“The evidence against that miserable piece of filth,” he said, “was thicker than maggots on a dead possum.”
Southern colloquialisms. People are never merely upset. They’re angrier than a pack mule with a mouthful of bees. They’re never simply at a loss for words. They’re as tongue-tied as a coon hound chompin’ peanut butter crackers.
“At least he’s no longer taking up space,” I said, hoisting my glass. “To closure.”
“There’s no such a thing,” Walker said sadly.
He stared into the night, grieving over the loss of an only child, and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. I’m the first to admit, comforting others is not one of my strong suits. We’re born alone, we die alone, and in between, with rare exceptions, people invariably disappoint and deceive us. In the end, even in combat, the only human being you can count on is you. But the Buddha is all about understanding, and I’m all about trying to be a more compassionate, understanding human being, no matter how impossible the task might seem at times. And so, reluctantly, I swallowed down the urge to un-ass myself from my chair, and reached over and gripped Walker’s thin arm supportively.
“What’s done is done, Hub.”
“I only wish.” He looked over at me, fisting tears from his eyes. “After you left the airfield today, your mechanic buddy, Larry, told me you used to work some kind of intelligence assignment. Said he didn’t know much about it. Said the Los Angeles police couldn’t figure out who killed your ex-wife’s husband and you did. That true?”
Where to begin? Yes, it was true that after my fighter pilot days were cut short by a gimpy knee from days playing football for the Academy, I was transferred to Air Force intelligence and eventually to a Tier One Ultra unit within the Defense Department code-named “Alpha,” where operators were referred to as “go-to guys.” We functioned essentially as human guided missiles, hunting down terrorists abroad. That was before the White House got wind of our operations and shut us down for fear of political backlash. And, yes, it was true that I’d reluctantly agreed to assist in the murder investigation of the lowlife my ex-wife, Savannah, had left me for — Arlo Echevarria, my former Alpha commander — but only because her father had offered me $25,000 to do so. I’d subsequently spent most of that money covering an engine overhaul on my airplane, and paying Larry some of the back rent I owed him, which more or less put me back in the financial doghouse. Hub Walker, however, didn’t need to hear all that. So I responded to his question with what I concluded was a brilliantly deflecting one of my own:
“What’s that got to do with the price of eggs?”
“I want you to help prove that Greg Castle had nothing to do with my daughter’s murder.”
I looked at him, not understanding. “Unless I’m mistaken, Hub, you just said the evidence against this guy, Dorian Munz, was ‘thicker than maggots on a dead possum.’ I assume the jury must’ve agreed, or else they wouldn’t have put him on the bus to hell. Or am I missing something here?”
Apparently I was.
As Walker described it, when Munz was asked if he had anything to say before being executed, he said plenty. He had proclaimed his innocence, as he’d done many times before. Only this time, he asserted that Ruth Walker had been murdered after discovering that her boss, Greg Castle, had been bilking the Defense Department out of millions of dollars in fraudulent overcharges. According to Munz, Castle killed Ruth — or paid somebody to kill her — before she could go to the feds with proof. While Munz’s allegations failed to produce the reprieve that he’d hoped for, they did generate widespread news reports in San Diego.
“The press,” Walker said, “lapped it up.”
The result was a public relations nightmare for Castle Robotics and for Castle personally. The company’s chances of securing Defense Department contracts were in jeopardy, as was Castle’s marriage.
“I’ve known Greg Castle for years,” Walker said. “He’s a good family man. Honorable as the day is long. I know he had nothin’ to do with Ruthie’s murder. But that’s not the impression everybody in San Diego has, what with everything Munz said before he died. You spend a week or so snooping around, get me something I can throw the news media, something to show that Munz was talking out the side of his filthy, lying mouth before they executed him, and I’ll pay you $10,000, plus expenses.”
“I’m a flight instructor, Hub, not Kojak.”
“But you did used to work intelligence assignments, correct?” Hub said.
I shrugged.
“Well, that means in my book you were an investigator. And I got an inclination that if you were as good at investigating as you are flying, it’ll be money well spent.”
“Come down to San Diego,” Crissy said. “You can stay with us. We have a very nice place in La Jolla. Bring your wife. I’m sure she’d enjoy a little vacation.”
“I’m not married.”
“Well, you must have a girlfriend.”
I shook my head.
“Boyfriend?” Walker said with one eyebrow raised.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Crissy quickly added.
“What I have is a cat. And that relationship is definitely on shaky ground.”
“Sounds to me like what you need is The Cat Communicator.”
I looked at her.
“It’s a reality show,” Crissy said enthusiastically. “He’s like The Dog Whisperer, only he deals with badly behaved cats. People call him up when they’re having problems with their kitties. He comes over and straightens them out.”
“The Cat Communicator. Can’t say I’ve ever seen it.”
“That’s because it’s still in development. That’s what I do. I’m a TV producer — trying to be, anyway.”
I wondered how many episodes of The Cat Communicator would involve issues such as retaliatory scratching and urination.
“Here’s the deal,” Hub said, “Larry told me you’re short on flight students right now. We both know you could use the money. Plus, it’d be a way for Crissy and me to pay you back for all that you did for us today, helping us get through that cloud deck and all.”
A quote from Thoreau bubbled up from the tar pits of my brain, an artifact from my Air Force Academy days. The first time I’d heard it was during my doolie year, when a fourth-year cadet upbraided me in a hallway after I deigned to point out that being a military pilot afforded certain privileges, not the least of which was earning a livable wage. Leaning in close, his nose squishing mine, the upperclassman reminded me that one joins the armed forces of the United States to serve his country, not to service his bank account. “Money,” he seethed, “is not required to buy one necessity of the soul.”
Maybe not. But money is required to cover the bills, of which I unfortunately had plenty.
Hub Walker jotted down his cell phone number on his wife’s cocktail napkin and slid it across the table. I said I’d sleep on his offer and get back to him in the morning.
Kiddiot, THE world’s dumbest cat, sniffed his dish as if the chow I’d just served him had been stored in a Cold War-era fallout shelter.
“Ten million cats starving to death in China, who would all kill for a can of Savory Salmon Feast in Delectable Gravy, and you act like the health department’s gonna come barging in here any minute and arrest me on code violations.”
Kiddiot flicked his orange bottlebrush tail like he was annoyed, which was his default state, and climbed out his cat door, departing the converted two-car garage apartment that was our home. I couldn’t much fault his disinterest in the plat du jour. My eighty-eight-year-old landlady, Mrs. Schmulowitz, a retired elementary school P.E. teacher, frequently served him chopped liver with fresh Nova Scotia lox — on fine china, no less. I probably would’ve turned up my nose at canned Savory Salmon Feast, too, gravy or no gravy.