Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

He rose from his chair, went to the records room, and began assembling the material that might help identify this despoiler of the women in his realm.

52

Parker elected to walk to the Rhine Heart instead of driving. The evening was pleasantly cool, and after the New York winter it was a relief to be able to linger outdoors without worrying about layers of insulation – a relief, too, to be away from that city and its memories. His encounter with Delphia Cade had left him bemused, and the crudeness of her approach caused him to wonder if the future of the Cade family was in the right hands. He could only hope that, for the Cades’ sake, Delphia’s diplomatic skills improved the closer she got to Little Rock.

The Rhine Heart was exactly as he had anticipated: a blockhouse with log cladding, designed to resemble a faux German bar in some imagined copse of the Black Forest. A dozen cars were parked in the lot, and oompah music was faintly audible. All that was missing were men in lederhosen and a faint nostalgia for fascism.

Parker went inside and took a seat at the bar. He ordered a soda and a plate of German potatoes. He steered clear of the sausage, because his neighbor’s resembled a meat blackjack and smelled like a drain. His soda came with a free pretzel, which was salty enough to induce a stroke. Parker spread his newspaper before him, flicking through it at intervals, but only to distract from his monitoring of the discourse around him. It didn’t take long for him to pick up snatches of conversation about the murder of Donna Lee Kernigan, and references to the disappearance of her mother. The general consensus was that Sallie Kernigan was probably as dead as her daughter; and, if so, the same individual was responsible for both killings, which sounded plausible to Parker. Sallie had enjoyed a wild streak, according to some of those who appeared to have known her from her time working in the bar. A woman like that was bound to get in trouble someday, they said, but it was a shame that she might have dragged her daughter down with her.

Parker picked at his German potatoes, which weren’t bad, and had arrived with thick slices of brownish bread, just in case he was suffering from a carb deficiency. Eventually, when there came a lull in service, the bartender stopped by to check that everything was okay, and to interrogate the newcomer. The bartender kept his tone light, but Parker knew that any stranger finding himself in Cargill amid current events would attract interest, even suspicion, from locals. It would be better for all concerned if it emerged that an interloper was responsible for their troubles, some drifter who, having succeeded with one girl – or two – had returned to take another, in the manner of a ravening animal discovering territory rich with easy prey.

‘My name’s Denny,’ said the bartender, extending a paw. ‘Denny Rhinehart. This is my place.’

‘Parker.’

They shook. Rhinehart’s hand was greasy from handling food.

‘Passing through?’

‘No, staying awhile.’

‘What is it you do?’

‘Oh, this and that. I’m taking time out to consider my options.’

‘Is that so?’

Rhinehart seemed set to pursue the matter further, when he was prevented from doing so by a male voice from behind Parker.

‘You better watch what you say, Denny. It might be taken down and used as evidence against you in a court of law.’

Parker turned. The speaker was in his midforties, and dressed much like nearly every other man in the bar: jeans, a heavy shirt worn loose, and work boots. He was probably four or five inches taller than Parker, and carrying more weight than was advisable, but the base was solid. The tips of the ring and little fingers on his left hand were missing, and the scar tissue on the stumps had not yet fully healed. He didn’t have a drink, and carried his coat under his right arm, so he had either just arrived or was about to leave: the former, it quickly emerged, as two more men entered the Rhine Heart and joined the first, unbuttoning their coats as they came.

‘I’m not sure I follow you, Rich,’ said Rhinehart.

‘This is the latest recruit to the Cargill Police Department,’ said Rich, ‘all the way from New York City. Isn’t that right, Mr Parker?’

Parker didn’t know how the man named Rich had come by this information, but he was hardly astonished. Cargill was a small town, and his involvement in the investigation would soon have become common knowledge. But he didn’t like the vibes he was getting from Rich or the men with him. Rhinehart wasn’t eager for their business, either. Parker could see the bartender’s face reflected in the mirror over Rich’s left shoulder, and the expression it bore suggested that Rhinehart dearly wished the right to refuse service, as set in print above the register, was one he had the guts to enforce.

‘That’s right,’ said Parker.

‘They call you in because of those girls?’

‘They didn’t call me in. I happened to be in town, and the chief asked if I’d be willing to assist with the investigation.’

‘And naturally, you obliged.’

‘I’m an obliging person. Do you have anything helpful you’d like to share?’

‘Not with you.’

‘Then I’ll get back to my drink.’

‘That’s a soda, not a drink.’

‘I have a low tolerance,’ said Parker.

‘For alcohol?’

‘For everything.’

Belligerent flares exploded briefly in Rich’s eyes before fading to embers.

‘These murders,’ said Rich, ‘they’re something we ought to be able to figure out for ourselves. This is a small town, in a small county, and the people that live here know it best. Whoever killed those girls will be brought down by those most familiar with its ways, not by an outlander like you. We have the chief, and the sheriff’s office. They know how to handle this kind of trouble.’

‘Their willingness to involve me would suggest otherwise – that, and an accumulation of bodies.’

‘Your involvement is an error,’ said Rich.

‘We’ll see.’

Rich’s face was growing redder. Parker could see that their exchange had begun to attract attention, because the bar had grown noticeably quieter.

‘Don’t patronize me,’ said Rich. ‘How old are you anyway, thirty? What do you understand about the world outside New York City? What do you understand about anything?’

‘You know,’ said Parker, gesturing at Rich’s mutilated hand, ‘fingers don’t grow back. You ought to be more careful.’

It was an unnecessarily provocative remark, but that was the point. Rich tensed to lash out, already signaling the direction of the first blow by the position of his feet and the angle of his body. Parker willed him to take the shot. Even if the punch landed, Parker would ride it, and then he would hurt Rich. The man’s friends would intervene, but Parker was confident of dealing with the one to the right even before he could form a fist, because he looked sluggish and half-drunk, which would leave only the last of them to contend with – assuming the rest of the clientele didn’t decide to weigh in on Rich’s side, in which case the odds would become a lot less favorable.

‘Everything okay here?’

A woman positioned herself between Parker and Rich. It was Lorrie Colson. She was out of uniform and held a beer in one hand, but still radiated authority, even though she was a foot shorter than Rich. Griffin had told Parker about Donnie Stark’s ruptured testicle, and clearly Rich had heard the story too, because he took a step back and allowed his right fist to unclench slowly.

‘Everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘We were just talking.’

‘Didn’t look like you were just talking, Rich. Looked like you were planning on unloading that big right hook of yours.’