Southern Cross Page 21

I nodded. “More or less.”

  Seth sighed and rubbed his eyes, as though exhaustion were as removable as makeup. “He’s my only son, Marsh.”

  “I know that, Seth. But innocent people have been hurt by this ASP business, and more will be until we shut it down. At this point, Colin’s the only wrench I’ve got.”

  “Use it wisely,” Seth said levelly, then drove away in a troubled huff. I got in the Thunderbird and turned the key. It started the way I felt—irritated and enervated and reluctant to do what it was designed for.

  Although I was tired from a lack of sleep and sustenance, my sag had a more elemental source. The cross-burning was one of those moments, like riots at ball games and lootings at earthquakes, that remind us we are not what we think we are, not what we ought to be, not as different as we should be from the Visigoths and Huns: Evolution notwithstanding, proof abounds that what we love above all else is a good excuse to kill each other. Or so it seemed as the sun slid toward me across a compliant sea on a steamy Southern morning that was far too congenial to contradict the smudge of the night before.

  I maneuvered the Thunderbird out of the park and drove toward the heart of the city. When I reached a little beanery near the medical college, I paused long enough to down four slices of French toast and enough coffee to reprise the tiff between the Merrimac and the Monitor while I formulated a plan of action. After my fourth cup of coffee and my second trip to the bathroom, I doubled back to the hospital.

  Because health care is the only booming business left in this country, it took almost an hour to get where I was going—find the right building, the right wing, the right floor, and the right nurse to pitch my plea to. After I evoked Seth’s name and cited evidence of our friendship, I was accepted as his emissary and allowed to see his son.

  Colin was under observation in the neurology department, presumably because his head injury was more ominous than his orthopedic problems. By following some indolent instruction, I found his room and peeked inside.

  The nearest bed was empty; Colin lay propped up in the other. The woman sitting beside him was crooning words of solace as she stroked the back of Colin’s hand. Her sepia skin contrasted sharply with its vesture, which was the antiseptic trappings of a nurse. In contrast to his attendant’s assiduous demeanor, the patient sported the glistening cheek and spongy nose of someone who’d just been crying.

  His right eye was bandaged; his left eye was black; the jaw beneath it was swollen and discolored. His right wrist sported a cast. His shaved head was now imprisoned in a halo—one of those metal cages they screw into your skull to make sure you can’t do damage to your dislodged brain. Removed from Bedford’s entourage and its studied puffery, deprived of his fatigues and jump boots, Colin Hartman seemed merely a kid who’d fallen off a swing and been skinned up in the school yard.

  As I lingered out of view, the nurse murmured something soothing, and Colin responded with a mumbled blurb that suggested he had trouble moving his jaw: I remembered it was wired shut. When I shifted position, I made a noise, and Colin and his nurse turned my way in mutual resentment at the interruption.

  When he saw who it was, Colin turned toward the woman with an expression that could not have been more needful had she been his private angel. I smiled at the incongruity of the alliance—no atheists in foxholes; no racists in intensive care.

  The nurse patted Colin’s hand once more and told him she had to go; Colin did something to show he didn’t want her to leave. I waited while they worked it out. As she passed on her way out of the room, she asked me to be brief and to try not to upset him. I claimed it was no problem. The name on her tag was Bunting.

  She started to move on, then stopped, her look distant and distrustful. “He can understand you, but because of the facial fractures he can’t form words yet. Don’t try to make him do so.”

  I glanced at the halo and the barren head trapped within it like a possum, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “Is there brain damage?”

  “We don’t think so, but we’ll need to do more tests to make sure.” She held up two fingers. “Two minutes. Then I come back and kick you out.”

  I took the seat Nurse Bunting had vacated and smiled to spiff up my intentions. Despite my outsized chumminess, Colin closed his unbandaged eye and arced his head and his halo back into his pillows, as though he hoped they would hide him.

