Kathy Reichs - Bones of the Lost - A Temperance Brennan Novel

“Lady Gaga. We’re getting an act together.”

Poland’s jaw muscles bulged, but he said nothing.

“So, Sam. How long you been working at the country club here?”

“Twelve years.”

“Tell me about Dominick Rockett.”

Poland studied the rag in his hands. Up close, I could see they were red and splotchy. I suspected eczema.

“I’m talking to you, dickwad.”

“This is harassment.”

“Rockett drink here?”

Poland shrugged.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A customer looks old enough, I don’t ask for ID.”

“Guy’s face looks like he washed it with a blowtorch. That help?”

“I might’ve seen someone like that.”

“Sitting with John-Henry Story?”

“Who?”

“You know, Sam. I’m starting to think you’re trying to waste my time. People waste my time, they piss me off.”

“Sorry I can’t help.”

“You saying you never heard of John-Henry Story?”

Poland shrugged again.

Moving with astonishing speed for a man of his bulk, Slidell reached out, finger-wrapped Poland’s neck, and brought him forehead to forehead.

Around us the room went totally still.

“I find that odd, Sam. Being Story’s the man used to cut your checks.”

Poland struggled to free his head. Slidell held him like a vise.

“I can walk out to my car and run your name through every system in the city, the county, the state, and the universe. You got an outstanding warrant? Unpaid taxes? Late child-support payment? One single slip, your dick is mine.”

Slidell’s words sent droplets of saliva onto Poland’s face. They glistened blue and green in neon oozing from signage behind the bar.

Even Linda had nothing to say.

Thinking Poland might speak more freely with me out of earshot, and wanting to avoid spittle, I moved toward the bulletin boards and feigned interest in the photos.

The collection looked as if it stretched back beyond the Nixon years. Some snapshots had old-fashioned scallopy edges. Some were standard drug-store-issue prints. Some were Polaroids not holding up well.

I fingered through the layers, digging out an image here and there.

A creased black-and-white showed an old Chevy coupe with whitewall tires, its fedoraed driver arm-draping the door. A color print featured a kid in a boater with an LBJ hatband. Another captured a Kodak moment inspired by four bare buttocks.

Dozens of pictures dated to the tavern’s Myrtle Beach days. In shot after shot couples danced under looping strands of lights, gathered at tables, or mugged at the lens in shoulder-to-shoulder camaraderie.

There were shots of New Year’s Eve celebrations, balloons festooning the fireplace, ceiling, and walls. Of diners in shorts and sundresses dappled by sunlight at patio tables. Of drunks in green hats, shamrocks, and beads.

Men in coveralls. Women in stilettos and spandex. Couples snugged together like spoons. Businessmen in suits. Twenty- and thirtysomethings in full-body Nike or Adidas. Athletic teams in uniform. Quartets and sextets of college students.

Over the years the fashions and hairstyles changed. Long bangs. Wild perms. Shaved heads. Pierced noses and lips. It was like sifting through layers at an archaeology dig.

Behind me, Slidell continued hammering at Poland. The beer drinkers and Linda remained silent. The workers had resumed conversing in low tones.

As I moved from board to board, I wondered how the collection had come to be.

Whatever its history, the allure had faded in recent years. Few images looked like products of the digital age.

I was at the end of the last board when I spotted Story. Or was it?

Moving discreetly, I pried the tack loose with a thumbnail and studied the photo.

Oh, yeah. Rattus rattus .

Story was beside a woman in a sparkly green halter creating va-va-voom cleavage. Both were raising champagne flutes. She was smiling. He was not.

A blond kid sat one barstool down from the woman, leaning at an angle that suggested at least twenty beers. The date embroidered on his varsity jacket was two years back.

Pumped, I burrowed through more stratigraphy.

Pay dirt.

I knew the terrible price of war. I’d seen images of veterans in full dress uniform, heads high, ravaged faces proud. Speaking at rallies. Arm in arm with their beautiful brides.

I’d been told Dominick Rockett’s burns were severe. Still, I was unprepared.

On the left, Rockett’s brows and lashes were gone, and his forehead hung bulbous over a lidless orbit. His lips were bloated and skewed, and his nostril melted into a cheek the consistency of congealed oatmeal.

On the right, save for hair loss and an unnatural smoothing of the skin, his face appeared normal. A knitted tuque was pulled low on his forehead.

I felt pity as I viewed the destruction. The image in the mirror every morning of Rockett’s life. In his mind when a stranger looked away. When a child stared or screamed in fear.

Dear God. What a price.

My eyes moved from Rockett to the other man sharing his table. Wiry, with gaunt cheeks and small rodent eyes.

Casting a quick glance behind me, I thumbed the second snapshot from the board and slipped both into my purse. Then I crossed back to the bar.

Slidell had released Poland but was still grilling him. The beer drinkers and Boob woman remained focused on their beverages.

“—telling you, man, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know much, do you, asshat.”

After a round of my not so subtle throat-clearing, Slidell graced me with a glance. I tipped my head toward the door.

Slidell frowned, then hit Poland with two more questions. Got more nothing, but the point was made. Dirty Harry was in charge.

Slapping a card on the bar, Slidell gave the usual instruction about phoning. Then we left.

Back in the Taurus, I pulled out the purloined pictures and identified the players. Slidell studied the faces without comment. Which surprised me.

“So Story and Rockett are drinking buddies,” he finally said.

“I don’t know about that. But this proves they’re acquainted.”

“What say we poke at that?”

“Oh, yeah. But remember. Dew doesn’t want Rockett spooked.”

“Right.”

We were rolling before my seat belt clicked home.

ROCKETT LIVED OFF HIGHWAY 51 in one of Charlotte’s far southwestern tentacles. During the first half of the drive, Slidell briefed me on what he’d learned from Poland. Which was practically zip.

After some prodding, the bartender admitted he’d seen the tavern’s owner a few times. Said Story hadn’t been a drinker, hadn’t been interested in getting to know his employees.

Poland had the impression Story usually came with men, and that the visits had been more business than pleasure. Wasn’t sure, since Story hadn’t been a smiley guy.

Poland hadn’t a clue who’d started the photo gallery. Or maintained it. Said the collection traced to well before his tenure.

“Apparently Story and Rockett weren’t all that concerned with discretion.” Throughout the trip, I’d been wondering what that implied.

Slidell turned to me, a Chiclet halfway from his palm to his mouth.

“Meaning?”

“Why allow their picture to be posted on that board?”

“Dumb shits probably didn’t know.”

Maybe.

Thirty minutes after leaving South End, Slidell hooked a left past a sign announcing LES FLEURS. Pretentious, I know. But Charlotteans like their neighborhoods christened.

Houses in Les Fleurs were mostly ranches and split-levels dating to the sixties and seventies. Most had meager square footage, detached garages, and some variation on the theme of pastel siding.