Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

“Get it over with, whatever you want to know.”

“You worked at The Eight.”

“I took my clothes off for money, is that a crime?”

Walk wanted to loosen his collar, felt it constricting the blood, sending even more to his cheeks. “I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Dickie Darke.”

No change in the glare.

He cleared his throat. “Martha said you had some trouble with a guy. Is it the father of—”

“I don’t sleep around, officer. Not all girls that dance are whores, you know.”

Walk glanced around, half hoping to see backup arrive. “I’m sorry. I just, I’m trying to find out about Dickie Darke.”

“He didn’t do it.”

“What?”

“Whatever you think he did.”

“That the party line?”

She tightened her robe, opened the door a little and listened out. “My son sleeps late. Up all night.”

“Like his mother.”

The first hint of a smile. “Listen, people look at Darke and see the size of him, guess he’s some kind of tough guy. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he can handle himself. I’ve seen him, this guy tried to grab me once. And Darke just picked him up by his throat. I mean clean off the floor. Like something out of a movie.”

“But he’s not violent.”

Julieta hit his arm, hard enough, something Latin in the move. “You’re thinking like an asshole cop.”

“How should I be thinking?”

She thought on that. “Maybe like a father looking out for his girl.”

“That’s what Darke was like?”

She sighed like she was dealing with an asshole cop. “He didn’t watch us. Dancing. He never watched, never tried to date us, never asked for a blowjob. And believe me, that’s not usual. If we had trouble, came up short, he’d see us right. You talk to any girl from The Eight, you won’t hear nothing bad about the man.”

“This guy, father of your son, did Darke sort that too?”

She didn’t speak, but her eyes told him what he wanted to know.

“Anything at all you can tell me? He might be in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“There’s men looking for him. Two guys, one had a beard and glasses.”

He could tell by the look on her face she knew them.

“I’m just trying to get answers here. Please.”

“I know those men, they stopped by each month, second Friday, left with a fat envelope. Not unusual, the kind of clubs I worked in, there’s always guys collecting.”

“He always paid.”

She laughed. “You don’t have a choice with guys like that. You pay or they make you pay. Darke knows that.”

“And the fact they’re looking for him now …”

“You think they give a shit The Eight burned? Not their problem. They want their money.”

“I don’t think he can pay them.”

A flash of concern then. “He should run.”

“I’m sure Darke can take care of himself.”

“You don’t understand him. Beneath it all …”

“Tell me.”

“There was a dancer there, Isabella, now that one was a whore. She thought Darke had money, so she made her move. And he told her he wasn’t interested.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said he didn’t look at her that way. Said he had a girl. That was all. We never saw her.”

“So he was seeing someone. Anything else, even if you think it doesn’t matter.”

“Jesus. You cops keep pushing, right.”

“Please, it’s important. Anything.”

“You’re looking to bust the man but all I can tell you is he looked out for us, for me. Me and another girl, we were his favorites.”

“Why?”

“We had kids. He was protective, soft even. One night I didn’t show for work and he turned up here. He saw me, my face that night. He was worried.”

“And the other girl?”

“Layla. He was the same with her. He even took them out, Six Flags. I mean, even I was jealous. He’s a decent guy.”

“Can I talk to Layla?”

“She’s gone, somewhere out west. Her and her little girl.”

“She had a daughter.”

“Yeah, used to have a picture on her locker. Beautiful girl.”

Walk heard noise from inside. The kid calling out.

“We done here?”

“Sure.”

“Happy hunting, officer.”

An hour to Darke’s place. On the drive he called Martha. Julieta’s ex-boyfriend was Max Cortinez, and he was beaten half to death outside a bar in Bitterwater two months prior. Walk got Martha to read the report.

Max was stamped on, so hard and so many times he’d lost all but one of his teeth. Big boots. Max, the kind of guy Bitterwater PD didn’t waste any hours on. Walk tried to call him direct, got told to fuck off when the guy finally answered his cell.

Walk caught his own eyes in the rearview mirror, beard a little longer, face a little thinner, slow slide toward someplace darker. Not just his body betraying him, he no longer questioned breaking the kind of rules he’d based a life on. It would lead somewhere bad, it couldn’t not.

Cedar Heights, a half-finished estate, wide lots, grand and soulless. A gatehouse, the brick too new, even the woodland surrounding had an air of manufactured. Darke had put money into the place.

He drew up by the barrier. A man stepped out, straggly beard, smart polo, strong smell of weed. The kind of eyes that told Walk he existed in a permanent state of confusion.

“Morning, officer.”

“I’m here to see Dickie Darke.”

The man looked toward the sky, scratched the beard and tapped the side of his head like he was working loose an answer. “I don’t think he’s home. I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s expecting me.”

A minute passed while the guy made a call. “He’s not picking up.”

“I’ll go and knock.”

Another beard scratch.

Walk leaned an arm out while the man weighed things. “What’s your name?”

“Moses Dupris.”

A silent flinch.

Beside was a water fountain, dry and green, mosaic tiles were missing in spots.

“I’ll say I steamrolled you, Moses. How’s that sound? Threatened to make a scene, knock his neighbors’ doors.”

“Well, to be honest there’s not a lot of neighbors.”

“Which house?”

Moses pointed. “Darke … Mr. Darke, he stays in the model home at the moment. You can pull up right on the driveway.”

Inside was a single road that curved its way around a dozen homes. A couple were finished, most were boarded, scaffold stood, half painted, a pile of rubble towered. The model home sat by woodland, pretty enough, white stucco, pillars and sash windows. Walk hated the place, the sterile feel. He thought of Cape Haven and the will to make it someplace like this. People were buying parcels of coast that didn’t yet have planning permission. He hoped he’d be long dead before the green tide rolled in.

Up close the house had already aged, a deep crack crept its way to broken guttering that hung loose. Grass grew long, weeds poked their way through beds.

The door was large, Walk couldn’t find a bell so he hammered the way cops did on television. Heavy, urgent thumps. He stood there a while, birds singing at him.

He walked along the front of the house, the drapes pulled, no gaps at all. At the side was a gate, wrought iron, black and heavy but open when he tried it.

A pool, barbeque area built up and out, TV screen by the chairs. Walk stopped still when he saw the back door, open.

“Darke,” he called.

He stepped inside. His heart beat quick. Thought of drawing but found his hands not cooperating. That’s how it was now.

A fan spun above. He saw neat order, opened a cabinet to canned food, labels front, perfectly so.

He moved through, sweating now. Past the dining room, an office, the living room, television on, the sound muted, ESPN, Karl Ravech in front of a wall of books, talking Bautista and Braves.