogant ass,” I snipe, feeling reproached by his ungratefulness.

Keith starts walking towards me. He does not have his walker and I’m getting nervous. “Dude, you don’t have to do this. I’ll buy you some more goddamn dope!”

“Do you really think I’d be able to do this if I was hooked on those fucking drugs the doctors prescribed to me? NO! I’d be drooling on myself in the corner. A cripple for life!” He starts to sway a little too much for comfort…but before I can get to him, he loses balance and falls to the floor. “Please get me some more marijuana, Mason, please.”

“I will Keith.” We struggle to get him off the floor and into his wheelchair. “I’ll get you some more weed, man…I promise.”

What a horrible morning,
I think, as I leave for work.

The way to work is brutal. There’s tons of traffic. I’m so hungover I can’t believe I’m actually going in.
But that’s why I got this gig and…probably why I keep it: I work.
Truth is, the boss just texted…needs to talk at his office.

I detour to the Whataburger drive-in. This has become part of my morning routine. I eat out of the paper bag on my drive to the office. By the time I pull into my parking space, the food is gone.

I move sluggishly to the office.

“So I have great news!” The boss says as he swivels around in his chair to face me. As usual, his office looks like a bomb went off. Shit everywhere. This still astounds me as his outward appearance is always so clean cut.

“Oh,” I reply.

“Jesus, Mason…you look awful. What did you do last night?”

“I drank a little too much.”

“You’ve got to take better care of yourself,” he comments, shaking his head.

But his disapproval and concern for my lifestyle can’t compete with the good news he has. “That Jack Clark is one money raising son-of-a-bitch!” he declares as he waves a check.