Good Day to Die (22 page)

“Yessir?” he said to me, ignoring Bouton.

I showed him my ID and my badge, actually passed the billfold over and let him take a good look. “And this is Captain Bouton,” I added. “Also, NYPD.”

Shannon closed the billfold and passed it back. “You folks are a long way from home.”

“Not so far,” I said. “I grew up in Paris. It’s only about forty miles from here.”

“Paris?” He broke into a wide, toothless grin. “Used to hunt up there when I was younger. Around Black Brook. You hunt, Officer?”

“Started with squirrels and rabbits. Soon as I was strong enough to hold my .22. I’ll never forget that old gun; she was a breech-loading Stevens went for sixteen dollars. New, that is, not when I got it. That gun sure didn’t look like much. Stock was all chipped away as I remember. But it shot straight.”

“Well, come on in. I’ll go find my teeth and put some coffee up.”

I waited until the coffee was ready before turning the conversation away from the glories of bloodletting. By that time, Shannon seemed perfectly comfortable, though he still refused to look at Bouton.

“I guess you’re wondering why we’re here,” I said.

“Did cross my mind,” he admitted. “Don’t wanna rush you none.”

“We’re investigating the murder of John Kennedy.”

“Still?”

I couldn’t restrain a smile. The little bastard knew how to twist the knife. “Yeah, still. You’re a good friend of John’s father, Aloysius, right?”

“Near ’bout his
only
friend, truth be told. Fact, some ways I ain’t
even
a friend. He just sorta tolerates me.”

“Are you saying the father wasn’t such a nice guy?”

“Son, you can take that to the bank. And it ain’t only that Aloysius, man and boy, was mean as a snake. Hell, this ain’t no country for sissies; nobody’d hold that against him. No, the reason why people mostly didn’t take to Aloysius was that he’d squeeze a dime till it was bleedin’ silver ’fore he’d pay for a candy bar. Did okay for himself in life; owned himself a liquor store in Lake Placid, smack dab in the middle of all those resorts. Had the ski people in the winter, the summer people in the summer, the fishermen and hunters in between. Think he’d spring for a drink down the tavern? Hell, Aloysius bought a new Ford pickup in ’72 and he’s
still
got it. Fenders all rusted out. Windshield wipers don’t work. No heat in the winter. Damn thing is a horror.”

The meeting ended up being “everything you ever wanted to know about Aloysius Kennedy and more of the same.” Kennedy’s roof leaked, his plumbing backed up, he heated with wood, mowed his lawn with a push mower, shoveled his own snow, ate macaroni and hash three times a week.

I let it go on as long as I could, then gently shoved the old man in a new direction. “Well, I guess he doesn’t do any of those things now,” I said. “He’s too sick.”

Shannon looked down at his feet. “Won’t do ’em again, neither,” he whispered. “Doctors say he’s a goner.” He shook his head. “Don’t know what he was savin’ his money for. Can’t take it with him, can he?”

“Probably all go to the son, Robert. Unless he’s got a will somewhere.”

“Nope,” the old man shook his head, “no will. Aloysius once told me couldn’t stand the idea of his boys endin’ up with his money, but he couldn’t stand the idea of leavin’ it to nobody else, neither. Man, that Aloysius was some kinda cheap.”

“Tell me, Seaver, did you know John Kennedy?”

Shannon wrinkled up his nose and spat on the floor. “That
he-she?
Oh, yeah, I knowed him. Wasn’t a bad kid growin’ up. Always smilin’. Always tryin’ to please everybody. Thought maybe he’d turn out okay. ’Spite of Robert beatin’ on him.” Shannon took a deep breath. “See, Robert was just like his daddy in that way. The damned school terror. Aloysius was always goin’ to that school, try to get Robert out of some kinda trouble. Take the boy home and beat him till he was blue in the face. Tell the boy, ‘Why can’t you be like your brother?’ Didn’t do no good.”

“The father liked John? Favored him, maybe?”

“Much as he favored anybody. Fact, he mostly treated the boy good. Right up to the day he caught John …” Shannon looked over at Bouton for the first time, then back at me. “Up to the day he caught John performin’ an oral perversion on his brother. After that, he didn’t have no use for none of ’em.”

“Did John visit his father?”

“Come one or twice, but Aloysius wouldn’t see him. Would you?”

I left the question unanswered; I wasn’t there to debate an old man. “How about Robert? Did he visit?”

