Donna Tartt - The Little Friend

“Right,” said Harriet. “Like a story.”

“Lawrence Eugene Ratliff?”

The stranger stopped Eugene before he got to the stairwell. He was a large, cordial-looking man with a bristly blond mustache and hard, gray, prominent eyes.

“Where you going?”

“Ah—” Eugene looked at his hands. He had been going up to the child’s room again, to see if he could get anything else out of her, but of course he couldn’t say that.

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“No problem!” said Eugene, in the personable voice that so far that day had not served him well.

Steps echoing loudly, they walked past the stairwell, all the way down to the end of the chilly hall to the door marked Exit.

“I hate to bother you,” said the man, as he pushed open the door, “especially at a time like this, but I’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

Out they stepped, from antiseptic dim to scorching heat. “What can I do for you?” said Eugene, slicking back his hair with one hand. He felt exhausted and stiff, from spending the night sitting up in a chair, and though he’d spent too much time at the hospital lately, the roasting afternoon sun was the last place he wanted to be.

The stranger sat down on a concrete bench, and motioned for Eugene to do the same. “I’m looking for your brother Danny.”

Eugene sat down beside him and said nothing. He’d had enough commerce with the police to know that the wisest policy—always—was to play it close to the vest.

The cop clapped his hands. “Gosh, it’s hot out here, ain’t it?” he said. He rummaged in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and took his time lighting one. “Your brother Danny is friendly with an individual named Alphonse de Bienville,” he said, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth. “Know him?”

“Know of him.” Alphonse was Catfish’s given name.

“He seems like a real busy fellow.” Then, confidentially: “He’s got a finger in every kind of damn thing going on around here, don’t he?”

“I couldn’t say.” Eugene had as little to do with Catfish as possible. Catfish’s loose, easy, irreverent manner made him extremely uncomfortable; Eugene was tongue-tied and awkward around him, always at a loss for a reply, and he sensed that Catfish made fun of him behind his back.

“How does he fit into that little business y'all are running out there?”

Eugene, stiffening inside, sat with his hands dangling between his knees and tried to keep his face composed.

The cop stifled a yawn, and then stretched his arm out along the back of the bench. He had a habit of nervously patting his stomach, like a man who’s just lost some weight and wants to make sure that his stomach is still flat.

“Listen, we know all about it, Eugene,” he said, “what y'all got going on out there. We got a half-dozen men out at your grandmother’s place. So come on, be straight with me and save us both a little time.”

“I’m on be honest with you,” said Eugene, turning to look directly into his face. “I’ve got nothing to do with any of that out there in the shed.”

“You know about the lab, then. Tell me where the drugs are.”

“Sir, you know more about it than I do, and that’s the truth.”

“Well, here’s a little something else you might like to know. We’ve got an officer injured out there from one of those … punji sticks y'all have rigged up around the place. Lucky for us he fell down hollering before somebody stepped on one of those trip wires and blowed the place up.”

“Farsh has some mental problems,” said Eugene, after a small, stunned silence. The sun was shining right into his eyes and he felt very uncomfortable. “He’s been in the hospital.”

“Yes, and he’s a convicted felon, too.”

He was looking at Eugene steadily. “Listen,” said Eugene, crossing his legs spasmodically, “I know what you’re thinking, I’ve had some problems, I admit it, but that’s all in the past. I’ve asked forgiveness from God and rendered my debt unto the state. Now my life belongs to Jesus Christ.”

“Uh huh.” The cop was quiet for a moment. “So tell me. How does your brother Danny fit into all this?”

“Him and Farsh drove off together, yesterday morning. That’s all I know, and nothing more.”

“Your grandmother says they quarreled.”

“I wouldn’t say quarled exactly,” Eugene said, after a thoughtful pause. There was no reason for him to make things worse for Danny than they already were. If Danny hadn’t shot Farish—well, then, he’d have an explanation. And if he had—as Eugene feared—well, then, there was nothing that Eugene could say or do to help him.

“Your grandmother says it nearly come to blows. Danny done something to Farish to get him mad.”

“I never saw it.” Typical of Gum, to say something like that. Farish never let Gum go anywhere near the police. She was so partisan in her relationships with her grandsons that she was liable to start complaining about Danny or Eugene and tattling on them about one thing and another even as she was extolling Farish to the skies.

“All right, then.” The cop stubbed out his cigarette. “I just want to make something clear, all right? This is an interview, Eugene, not an interrogation. There’s no point in me taking you down to the station and reading you your rights unless I have to, are we agreed on that?”

“Yes sir,” said Eugene—meeting his eye, looking quickly away. “I appreciate it, sir.”

“So. Just between the two of us, where do you think Danny is?”

“I don’t know.”

“Now, from what I hear, y'all were real close,” said the cop in the same confidential tone. “I can’t believe he’d take off somewhere without telling you. Any friends I should know about? Connections out of state? He can’t have got too far on his own, on foot, not without some kind of help.”

“What makes you think he took off? How do you know he ain’t laying dead or hurt somewhere like Farsh?”

The cop clasped his knee. “Now, it’s interesting you ask that. Because we took Alphonse de Bienville into custody just this morning to ask him the very same thing.”

Eugene sat pondering this new wrinkle. “You think Catfish done it?”

“Done what?” said the cop casually.

“Shot my brother.”

“Well.” For a moment the cop sat staring into space. “Catfish is an enterprising businessman. Certainly he saw a chance to make a quick buck, moving in on y'all's concern, and that’s what it looks like he planned to do. But here’s the problem, Eugene. We can’t find Danny, and we can’t find the drugs. And we got no evidence that Catfish knows where they are, either. So we’re back to square one. That’s why I was hoping you could maybe help me out a little.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Eugene sat rubbing his mouth. “I just don’t know what I can do for you.”

“Well, maybe you’d better think about it some more. Since we’re talking murder and all.”

“Murder?” Eugene sat stunned. “Farish is dead ?” For a moment, he couldn’t catch his breath in the heat. He hadn’t been up to Intensive Care in over an hour; he’d allowed Gum and Curtis to go back up by themselves from the cafeteria, after their vegetable soup and banana pudding, while he sat and drank a cup of coffee.

The cop looked surprised—but whether it was real surprise, or fake surprise, Eugene couldn’t tell.

“You didn’t know?” he said. “I seen you coming down the hall thataway and I just thought—”

“Listen,” said Eugene, who had already stood up, and was moving away, “listen. I need to get in there and be with my grandmother. I—”