‘Eddie Gardner’s in there. He’s catching some shut-eye right now.’ Whit peered inside; Eddie Gardner lay propped in the back of the van, bleeding lightly from his nose and mouth, but breathing. Yellow rope wrapped around his arms and legs.
‘You. Get in the van,’ Gooch ordered Mr Words.
The young man stared stupidly.
‘Clearly you’re no Fulbright scholar,’ Gooch said, ‘but do what you’re told and you’ll be fine. You come out of that van before I say, I shoot him and then I shoot you. You understand?’
Mr Words glanced at Anson; the old man nodded. The boy climbed into the van next to the unconscious Eddie, and Gooch slammed the door. He then held up a clear plastic bag to Anson: three black pistols,. 22s, a switchblade, a blackjack, and a cell phone lay inside. ‘I don’t think I missed any of your toys when I went through your van, Anson. If I did, and Muscles comes out shooting, you get a bullet in the brain.’
Whit thought. No, Gooch, don’t do this, but he said nothing, still rubbing his aching throat.
‘I’m old, do your worst,’ Anson huffed. ‘I probably get a fucking colostomy bag next year. You think I’m afraid of you?’
‘I don’t believe you want to die one second before you have to, and I really don’t think you want to see Muscles die. Isn’t he Deloache’s nephew?’
In the dim light Anson’s stare narrowed. ‘Who are you?’
‘Why are you following Judge Mosley?’
‘Kiss my ass.’
Gooch brought the gun up. ‘How hard are the cops going to look for your killer, Anson? I think not very.’
‘He thinks I took Pete’s half million,’ Whit coughed. Feeling was slowly creeping its painful way back into his fingers and throat.
Gooch raised an eyebrow. ‘Anson?’
‘I don’t feel good. I need my medicine.’ Moments ago he had been all snarl; now he was all plead.
‘I got a permanent cure here if you don’t start talking,’ Gooch said.
Anson shrugged with a baleful look at Whit. ‘You’re like me, aren’t you?’ he asked Gooch. ‘Always cleaning up other people’s shit. We ain’t done anything wrong, we’re the wronged ones.’
‘Oh, I bet,’ Gooch said.
‘Junior gave Pete Hubble a half-mil cash of his dad’s money for some adult film series, because Pete promised Junior a percentage of the sales, the starring role, and all the bimbos he could screw. Well, that ain’t the movie that Pete was making. He was making some shit about his fucked-up brother. Junior found out and wanted his – our – money back and Pete balked, kept saying it’d be a much better investment than porn. But Junior hadn’t told his dad about this unapproved investment. We got to get that money back.’
‘And you couldn’t find it on the boat, so you figured the judge had it?’
‘We been keeping an eye on Pete’s boat, saw the judge leave it and head the fuck out of town like his ass is on fire. I figured he had it, or knew where it was.’
‘I don’t have your money,’ Whit said.
‘Don’t feel bad that it’s lost,’ Gooch said. ‘He bought it with the veins and noses of kids.’ Gooch pushed his gun into the old man’s face. ‘Did you shoot at Whit the other night? Threaten him about the Hubble inquest?’
Anson shook his head.
‘I don’t mean you personally, Anson,’ Gooch said. ‘I’m talking anyone you know.’
Anson shook his head again. ‘I… maybe Junior got a guy to come up from Corpus, some local muscle. Just a theory.’
‘How’d he know about Whit’s family?’ Gooch snarled, grabbing Anson’s throat.
Anson coughed. ‘Junior… drinks at the Shell Inn. The owner brags about her former stepsons. In excruciating detail. Again, just a theory.’
‘Ah. Thank you,’ Gooch said. He eased his grip.
‘I don’t suppose it had occurred to you that Pete might have spent the money,’ Whit said. He was surprised at how calm his voice was.
Anson huffed. ‘Not in a few days in Port Leo. It’s still our money. He lied to us and we want it back. I figured either you or that Velvet bitch had it.’
‘Where’s Junior?’ Whit asked, a sudden icicle forming in his heart.
‘He said he was going to Houston, explaining all this to his dad.’
