everyone finds out. You get trashed one night and wrap your car around somebody’s sycamore tree? Bam-word’s out that you’re a messed-up druggie. You boink a girl and never call her again? Bam-you’re a no-good louse. And here’s the thing, here’s the thing: No one ever forgets. Twenty years can go by and the old prune-faced biddies will still be talking about you. Know why? Because every babe you ever hook up with was, is and always will be somebody’s sister or cousin. Or her uncle works for somebody who knows your mom. Or whatever. It sticks to you like glue for as long as you live. Even if it wasn’t even your fault. I mean, sometimes it’s her fault, right? Or nobody’s fault. But, wait, because here’s the real pisser. Are you listening…?”
“Yes, I’m listening.”
“The truth doesn’t matter,” J. Z. proclaimed. “Hell, people don’t even know the truth half of the time. Doesn’t stop them though. They make up their mind anyway. And talk about you just like you’re a character in some soap opera. You have any idea what that’s like?”
“Yes, I do, actually.”
“Yeah, maybe you do. The old prune-faced biddies talk about you and the trooper lady, right? Well, me they’ve been talking about forever. Here, I’ll give you a for instance. This guy Courtney Borio gave me a helping hand a long, long time ago when I was really down. Courtney was just a good guy, okay? He taught me a trade. Gave me a place in this world. What he did for me, I mean, this guy should be a local hero, right? Wrong. You want to know why? Because Courtney was gay. And so they all whispered about the real reason why he was being so nice to me. I don’t roll that way, Mitch. Never have. I’m not judging. It’s just not my thing, okay? But Courtney and me worked together for a long time-which, according to the old prune-faced biddies, meant that I had to be gay. Doesn’t matter how many live-in girlfriends I’ve had over the years. To them I’m gay and always will be. Like I said, they never let the truth get in the way of a good story. And they’re just plain nasty, man. I mean, just because a man’s gay he can’t have a friend who’s not? How bigoted is that?” J. Z. glanced out of Mitch’s bay window in the direction of Bitsy Peck’s house. “I’m always happy to work for Bitsy. She’s a cool lady, not like those old prune-faced biddies in the Historic District-my mom’s so-called friends. They’ve never cut me any slack. Let me tell you, man, they’re just lucky I don’t hold a grudge.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’d make ’em pay for what they’ve put me through.”
Mitch found himself leaning forward. “Make them pay how?”
J. Z. didn’t answer him. His joint had gone out. He lit a match to it and got it going again, dragging on it deeply.
“J. Z., why did you move back here from New York? Why do you still live here? Feeling the way you do, I mean.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Where else would I go? This is my home. Besides, I’m working. Got a roof over my head. It’s not much-just my mom’s guesthouse. But it’s mine. And I have a steady honey, Maggie. Real sweetie. The old prune-faced biddies talk nothing but trash about her, of course, because she slings drinks over at the Monkey Farm Cafe. She’s not classy like them.”
“Maggie works evenings?”
“Every weekend. Thursdays, too, if they get busy.”
“What do you with yourself while she’s working?”
He flashed a lopsided grin at Mitch. “We’re doing it, man.”
“These old biddies you were talking about…”
“Old prune-faced biddies.”
“What do they have to say about you and Kimberly?”
“That the poor girl didn’t know what she was getting into-about me being gay and all. And that when she found out the horrible truth, she dumped me.”
“Which isn’t what happened.”
“Not even close, man”
“What did?”
J. Z. took a long swallow of his beer before he said, “I used to smoke a lot of dope in those days. Not like now. I was stoned all the time. I’m not trying to make excuses, okay? Just drawing you a picture. We’d been married a few weeks and it was going great. I was only, like, the second guy Kimmy had ever been with. She was just real enthusiastic and eager to please me. So one night she asks me if there’s anything I’d like to do that we haven’t done yet.” J. Z. paused to ponder this, his brow furrowing. “Who knows what she really meant by that. I took it at face value and told her I’d always wanted to get into a threesome. She said ‘Really, who with?’ And so I mentioned this tasty friend of hers from high school. Cute little slice named Brittany. In fact, Brittany and me had kind of hooked up a couple of times before I met Kimmy. Anyway, that wasn’t what Kimberly wanted to hear. And she completely freaked out. Started sobbing. Kimmy’s incredibly sensitive. She feels everything. But, wait, because here comes the truly weird part: She said yes. Was all about wanting to make me happy. And so we ended up in a threesome with Brittany. Man, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Couldn’t believe it was really happening. Not that it happened a lot. Just twice. But, my bad, I managed to mess it up.”
“Mess it up how?”
“Me and Brittany kind of picked up where we’d left off before. I mean, since we were cool as a threesome I figured Kimmy wouldn’t mind, you know?”
“And she did?”
“She totally did. Came home one day, found us in bed together and just completely lost it. I said to her, ‘This isn’t what it looks like.’ And she said, ‘Really? Because it looks like you’re screwing my best friend.’ Kimmy couldn’t handle it, man. Told me I had no soul. That I was dead inside. Next thing I knew she’d moved back in with her folks and we were toast.”
“What about Brittany?”
“She split town. Ended up married to some businessman down in Austin. Has a bunch of kids.” He finished off the last of his beer. “That’s the real story, man. From the source. Naturally, the old prune-faced biddies vastly prefer their own version, which is that Kimmy came home and found me in bed with a guy. It fits together better with all of the lies they’ve been telling about Courtney and me for so many years. To this day they will swear to you that Kimmy dumped me because I’m queer. Let me tell you something, man. I have to make an honest living in this place. So I work for them. I take their money. But some day those old prune-faced biddies will get what’s coming to them. The bad you do comes back to you.” J. Z. ran a hand over his weathered face. “Who said that?”
“You did,” Mitch replied. “Just now.”
“No, like isn’t that a line from a chick song? Natalie Merchant, maybe? God, I hate her.”
“How are things between you and Kimberly now? Do you speak?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t jibe with her whole Zenny self-image to snub me. Bad karma. We’re cool. Well, not cool, but civil.” J. Z. gazed out of the bay window again, only this time his eyes widened with alarm. “Whoa, it’s getting dark,” he gasped. “I have to clear out right now.” He grabbed his baggie of dope and jumped to his feet. “Is it okay if I wear your clothes home? I’ll drop ’em off next time I’m out this way.”
“No problem,” Mitch assured him. “But what’s your hurry?”
“I don’t like the dark.”
“Why not?”
“Bad things happen,” he whispered, gulping with genuine fright. Or at least it seemed genuine. The man was quaking with terror.
“What kind of bad things?”
J. Z. Cliffe didn’t answer him. He’d already gone barreling out the front door, leaving it open wide behind him. Mitch got up and closed it, then reached for his cell phone to call Des.
CHAPTER 8
That night, Des left her cruiser in front of the firehouse and patrolled the Historic District on foot. Oly and two other troopers were prowling the District in their rides.
The night air was warm and sultry. If there was a moon up there she couldn’t see it. She strolled her way