“No sir. Robert ain’t seen his old man in five years. Maybe more.”

“They have a fight?”

“Sure did. A humdinger. Robert knocked out his father’s teeth. Over money, too. The boy wanted to borrow money to buy himself a house. This is when he was just startin’ out with the sheriff. Aloysius had the money, but he wouldn’t part with it.
Couldn’t
part with it. No more than a snake can fly.”

“Shannon, I take it you don’t know anything about John’s life in New York?”

He snorted, breaking into a wheezy laugh. “That’s another snake can’t fly. What I
heard
was that John did what come natural to him. Got paid for it, too.”

“But you don’t know anything about his friends? His associates?”

“Nothin.”

“What about the mother? Aloysius’ wife.”

“Dead. Robert kilt her.”

“What?”

“They called it somethin’ like ‘accidental discharge.’ Boy was around nine years old at the time. John was still a baby. Robert claimed he was cleanin’ his daddy’s 30-30 and it went off. Weren’t no witnesses, but lotsa people ’round here had suspicions. Bullet went right through Virginia’s head. Hell of a thing, really. Hell of a thing.” He shook his head grimly, then managed a thin shrug. “Hard life up here. Hard country; hard life. No place for sissies. Guess you know the four seasons?”

“Sure,” I said, “I know them. Black flies; Fourth of July; Labor Day; winter.”

A
S WE DROVE AWAY
from Shannon’s, Bouton’s mouth went into overdrive. As far as she was concerned, Robert Kennedy was already tried and convicted. He fit the pattern, she informed me. Fit it a hundred percent. He was cruel to other children (his brother), abused by his father (and his mother, for all we knew), killed his own mother, attacked his father. Throw in money as a motive and all the psychological pieces came together.

I suppose I should have warned her about tunnel vision. About forcing big round pegs into small round holes. About locking onto a suspect and ignoring any evidence pointing in another direction. The rule is motive, means,
and
opportunity. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that Bob Kennedy didn’t want to share his inheritance. And I suppose he could have lured his brother and the others into that van everybody assumed Thong was driving when he committed the murders—all it would take was a few twenty-dollar bills. But for the life of me, I couldn’t see an upstate, hillbilly cop targeting Thong’s victims. They were too varied, worked too many different strolls. Where would he find the time?

“What we ought to do,” Bouton concluded as if reading my mind, “is subpoena Kennedy’s work records. See if he was off-duty when the murders were committed.”

I didn’t bother to answer. I kept seeing a nine-year-old boy with a rifle aimed at his mother’s head. Wondering if I’d ever done that, if I’d ever thought about it. Had I seen my mother’s face superimposed on the bodies of squirrels and rabbits? I could remember every detail of my confrontation with Big Mike, but I couldn’t recall ever standing up to my mother.

No, what I’d done, when the opportunity presented itself, was flee. That was the literal truth, and I suppose I must have experienced fear. What I wanted to know, as we drove through the forest, Bouton chattering away, was if there was anger as well. Did I hate her? Did I wish she was dead? Did I ever play out the deed in my childish daydreams? And if I hadn’t, if the idea of putting an end to the torture had never occurred to me, why not?

But wanting, as far as I could see, had nothing to do with receiving. (Just ask the millions of souls who pray for the miracle cure, the unexpected check in the mail, the one true love of their miserable lives to ring the doorbell.) And the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that far from wishing her dead, I’d somehow expected her to change. To press my face between her breasts and draw out the pain the way you’d suck poison from a rattlesnake bite.

Without warning, I found myself drawn back into an almost-forgotten memory.

Mom is in the early stages of a serious binge. She’s sitting on the floor, her back to the wall, clutching a bottle. The bottle is filled with cheap bourbon, so she must have had a good day. If she hadn’t, she’d be drinking wine. Tears pour down her face. She mutters something about her husband, my father, long gone, then reaches out to me. I fly into her arms, grateful even for this false comfort. Accepting the sour smell of her unwashed body, the touch of her greasy, matted hair. Accepting anything I can get.

“Why don’t you pull in here.” Bouton’s voice drifted up to me. “Let’s get some lunch before we see Kennedy.”

“Where?”

“This place just up ahead.”

The sign said “Pete’s Eats,” which I suppose Bouton found encouraging. The pickups and motorcycles scattered over the gravel parking lot told a different story. We’d be anything but welcome.

