Michael Marshall - The Straw Men

By then Chip had our own vehicle started. He reversed carefully out, headed up the drive, and we left The Halls behind.

Chip was quiet for most of the journey back into town. I got the feeling that he might have been grilled by No-Name after I'd left, and was berating himself for not being able to adequately answer her questions. Like who I was, and where I was from. Even I knew that these were the first things a realtor should find out from a potential customer, the amino acids of the transaction genome. My father used to say, in his rare expansive moments, that the way into a man's pocket is with his own hand: by which he meant ensuring that you know enough about him to approach him in the way to which he's most accustomed.

Chip did ask me what I thought of what I'd seen. I told him the Big Sky property was of no interest, especially after seeing what The Halls had to offer. He didn't seem surprised. I asked how many other people he'd shown up there. The answer was eight, in the past three years. All had gone through the procedures required by the management. None had been offered the opportunity to buy.

I stared at him. 'These people put fifteen, twenty million in an account, opened up their affairs, and still they didn't get in? They actually want to sell these houses, or what?'

'Exclusivity, Mr Lautner. That's the name of the game.' He glanced at me, to check he had my full attention. 'We're living in a strange world, and that's a fact. We've got the most beautiful country on the planet, the most hard-working folks, and yet we live cheek by jowl with people you wouldn't want in the same hemisphere. There's a historical dimension. We opened the doors too wide, and we shut them too late. We said 'Come on, everybody, join us — we need warm bodies. Got us plenty of land to fill' — but we didn't spend enough time making sure we got the right kind of bodies. Didn't think clearly enough about the future. That's the reason why people like yourself come out West. To get away from the cities, from the hordes, to get in amongst their own folk. To get back to real ways of living. I'm not talking about race, though that does play a part. I'm talking about attitude. About quality. About people who are meant to be with each other, and people who aren't. That's why folks come to a place like Dyersburg. It's a kind of filter, and most of the time it works pretty good — but still you wind up with some people who just don't meet the grade. Students. Ski bums. White trash out by the freeway. People who don't understand. What are you going to do? Can't stop folks moving out here — it's a free country. Nothing you can do but look after your own.'

'And how do you do that?'

'You make the mesh of your filter a whole lot finer. You find some like-minded people, and you build

yourself a king-sized wall.'

'That's what The Halls is?'

'One way of looking at it. But mainly, of course, a unique homemaking opportunity.'

'You had the money, would you move in up there?'

He laughed, a short bitter sound. 'Yes, sir, I surely would. Meantime, I'll just work for my

commission.'

We drove down out of the hills and onto the small high plain. By the time we got back to Dyersburg it was full dark, and the rain had begun to slacken a little. Chip parked up outside his office, and turned to me.

'So.' He grinned. 'What's your next move? Want to think about what you've seen, or can I bring you

in to the office, maybe show you a few more options for tomorrow?'

'Wanted to ask you a question,' I said, looking through the windshield. The pavement was deserted.

'Shoot.' He looked tired but game. My mother always used to say that real estate wasn't a business

for people who wanted to keep predictable hours.

'You said you just got the exclusive on The Halls. So there used to be another firm looking after it?'

'That's right.' He looked confused. 'What of it?'

'They ever get any sales that you know of?'

'No, sir. They didn't even have the account very long.'

'So how come they're not still representing it?'

'Guy died, business got wound up. Can't sell homes if you're dead.'

I nodded, feeling very quiet inside. 'How much would your commission be on one of those places? A

fair sum, I'd imagine?'

'Quite a piece,' he allowed, carefully.

I let a pause settle. 'Enough to kill someone for?'

'What?'

'You heard me.' I wasn't smiling any more.

'I don't know what you're talking about. You think… what? What the hell are you saying?'

There was something about his denial I didn't like, and you'd be amazed, and saddened, if you knew how good people are at lying, in even the most difficult circumstances. I'd waited. I'd been good. Now I was fed up with playing games. I grabbed the back of Chip's head and yanked it forward, smacking his forehead hard into the steering wheel. I angled this so that the hard plastic caught him dead on the bridge of the nose. Then I wrenched his head back.

'I'm going to ask you a question,' I said, pulling his head forward to smack it into the steering column again. He made a quiet moaning sound as I held it there. 'This time, I need to believe your answer. I need to know you're telling me the truth, and you have just this one opportunity to convince me. Otherwise I'll kill you. Understand?'

I could feel his fevered nod. I pulled him back up by the hair once more. His nose was bleeding, and there was a livid welt across his forehead. His eyes were very wide.

'Did you kill Don Hopkins?'

He shook his head. Shook it, and kept shaking it, with the frantic and jerky movements of a child. I watched this for a while. I've dealt with many liars in my time, have been one myself for long periods. I have a good eye for it.

Chip hadn't killed my father. At least, not personally.

'Okay,' I said, before he broke his own neck. 'But I think you know something about what happened

to him. Here's the deal. I want you to take a message. You going to do that for me?'

He nodded. Blinked.

'Tell the Nazis up in the mountains that someone is taking an interest in them. Tell them that I don't

believe my parents died by accident, and that I will exact payment for what happened. Got that?'

He nodded again. I let go of his head, opened the door, and climbed out into the rain.

When I was standing outside I leaned down and looked at him. His mouth was downturned with fear

and shock, blood running down his chin. I turned away with my hands shaking, and went to find someone human.

15

Bobby was leaning against the counter in my parents' house, sipping a glass of mineral water. He glanced up when I walked in, watched me stand and drip on the floor. It had rained virtually the entire time I had

been walking.

'What have you done?' he asked mildly.

'Nothing.'

'Right,' he said, eventually. I took the glass and drank the remainder of the water in one swallow.

Only when it was gone did I remember it had come from my parents' last shopping list.

'Is there any more of that?'

'A little,' he said.

'Don't drink it.' I put the glass on the counter and sat down at the table. As an afterthought I took my coat off, almost as if I'd heard a voice warning me that I'd catch my death. Through the window I could see that Mary's sitting-room light was on. I hoped she didn't find out I was still in town. It would have looked rude that I hadn't dropped by. Then I realized that I was sitting in a house with several lights on and a car outside, and so she probably knew already. I wasn't thinking very clearly.

Bobby waited, arms folded.

'So,' I asked. 'How was your day?'

'Come on, Ward,' he said irritably.

I shook my head. He shrugged and let it go. 'I checked out the scene of the accident. Given the position of the car they ran into, it's entirely conceivable your mother could have simply screwed up the turn. It's kind of sharp, it was dark, and it was pretty misty by all accounts.'