Wild Turkey (6 page)

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Authors: Michael Hemmingson

BOOK: Wild Turkey
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“But why kill the driver?”
“He was there. Don’t leave a witness.”
“You didn’t forward these theories to your friends in the police department?” I asked, feeling like a lawyer again.
“No, not yet. I kept quiet. And I’m going to keep quiet for the time being.”
“Like, for instance, that she did indeed leave yesterday when she said she hadn’t?”
“Right.”
“And that she had this visitor …”
“You got it.”
“And that we could be barking up a wrong tree here,” I said.
He sighed. “That too. So this is what I propose: you and I will keep an eye on her.”
“The two of us?”
“We’ll just watch what she does in the next few days. People who’ve committed murder—or are accessories to such—will do certain telling things over the first few days after the crime, things that they’d normally never do, things they will try to do in secret, but if someone were watching them …”
“Their actions may reveal their guilt,” I said.
He smiled. “You’re getting the picture, kid. I knew I liked you for some reason.”
“And I suppose we start tonight.”
“Tonight is a good night.”
I asked, “What about tomorrow’s game?”
“We can’t miss a game,” Bryan said. “One of us needs to hurry back. No. I got a better idea. You’ll call in sick. You can’t play.”
“I like playing,” and that sounded funny coming out of me, like a child talking to his father.
“I know you like the game, son, but you need to keep watch. You like watching her anyway.”
I felt uncomfortable. “This could all be for nothing,” I said.
He winked and said, “Have anything better to do?”
 
I
played hooky from the baseball game. I had to act sick for Tina and the kids. I feigned a stomachache.
“I must’ve ate something bad,” I groaned.
“It’s all the booze you’ve been consuming,” Tina said, gently rubbing my belly. “You’re starting to get a gut, too,
dude.”
“A gut?” I looked down. She was right. “I should do some sit-ups,” I said.
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
Part of the ruse was staying in bed, which wasn’t so bad. I watched TV. I kept the window open, so I could hear whether or not my neighbor left her house.
She didn’t. Not once all day. I spotted her getting the mail around three, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her hair pulled into a ponytail. I’d never seen her appear so—plain and ordinary, like any other person at home on a Saturday.
I tried meditating on the joy of family life; I knew the joy was there, I just couldn’t get a grasp on it. I realized I wasn’t happy. I was happy with my life when I was busy with work, and now that I was busy with home life, I needed something else.
I thought about these issues all that day, and long into the night, as I sat in my office, in the dark, drinking straight from a bottle of Smirnoff, watching. I was halfway through the bottle and feeling pretty buzzed, going through my years, month by month, before I met Tina and married—cataloging the good times and the bad, past loves and conquests, trying to remember, exactly, how all their bodies felt, how they smelled, how they fucked.
I wondered if Tina gave any thought to these recent late hours I’d been spending in my office? Did she notice I was missing from the bed? She never stirred when I did go to bed. She was oblivious to me—she slept heavily, which was either to my advantage or part of my downfall.
At five minutes past 1 A.M., a light went on inside the Paynes’ house.
Three minutes later, the sports car and the mysterious visitor arrived. She knew he was coming—had it been preplanned? “Come by at one-ten.” Or had he called first, perhaps on a cell phone or from a phone booth?
He seemed in a rush, jumping out of his car. She opened the door to let him in. I couldn’t see how she was dressed. He was dressed the same as the other day.
He didn’t stay long. I could faintly see their shadowed silhouettes—they were talking. Arms were gesturing wildly. I cracked the window open. I was sure I could hear them arguing. Then the door flew open, and he stormed out, yelling, “Fuck you!”
“Keep your voice down,” she said.
“Fuck you!” he said, and got into his car. He had an American accent, southwest I’d say.
“Fuck you too,” she replied softly.
I wrote down his license plate—hoping I got it right, straining my eyes and trying to read the numbers. Nevada plates.
He drove off, burning rubber.
I wondered if Bryan heard the commotion.
She was wearing the same robe, and it was open. I could see her white chest, the beginning contours of her small breasts. She closed the door. The light turned off.
I saw a light come on, faintly, at the side of the house. Bedroom light, I wondered?
