Джон Коннолли - The Dirty South

‘You need anything else before I leave?’ she said.

‘No, thank you.’

‘You okay, Denny?’

‘Fine,’ he said, ‘just fine. Hey, Ivy, would you do me the kindness of taking a turn behind the bar for a few minutes? I need to use the restroom.’

‘Sure.’

She stepped through the swing door into the bar. Denny had his own private bathroom beside his office; given the state in which the customers left the stalls of the Rhine Heart, it was an understandable move on his part. He closed the door behind him, pulled the cord on the light, and removed from his pocket a thin length of cloth tied in a bow, strands of dark hair caught in the knot. He’d kept it as a souvenir, but it made sense to get rid of it now. He was about to flush it down the john, but decided instead to burn it, just to be certain.

He lit a match and watched impassively as Donna Lee Kernigan’s bright red ribbon turned to black.

53

Nathan Pettle had known men like Leonard Cresil all his life, and his familiarity with such individuals had not enhanced the quality of his existence. Cresil, he knew, had bounced around various police forces during the early part of his career, trailing a reputation for violence and bigotry – his capacity for both being remarkable in scope, extending as it did to anyone who was not Leonard Cresil – before finding a more profitable outlet for his talents in the field of corporate security. Cresil was a native of Chicot County, and his people were steeped in ignorance: he had once informed Pettle, in a rare moment of candor, that his grandfather Vernon didn’t realize it was wrong to shoot at black people until he joined the army.

Now here was Cresil, sitting in Pettle’s little office, his feet resting on an open desk drawer, cleaning dirt from his fingernails with the folded edge of a Bible pamphlet, the smell of his cologne strangely sweet, even effeminate, for such a man. The pores on his face were excessively large, so that they stored within them the grime of his travels and the sum of Cresil’s own discharges. His breathing was loud and irregular, as though he struggled to draw sufficient air into his lungs, even in repose, and his voice at all times held a rattle in its depths. Pettle sometimes wondered if Cresil was ill, and if so what his malady might be, but he had never worked up the interest to ask. It might have been remiss of him as a man of God, but was entirely understandable of him simply as a man. When Leonard Cresil eventually departed this life, the next day’s sun would rise on a better world.

‘I’m disappointed in you, Reverend,’ said Cresil. He did not look up from his ablutions, but continued to dig at a particularly recalcitrant piece of filth lodged beneath a thumbnail.

Pettle took a seat on one of the two hard chairs facing his desk, reduced to the status of a supplicant. He bore this calculated insult as he had borne so many others throughout his life: with the bitter patience of one who had long ceased to be surprised at the manners of certain white men and women, yet continued to be disappointed that their self-respect should be so dependent on the humiliation of others.

‘Why is that, Mr Cresil?’

‘What is the term for the offense where one neglects to inform an individual of information germane to his interests, perhaps in order to protect oneself from accusation or condemnation?’

‘I believe it’s referred to as a lie of omission,’ said Pettle, even as he feared that Cresil had somehow become privy to the fact of his fornication with Sallie Kernigan.

‘That’s it, the operative word here being “lie”. A lie’s a sin, is it not, or has church thinking on this matter altered since last I exposed myself to sermonizing? I’ll admit that regular religious attendance has been low on my list of priorities in recent years, and doctrine does evolve.’

Cresil had finally managed to purge the nail of the last of its crud. He flicked the residue onto Pettle’s carpet and threw the pamphlet in the trash.

‘No, a lie remains a lie,’ said Pettle.

‘And therefore also a sin?’

‘That follows.’

‘Which is reassuring to know, although it does make a liar of you, seeing as how you neglected to inform me immediately of the Kernigan girl’s passing.’

‘It’s been a difficult day, and I had other obligations.’

‘To your flock?’

‘Yes, among similar duties.’

‘Most of your flock feeds on cheap cuts, but I don’t see you wearing sackcloth and ashes and subsisting on welfare.’

‘I fail to take your meaning.’

‘Don’t play the fool, Reverend, or not to a greater degree than comes naturally to you. Our money trumps whatever responsibilities you might have to anyone else, up to and including God Himself. If you don’t share that view, the faucet can be turned off just as easily as it was turned on. We should have known about that girl’s body before the bugs found her.’

‘Is Mr Shire concerned?’

‘He’s back in that shithole motel for another night or two, so my guess is, yes, he is concerned.’

Pettle was not familiar with every facet, every hidden corner, of the proposed deal to bring Kovas to Burdon County, but he had lived long enough to understand that money didn’t flow only in one direction. Shire was Kovas’s man on the ground in Arkansas, and his shadow touched all negotiations; but he was also a bagman, and every time he put money in someone’s pocket, a little was returned to him, either from the recipient or another source. Demonstrations of goodwill from local and state businesses were required if they were to benefit from Kovas’s future presence in the state, and secure for themselves a sufficiently rewarding slice of the pie. Shire would be heavily involved in advising Kovas on the bidding process for contracts, so it didn’t just pay to be in his good books; it required payment. Pettle didn’t know what Shire was doing with his cut of the money, but if the Kovas deal were to fall through, the fixer’s popularity would plummet rapidly, especially if he wasn’t in a position to make reimbursements. True, it was not as if those who bribed Shire had been handed receipts, or supplied with cast-iron guarantees, but few would be willing to write off their investments entirely in the event of Kovas choosing Texas over Arkansas. It was therefore a matter of deep personal concern to Charles Shire that any complications should be avoided, or dealt with expeditiously.

‘Mr Shire doesn’t have cause to be worried,’ said Pettle.

‘You hear that from God or someone else?’

‘I was speaking to one of Chief Griffin’s officers after the service. Jurel Cade and the sheriff’s office will cooperate with the Cargill PD, but the investigation will be low-key. Nobody wants a fuss, but everyone shares a desire to see this business brought to a successful conclusion as quickly and cleanly as possible.’

Cresil kicked at the desk drawer, and Pettle heard the wood crack.

‘What the fuck does that mean? Cade and Griffin, these men aren’t trained investigators. They’d struggle to find a fucking cat in a tree.’

‘Don’t swear in my church, Mr Cresil.’

Cresil wagged a finger at him. ‘And don’t you test my boundaries, Reverend.’

‘Cade and Griffin aren’t working alone. They have outside help.’

‘Outside?’ Cresil didn’t look pleased to learn this. ‘State? Federal?’

‘An ex-policeman from New York. A detective. Seems he was in the area and agreed to help.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘Parker.’

‘First name?’

‘I don’t know, but I can find out. Or you could just ask at your lodgings. I believe he’s staying there also.’

Cresil took this in.

‘I guess that must count as progress,’ he said, finally.