“That’s all between you two,” Ballinger said. “I’m not going to have a thing to do with it.”
“All right, all right,” Rawlings said. “Let’s get to a phone, and I’ll see what I can do.”
They left the room and went outside. Ballinger took them to his office. Rawlings had lit a cigarette, but Ballinger made him put it out. “I don’t want my books smoked up,” he said.
Rawlings paid no attention to Ballinger’s books once they were in the office. He went right for the phone and punched long distance information. When he got a voice on the other end, he asked for the number of Gulfside Biomedical Waste Disposal. He hung up, then dialed the number using his calling-card digits. His conversation was not satisfactory.
“They won’t take these items,” he said. “They’ll take any that I have in the future, but not these. I shouldn’t have told them the whole story.”
Rhodes looked at Ballinger.
Ballinger looked at Rawlings.
“Look,” Rawlings said, an edge in his voice, “I was just trying to save a buck.” He reached in his pants pocket for his mangled cigarette pack, looked at Ballinger, and withdrew his hand. “They just didn’t mean anything to me, is all. I just used them for tissue samples. It was like they were something I bought at the dime store. Didn’t you ever get to feeling that way about the bodies you deal with?”
Ballinger managed a shocked look. “We here at Ballinger’s take a personal pride and care with every client. It’s very important to us that the loved ones are treated with respect and dignity. We would never, ever-”
“Skip it,” Rawlings said. “I wasn’t interested in a sales pitch.”
“What about it, Clyde?” Rhodes asked.
“Well, I might be persuaded,” Ballinger said.
“Wait a minute,” Rawlings said. “Persuaded to what?”
“To bury your leavings,” Ballinger said. “To get your ass out of the crack you got it into.”
“How much?” Rawlings asked.
Ballinger told him.
“But. . but that’s more than it would have cost me to get them burned at the biomedical place. That’s robbery!”
“Not exactly,” Rhodes said. “It’s just taking advantage of a situation, which may not be exactly fair, but then nobody asked you to dump things in this county.”
Rawlings thought about it for a minute. “No charges will be filed if I get this taken care of? No publicity?”
“People talk in a little town like this,” Rhodes said. “I can’t make any promises. But there won’t be anything done in court.”
Rawlings reached into his back pocket and pulled out a worn leather billfold, cracked and ripped in places, but stuffed full. “Will cash be OK?”
There was a new air conditioner in the hole in the wall.
Hack and Lawton were smiling in contentment.
“Listen how quiet that sucker is,” Hack said.
“Sure enough,” Lawton said. “And cool, too.”
“Too cool for some folks, I guess,” Hack said.
“Maybe too cool for us,” Rhodes said, “especially when the commissioners get the bill.” Robert Romig had been in early that morning and looked over the old unit. He’d told Rhodes that there wasn’t a chance of fixing it, and the sheriff had ordered a new one. He hoped the county had the money in the budget.
“Wasn’t talkin’ about us,” Hack said.
Rhodes knew then that he’d missed a hint. Something had happened while he was at Ballinger’s.
“Who’s it too cool for?” he asked.
“Somebody who’d steal a gas stove,” Hack said.
“A gas stove? To cook on?” Rhodes wasn’t quite sure what was being discussed, but then he often felt that way when Hack was reporting a crime.
“Not that kind,” Lawton said helpfully. Hack glared at him.
“A Dearborn heater,” Hack said. “One of those that you can back up to in the winter. Nothing feels better when it’s cold than being able to back up to a heater like that.”
“It has a cool top,” Lawton said. “You can put your hand on the top, or set a flowerpot on it, or anything.”
“I know,” Rhodes said. “I have that kind of heater at my house.”
“When’s the last time you checked?” Hack asked. “You mean to tell me somebody stole my stove?” Rhodes said.
“Maybe not,” Hack said, “but don’t be too sure. Somebody stole two of ‘em out of Ham Richardson’s rent house over on Rose Street. The renters skipped out two weeks ago, and they took everything they could, even the light bulbs, but they left the stoves.”
“I remember that,” Rhodes said. “Maybe they came back for the stoves when they got moved in somewhere else.”
“That’s what I think,” Lawton said. “Some don’t agree, though.”
Hack shook his head. “It could be,” he said. “Ru-the new deputy is checkin’ out the scene.”
“Let me know if she finds out anything,” Rhodes said. “I’m going home and have a sandwich. You all having something brought in?”
“Lawton’s goin’ for hamburgers,” Hack said. “When you comin’ back in?”
“Later,” Rhodes said.
Rhodes would never have admitted it, but he liked to go home for lunch, not because he liked bologna sandwiches, which was about all he ever ate there, but because he could catch all or part of the Million Dollar Movie for the day. Kathy had kept after him about eating a more balanced diet, but she’d never bothered him about the movie. He wouldn’t have missed her very much if she had.
The feature was The Naked Jungle, which he’d seen several times before-a good thing, since he’d missed the first twenty minutes. With any luck, though, he’d get to see the climactic scenes with the attacking army ants devouring everything in their path. Besides, he’d always liked Eleanor Parker, if not the usually wooden Charlton Heston.
As he ate the sandwich and watched the movie, Rhodes worried about the death of Bert Ramsey. He’d thought from the beginning, or at least since Ruth Grady had discovered the yellow tags, that Ramsey’s death had nothing to do with the arms and legs he’d found. It had to be something else. Ramsey’s conspicuous consumption, not to mention the cash in the dresser drawer (now safely locked in the jail safe), pointed to something, and possibly something illegal. The Los Muertos connection gave a pretty good hint that dope was involved. But how?
Rhodes didn’t like the idea that there was something going on in the county without his being aware of it. Of course, Los Muertos didn’t have to be staying there.
They could be riding in and out, which would be easy enough to do without anyone’s being conscious of their presence. Late at night on any of the little-traveled back roads, they could come and go with impunity. A deputy would see them only on an off chance.
Then there were Buster Cullens and Wyneva. He had only Mrs. Ramsey’s accusation to go on there. The fact that Cullens was living with Bert’s old girl friend and that he rode a motorcycle wouldn’t go far toward convicting him. Wouldn’t even come close to being grounds for arrest, for that matter. Still, it was worth considering.
What he needed was more and better information; he needed someone who had heard something. It was time to start talking to the informants. You couldn’t have as much cash on hand as Bert Ramsey had and not cause some talk, not in Blacklin County, you couldn’t. There was bound to be someone out there who’d heard something, no matter how insignificant.
The shotgun bothered Rhodes, too. A shotgun wasn’t something you carried around on a motorcycle, right out in the open. A cyclist would maybe carry a pistol, or a knife. Maybe even a length of chain around his waist. But a shotgun? No way. Unless, of course, he carried it cowboy style, in a leather scabbard. Rhodes supposed it could be concealed on a motorcycle easily enough that way.
He had another sandwich, drank a canned Dr. Pepper, even though he vastly preferred the bottled ones, and watched the end of the movie. Then he went into the bedroom and got ten one-dollar bills out of a cigar box he kept on top of the dresser. He was willing to pay for information, but he wasn’t going to pay much.