I started to explain the facts of life to her but held my tongue at the last moment. A little hostility, I figured, would put things back into perspective. Would turn me away from a road I didn’t want to travel.

I found all the hostility I needed the minute we walked through the door. Conversations stopped; heads swiveled; slow, knowing grins swept across white, north-country faces. The only sound, as we stood in the doorway, was the hard whine of a country guitar issuing from a battered jukebox.

“I think we better get take-out, Means.” Bouton was faintly amused. “Considering that we’ve just wandered into a story my grandmother told me about life in Mississippi.”

The low, persistent laughter began as we walked over to the cash register. One rogue, making no effort to keep his words of wisdom between himself and his buddies, said, “I know we need the tourists, but
daaaamn.
” Someone at the same table, eager to elevate the discussion to more abstract principles, said, “I know what
she
is, but what the fuck is he?”

“Which one gets to hold the leash?”

“Are we talkin’ about some disgustin’ babies, or what?”

The counterman grilled our hamburgers without comment. It wasn’t that he didn’t want our business—up there, you take a dollar where you find it—but we’d be gone in fifteen minutes and he’d need another dollar tomorrow.

At one point, Bouton put her hand on my arm, telling me to stay calm. She needn’t have bothered. As a matter of law, mere speech, no matter how nasty, cannot justify an assault. I’d need much more, and when I heard chairs scraping behind us, followed by a squeaky door opening and closing, I knew I was going to get it.

“Don’t back out, motherfucker.” I thought I’d said it to myself, but apparently I’d spoken aloud.

“What, Means?”

“The burgers look good, Captain. Can’t wait to get my teeth into them.”

The counterman took our money and made change without a word.

“Why don’t you take this?” I handed the package to Bouton and much to my surprise, she accepted it without protest. Cradling it in her left hand while she opened her purse with her right.

“There gonna be a problem here?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

“Then do what you have to do.” She was grinning broadly. “I’ll be in the car.”

There were three of them waiting outside. Two were leaning against an ancient pickup while the third, the biggest (naturally) stood in front of my car. Maybe forty years old, round-faced and bearded, he wore an Oakland Raiders cap, a red wool shirt-jacket, and a shit-eating grin.

“Hiawatha, I presume,” he said. “And little black Sambette.”

I walked straight at him. He looked surprised for a moment, then determined. His shoulders hunched and his hands came up.

“Come on, bitch,” he muttered. “Come and get it.”

I maintained control until he threw the first punch, a slow, powerful left that I allowed to graze the top of my head. That gave me the legal right to respond, which was all I needed to justify losing control. I don’t remember seeing him or hearing him; can’t remember the feel of his flesh against the heel of my hand or the outside of my forearm. According to Bouton, I went through him like a hurricane through a cornfield. She insisted that except for that first punch, he’d put up no resistance, as if he’d suddenly come to understand (and accept) his fate.

Whatever way it happened, when I came back into myself, he was lying on the gravel, hands over his face, whimpering like a beaten child. Bouton was standing five feet away, displaying her .38 and her badge. The two buddies were still leaning against their pickups, but now their mouths hung open. Behind us, a small crowd had gathered near the entrance to Pete’s Eats.

“Arrest him,” Bouton said, her voice firm and committed.

“Why you wanna do that?” One of the buddies found his voice. “
He’s
the one got the beating.”

“He assaulted a police officer,” she returned, stretching the truth more than a little bit. I’d neither displayed a badge nor announced my profession.

I yanked the man’s head up, noting that the left side of his face was bright red and badly swollen. “You’re not going to resist, are you?” I asked.

Before he could make his intentions known, I heard the wail of sirens in the distance. I let his head drop and turned to face an onrushing cruiser as it roared into the parking lot.

Sheriff Pousson got out first (thank God, I was afraid it was Beauchamp, the town cop), followed by two deputies. He stared at us for a moment, then nodded at someone standing in the doorway.

“Pete?” he said. “You called about a riot? I don’t see any riot.”

The counterman who’d taken and prepared our food separated himself from the crowd by the door and walked across the lot. He and Pousson huddled for several minutes while the rest of us stood around, then Pousson strolled over to where I was standing. His stern, closed face showed nothing of his intentions, and I wasn’t sure of how he was going to handle the situation until he stepped on my adversary’s hand, then twisted his heel like he was grinding out a cigarette butt.