“It was still self-defense.”
“I guess it was, but some of them were shot in the back of the head.”
“They were shooting at me, and I didn’t want them to get up again,” I said. “Shooting them in the back of the head was a way to assure that.”
“I still don’t like it, and I don’t like the idea of Hirem getting a light sentence by getting you guys to do something I’m pretty sure is against the law but is done in the name of the law. I know that’s the game, but it’s a game that stinks and I don’t have to like it.”
I sat there for a moment and said nothing.
“I don’t know what you thought I could tell you,” Drake said.
“I have no idea,” I said. “I guess I was looking for some reassurance.”
Drake shook his head. “Can’t offer you any. You might call your mother, you want that.”
“She’s dead,” I said.
“There you go, shit out of luck. All I know is these guys want to help Hirem’s son out and get some money back, and I got no idea what you’ll have to do to make that happen. I don’t know what they’re asking, and I don’t want to know. I’m just a simple cop, one level above working parking tickets and jaywalkers. I come in here and do my job and see some nasty stuff I’d rather not see, then I got to go home to the family and act like it don’t bother me and that I didn’t bring it home with me. Like there’s nothing more I’d like to do than have a picnic or go to a movie. But all the time I’m thinking about murders and dope deals and some penny-ante shit too, and I can’t ever let it go. Not really. I’m making love to the wife, I remember having to deal with some rape, or a rape and murder, and that doesn’t exactly make me hard as the Rock of Gibraltar, and then I got to fake an orgasm and act like things are cool. ’Cause I tell her what’s on my mind, that’s worse. We aren’t exactly Houston here, but we got our crime and it’s a lot more consistent than you think, and there’s plenty for me to handle without having to think about you and the FBI. So, again, for you, I got nothing. Not even a doughnut, so quit eyeing them. About all I can give you, and I do it reluctantly, is my most sincere heartfelt go fuck yourself. I got absolutely no sympathy for you or Leonard. You’re always into something, and I’m sick of it. Around here, they call you the Disaster Twins, and the way I look at it, you keep coming up with crap on your shoes it’s because you keep steppin’ where you ought to not be steppin’. I don’t care if down deep in your hearts you have good intentions and you’re after the same bad guys I’m after. It is not your job, and I don’t give a damn if you and Leonard are fucking Francis of Assisi in your souls, I am goddamn sick of all of it.”
I sat for a moment not saying anything. Drake gnawed at a doughnut like he was biting my throat out.
“Well,” I said, “I’m glad we had this time together, and thanks for nothing.” I got up and went out.
27
Tonto’s black van was nicer inside than it looked on the outside and it was very large and souped up under the hood and had big wide tires with tread deep enough to lose a quarter in. I wasn’t one of those guys who could talk about cars or fix them up or identify everything on the road. I had always been practical about cars. I wanted them to start and drive me around, get me where I was going and start up when I left. It was considered a Southern failing not to know this kind of thing, the insides of cars, all their clicks and sparks and little growls. All the men I knew who were car buffs, and that was most, looked at me as if not knowing about cars was the equal to not knowing about sunrise and sunset. So when Tonto told me about his van and what it had under the hood and what it could do, I forgot it faster than I forgot the combination to my old high school locker. But I remember this: Tonto claimed his van could run a Corvette down and bitch-slap it, which seemed a little much to me, but it did hum down the road with a sound like a hive of bees. The scenery tossed past us in a blur and we zipped past cars like they were nailed down. I had to admit it was some machine. In that van I felt like one of the Scooby Doo gang. I was probably Scooby himself. A big dumb dog without a dick.
The van had three rows of really comfortable seats and a place in the back to put some luggage and gear, and under the floor carpets and beneath sliding floorboards were secret compartments where we put our weapons, except for the ones we were carrying, which in my and Leonard’s case was nothing more than a pocketknife (me) and a pack of gum (Leonard) and we both had combs. Mine was green, Leonard’s was black. Tonto still had his good-buddy .45s under his armpits, and Jim Bob had a snub-nosed .38 holstered at the small of his back and a clasp knife clipped inside his front pocket and a nut sack packed tight with testosterone.
Marvin had stayed at my house with a shotgun and a cup of coffee. His job was to watch the home front, keep close to the phone in case we needed something he could provide. We gave him directions to where we were going to meet up with the FBI and Hirem, and from there our plan was to keep him informed as we went, because we didn’t know what our plan really was, not yet. With Marvin at the house, we always had a home base. It was a good idea, I thought, and a way to keep him a part of things since he couldn’t do much else with that bum leg.
The day was clear and cold and the sky had turned a bright polished blue and the sun was a yellow blaze hanging at the ten o’clock position. I was sitting in the passenger seat, Tonto drove, behind me was Jim Bob, and next to him was Leonard. Tonto had a CD cranked up, and we listened to Jerry Lee Lewis’s greatest hits as he tooled us along, nodding his head to the music like a bobblehead doll.
When the CD played out, and before he could put in another, I said to Tonto, “That your real name?”
He didn’t turn to look at me, said, “Nope.”
“Guess you don’t want to talk about it.”
“Nope.”
“Hokeydoke.”
I leaned back in the seat and Jim Bob said, “Hap, I had a woman like the one you got, I’d just go to court and take the jail time. You could get your ass killed, and what for?”
“I could ask you a similar question. You could get your ass killed and your hog farm would go to hell,” I said.
“Sold all the hogs, and they wouldn’t hold a candle to Brett.”
“Okay, we agree on that. Brett is better than hogs, and you could get yourself killed easy as any of us.”
“Yeah, you’re right about that, though I always assume I’m going to come out on top and it’s the other guy who’ll wind up with the stick in his ass. But you know, lately I’m starting to think maybe it could go the other way. It’s a new kind of feeling and I’m not too fond of it. I never feel like I really belong anywhere. I think a lot about a