I sat there and drank.
It was so quiet. I could hear every creak in the house.
I heard music coming from her house.
It was almost two o’clock. I was at the bottom of the bottle. I was feeling bold. She had turned the music up—it was soft jazz. Sexy. The music of fuck.
I had a crazy idea and I was just drunk enough to do it. A lot of Smirnoff in your blood makes you very bold, and stupid.
I went outside and stalked across the street. The neighborhood was dark and dead—porch lights, a few cats walking around, a slight breeze, half a moon in the night sky. I stood on her property. I crept like a prowler, aware of every piece of grass, dirt, and leaf I trespassed on. I saw the window where the light and music were coming from. I pressed my back against the side of the house and slid to the window. It was in fact the bedroom window, and what I saw, well, I wasn’t expecting—I may have fantasized about it, but I didn’t think I’d ever see this in the flesh—
I should say
her
in the flesh—
Cassandra Payne was dancing slowly to the music, solitaire, glass of dark liquid in her thin hand. Her robe was loosening, one shoulder bare. She hummed to herself, either simulating the notes of the music, or making up words, I couldn’t tell. She sipped from the glass and swayed. She looked content. This didn’t seem right for a woman who’d just lost her husband two days ago. It could’ve been a British thing for all I knew.
She stopped in front of the full-length mirror on the wall. She looked at herself. She was licking her lips, eyeing her body up and down. I could make out my own face in the mirror, in the background, peering in the window. For a moment, I was afraid she might see this reflection—and then I realized I didn’t care. Being caught while beholding this phenomenal display would be worth it.
She began to make love to herself.
She drank most of what was left of the brown liquid, coughing once. She dropped the glass on the carpet. Her robe slipped down. She stood completely naked in front of the mirror, except for her gray socks. She started at her neck: touching this long, pale neck lightly with her fingernails. She moved from the neck down to her chest and breasts. She masturbated slowly, and then gradually brought herself to a frenzy; flesh quivering, moaning—
I was ashamed and frightened. What was I doing here? I didn’t stay and watch her. I could have, she didn’t seem anywhere close to stopping. I quickly ran back to my house, my home, the safety of that darkness. I felt dirty. I had glimpsed something I should not have—I had seen a person in an intense, private moment. It was if I had spied on God creating life and now I was doomed to the netherworld of loneliness.
I wasn’t drunk anymore, either. The moment had sobered me up.
I didn’t fall asleep until four-thirty. It was restless, erotic sleep, Cassandra Payne haunting my dreams—I was following her all over San Diego like a private investigator, and everywhere she went, she masturbated—in restaurants, libraries, parks, and movie theaters.
I told Bryan
about her nighttime visitor. I didn’t tell him about what I saw in the window. I gave him the license plate number. He smiled and said, “Good boy. I’ll call in a favor and see if we can’t get an ident on Mr. Mystery Man.”
“Good idea,” I said.
“Something is fishy in Great Britain,” Bryan added, and winked.
“Indeed,” I said.
She didn’t leave
or have any visitors all Sunday.
Bryan came over
Monday, around noon. He had a six-pack of Amstel. He gave me one, opened one for himself. Cassandra Payne was inside her house.
“His name is Boyd Urick,” he said.
I almost asked who. I said, “Wait. I may have gotten the numbers wrong—”
“No, this is the right man. Nevada plates?”
“Right.”
“And the description matches.”
“So you called in the favor.”
“It wasn’t a problem,” Bryan said. “He’s twenty-seven years old, was born in Pahrump, Nevada.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“Small town in Nye County, maybe sixty miles away from Las Vegas. That’s where Mr. Urick lives: Las Vegas. Occupation unknown. I’d say he’s either a blackjack dealer or a cardplayer—as in professional gambler.”
“Or with the mob.”
“Maybe. His rap sheet fits the profile. His arrests and convictions were misdemeanors—petty theft, driving with an expired license—and a felony, writing bad checks. There were some other felony charges of grand theft and forgery that didn’t stick. I’d say a good candidate for a killer.”
“They were arguing about something,” I said. “They argued like they’d done it before, like they knew each other.”