  When I said his name, he winced. When I asked how he was doing, he grunted through a pulpy lip and a fence of broken teeth. When I told him I needed some information, he closed even tighter his good eye, which extruded a tear in its clouded corner. He was in pain, and I knew it; I was hoping to use it to my advantage.

  “You need to talk to me, Colin,” I began easily. “You need to tell me some more about ASP.”

  Nothing, not even a grunt. Since time was of the essence, I opted for tough love.

  “You’re between a rock and a hard place, son. You didn’t kill me like you were supposed to, so ASP will suspect you’ve rolled over and sold them out. On the other hand, if I talk to the cops, I can get you indicted as part of a criminal conspiracy, so your goose is cooked either way. Lucky for you, one side is still willing to ride to your rescue.”

  His grunt was probably a curse, but I chose not to decipher it. To give him time to think, I strolled to the window and looked out. At least six steeples pricked the morning sky like carrots sprouting through the clods of city soil. I wondered which church Beau Bilbow attended, wondered if any of them would turn him away if they knew what he had done that evening. I began my pitch without bothering to turn around.

  “You and Bedford kidnapped me. And falsely imprisoned me. And assaulted me with a deadly weapon. Big-time felonies, Colin; kidnapping’s a capital offense in most states. Even if they only stick you in jail, you’re going to wish they’d executed you, because jails are full of people you and your buddies call ‘Homo bestialis.’ When word gets around about your waltz with white supremacy, you’ll have a shank in your neck in a week. And as far as I can tell, your dad is the only one on earth who’ll give a shit.”

  I finally turned and looked at him. What he was trying to show was stoicism, but all he succeeded in showing was an abject blanch of terror. As his tethered jaw bulged with the effort to make some sound that would release the explosive vapor of his fears, tears coursed down his cheeks as though he were a block of ice in the Southern sun.

  “The good news is that there’s still time to pull this out,” I went on. “I haven’t told the cops about the business at the bunker yet. Your dad knows we had a spat, but he doesn’t know you tried to kill yourself, and he doesn’t know you tried to kill me. If I get what I want from you, he never will.”

  I met his look, which still struggled to be defiant despite the lapse of a moment earlier and the tune I was tapping on his mind.

  Since he couldn’t talk to me, I tried to bridge the gap. “You played a big game, so you have to pay a big price, Colin; if you’re man enough to wear combat clothes and carry automatic weapons, you’re man enough to take the consequences when you fuck up. The consequence for you is, if you don’t tell me what I want to know, you’re going to do some time. Long time; scary time. So what’s it going to be?”

  His response was a guttural curse, succeeded by a moan of pain.

  “I can tell it hurts to talk, so here’s all you have to do. I’m going to ask some questions. They can be answered yes or no. Move your thumb for yes, your index finger for no. Your index finger is your trigger finger,” I added when he seemed puzzled by the instructions. “Okay?”

  He blinked his single eye.

  “If you lie to me, I’ll find out about it. And I’ll go to the police and tell them what went down at the bunker and file charges against you and Bedford both. You might as well face up to the fact that ASP is history for you, Colin; you’re going to have to choose sides, and only one side still wants you on its team.”

  I gave him a minute to extrapolate from the bare bones of my pro
jection. “Your dad’s a nice guy,” I went on as his lip trembled for an instant, “but I’m not. As far as I’m concerned, you’re either with me or against me. If you’re with me, I’ll walk through hell to help you. If you’re against me, you fly solo, and no one’s around when you crash. If you don’t open up, I’ll call Bedford and give him your room number, just to make sure he knows where to look. Get the picture, Colin?”

  Hesitation. Then thumb.

  “Good. Here’s the first question. Do you know who Alameda Smallings is?”

  Hesitation. Thumb.

  “You sent her a tape, didn’t you?”

  Thumb.

  “Whose idea was it, Bedford’s?”

  Thumb.

  “Is that why you talk to Elmira once in a while? To keep current with your father’s cases so you can tell Bedford which people to target?”

  Thumb.

