Lake Charles (17 page)

“Why did she carry it?” asked Mr. Kuzawa.

“She said she felt threatened and wanted to hire me as a bodyguard who could use the Luger.”

“Why did she feel threatened?”

I shrugged. “She never got into the specifics. I just wrote it off to her rich girl hysteria.”

Mr. Kuzawa zippoed a Marlboro and forwarded the pack to Herzog who in turn fired one up, but I passed. Mr. Kuzawa’s hooded eyes acknowledged my refusal then shifted to study Herzog puffing away and striving too hard to fit in as one of the guys. If only I hadn’t given in to the easy temptation to see The Devil’s Own play live that night. Testy and regretful, I hammered the gas pedal. The engine raced as my thoughts did back to Kerns’ store on the eventful night in May. The party van sat in his parking lot just off from the service isle, and the crew invited me aboard.

So I said, “Sure, why the hell not?” and wiggled into the van’s rearmost grotto where a black light gave it a surreal tint. Ashleigh lectured on astrology, Ouija boards, and tarot cards. Like my Uncle Ozzie who blew out his brains with a .44 slug, I was a superstitious cuss. She requested my zodiac sign, but I’d no idea and told her. She took my birthday, June 20th, and put me with her sign, Gemini. Her horoscope reading found us to dovetail in a nice fit.

“How about that?” said Goat between the snorts off the ice hookah. “You two are astrally simpatico.”

Ashleigh and I smoked some of her mind-bending reefer and soon after I pulled at the hangman’s noose snugging at my throat. The wind sailed through my ears. I swayed on the gallows’ trapdoor just inches above the spectators clamoring for the news of my fate. Their cheers erupted when my verdict came down—guilty as charged
…

She jogged me awake and insisted she play the lead in my dreams. For my “absolutely” reply, we kissed, and she filled my pair of lungs with the joy smoke. Our freewheeling van of happy-go-lucky partygoers crested the fog-shrouded mountains where my head plunged into a tailspin. Ah, so this was a bum trip, a bad go on the grass. But her kiss electrified me.

“Death is but a dream,” she said. “Just like the song goes.”

“The Devil’s Own song?”

“No, silly, our song. You’re the songwriter who penned it for us. Soon we’ll fly up as the angels to dance on the clouds and sing it.”

Then she went down on me there in the back of the party van.

* * *

From inside the cab truck, we directed our sight at the farm lane down the way. It was a calm, even docile scene. Beyond a white plank fence, the sleek, black thoroughbreds grazed in the knee-deep Kentucky bluegrass. I saw six thoroughbreds with others no doubt over the next knoll away from our view. I thought of the horseshoe tracks I’d seen in the sand at Lang’s Teahouse. Who’d go riding to Lake Charles? The mounted park rangers went on fire patrols through the rugged wilderness. This record dry month and the wildfires had turned out more horseback patrols.

“Brendan, this is sort of ticky-tack for Sizemore,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

“I agree but Ashleigh said her father owns different properties. Maybe this is one of them,” I said. “He dupes the ranchers needing legal aid, secures their land for collateral, and then turns around and calls in their debts. They’re too strapped to cough up the dough, and he steals the farms out from under them.”

Herzog nodded. “Not original but it’s an ingenious idea.”

“Only another shyster would think so,” said Mr. Kuzawa, angry.

“I didn’t say he’s an admirable individual, but he is clever and treacherous,” said Herzog.

“He wouldn’t live in that hovel.” Mr. Kuzawa nodded his grizzled head at the group of ramshackle buildings.

“Then his tenants will know where they mail the rent check,” I said.

I grabbed first gear on the column shift. The newly paved lane smelled of fresh tar, and the sprayed up stones dinged the cab truck fenders. I saw the yellow aluminum siding sheathed the boxy house, and its yard looked threadbare. No push pedal toys or jump ropes dotted the grass. A red tick under the porch crawled out and with curiosity sniffed at us. He judged our scent benign and flopped down to scratch behind an ear.

After my cab truck halted, Mr. Kuzawa scooted down from the cab seat. He craned his head, peering at the farmhouse. Had I also seen a curtain stir in the picture window? He went over and rapped on the door. After no response, he gave us a shrug. I signaled him to go try at any other doors. He loped around the corner. Herzog’s game pouch speared me in the hip, and I shifted away. We sat watching, and in a few minutes, Mr. Kuzawa reappeared at an energetic clip.

No sooner had he climbed into his seat than Herzog had to know. “Well …?”

“A pregnant gal named Alicia finally answered my knocks,” replied Mr. Kuzawa. “She told me three times Sizemore is a bad man.”

My acceleration wheeled us off down the lane. “No big shock there.”

“The Arbogasts who lived here pulled up stakes on Memorial Day and moved in with a cousin in Gatlinburg. Alicia stayed behind since she has nowhere else to go. Her father raised hell over her pregnancy. Anyway, her begging persuaded Sizemore to let her stay on here. But once she has the kid, he told her to hit the bricks.”

