drove past Walden Pond Nature Preserve toward Concord Prison. “‘Father released from Norfolk a year later, disappeared.’”
“Rumor has it Cheese killed him,” I said. I lounged in the backseat, head against the window, Concord ’s glorious trees floating past.
After Broussard and Poole had called in the double homicide at Wee David’s, Angie and I took the bag of money and drove Helene back to Lionel’s house. We dropped her off and drove to Bubba’s warehouse.
Two o’clock in the afternoon is prime sleeping time for Bubba, and we were greeted at the door by the sight of him in a flaming red Japanese kimono and a somewhat irritated look on that deranged cherub’s face of his.
“Why am I awake?” he said.
“We need your safe,” Angie said.
“You own a safe.” He glowered at me.
I looked up into his glare. “Ours doesn’t have a minefield protecting it.”
He held out his hand, and Angie placed the bag in it.
“Contents?” Bubba said.
“Two hundred grand.”
Bubba nodded as if we’d just said Grandmother’s heirlooms. We could have told him Proof of extraterrestrials, and the reaction would have been the same. Unless you could hook him up on a date with Jane Seymour, Bubba’s pretty hard to impress.
Angie pulled the pictures of Corwin Earle and Leon and Roberta Trett from her bag, fanned them up in front of Bubba’s sleepy face. “Know any of them?”
“Hot goddamn!” he said.
“You do?” Angie said.
“Huh?” He shook his head. “No. That’s one big hairy bitch, though. She walk upright and everything?”
Angie sighed and put the photos back in her bag.
“The other two were cons,” Bubba said. “Never met ’em, but you can always tell.”
He yawned, nodded, and shut the door in our faces.
“It wasn’t his presence I missed when he was in jail,” Angie said.
“It was the engaging verbal discourse,” I said.
Angie dropped me back at my apartment, where I waited for Poole and Broussard, while she drove over to Chris Mullen’s condo building to begin surveillance. She opted for the duty because she’s never been real keen on entering men’s prisons. Besides, Cheese gets kind of funny around her, takes to blushing and asking her who she’s dating these days. I took the ride with Poole and Broussard because I was an allegedly friendly face, and Cheese has never been known for cooperating with the men in blue.
“Suspect in the death of one Jo Jo McDaniel, 1986,” Broussard said, as we wound our way up Route 2.
“Cheese’s mentor in the drug trade,” I said.
Broussard nodded. “Suspect in the disappearance and suspected death of Daniel Caleb, 1991.”
“Didn’t hear about that one.”
“Accountant.” Broussard flipped a page. “Supposedly cooked books for a few unsavory characters.”
“Cheese caught him with his hand in the till.”
“Apparently.”
Poole caught my eyes in the rearview mirror. “Quite the association you have with the criminal element, Patrick.”
I sat up in the seat. “Gee, Poole, whatever could you mean?”
“Friends with Cheese Olamon and Chris Mullen,” Broussard said.
“They’re not friends. Just guys I grew up with.”
“Didn’t you also grow up with the late Kevin Hurlihy?” Poole brought the car to a stop in the left lane, waiting for a break in traffic on the other side of the road so he could cross Route 2 and enter the prison driveway.
“Last I heard, Kevin was just missing,” I said.
Broussard smiled over the seat at me. “And let’s not forget the infamous Mr. Rogowski.”
I shrugged. I was used to my association with Bubba raising eyebrows. Especially cops’ eyebrows.
“Bubba’s a friend,” I said.
“Hell of a friend,” Broussard said. “Is it true he’s got a floor of his warehouse mined with explosives?”
I shrugged. “Drop in on him sometime, see for yourself.”
Poole chuckled. “Talk about your early retirement plans.” He turned into the gravel driveway of the prison. “Some neighborhood you come from, Patrick, that’s all. Some neighborhood.”
“We’re just misunderstood down there,” I said. “Hearts of gold, every one of us.”
When we stepped out of the car, Broussard stretched and said, “Oscar Lee tells me you’re not comfortable with judgment.”
“With what?” I said, and looked up at the prison walls. Typical of Concord. Even the prison looked inviting.
“Judgment,” Broussard said. “Oscar says you hate judging people.”
I followed the cyclone wire at the top of the wall. A little less inviting, suddenly.
“Says that’s why you hang with a psycho like Rogowski, maintain relations with the likes of Cheese Olamon.”
I squinted into the bright sun. “No,” I said. “I’m not very good at judging people. Every now and then I’ve had to.”
“And?” Poole said.
I shrugged. “Left a bad taste in my mouth.”
“So you judged poorly?” Poole said lightly.
I thought of my calling Helene “stupid” just a couple of hours ago; the way the word seemed to shrink her and stab her at the same time. I shook my head. “No. My judgment was correct. Just left a bad taste in my mouth. Simple as that.”
I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked toward the front door of the prison before Poole and Broussard could think of any more questions regarding my character or lack thereof.
The warden posted a guard at each of the two gates that led in and out of the small visitor’ yard at Concord Prison, and the guards in the towers shifted their attention to us. Cheese was already there when we arrived. He was the only convict in the yard, Broussard and Poole having requested as much privacy as possible.
“Yo, Patrick, how’s it hanging?” Cheese called, as we crossed the yard. He stood by a water fountain. In comparison to the Orca with yellow hair that was Cheese, the fountain looked like a golf tee.
“Not bad, Cheese. It’s a nice day.”
“I am fucking down with that, brother.” He brought his fist down on top of my own. “Day like this is like righteous pussy, Jack Daniel’s, and a pack of Kools all rolled into one. Know what I’m saying?”
I didn’t, but I smiled. That’s how it worked with Cheese. You nodded, you smiled, you wondered when he’d start making some sense.
“Damn!” Cheese reared back on his heels. “You brought yourself the law with you. The Man is in the house!” he shouted. “In da house. Poole and…”-he snapped his fingers-“Broussard. Right? Thought you boys left Narco.”
Poole smiled into the sun. “We did, Mr. Cheese, sir. We certainly did.” He pointed to a long dark scab on Cheese’s chin. It looked like a slice left by a jagged blade. “You’ve been making enemies here?”
“This? Shit.” Cheese rolled his eyes at me. “Motherfucker ain’t been born yet can put the Cheese down.”
Broussard chuckled and toed the dirt with his left foot. “Yeah, Cheese, sure. You been talking your black rap and pissed off some brother don’t like white boys with a confused sense of identity. That it?”
“Yo, Poole,” Cheese said, “what’s a cool-as-ice-cream cat like yourself doing with this deadweight-nappy- headed-couldn’t-find-his-own-ass-with-a-map motherfucker?”
“Slumming,” Poole said, and a small smile twitched the corners of Broussard’s mouth.
“Heard you lost a bag of cash,” Broussard said.
“You did?” Cheese rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Can’t rightly recall that, officer, but you got a bag of cash you’re looking to unload-well, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands. Give it to my man Patrick, he’ll hold it for me till I get
