Mean Woman Blues (12 page)

“Oh, Steve!” She’d never liked the dog, but she loved Steve, and the person who subjected him to this kind of misery would have her to answer to. “He got run over?”

“Come here.” He drew her down the passageway and into the courtyard, where Napoleon lay on the flagstones, a miserable pile of rumpled fur. He looked helpless in death, nothing like the formidable animal he had been, a dog that never could make up its mind just to settle down and live a peaceful life.

Now, looking at all that was left of him, she felt herself tearing up.

Steve said, “They threw something over the back fence; that’s all I can figure. See, the Harrisons aren’t home.”

“Harrisons.” Skip couldn’t follow.

“My next-door neighbors. Anybody could have come in and just… nailed him.”

“He was shot?”

“Oh, I wish. He would have been if you’d been here. I’d have gotten your gun and done it myself. He was poisoned. He died in horrible agony.”

“Oh, Steve! You saw it.”

“Yeah… Yeah… I heard him out here, kind of making little whimpering noises. So I came out, and he just didn’t look right, you know what I mean? I can’t explain it, you could just tell he felt bad. And he was salivating a lot, so I knew he’d eaten something. Then I noticed his rear end was quivering and then his shoulders. Skip, he was shaking all over, like a Chihuahua. I touched him, and he yipped, like it hurt, and he was hot, like he had a fever. And then he fell down. Can you imagine how sad that was?” He was tearing up again, and his voice was getting loud and outraged.

Skip put herself in his shoes. “And you didn’t want to leave him to call the vet because you were afraid he might die without you.” She wondered which decision she’d have made.

“It wasn’t even like that; I knew it was too late. I just had to watch him die. I couldn’t even hold him or stroke him, because it hurt him. I just hope my being there was… I don’t know—
something
for him.”

Skip wondered if she could hug Steve, or if, right now, he couldn’t be touched either. She opened her arms, and Steve folded himself around her. “I’m so sorry.”

He spoke against her shoulder, so that she could feel his breath. “Who would do something like that to an innocent animal?”

For once, Napoleon did look innocent. “Jacomine,” she said and wished she hadn’t almost immediately.

Instantly Steve turned his outrage on her. “What did you say? Did you say ‘Jacomine’? Skip, this isn’t about you. This is about that poor dog lying over there.”

“Napoleon… uh… had enemies?” She was trying to strike a semi-light note without seeming completely heartless; she was also fishing for information.

“You ought to know,” he said resentfully.

She knew what he was doing: that anger and sadness were closely related, that he was using one to cover the other. It was the sort of thing she might do herself. But it felt terrible when you were the object of the anger.

As if to restore the peace, Steve said, “The neighbors hate him. I get all kinds of complaints because he barks too much.”

“It takes a really crazy person to kill a dog.” Skip spoke neutrally, hoping he’d think about it.

“Naaah, it just takes a heartless redneck drunk.”

“Anybody around here like that?”

“Everybody.”

“I’m serious. This would take planning. You’d have to figure out…”

“You wouldn’t have to figure out shit! You’d just go out to your garage, find something that said CAUTION! in great big letters, put it in a hot dog, and lob it over the fence.” He shrugged to make his point. “Simple as that.”

Could be
, she thought. But her heart was about to pound out of her chest. She pulled out her cell phone. “Excuse me for a moment.”

“Who’re you calling?”

She twitched her lip a bit as if mouthing a name, and turned her back slightly, hoping he’d think it was so she could hear better. She was calling Shellmire of the FBI.

Consulting his caller I.D., he answered, “How’s it going, big girl?”

“Watch that ‘big’ stuff, Turner.”

“Whatcha got, kid?”

“Someone poisoned Steve’s dog.”

“Jacomine?” he fired back, making it a question, but Skip was gratified that his mind had leapt to the same place hers had.

“Steve says not. He says the dog had enemies.”

“You know how crazy someone has to be to kill a dog?”

She almost laughed, hearing her own words come back to her. “I wish we were on a speaker phone. He thinks I’m paranoid.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Turner, he’s not really in any condition to talk.”

