That ladder was a no-go, Joe realized, when he returned to the alley, looked up, and saw it was detached from the brick at the top. If anyone had tried to use it, the ladder would have fallen back away from the building and crashed into the alley. Joe wished Bud Jr. had used it because then he’d be on him.
Then he pursed his lips and realized exactly where Shamazz was hiding.
The door to the stairs up to Bud Sr.’s empty apartment was open as it had been before. Joe took the steps slowly, being as quiet as he could. He listened for movement on the second level, and for Bud Jr.’s humming. Shamazz was always humming, or singing snatches of lyrics from songs from bands Joe had never heard of and was pretty sure he wouldn’t like. Songs about angst and doom and loss and lack of diversity.
Joe mounted the landing. The light was out as it had been before, but he could see that the seal the sheriff’s department had taped along the doorframe had been breached. Breathing softly, he removed his hat and leaned forward so he could press his ear against the door. There was a low-frequency vibration coming from inside, either the refrigerator or . . . an air-conditioning unit. No doubt it got very warm on the top floor of the old building with all those windows and what was likely poor insulation.
And he heard it: the hum. Then bad singing:
You gotta spend some time, love . . .
And Joe rolled his eyes and said to himself, I have found you, Shamazz.
He couldn’t simply knock and expect Bud Jr. to let him in. Bud Jr. had run away for a reason, whatever it was. Because Joe had no jurisdiction or probable cause, he couldn’t smash the door down, either. He knew Shamazz well enough to know he would quickly assert his constitutional rights even though he had nothing but contempt for the country. As Bud Jr. had once explained to Joe, The Man was always hassling him or putting him in jail, after all, simply for selling drugs that made people happy or doing street theater to loosen up the tight-ass types.
So how to get him to come out voluntarily?
He recalled the layout of the Stockman’s storeroom below, where the breaker boxes and water pipes were located, and smiled.
It took twenty minutes of no electricity or water for Shamazz to come out. Joe stood just outside the door in the walkway between the Stockman’s and the drugstore. He heard the door open upstairs, then counted a full two minutes while Bud Jr. fumbled around for a breaker box or water valve in the stairwell.
Finally, Joe heard a string of curses and heavy clomps coming down the stairs. Shamazz was cursing out Timberman for the loss of power and water. Joe stepped aside.
The door opened, and Bud Jr. came out without looking over his shoulder, where Joe was leaning against the bricks.
Joe said, “Shamazz.”
Bud Jr. froze, then cried out and wheeled around so quickly he lost his footing and fell to the dirty cement. “You fucking scared me,” he said to Joe. “Did you shut off my AC?”
“It’s been a while,” Joe said, extending a hand to help him up.
Bud Jr. didn’t accept it at first. Then he sighed and let Joe pull him to his feet. As always, he looked resentful and petulant. Bud Jr. was four inches taller than Joe, and solidly built. Despite that, Joe now stood between Bud Jr. and the street. The passageway was so narrow it would be difficult for Bud to get around him toward the sidewalk.
“How have you been?” Joe asked.
“Fine. I’m just fine. Hey, it’s great to see you again, Joe, but I’ve got to run.” He took a step toward Joe to see if Joe would stand aside, but he didn’t. Bud Jr. glared and set his mouth.
Joe said, “Where did you get the key to your dad’s place?”
“Where do you think? I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re accusing me of,” he said, defensive. “And what gives you the right to shut off the utilities? That’s just cruel, man.”
Joe said, “So Bud gave you a key, did he?”
Bud Jr. brushed dirt off his pants and shirt from the fall. He said, “Why wouldn’t he? I’m his son, after all.”
“I thought you hated him,” Joe said. “You told me that, oh, a thousand times.”
Bud Jr. had no response.
“Was that you at the funeral in the yellow van?” Joe asked.
“Maybe,” Shamazz said, not meeting Joe’s eyes.
“I can’t believe you went there to show your respects.”
“I’d rather spit on his grave.”
“Where’s Bud?”
“Who?”
“I’m looking for him,” Joe said. “Just to talk. You probably know about the case against Missy and the fact that your dad is the star witness. Can you tell me where he is? Where you got the key?”
Bud Jr. looked past Joe toward Main Street. “I’ve really got to go,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t stay around and, you know, relive old times with you.”
Joe didn’t like the way Bud Jr. was brushing him off, or the way he wouldn’t meet his eye. As Bud Jr. tried to shoulder past, Joe stepped in front.
“You’re annoying me,” Joe said. “What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing. You need to get out of the way. I’ve got my rights. Either arrest me or get the hell out of my way.”
“You hated your dad. You hated the ranch. You hate this town. You hate the state. So why are you here?”
“People change,” he said.
“You don’t,” Joe said.
“Really,” Bud Jr. said, a note of whimper in his voice, “I have to go. I know my rights. I know you can’t hold me here or make me answer your damned questions.”
“Why are you in disguise?” Joe asked. “Why do you sort of look like a normal person?”
“That’s fucking cold, man. Just cold.” Then he leveled his eyes at Joe. “I hated you, too, man. Dudley Do-Right cracker and your white-bread cookie-cutter family. Guys like you . . .” He paused, his lips trembling.
“Go on,” Joe said flatly. Joe had heard Bud Jr. say so many thoughtless and vile things before that he was shocked that he wasn’t shocked. Bud Longbrake’s son seemed to have no internal brake mechanism installed between his emotions and his mouth. Anything he thought came out in words. Joe had learned to tune him out, not engage, and pay no attention. Bud Jr.’s inability to put a sock in it had caused him much heartache over the years, but he’d never seemed able to connect what he said to the reaction his words elicited from others. He still couldn’t, Joe thought . . .
“You people living out there on my family’s ranch, taking advantage of him just like that old bitch Missy. Freezing me and my sister out like that, keeping me away . . .”
“I tried to help you,” Joe said through clenched teeth. “I did a favor for your dad and tried to teach you how to work for a living.”
“Duh,” Shamazz said, bugging his eyes out. “It didn’t take.”
It was hard for Joe to see through the filter of rage that had descended over him like a red hood when he looked at Shamazz. “Who does that song you were singing up there?” Joe asked.