Becka’s angry teeth and antagonistic nipples aimed at Shad, and he felt the same way he used to feel when he was sitting in her Bible class and didn’t know the correct chapter and verse. There was a smudge of cocaine on her upper lip.
It took a minute for Hoober to clear his head enough to actually speak. It was clearly an effort, and Shad wondered why he was even making it.
The nub of a tongue slid to one side, then to the other as the black gums parted. Hoober said, “Comfort and condolences.”
“Thank you.”
“Couldn’t sleep?”
“I think I was.”
“Nightwalking, eh? Got a pair of tricky feet.”
“It happens.”
“To me too, on occasion.” Hoober couldn’t quite open his eyes but his voice sounded sober and smart. “Some of us got a call we got to answer.”
Becka Dudlow nodded as though the tendons in her neck had been clipped. Her lips quivered as if she might speak, but then her mouth closed again. Very slowly she slid off the stump in a well-practiced motion, curled up on the grass, and began to snore.
“Ain’t you cold?” Hoober asked.
The moment Shad thought about it he began to tremble. “Yes. Did you hear me talking before?”
“No.”
“You smell any paint?”
“Paint?” Hoober sniffed. His nostrils were caked with dirt and cocaine. “No.”
“Or blood?”
“Damn, those must’ve been some bad dreams you’ve been having.”
Or something else. Shad could still feel the sticky touch of Jeffie O’Rourke on his neck, but he couldn’t see any of the red flecks on his flesh now. His shuddering became violent and he made his way to the back door of the boardinghouse.
He passed the phone in the hall. For a moment he thought he might call Information for the East Hollywood phone number of Albert Herrin, give it a ring, and ask for Prescott Plumber. But he didn’t know what the hell he might do if Jeffie answered.
Chapter Nine
HE WAS ON HIS WAY TO SEE LUPPY JOE ANSON’S new wife, with Lament laid out and panting in the passenger seat, when Dave’s cruiser filled the rearview mirror. Shad slowed and pulled over, got out, leaned against the ’Stang, and waited. He felt the same way he did when the bulls made their spot inspections.
When he used to block for the moonrunners, he’d hang a quarter mile in back of Tub Gattling or one of the other boys until the cops pounced from behind the bridges and billboards on the highway. On occasion, Sheriff Increase Wintel himself would circle around the twenty-foot-high stacks of planks at the lumberyard and hop the river on the outskirts of town. He had a girlfriend over that way and if the timing was right, he’d join the fray. The sheriff liked to lean out his window and take potshots.
The cops could always tell who was carrying make-liquor because the weight would hunker the springs down under the trunk. When Shad suggested that the crews haul only half their loads and make two runs, or evenly distribute the jugs all over the car so the shocks didn’t sag, the runners just looked at him like he was crazy.
You couldn’t ruin the game, you simply had to play it. So Shad did his part, gunning in and cutting off the cruisers, taking the heat and blocking the cops until the runners got clear. Then he’d lead the police on a reckless chase across town before shaking them loose.
Everyone had their designated roles to perform. Too much money came into the county on untaxed whiskey. If the stills ever went out of business, a third of the population would suddenly be unemployed. The hollow would fold up in a weekend and reappear in a trailer park up in Poverhoe City.
The sheriff couldn’t arrest more than a couple of haulers a month. The fun part was doing your best not to be one of the handful that got busted.
Dave walked over, and said, “Still in nice shape. Who kept it for you?”
“Tub Gattling.”
“He do any extra work while you were gone?”
“No, just kept it cleaned and the battery charged.”
“I’m surprised he could control himself, considering all the muscle cars he handles for the crews. Enhanced carriages and augmented suspension so they can bolt over rutted back roads, jump the creek beds without too much damage. He’s got a real touch. He’s doing new interior cage designs all the time.”
Any other cop would’ve played it meaner, even if he was a friend. Coming up and hissing quietly in your ear. The bulls used to play it that way all the time on the tier, shove past with a grin and make threats under their breaths just to keep the cons off-balance. Hit you with a smile up front but their hands always wavered near their belts for the nightstick, just feeling you out. Bull goes home and finds out his sixteen-year-old daughter is pregnant, his son’s selling weed and flunking geometry, his wife is maxing the credit cards out on new living room furniture, and he just doy-de-dums his way through it all until he gets to work. Then he cuts loose on some banger with a bad attitude.
Any other cop would’ve played it rougher, especially if he had the muscle behind him, but not Dave Fox. He took it calm and quietly. Shad realized he might be in trouble when Dave wasted time with small talk, but he couldn’t do anything except wait it out. “The more money the state gives the police department for cruisers, the more seriously Tub has to take his part.”
“I’m giving a nod of admiration where it’s deserved. Even so, he should stick to his road shows or the stock car derby. He gets any more serious and someone will have to come down hard on him and even things out again.”
Did Dave expect him to get right back into the game? Go back to running without a second thought?
Shad didn’t want to show too much interest but knew it was expected of him, because this was about the only topic they had in common. “Goats still the ones they use most?”
“Yeah, Luppy and some of the boys still favor the GTOs ’cause their daddies drove them around after ’Nam. Makes them feel like they’ve got a bit of world history themselves.”
“I always thought that ‘Gran Turismo Omologato’ might’ve sounded too Asian for them to ever go for the make.”
“Because none of them know that’s what GTO stands for.”
Your daddy’s car had as much meaning and implication as your first lay. You were never quite a man until you’d passed through numerous fires and crossed a dozen lines scuffed across your front walk. Every time you advanced beyond one, another was waiting. The first time you carried your father home drunk. Your first night in jail.
Lament crawled into the driver’s seat and was working at the knob trying to roll down the window. Pa had finally gotten a smart pup.
“Zeke Hester was in the emergency room last night,” Dave said, and they were into it.
Shad made his face into a C-Block mask of blankness. “That so?”
“Seems he broke his arm again.”
Sometimes you just had to be the asshole. On the rare occasion it was better than the alternatives. “Guess he should be more careful.”
The November air swept by full of ash. Over the crests of rising fields, the farmers were burning branches of holly and poplar from the edges of their orchards. Dave crossed his massive arms over his chest and made a show of barely maintained restraint. It was a gesture that would’ve held more gravity before the days of Little Pepe. “I reckon the same could be said for others.”
“Sure. Did he tell you what happened?”