“Skip, I know he’s your boyfriend. But this is a big-deal federal case, in case you’ve forgotten. Also, somebody just shot at you, and with that dog out of the way, you’ll be a much easier target.”

“Yeah, I thought of that.” Sighing, she held out the phone. “Shellmire wants to talk to you.”

“Shellmire? You called Shellmire?”

“Just listen to what he has to say.”

Actually, judging from what she could overhear, Shellmire had more questions to ask than admonitions to deliver. But he must have gotten a few of those in too. Steve was even sulkier when he got off the phone. “I don’t need this shit.”

Unsure what the agent had told him, Skip waited.

Steve said, “My fuckin’ dog’s dead.” It wasn’t a way he talked at all; neither the profanity nor the pure childishness of the statement sounded anything like him.

Hoping for a laugh, she said, “Such a lovely animal too.”

Steve got up and stomped into the house.

Shocked, she phoned Shellmire back. “What on Earth did you tell him?”

“First, I said not to call animal control or anything, that we’d send over our own guys to get the dog an autopsy and investigate the scene. After that I did my standard bit about taking the threat seriously, blah-blah-blah and etc.”

“Oh. Guess that was the part that got him.”

“I’ve noticed your average macho guy gets a little sideways over that kind of stuff.”

Skip was silent.

“See, they hate things they can’t control. So they just pretend it isn’t happening. If you bring it up, they shoot the messenger. That’s how my wife tells it, anyhow. That what’s happening?”

“Pretty much.”

“Not good, Skip; that makes him vulnerable. But the good news is, sometimes they sleep on it and get over it.”

The bad news, in her opinion, was that unless Steve got over it soon, he wasn’t going to be sleeping on it with her. She went inside to wait for the FBI and see what she could do to save the situation.

Mr. Right was pleased as punch with the success of his television show. He was helping people. He was getting to know people, influential people, some of whom he was related to by marriage. Every week he made more of an impact. The show got more and more letters, more and more volunteers to go on camera, more media attention every day.

Truth to tell, he was a lot more than pleased. He was so excited he could bust as he might have said in the old days, the pre-Henry Higgins days, as Rosemarie called his former life. He wasn’t entirely sure what she meant but he didn’t argue with Rosemarie, for any reason, because some day he might have a reason, and he was damn sure going to pick his battles carefully.

This thing he was doing, this Mr. Right thing, was snowballing so fast he could see it going all the way. Absolutely all the way to the top. There was really no reason why it couldn’t. Even his fingerprints were different now; aside from dental X-rays, there was no way in hell to connect David Wright with Errol Jacomine.

He was changing his persona too. In all his previous careers— preacher, politician, and guerrilla fighter for justice— the last thing in the world he’d cared for was material things. Now he relished a well-cut suit, a good cigar. The joy of fine cognac was something he wished he’d discovered years ago, and yet it wouldn’t have been appropriate. Wouldn’t have fit into his lifestyle. It fit into this one just fine. Though he was just thinking that perhaps his littered, cheaply paneled office no longer did. Maybe he could get Karen to come down and work some magic on it. He had a moment to assess it because Bettina was late with her call.

They had to make dates with each other because it was so difficult for her to get to a phone. Messages didn’t work at all. If he missed her call, he might miss something crucial.

Mentally, he improved his surroundings while waiting for the ring of his cell phone— an instrument in the name of Cecil Houseman, a man who existed only on paper. By the time it finally pealed, he’d worked up a backlog of resentment.

“Can’t you do anything right?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Daddy, I’m sorry. Had to be careful. Fat man follow me the other day.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” He still dropped his g’s when talking to his flock.

“Pretty sure of it. I seen him twice. After Devil Woman come see me.” Langdon, she meant.

“He follow you today?”

“Nooooo, sir. I be sure he ain’ follow me today. Tha’s why I be a little late.”

“Not a little late, Bettina. Six minutes late.” He switched gears quickly. “Langdon dead yet?” He knew she wasn’t or Bettina would have already told him.

“Well, Lobo, he…”

“Goddammit don’t use his name. What the hell ya usin’ his name for?”

“Oh, it’s okay. See, that’s not his real name. Lobo, he say there was obfus— obcas—”

“Obstacles. What kind of fool is he? I never want to hear that word. Ya hear me?”