“Do the Arbogasts own the farm?” I asked.

“They did,” replied Mr. Kuzawa. “Through some legal sleight of hand that Alicia couldn’t follow, Sizemore assumed possession and then ownership of the ranch and evicted them.”

“Does she live alone in the middle of bumfuck nowhere?”

“She told me she has a phone, and the church ladies bring her groceries and stuff.”

“Does she know where Sizemore lives?”

“Uh-huh. Tonight is the time to hit before he knows we’re after him,” replied Mr. Kuzawa.

“Do you have the expertise in disguising assassinations?” asked Herzog.

“Put it this way. I’m clever enough to disguise yours.”

As my asshole tightened, Herzog coughed like a goat. “What does that mean?”

“Form your own conclusions, lawyer.”

His hands left tremoring, Herzog flicked his Marlboro ash into the dashboard tray. He inhaled a heartier puff. Still uneasy, he talked as if he worked in court. “We better focus our efforts on discovering who harmed Ashleigh Sizemore. For redemption, Brendan solves her homicide. To wit, a lock-tight motive explains the whys and wherefores to her grisly fate.”

“Fuck that finesse shit. I’m honing the finer points to my idea.” Mr. Kuzawa tossed the Marlboro pack out the cab window.

Herzog turned haughty. “But Kuzawa, you’re not Brendan’s attorney. I’m the professional paid to advise him, not you.”

“He called me when the chips were down. You just popped up at Lake Charles.”

“Meaning what?”

“I’m his go-to guy, not you.”

“All right, enough already,” I said. “We’re not—I repeat—not taking out Sizemore.” I gave Mr. Kuzawa a meaningful look.

“Hey, I hear that.” He nodded. “We go in and rattle his cage and shake out what he knows. He can point us to Edna.”

“Fine but I’ll do the cage shaking.”

Mr. Kuzawa shrugged. “It’s your party, Brendan.”

Our talk trailed off, and I used the lull to replay Ashleigh and me asleep in the motel bed. The murderous slime had to ooze through the door, or he’d wormed in the bathroom window. Ralph Sizemore put a face on the murderous slime, but proving it was tough. I squirmed in the cab seat and spoke.

“The sheriff’s deputies recovered the angel dust taped under our bed table. Angel dust killed her. Mr. Kuzawa is on the right track. Sizemore sneaked in to kill her and plant the fake clue. With us off cruising in the ozone, fixing it was easy. The part I can’t figure out is how the angel dust ended up in her system.”

“Proven techniques can extract that from Sizemore.”

Herzog had a pained sigh. “Did your time in Korea shape you into a total thug, Kuzawa?”

“Back off or I’ll show you what Korea did to me. Just call me a ticking time bomb ready to go off when I get pissed enough.”

This time Herzog swallowed hard, and I said nothing.

Mr. Kuzawa waved his hand at the state road. “Brendan, go supply for the mission.”

Wagging his head, Herzog moaned as I kindled the engine. “What if Sizemore does confess to his daughter’s murder? Will you kill him on the spot?”

“I was messing with you, lawyer. We hand over Sizemore to the state cops.”

“Their phone number is in my wallet,” I said.

“If things get hairy, the rangers stay on standby,” said Mr. Kuzawa.

“The Smoky Mountain Rangers? You’re not one of them or are you . . .” His face pale as a leper’s, Herzog stopped.

Mr. Kuzawa crossed his fingers. “We’re like this.”

Herzog and I knew if you brought in the rangers, the blood would flow in Yellow Snake’s streets.

* * *

The all-purpose store on Yellow Snake’s main artery muscled out its neighbors, a payday loan shop, an off-brand electronics store, and a marquee advertising “Apocalypse Now”, a box office smash. My cab truck shunted to the curb, and I shepherded us into the store where angular steel shelves walled the aisles. Herzog angled off at one aisle to get a pair of leather gloves for his soft hands. I found the bolt cutters, pry bars, electrical tape, extra ammo, and of course, the cartons of Marlboro Reds.

The soon-to-pop pregnant, short brunette between her indifferent drags off the Newport rang us up. Smitten, Herzog tried to hit on her except bored stupid she spewed a stream of cigarette smoke in his face. His cheeks and ears flushed an ignominious red, and Mr. Kuzawa consoled him.

“Forget her. She’s used goods.”

Herzog nodded.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Kuzawa halt and squint up at the transom as if making out something written on it. I stashed our purchases in the truck bed, quit Yellow Snake, and headed back on the state road. Once past Sizemore’s gate, I secluded us behind the same grove of silver maples. Time draped heavy on us waiting until nightfall. Examining the indelible ink crusted under my fingernails, I felt chained to the lifetime of a pressman’s tedium, but I clung to my plan to go make a fresh start at Valdez.

My alcohol buzz gone left me feeling morose. Mr. Kuzawa and Herzog lit up. In a little bit, Mr. Kuzawa ditched his butt, slumped back his head, and took a catnap. Herzog’s eyes never strayed from the state road as if he was expecting a parade to march by us.