Jonah Man (18 page)

The hotel owner’s wife stood behind the counter, her face framed by a pegboard key rack, her expression vacant as she filed thick sheets of paper into a long tin box.

A word with you? the Inspector said.

Just a moment, she said. She fingered the papers in front of her, furrowing her brow as though he’d broken her concentration. The Inspector leaned across the counter, lifted the lid and set it softly in place, forcing her to withdraw her hands.

A word, he said, pulling out his notebook.

Certainly, she said.

The boy? he said.

The boy, she said, was between twelve and fourteen years of age, wiry, sallow, tall, hair unkempt, clothes this side of threadbare. He was not well looked after, but then the father did not look after his own self. The father she described as the remains of a man who had once been handsome, whose blue eyes had lost their focus, whose chest had all but collapsed, whose bones pressed through his flesh. His speech was not slurred, but somehow altered. The boy, she continued, seemed deferential, indifferent,
like a prisoner in mid-sentence.

The Inspector nodded, pocketed his notebook.

Obliged, he said.

Inspector, she said, leaning forward, would you like your room now?

Not just yet.

He turned to leave, saw a man standing in the door frame,
his face and clothes coated with soot.

Mavis, the man called, moving past the Inspector, I’m looking for a piece of shit named Jonson. Has a boy with him.

Mavis said nothing. The Inspector pivoted, distinguished the butt of a gun protruding from the man’s pants.

What room, Mavis?

The Inspector took a quick stride, snatched the gun with one hand, grabbed the man’s bicep with the other.

Hold on, he said.

I’ll crack your goddamned skull.

With what? I have your gun.

This is the Inspector, Mavis said: smiling, nervous.

What are you inspecting?

Murder, Mavis said.

Thank you, Mavis, the Inspector said. I’ll take it from here.

Whose murder?

The Inspector emptied the chamber, set the gun and bullets on the counter. He lifted a single bullet up to the light, removed the slug from his jacket pocket.

What the hell is this?

I’m guessing it was your theater that burned down?

Yeah. I’m the manager anyway. And I know damn well who did it.

Who’s that?

That drunk and his boy.

Doubtful.

How’s that?

The drunk is dead. Murdered. Sometime last night.

Mavis, that true?

Oh, yes, said Mavis.

Let’s talk, the Inspector said. The manager gathered his gun and bullets, trailed the Inspector outside.

Sit, the Inspector said, gesturing to the stone bench beneath the hotel’s window.

What about the boy? the manager asked. Where’s the boy?

Please sit, the Inspector said.

This ain’t your office.

We could use yours, if you like.

It was that boy burned down my theater. You find him before I do.

I’m going to sit, the Inspector said.

Then fucking sit.

Now, the Inspector said, sitting, you seem convinced the fire was set deliberately.

Is that a question?

It is.

It’s a fool one.

Answer it just the same.

The boy must have murdered his old man. It’d be a hell of a coincidence otherwise—two crimes that big in a single night.

I’m not sure that the boy did murder his father.

Then you’re good for shit.

All I know for certain is that the boy is missing. And you came here thinking that either he or his father set the fire. But Jonson is dead.

If you’re going to ask a question, ask it.

All right. What made you think that either of them had set the fire?

They were trash.

And?

The father fell down drunk onstage. The boy tried to make like it was part of the act, but everybody knew.

So you had them removed?

I removed them myself.

Did they put up a fight?

Not then. The father had pissed himself. Couldn’t stop laughing.

When?

When what?

Did they put up a fight?

They didn’t. But the boy came back later.

By himself?

Yeah, by himself.

How much later?

It was night. Ten, maybe eleven o’clock.

Go on.

He wanted his half.

Was he carrying his belongings?

He had a bag slung over his shoulder. At first I figured his old man put him up to it, but then I figured he was running off. If he did do in his old man it was a mercy killing.

Good for shit, was he?

Less than shit. Can I go now?

Yes, though I’d like to know where.

To find the boy.

It would be better for everyone if you left that to me.

Is that an order?

If you like.

He watched the manager walk away, soot shaking free from his thighs, his shadow dragging the ground behind him. He climbed into a pickup truck, the bed crowded with scorched lumber, turned the ignition and took off through town.

Throughout the initial interrogation, Jonson held to the story his employers had scripted: a man he met on an overnight train gave
him fifty dollars to make the delivery and promised the buyer would pay him twice that amount.

What was his name?

He never said.

What did he look like?

It was dark, and we had a flask.

What exactly is in the vials?

You’d have to ask the man on the train.

The Inspector changed tacks, turned his questions to Jonson’s life outside of the vials. Over time, Jonson became more responsive, though his answers seldom spilled into a second sentence. He was a widower, a father, a showman. He had no permanent residence, no account in any bank. He and his son spent summers performing up and down the eastern shore; fall through spring, they toured with whatever circuit would have them. His son was the real talent. The stage, for Jonson, was more job than calling.