“He say he can’t get near the bitch ’cause her boyfriend’s got this big ol’ dog. So first he has to poison the dog. He say that went real good, so…”

“What am I hearing here? What am I hearing, Bettina? Are you saying that ham-handed amateur poisoned a dog?”

“Well, yessuh, he poison a dog. See, he had to, ’cause…”

“I
did not
authorize any dog poisoning!”

“Well, Daddy, we…”

“What did that poor dog ever do to anybody?”

“Oh, he was a real mean dog. Like to took Wolf’s, I mean Lobo’s, hand off.”

“Bettina, you fucked up. You fucked up big time this time.”

“But, Daddy, I didn’t…”

“Ya gotta do penance, Bettina. I’m gon’ make you suffer a way you never suffered before.”

There was a long pause on the telephone. Finally, she said softly, “Daddy, if I got to, I got to. Ain’ nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you.” He could tell she was getting off on the idea.

“I want you to take that ugly baby of yours…”

“Daddy, you ain’t never even seen yo’ baby.”

“What did you say? What’d you say, Bettina? That’s
your
baby. That’s the curse the good Lord sent you for your weakness. Now I want you to take that ugly baby…”

“His name’s Jacob.”

“Every night for a week, now, I want you to take little Jacob and put him over your knee and give him twenty whacks with a hairbrush.”

“But Daddy, he’s a
good
little baby.”

He heard real distress in her voice, and that pleased him. “Well, you fucked up, and Jacob’s got to suffer for it. Listen to me! Listen to me, now. I don’t mean little love taps either. You whack him till he cries. And after two, three days, when he’s real sore, you whack him twice as hard, hear me? And every tear that child sheds’ll be the same as my tears for you, because of your mistake, and Jesus’s tears for me and for all of us on this Earth. You go and do that now.”

She was crying. He knew she’d do it, but it would hurt her bad. “Lobo say…”

“You tell Lobo to lay off right now. Tell him not to do a goddamn thing till further notice. And call me Thursday at six.” He disconnected before she could answer.

For obvious reasons, he had his door closed. There was a knock on it now, as if someone had just been waiting for him to end his conversation. He didn’t answer. He needed a moment to get back in character. He was pretty sure you couldn’t hear more than a mumble from the other side, but he was glad he’d told Bettina to call him next at a time when he could get away. It wasn’t safe to take her calls here.

The knock came again.

He cleared his throat and spoke in the cultured voice he’d so lately learned. “Come in.”

The person on the other side burst in carrying a clipboard, puffed up with importance. It was his producer, Tracie Hofer, a sloppy looking girl with long curly hair clipped back carelessly. She always wore pants, and they always looked too short for her. She was too dark for his taste, too bohemian; probably the only woman in Texas who didn’t give a damn what she wore.

Without being invited, she sat down. “David, I’ve got something really great coming up. This woman called who ended up in jail because of bank fees. Ever heard of anything like that?”

He thought about it. “Hell, I don’t know. What happened?”

“She’s perfect for us: an art student, very young but enterprising. Even has her own business running errands for people. The trouble is, she still barely makes it. You with me so far?”

He leaned forward, smiling at her. “Totally. Isn’t that what people your age say?”

She put her hand up for a high five, a practice he rather liked but thought should be reserved for truly celebratory moments. “You got it. So anyway, she’s living on the edge. Fits the profile, right? So she has two bank accounts, and she writes checks on one, deposits them in the other before they’ve cleared…”

“Check kiting.”

“Yeah, but she’s got no idea it’s against the law or has a name or anything. Also, she doesn’t know the bank’s charging her huge fees every time she bounces a check, and, because she’s frantically trying to cover her ass, she never has any money in either account, and the bank has the right to put the checks through twice. So she incurs not one but two fees on each check, neither of which she knows about.”

An obvious question came to mind, but Tracie held up a hand to stop it. “So she finds out when she gets her statement right? She panics, borrows money to straighten it out, goes down to make a deal with them; they take her money, then they turn right around and throw her ass in jail.”

He felt the beginnings of a smile playing about his formerly thin (now quite attractive) mouth. “This is sounding good.”