“They probably do know each other.”
“How?”
He shrugged, drank his beer. “I tried to get some information about Mrs. Payne from the homicide cop, Roger. He either wouldn’t tell me or they don’t have a history on her. I’d say they know nothing about her. She very well may have no history in the computers—married her husband back in jolly old England and came here.”
“She had him killed,” I said.
“Oh yeah,” he said.
“Do we tell the cops now?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Let’s see what else happens. If Mr. Urick shows up again. If Mrs. Payne tries to disappear into the night.” He was enjoying this, the game of sleuthing—he was a cop again. I liked seeing him this way, it made me feel good.
“Look,” he said.
Cassandra Payne came out, wearing perhaps the shortest black leather miniskirt I had ever seen, and a white blouse. Her high heels clacked. Bryan and I stood there looking at her, both our jaws agape. She noticed us and waved. We waved back. She got into her Taurus and drove off.
“Maybe we should follow her,” I suggested.
“Too obvious,” Bryan said. “And I don’t think we’d catch up to her even if we hopped into one of our cars right now. But you have to wonder, where is she going dressed like that? Those aren’t clothes for mourning.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, “do you know if there’s going to be a funeral?”
“Not sure. The ME may still have the body for evidence.”
There’d been nothing else in the news about Lawrence Payne and the cab driver—the story was interesting for two minutes, now it was forgotten.
“Those legs,” Bryan whistled. “That girl has some long fine legs on her, wouldn’t you say?” He laughed.
“Yeah,” I said, seeing her legs bent, her legs spread open, her hand at her crotch …
“
Killer
legs!” Bryan laughed.
I didn’t find that funny.
Late at night,
my family asleep, I watched.
Sitting in my office, the window open, drinking shots of Jim Beam, I waited for a sign. I wanted to know what she was drinking Saturday night. Was it bourbon? I wanted to believe so.
Certain kinds of hard alcohol put me in different moods. Vodka, it’s an intellectual drunk. Tequila, I want to dance. Scotch and bourbon, I want to fight—I feel like a true redneck, dumb enough to try and take on the world. Or fuck. Fight and fuck.
Needless to say, as the bourbon took hold of my senses, I was feeling invincible again, and I wanted another look into the private life of the woman, the killer.
It was almost 2 A.M.. and that light at the side of the house was on again—the bedroom light. I didn’t hear music. I knew she was awake, I knew she was doing something that would be a treat for my eyes. I could replay every moment of her from Saturday night. I needed to do it again. So, again, I quietly slipped out of my house and went to hers.
I wasn’t being as cautious this time, walking over. The boldness of booze. I didn’t hear any music. I was hoping she’d be dancing again, that she’d play with herself for me. I looked in the window. She wasn’t there. The light was on, but no sign of her. Maybe she was in the bathroom. I could wait. I would wait. I did wait. I waited five minutes and she still didn’t come into the bedroom. There was no other light on in the house, as far as I could tell.
“Turn around, you.”
I almost screamed. Her accent, cold and close—behind me.
“Turn around slowly.”
I did. She stood there, in her robe, holding a kitchen knife. How had she crept up on me so quietly, so quickly?
“
You,
” she said, like she was surprised—or disappointed.
I felt like I was going to piss in my pants.
“You,” she said again. “You
fucking
peeping Tom.”
“I can explain,” I said.
She smiled, lowering the knife. “I bet you can. Come inside and explain.” She held up the knife. “Or else I’ll slice your throat open.” I didn’t know if she was serious, but I followed her inside, going first. She was pointing the knife at my back.
A single candle lit the living room. The candle was on the table, next to a bottle of Wild Turkey and a glass. It was the same glass she had Saturday night, or a similar glass. It was empty.
“Would you like a drink?” she asked.
“Yes, I would,” I said.
She poured the glass half-full with Wild Turkey and handed it to me. I drank. She took the bottle and drank, knife still in one hand, eyeing me. She sat down on a couch and told me to sit on the couch across from her. I did. The flickering candle made flickering shadows on the walls and the floor.
“So, neighbor,” she said. “Mr. Lansdale … you were peeking in my bedroom window.”

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