Pearce Hansen - Stagger Bay

“You sure like to push people’s buttons,” Moe said. “You know, it’s possible to be too suspicious.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not.”

“Look,” he said. “Some are saying you’re just sitting on your ass, but I know that ain’t the case. They ain’t doing nothing they own selves, and I know you got a lot going on up in that dome of yours – I can feel the wheels turning even from here. I’ll admit to being a worry wort sometimes, and its okay you don’t want to share. But I need to hear you say it just one time, okay? Can we do this thing?”

Worry wort? I thought. This kid didn’t have an optimistic bone in his body, self help CDs notwithstanding. And here he was reaching out to the likes of me to convince himself we could make a difference?

“Of course we can,” I said.

“I might just have some kind of use for a gun down the road,” I told Moe.

At a stoplight he reached under his seat and pulled out a pistol. He handed it to me and I examined it, holding it low so no one outside the car would be able to see it – it was a sweet piece, a 9mm automatic, a real heart stopper. I put it in my jacket pocket, the first weapon I’d touched since Angela and I first got together eighteen years ago.

“We need to swing by Elaine’s,” I said.

“You’re looking thoughtful,” Big Moe said. “You’ve finally got something active in mind.”

“Yeah, and I’m keeping it to myself.” I turned to him. “I know why you guys dealt me in on this, okay? It’s because if I fuck up you can pretend you weren’t involved, maybe not pay too much of a price if things fall apart all nasty. It’s a smart move to hedge your bets like that, but for me to be deniable you really shouldn’t be too deep into the loop.”

Moe at least had the courtesy to look guilty, not that I’d needed any confirmation.

I tossed a shoulder. “It’s all good, and I don’t blame you a bit. You got family and loved ones to think about. I’m footloose and fancy free; I’m no one to you. Besides, you didn’t twist my arm – I’m a volunteer, and I’d be doing this even if you hadn’t roped me in.”

Elaine lived in a nice two-story cottage on H Street, with big round custom picture windows in front. Moe and I headed for her front door, but my steps slowed when I saw something on the front porch.

At first it looked like a pile of rags, or a fur collar ripped off a coat. But when we got close enough, when I saw the blood – I stopped.

Moe bumped into me from behind and we stood looking at what was left of Lola. The poor little dog looked like a sock that had been turned inside out.

I climbed the porch and bent over the leavings for closer examination. Someone had known what they were doing: Lola had been gutted neatly; her body cavity was empty and the cut down the abdominal wall was surgically clean. I couldn’t see any other wounds: Lola had been alive while she was eviscerated. I knocked on the front door.

“Hello?” Elaine asked from inside.

“It’s me, open up,” I said.

“Get that out of sight,” I hissed to Moe. He grimaced as he scooped up Lola’s remains and hurried back to the Taurus, holding the bloody mess out in front so as not to stain his clothes.

“Give me a minute,” Elaine said.

“I need to see Sam right now,” I said.

I twisted the knob, which was unlocked, and pushed the door open. Elaine stood there in a pink chiffon robe, fresh from the shower, with her hair wet and wrapped up in a towel. Sam ambled into the front room, glistening wet as well, with a towel wrapped around his waist. He stopped, and both he and Elaine stared at me.

I pulled the door shut in a hurry and stood there with my face burning. Moe was hiding in his car after sticking Lola’s body in the trunk – hell, I couldn’t fault him for not wanting any further part of this.

After a few minutes Elaine opened the door. She was fully made up, her hair dry and perfectly coiffed even if she was still in her robe. She eyed me coldly as I mumbled an apology, but her face went blank as she caught my expression.

She made way for me to come inside. Sam was jumping around on one foot in the hallway, dragging his pants on.

A copy of our local newspaper lay on the coffee table and the headline picture prompted me to pick it up: a big blurry pixilated photo of me at the Plaza, surrounded by all the kids I’d saved at the school. My hands were thrown up in the air like I was surrendering, and my face was swathed in its patchwork of sanitary napkins. In the picture I looked like I was high or something; I came off as looking pretty goofy. Scanning the headline I noted they’d misspelled my name, and I tossed the paper back down.

Elaine was still in the doorway staring down at something on the front porch. Following her gaze, I saw the bloodstain where Lola’s body had lain.

Elaine’s robe had fallen open and she was wearing nothing underneath, but she only bothered to tug it closed after she turned back to face me.

“What did he put in the trunk?” Elaine asked as she knotted her robe’s belt. “Where’s Lola?”

“Lola won’t be coming back.” I stared hard at Sam, who looked from me to Elaine and back again. My son, I thought. The Driver isn’t just stalking me now – he’s stalking my son, or Elaine, or both. “Did you hear anything last night Sam? Like a big block engine or something?”

“Maybe. Don’t know.”

I caught Elaine’s eye. “I need to talk to you, now. Alone.”

Elaine sighed. “Go powder your nose, Sam.”

He stared at her, his lips parted to say something. He glared at me, shut his mouth hard, and stalked down the hall toward the bedroom he apparently knew so well.

“Look,” I said to Elaine. “You’ve been upsetting my calculations long enough. I got no expectations or requirements of you as long as you stay out of my way and don’t hurt Sam. But if you won’t trust me any, why in the hell would I let my son go on trusting you? I need to either be able to turn my back on you a little, or I need to be rid of you. It’s time for you to spill enough to make me feel safe.”

“All right.” Fear now filled Elaine’s face instead of the indignation I would have received before Lola. “Karl didn’t want you to know. I swear that’s the only reason I didn’t tell you.

“A lot of my clients are pot growers. They’re good customers, usually: They need my services fairly regularly, they always have ready money for the retainer, and as long as you make sure they pay as they go, the cash flow is pretty consistent. The problem with them is their gratitude runs out as soon as you get them acquitted. Then they think all they have to do is hide out down on their pot farms with their dogs and their guns.

“That’s how Karl and I first met. He offered his services as a debt collector on the worst of my deadbeat clients, and he always came through. I never asked him how he did it and he never said, but the money always wound up on my desk.

“Sometimes, though, the debt collection would be ‘in kind’ rather than in cash. And then, of course, Karl would have to sell the product. That’s what he was doing when Reese killed him.”

She caught my expression. “How else did you think Karl was paying his bills? Did you really see him working a minimum-wage job? Do you really think I could stay afloat in this one-horse town doing pro bono work?”

“He was supposed to position Sam away from all that,” I said.

“Yes, well, you’re certainly doing a fine job in that respect these days, aren’t you? Look, please don’t tell Sam about the pot thing, all right? As I said, Karl didn’t want him to know. He wasn’t particularly proud of it.”