And all I really wanted to do was fuck. That was about when my cellphone spanked out its riff and Molly’s eyes popped open. She blinked, curled into a shivering ball. Her gaze faltered then focused, first on me, then on my sheet-tenting boner.
“Disciple? What the fuck?”
I leaned back to grab my cell.
She flopped like a fish to her side of the bed, snapped on the bedside light.
I held my hand out against the glare, concentrated on the voice murmuring through the receiver. “Disciple. This is Nolen here. I just wanted to give you a heads-up before I arrived.. “
Arrived?
“You… You…” she said, sitting up with the sheets clutched tight to her neck, squinting and scowling beneath a dishevelled pile of hair. “Ugh! You’re such a fucking creep!”
“Yeah,” I said to the Chief in a rough voice. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Sorry,”Nolen said in an entirely genuine tone. “But I’m kindofin over my head with this one. “
“What?” Molly continued ranting. “Were you… like… beating off or something?”
I clubbed her in the head with a pillow.
“You found something?” I asked.
“Another one. We found another one. “
Molly was talking to herself now, her hands raised in Why-me-God? exasperation, her expression one of abject, mystified disgust. “While I was sleeping? Ah! Ah!”
“What?” I said into the receiver. “Another finger?”
That shut her up.
“No,” Nolen said. “A toe. This time we found a baby toe. “ We were scarcely dressed when Nolen’s headlights panned across the room’s curtained windows. Molly had spared me a couple of scowls but otherwise pulled on her clothes-a white button-up and blue jeans- with her eyes unfocused in that unfinished-business way.
“Look,” I finally said as the headlights flashed out, “I wasn’t whacking off, okay. I was just… admiring…”
“Not now, Disciple.”
“I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t want to…” I added as I strode to the door in anticipation of Nolen’s knock. I pulled the chain-the church picnic had left my nerves a little peckish.
“I’m supposed to be flattered, huh.”
“You make me fat, baby. What can I say? Hi, Caleb.” Policemen typically look intimidating when they darken your door, but Nolen had too much of a Barney Fife aura. He was drawn, taut in voice and manner. “Um, would you mind coming with me to the station?”
He looked like a kid, standing as he did, awkward in the irregular parking lot light, a high school senior suddenly tapped to play lead man in his community’s first bona fide disaster. He had that overmatched mien, face and eyes disconnected lest the fear shine through. Like Bush on the day after 9/11, before prayer fooled him into thinking he was equal to the trap fate had set for him.
“The finger belonged…” he began, “or, ah… belongs to Jennifer. And now with the toe…” He grabbed the back of his neck, blinked skyward. “… we’re almost certainly dealing with a homicide…” he said, letting his voice trail away.
Homicide! his eyes repeated.
I understood-or thought I understood-what he was driving at. “It’s okay, Caleb. I’ll call the Bonjours first thing in the morning.” The guy had enough on his plate as it was. Besides, I had given too many people too much bad news in my life. Practice makes perfect.
And as any private dick will tell you, it pays to collect markers from The Authorities.
Caleb’s relief was obvious and immediate. “Thanks, Disciple… I would really appreciate that. I mean, I know I’ll have to talk to them… eventually. B-but I’m, ah…” His voice pinched about a sob. Apparently he had bigger terrors on his list. “I’m, ah, not so good at, ah, you know, failure…”
Why was I the only person who had assumed she was dead all along?
Nolen raised thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. “It’s, ah… It’s, ah…”
He was crying-crying!
Fawk. Me.
I blame it on Hollywood. Christ, I blame it on our whole fucking Just-believe-in-yourself culture. The problem wasn’t that Caleb Nolen possessed the sensitivities of an interpretative dancer; the problem was that he had been fooled into thinking he could be anything he wanted,, if only he were to try-try-try. He had been an imaginative little boy, I’m sure, one captivated by blazing images of justice and domination, when he should have been practising how to stand on his tippytoes.
“Just, the stress, ya know?” he exhaled. He tried to smile, grimaced instead.
“Go slow, Caleb,” I said with a reassuring smile. Iraq-the old one, fought for the old Bush-had taught me how to fake crisis-compassion. “Remember, the freak show is just getting started. Everything works better if you tune out the noise and take things one step at a time.”
“One step at a time,” he repeated, breathing as though preparing for a dive. He did his best to avoid Molly’s gaze, which condemned all the more because of its obvious pity.
He swallowed, nodded to himself as if remembering some original purpose. “Sorry, Disciple. Stupid, huh? A chief of police who loses it over a baby toe!” He flinched from this line of observation, realizing that it was making things worse. What was important was that he pretend… That was the human answer.
He copped an artificially relaxed pose, hand on hip, something an underwear model might practise in a mirror. “Um, hey, Disciple? Have you ever worked a case… I mean, I was wondering, if you had ever worked a case involving, ah… you know”-a quick swallow-”ritualistic murder.” That was how Molly and I found ourselves in the back of Nolen’s cruiser, whisking beneath a long necklace of street lights. Nothing was said for a minute or two. Molly and I just sat stewing in our embarrassment for Nolen. I could almost feel him grinding his teeth in shame.
I was actually relieved when my cell riffed for the second time that night.
“Hi, Disciple. Albert. “ I could tell from his tone that he was embarrassed about his previous call on Thursday night. “I know it’s late, but I thought I shoud take a chance anyway-leave you a message at least. Did I catch you at a bad time? “
“Kind of. Hospital emergency room, actually.”
“Oh… Is everything okay?”
“Don’t have much time, Albert. I think I see the proctologist waving to me now.” Molly punched me in the arm for saying that.
“The Church of the Third Resurrection…” he said with an air of hesitation. “I actually came across them researching my last book. They’re what’s called a Christian Identity sect:. “
I knew a thing or two about identity politics and several things more about evangelical Christianity, enough to know that any love child of theirs was bound to be a homely bastard.
“Lemme guess. White supremacists, right?”
An appreciative pause. “You do know why it’s calledthe thirdresurrection, don’t you? “
It was a good question-one ofthose obvious things I keep overlooking. “I don’t know, Albert. They all seem to have some kooky name. I just assumed they used it to differentiate their racist brand, you know. It’s a crowded market out there.”
“Well, they call it the third resurrection because they think the Second Coming’s already happened… “
“You mean Jesus has already come back?”
“Oh yeah. Only this time around he went by the name Adolf Hitler…”
Ever get that wet-your-mental-pants feeling? I always knew I was swimming in the deep end-that I was investigating a murder-but this was where I realized I had forgotten my water wings.
“You gotta be kidding.”
“Shit you not. Just watch yourself, okay? These people may seem silly, but they have their fair share of dedicated fanatics. From what I can tell, they spend most oftheir time whacking each other, but…”
I just love the way civilians throw words like whacking around. Fucking HBO, man.
“Life just wouldn’t be the same without me, huh, Albert?”
“Don’t underestimate them, Disciple. There’s a good reason we can’t stamp this lunacy out. Just look at the nearest school playground. We’re born little fascists.”
I’ve always thought that kids are overrated-even as a kid. Can’t hold their liquor worth shit.