  “Was Bedford planning to do anything else about Alameda? Was he going to try to stop her from going ahead with the Palisade case in some other way that you know of? Something besides the tape?”

  Finger.

  “Did Bedford ever talk about a cross-burning?”

  Thumb.

  “At Alameda’s?”

  Finger.

  “Just in general?”

  Thumb.

  “Were they planning anything like that for tonight?”

  Finger.

  “Fine. Just a few more. Do you know Beau Bilbow?”

  Finger.

  “Did you ever hear any talk that ASP got some of its money from a car dealer?”

  Finger.

  “Do any of the ASP people have connections with the Palisade?”

  Finger.

  “How about Ms. Hendersen? You told me she gave Bedford money. Is she involved with ASP in any other way that you know of?”

  Finger.

  “But you’ve seen her with Bedford?”

  Thumb.

  “Did you hear what they said?”

  Finger.

  “Were they friendly?”

  Finger.

  “Angry?”

  Thumb.

  “About what?”

  Shrug, then wince.

  “How about Aldee Blackwell? Does he have anything to do with ASP?”

  Finger. Twice.

  “Does Monroe Morrison?”

  Finger. Twice.

  “How about Montgomery Hendersen?”

  Finger.

  “Your sister? Your mom? Your stepdad?”

  Finger. Three times.

  “Did Bedford ever say who was providing the money for ASP?”

  Finger.

  “Is ASP planning anything violent in the future?”

  Thumb.

  “What?”

  Nothing.

  “Are they planning to kill someone?”

  Nothing.

  “Come on, Colin. Have they talked about killing someone?”

  Hesitation. Then thumb.

  “Who?”

  Nothing.

  “Is ASP really going to kill your father? Is that what it’s come down to?”

  For a long moment, he didn’t respond. A fresh seep of tears wet the bandage on his covered eye and trickled to the cheek below it. His body convulsed in a painful writhe; the cry through his teeth was feral.

  “I have to get to Bedford before he goes ahead with this,” I said, as urgently as I could manage. “Where is he?”

  Colin moved his head a millimeter.

  “Come on, Colin. Nothing’s changed, except that in addition to your other crimes, you can add conspiracy to commit murder. You’ve got to help me stop it.”

  I went to the bed and grasped his arm. As he twisted away in protest, Nurse Bunting banged through the door behind me, as lethal as a murderess herself.

  “What do you think you’re doing? I’ll not have you causing this man discomfort. If you don’t leave the building immediately, I’ll have security remove you. This boy is in critical condition; I thought you were a friend.”

  “I’m the best friend he’s got,” I said, and closed the door behind me, sad that it was true.

  THIRTY

  Stymied by Nurse Bunting, I set my sights on Bedford; the only road I knew that might lead to him passed through Colin’s quondam girlfriend, Broom. The phone book didn’t list that name, but the bleary voice that answered the phone at the Pustule told me she lived somewhere in the Ansonborough District, near the corner of South and Drake.

  After checking my map, I drove east on Calhoun, left on East Bay and again on South Street, then cruised the neighborhood till I found a house that matched Elmira’s prim description of the cultivated sloth in which Broom and her buddies lolled. Prepared as I was for squalor, it took me a while to absorb it.

  It was as though they’d snatched one of the grand mansions from south of Broad, airlifted it north of Calhoun and dropped it onto a vacant lot, then subjected it to a series of stress tests to see how it would stand up to the twentieth century. Every foot of paint festered with a peel or a blister. Every shingle was curled, every column was tilted, every gutter was flopping loose, every piece of trim and siding was either warped, buckled, rotted, or tugged from its anchors by the strains of postmodern existence. The effect would have been comic had the house been sitting on a back lot, waiting for the sequel to Psycho, but the idea that people actually lived in there wasn’t conducive to levity.

  The sign beside the door was scripted in rough calligraphy: ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE. The H in HOPE had been crossed out and replaced by a hand-scrawled D. Next to the sign, an arrow pointed to a bucket placed precisely below it. In the bucket were several flattened roaches and some glassine envelopes of what looked like crack but was surely a sucrose imitation.