‘Bull,’ Gooch said. ‘You know damn well where he is.’
Whit pulled out his cell phone and dialed Velvet’s motel room. No answer. He left another message with the motel clerk to have Velvet call him as soon as she could.
‘Maybe Junior’s trying to rough Velvet up the same way you roughed up me?’ Whit said.
‘Shit. He’s not gonna hurt her. He wants to be in her movies.’ Anson shook his head. ‘Fuck films. No values left anymore, the world is just going down the toilet. Why Hollywood don’t make a nice musical is beyond me.’
‘Lecture your Sunday school class about it,’ Gooch said.
Whit played a card. ‘You know, I just heard on the radio that they caught Jabez Jones and he’s talking. He had to get his dope from somewhere, and he might be implicating Junior.’
Anson kept his face stone still. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Gooch laughed, very softly. ‘Whit, go back to your car. I’ll join you shortly.’
‘What are you going to do with them?’ Whit asked.
‘Just go.’ Gooch’s voice sounded soft, lazy, as though nothing was on the agenda more compelling than a tall glass of lemonade.
‘No. I’m calling the police.’
‘We’re not doing that,’ Gooch said.
‘I’m a magistrate, for God’s sakes. I’m having them arrested. At the least for assaulting a public servant.’
Gooch glanced back at Anson. ‘What if the next schmuck they come after doesn’t have the luxury of me to save their ass, Whit?’
‘If they’re in jail they can’t go after anyone.’
‘I can’t testify in court, Whit,’ Gooch said mildly. ‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘You’re not going to kill them.’
‘May I suggest,’ Anson said quietly, ‘a compromise?’
‘No,’ Gooch said. ‘Shut up.’
‘Do you think this is how I wanted to spend my fucking retirement?’ Anson said to Whit. ‘Picking up after drunken, little-dicked morons who think they’re tough?’
‘Better than retiring behind bars and being sold for cigarettes,’ Whit said. ‘You lose those dentures, you’re gonna be real popular. What can you give us on Junior Deloache?’
Anson smiled and shook his head. ‘I ain’t giving you shit on Junior, Judge.’
‘Fine. Then I won’t call the police. This isn’t my jurisdiction anyway.’ He knew he’d miscalculated in pulling the moral high ground attitude with Gooch. Anson saw Whit’s worry as weakness. He walked away and thought: Please, Gooch, don’t kill them.
‘Wait a second,’ Anson called, but Whit kept walking. There was only the silence of his footsteps; no sounds of shots, no sounds of screams, no sounds of life ending. The highway gave off a distant rumble of its uninterested traffic. He sat inside his Explorer and closed the door.
Whit waited. And waited. Thirty minutes later, Gooch sauntered from behind the diner with a slight smile on his face. He climbed in next to Whit.
‘I’m afraid to ask,’ Whit said.
‘They’re fine. They’re in custody.’
‘Whose custody and under what charges?’
‘Assault.’ Gooch shrugged. ‘That kid and Eddie beat me up. Anson helped him, you know.’ He paused. ‘I think the Feds might be interested in them. Drug trafficking, money laundering, all that kind of stuff. Sheer nastiness.’
‘I see. Thank you, Gooch. You want to tell me why you followed me to Beaumont?’
‘Saving your ass isn’t a good enough reason?’
‘Please tell me you didn’t kill those men.’
‘They’re in custody, I told you. Go outside and see if you want.’
Whit walked to the back of the diner. The van with its four flats was gone. He walked back to his car.
‘That diner any good?’ Gooch asked. ‘I’m starved.’
35
After leaving the nursing home, Claudia returned to the station. There was a message from David: Jabez Jones remained at large. Of course, no one was looking for Marcy, what with a high-profile quarry like Jabez. Claudia started the tedium of phone work. Buddy Beere was home with a bad cold, but he did confirm the transfers that Roselle Cross had mentioned. He sounded horrible, stuffy and wheezing, and said that he did personally supervise a few of the transfers, when family couldn’t be bothered. He couldn’t remember ever having hired anyone from Deshay, Louisiana, or having heard of the nursing home there.