Every bit of air shot out of my body in a second. If you’ve ever had the breath knocked out of you, you know the feeling. If you haven’t, count yourself lucky.
My feet came off the floor, and my mind went blank. I felt myself becoming weightless, then suddenly the thick green carpet slammed me in the face.
I fought to keep down dinner, although in retrospect, I can’t figure out why. I should have blown chunks all over the guy’s carpet. Would’ve served him right.
I rolled over on my side, curled in a fetal position. One hand covered my battered gut; the other was under my head useless. As I turned, I saw Bubba’s face about six inches from mine. How he could bend down that far without falling over was a mystery I’ll never figure out.
“You ask a lot of questions, boy,” he hissed. Then the massive hams stretched out again and grabbed my shirt, scrunching it up so hard my shirttail came completely out of my waistband.
Next thing I know, I’m back on my feet. Wish he’d make up his mind. He’s holding me up, because I’m still not breathing yet, not even over the shock of getting hit yet. Which means the pain hasn’t really started either. Great, I’m already hurting like hell, and it’s only just begun.
Bubba pulled me up to eye level, and I got a face full of his hot breath. Something came over me, probably an attack of bad attitude, and I got just enough air to put my foot in my mouth.
“What’d you have for dinner, man?” I gasped. “Ever heard of Listerine?”
Damn if I’m not airborne again! This time, I landed in a chair against the wall near where Mr. Kennedy is watching all this deadpan. I hit the chair hard, the small of my back taking most of the impact, but my head snapping back against the wall right where the nurse put those butterfly closures last night.
It felt like a drill bit through the back of my skull. This time, I really did see red, and the shooting pain threatened to put me completely under for a second. It hurt so bad, I forgot about the first punch.
Dazed, I shook my head to bring myself to. Big mistake. That only works in the movies. After a second or an hour, I wasn’t sure which, I felt behind my head and came back with blood on my hand.
Then I was really torqued; that fat bastard busted my head back open. No more Mister Nice Guy.
“What’d you do that for?” I growled, my voice lowering naturally.
“I wanted to impress upon you, in a way that you couldn’t mistake, the distress that man’s name causes me.” Bubba spoke like a gentlemen farmer himself, when he wanted to. I was surprised, but no less mad.
“For all you know, I could be a cop,” I said.
“Hah,” he laughed. “I know every police officer in this town. And son, you ain’t one of them. Not by a long shot.”
I put a hand on each arm of the chair and pushed myself into a standing position. I’d had, simply put, enough.
“Sit down,” Bubba ordered.
I kept my ground. “Listen, Bubba, I don’t need this crap. You and that reject from a Lite Beer commercial over there can go to hell for all I care. You don’t want to talk to me, fine. Talk to the cops.”
I took a step toward the door.
“Sit down,” Bubba repeated. A moment later, “I said sit.”
I walked around him, settled myself on the couch. I’ll sit, all right, but where I want to.
Bubba crossed back to his desk, lowered himself into the seat. “Now what is it you think I can tell the police?”
I shook my head. “No, sir. I don’t think so.”
“What you mean, boy?”
“After the welcome I’ve been given here, I don’t feel like answering any of your questions. If there’s any answering to be done here, I’ll let you do it.”
Bubba smiled, as if he couldn’t believe I’d still be getting smart with him after all this. He don’t know me very well, do he?
“I’ll say this much for you, boy. You ain’t much to look at, but you got great big brass ones.”
“From what I can tell,” I continued, ignoring what I guess was supposed to be a compliment, “Fletcher had two kinds of people in his life. Those who hated him enough to kill him, and those who merely fantasized about it.”
Bubba looked over in Mr. Kennedy’s direction and smiled. “He was not the most lovable man in God’s creation.”
“I keep running into people who thought the world would be better off without him. To tell you the truth, Bubba, I just wanted to find out if you were one of them.”
Bubba reached down below the desk, tugged at his crotch. “The man had a problem. Loved to play. Hated to lose.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen doctors with habits before. More of them have it than you think. I got quite a few in my territory. When he started, Fletcher was no better, no worse, than most. He played football during the season, pro basketball, some college games.”
“When he started?”
“Some people just can’t handle it. I told him he needed help once. Over the phone, of course. He never came here.”
I thought for a second. “How much was he into you for?”
Bubba hesitated. That made me think it was quite a bit, maybe even a few thousand. He leaned against the desk, stared at me for a moment, then spoke.
“That man owed me not quite one hundred thousand dollars.”
When I got my breath back, I whistled.
“Jesus,” I sighed.
“Jesus hadn’t got nothing to do with it, boy. At least not on this end of the action. Right now, I’d guess Jesus and Fletcher are just about wrapping up a very long talk.”
I gritted my teeth, preparing for what the next question was probably going to bring me.
“In your business,” I asked, “is that the kind of scratch that would get somebody killed?”
The color shot up Bubba’s fat neck. “Praise Jesus!” he yelled. “I’ve sinned in my time, blasphemed God in my life. But never, never, mortally sinned by taking the life of another! Besides,” he added, “a doctor would be good for it over the long run. High life-style, high profile. Wouldn’t want his revered name dragged through the mud.”
“So you’d just blackmail a doctor. A truck driver who owed that much?”
“I’d never let a truck driver owe me that much,” Bubba growled. “Now, of course, it’s just a write-off. Cost of doing business.”
“But you didn’t kill him?”
The color came back again. “The answer to that question is no, boy. Don’t ask it again.”
12
I was, as we say down South, dog-assed tired. Between lack of sleep, running around in circles, and being knocked silly a couple of times, the last couple of days had used up all my reserves. All I wanted to do was get home, get a cold compress on my head, clean the dried blood off, then take a nose dive between the sheets.
But then there was Rachel. I was already headed down Demonbreum Street toward the highway when I remembered. I looked down at my watch: 10:30. Just enough time to make it back out to Golf Club Lane, to the shaded, tree-lined dark street that probably had more security devices per square foot than the Pentagon.
I pulled a U-turn across the freeway bridge, in front of the nude dance club that advertises 50 BEAUTIFUL GIRLS amp; 3UGLY ONES, and headed back in toward the ritzy part of town.
Twenty minutes later, I was driving up the black asphalt of Rachel’s driveway. Discreetly low lights guided my way toward the darkness of the back yard. I pulled around and parked. Once the car engine was shut down, a deep quiet settled over the neighborhood. No freight trains going by a block away, no rednecks’ squealing tires, no radios blaring, no gunshots penetrating the night air. Jeez, I’d hate it over here.
I padded up the steps to the kitchen door and knocked softly. A few seconds later, Rachael came to the door. The lights in the kitchen were low. Rachel wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Her hair was brushed loose down to her shoulders, and she wore no makeup. She’d finally, it appeared, relaxed.