And how long do you and your son spend at each stop on the circuit?

Sometimes one night. Sometimes a full week.

So you’re on the road quite a bit?

More than we’re onstage.

Is that why they picked you?

Who?

Whoever manufactures the vials?

You’d have to ask the man on the train.

Ultimately, it was nothing the Inspector said or did but rather the passage of time that caused a change in Jonson’s demeanor. By late afternoon, his voice took on a strained quality, his neck broke out in colorless hives, he appeared suddenly more frail.

Why don’t we rest for a moment? the Inspector said.

He returned a short while later with a cup of coffee for himself,
a glass of water for Jonson.

I have the impression, he said, that someone gave you bad advice. I think they told you that if you insisted on a lie there was nothing anyone could do to you. Let me tell you what I can do. I can keep you until you say something I believe. My work day ends in a quarter hour. Once those fifteen minutes are up, I’ll have an officer show you to your cell, and we will begin again in the morning.

I told you what I know.

We’ll see.

Let me get word to my son.

We will speak with him for you. Does he have anyone he can stay with?

He can stay with himself.

If you feel he’s safe.

You know, Jonson said. You ain’t said one thing I believe, either.

Is that so?

Fifteen minutes from now you got no place to be. No wife. No kids. No one but the people you talk to in this room, and they don’t tell you a goddamn thing you want to hear.

About your boy, the Inspector said. How can we reach him?

The sun struck his skin as though it were standing next to him. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his shirt, slung his jacket over his shoulder. He stood with his back arched, surveying the street, taking slow note of the facades, the signboards, the cars parked perpendicular to the wooden sidewalks. The buildings were all two stories tall, the ground floor for commerce, the top for lodging. At present, he was the only person in view.

He came first to the general store. The door was propped open with a sack of flour; strings of red peppers and links of
sausage hung in the windows. The man behind the counter was busy prodding something with a stick, the object hidden from view behind jars of candy and stacked pouches of tobacco. The Inspector stepped further into the store, saw that the shopkeeper was not prodding, but rather stuffing a large, dead bird—some sort of desert buzzard with brindled wings and a long, black beak—with balls of cotton that he kept in a bucket on the counter. The bird was mounted, belly up, on a tri-partite pedestal made expressly for the purpose, perhaps expressly for this bird, with three u-shaped prongs meant to cradle the buzzard’s neck, back, and talons respectively. The deep wooden shelves behind the shopkeeper housed desert creatures of all species, preserved in every conceivable posture: a rat, tail raised, lips curled, incisors shining—perhaps polished or even painted—poised to fight, presumably its last fight; a coyote pup, ears flopped forward, body twisted, hind leg raised to scratch a flea or tick or whatever insect might itch in the desert; a jack rabbit flat on its back, one ear dangling off the shelf; a small wildcat slapping the air with its paw. The poses did not so much preserve the dead as they did a moment of living, or, as with the jack rabbit, the first moment of death. The Inspector cleared his throat, nodded, received no reply.

He walked the aisles, making sure the boy was not there, stopping to finger a box of cigars, to note the prices of the canned goods. He returned to the counter, held out his badge.

What can I do for you? the shopkeeper asked. He removed his blood-stained gloves, tucked them into his apron pocket, extended his hand.

You’re quite the craftsman, the Inspector said.

If you call it craft, the shopkeeper said. It makes the day go by. Not a lot of traffic here in the afternoons.

I can imagine, the Inspector said.

Preserve them with my own concoction. I’m working on a patent.

Is this your shop?

Nope. I just run it.

A question.

Yes, sir.

I’m looking for a boy. He’d be on his own, between twelve and fourteen, tall for his age either way.

This about that fire?

Possibly, the Inspector said. Possibly not.

Well, he was in here, the shopkeeper said. Last night, right before I closed. Came in and bought a bottle of whiskey. Had a signed note said it was for his old man.

What was the boy like? His manner?

Didn’t really have one. Don’t think he said a word. Just gave me the note.

One more thing, the Inspector said. A sign outside says you handle the mail.

I do. This town ain’t big enough for a proper post office.

Would you still have today’s?

Outgoing, I would. Leaves every second evening.

Mind if I take a look?

Is that legal?

This is a federal investigation.

Does that answer my question?

It does.

All right, I won’t stand in your way.

He slid the bird up the counter, lifted a wickerwork basket from the floor and set it before the Inspector. Inside were a half-dozen letters.

You might be able to help me, the Inspector said, removing the envelopes from the basket, laying them out on the counter with the addresses facing the shopkeeper. Could you tell me which of these were posted by residents of this town and which by visitors?