  Although exhaustion was as much a drain on me as influenza, I summoned the vigilance to keep from tripping on the front step and falling through the hole in the porch and being cut by the shards of glass that had fallen like snow from somewhere. When I banged my fist on the door, the roof above the porch began to creak and groan; a bird appeared from within its recesses and began to scold me. I began to wonder if Broom was worth the risk.

  The kid who opened the door was male: The reason I was certain was that he was naked below the waist. His T-shirt was a billboard for Nirvana, his hair a testimonial to General Custer. The void in his eyes was a by-product of illicit medication.

  “Yeah?” was all he was able to say, and he managed that only after he’d massaged his temples with the heels of his hands till the color went out of his wrists.

  “Broom here?” I asked him.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “A friend.”

  “Broom don’t have friends.”

  “What does that make you?”

  “Her slave.”

  “How did that happen?”

  He yawned. “I needed bread, you know? So Broom, like, gave me some and stuff, and now I got to work it off. It’s not so bad—most days I don’t even notice, ’cept when she makes me suck her toes. Who’re you?”

  “A business associate.”

  “Like, from the bar?”

  “Like that.”

  “You look like a cop.”

  “Would a cop own a place like the Pustule? Where is she?”

  Fortunately the flaw in the dialectic didn’t register. “Asleep, probably.”

  “What time does she get up?”

  “What time is it?”

  I looked at my watch. “Seven-fifteen.”

  He frowned, then looked beyond me at the diluted dawn. “In the, like, morning?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Then she probably ain’t gone to bed yet. Is today Wednesday, or was it yesterday? I got to get my unemployment if it’s Wednesday.”

  “That’s today. You’ve got about sixteen hours to work with it.”

  “Cool.”

  Broom’s slave stepped aside to let me enter the domain of his mistress, then gestured to the hallway off the foyer
to his right. “Scope the kitchen,” he mumbled. “Last I saw she was, like, doing something with ice cream.”

  “Like, eating it?”

  He fished for memory, then shook his head. “Something else.”

  Sure enough, Colin’s old friend Broom was doing exactly that. Dressed in a bodysuit that blackened her from neck to ankle, with white silk panties and a white lace bra worn on top as guideposts to her erogenous zones, she was crouched over an old-fashioned ice-cream maker, cranking as fast as she could.

  Her teeth were clenched like clamps; oval stains of sweat darkened the valley between her breasts and the caves beneath her arms. The tune she hummed was “Happy Birthday,” but she made it sound like “The Volga Boatman.”

  After a few more turns of the crank, she grabbed a paper bag and added salt to the ring of ice. The top of her head was a bristly hair ball that was dyed to match her outfit; her left eye was ringed in black like a parody of the Rascals’ dog. Her nostrils and ears and lips were pierced by so many silver circles it brought to mind a Slinky. Her skin was as piebald as bad teeth.

  She didn’t know I was there till I said her name. When I did, she put down the salt and looked at me with disinterest. “I know you’re not the landlord, so I can’t even begin to persuade myself that you’ve got a right to be here.”

  “My name’s Tanner; your slave invited me in.”

  “That’s a relief; last I saw of him, he was asleep in the bathtub. You figure someone could drown that way, or you figure they’d wake up?”

  “I figure they’d wake up.”

  “So did I.” She was as blasé as a meter maid.

  I tried to earn some points. “Apparently I woke him in time to collect his unemployment. I figure that earns me a favor.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “What kind of favor?”

  “I’m looking for Forrest Bedford.”

  Broom stopped cranking. “The Bible junkie? Haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “Where did you see him last?”

  “Used to come around the bar trying to recruit more rockheads for the cause. If I see him again in this century, it’ll be too soon.”

  “I was hoping you might know where I could find him.”

  She shrugged. “Only thing I know about Bedford is, he makes the Scriptures sound too much like Mein Kampf.” She wound the handle again, this time as fast as she could.