But he continued to picture the scene as they drove over East Jefferson, hearing, “That’s far enough-” and trying to think of what Clement might say then. Yeah, Clement would say something and then he would say something else, something short and to the point and then…
Hunter said, “We both going in?”
Raymond, holding the paper bag on his lap, said, “No, I’m gonna do it.” He was silent for about a block and then said, “He’s got another gun. If he was shooting at the Albanians he got another gun somewhere.”
MAUREEN LET SANDY PACE the living room in her Bert Parks T-shirt and satin shorts, Sandy shredding a Kleenex tissue, dropping tiny pieces of it but leaving no pattern of a trail. Maybe she had to wear herself out before she’d sit down.
“You jog?” Maureen asked her.
Sandy paused to look at the lady homicide sergeant on the couch in her little schoolteacher navy blazer and gray skirt-like a nun in street clothes except for the gun, Sandy suspected, in the worn brown handbag.
“You kidding? Jog … no, I don’t go sailing either, or play golf. Jesus Christ, do I jog…”
“You have a nice trim figure,” Maureen said, “I thought maybe you exercised.”
“I’ve been running to the bathroom every ten minutes since your buddy Lieutenant Cruz was here. I don’t need any more exercise, I’ll tell you.” She paced over to the dining-L and back to the desk in the living room before stopping again to look at Maureen. “How would you tell him?”
“Just the way Lieutenant Cruz suggested,” Maureen said. “You gave the gun to Mr. Sweety because you were afraid to throw it away yourself.”
“It’s true.”
“So you have nothing to worry about.”
“He’s gonna ask me if the cops were here, I know he is.”
“Well, I’m here,” Maureen said. “I asked you if you saw a gun in Clement Mansell’s possession, here or anywhere else and you told me no. That’s all you have to say. Don’t complicate it.”
“You don’t know him.”
“I’ll bet I’ve known a few like him though.” Maureen watched Sandy move to the windows and look out toward the river. “There’s one guy we sent to Jackson keeps writing to me. He says we’re pen pals. I think when he gets out in about seven years he wants to get together.”
“Clement’s only been to prison once,” Sandy said. “He’s been to jail plenty of times, but he’s only spent like a year in a regular prison. He says he won’t ever go back again and I believe him. God, he makes up his mind to something… but he’s so unpredictable. One time we’re out at Pine Knob, the Allman Brothers were there. Everybody, you know, they’re drinking beer and acting crazy, rolling joints on their coolers. This boy turns around and offers Clement a toke? Clement slaps it out of his hand like he was the boy’s dad or something, gives him this real mean look. All while the Allman Brothers’re playing Clement’s waving his arms around to make the smoke go away. Sometimes, I swear, he’s like a little old man.”
“You must like him a lot,” Maureen said.
Sandy turned from the window. “Shit, I’m scared not to.” She stared off, mouth partly open, then gradually began to grin, though not giving it much. “He’s cute, though, you know it? God, in bed… I think that’s where he got his nickname, the Wildman? I swear, he gets it up, like he says, you got to hit it with a stick to make it go down.” Sandy’s grin broadened as her gaze moved to Maureen and she said, “What’re you smiling at?”
“I’ve had some experience there, too,” Maureen said. “I was assigned to Sex Crimes for nine years. I think I saw everything there is to see. I mean, you know, funny things.”
“God,” Sandy said, “that must’ve been interesting. Like rapists and degenerates and all? Perverts?”
“Uh-huh, lot of perverts. People you’d least expect.”
“Isn’t that the way? Like schoolteachers… preachers?”
“Uh-huh. A lot of flashers.”
“Yeah? Guys with raincoats and nothing underneath?”
“The pros cut the whole front out of their pants,” Maureen said. “One of the weirdest ones-we got a rape report. Right over in the City-County Building, one of the secretaries was dragged into the stairway and raped, had her clothes torn off. We asked her to describe the guy, if he had any unusual marks or characteristics. The girl said yes, come to think of it, he had an infantile penis.”
“God,” Sandy said, “a rapist.” She sounded a little sad. “Did you get him?”
“We rounded up suspects, repeat offenders,” Maureen said, “but first we had to qualify them, if you understand what I mean.”
Sandy’s face brightened. “Yeah, to see who had an infantile one.” She frowned. “How little is infantile?”
“Wait,” Maureen said. “A suspect would be brought in, then one of the guys in the squad would tell him to drop his pants.”
“Didn’t you see any of ’em?”
“Well, a few. But during the investigation I think something like a hundred and fifty-seven penises were inspected.”
“Wow,” Sandy said, with something like awe. “A hundred and fifty-seven. God…” She paused then with a puzzled expression. “Wait a minute. This girl said the guy’s joint was infantile, but compared to what? I mean her old man could’ve had a shlong that hung down to his knees. You know it?”
“We thought of that,” Maureen said. “Compared to what? We never did get the guy.”
“That’s really something,” Sandy said. “At least you get to meet a lot of interesting people.”
“Well, I’m never bored,” Maureen said.
When Sandy was alone again she let the silence and dismal evening sky work on her. It was the best time of the day to be depressed. She was able to cry for a few minutes, shredding another Kleenex, made moaning sounds as she went into the bedroom, stood in front of the full-length mirror and studied her image hiding there puffy-eyed behind Bert Parks’ big grin.
She said out loud, “You poor thing.” She curled her lower lip down and got her chin to quiver and studied the expression. Then parted her lips slightly and opened her eyes wide in a look of surprised innocence. “Well, I didn’t know. God, I thought you’d be glad”-pouty again-“ ‘stead of being an old meany.” Sandy stared at her slumped shoulders, her pitiful expression. She stared for a long silent moment and then said, “Fuck it.” She took off the T-shirt and jeans and tried it again, looking at a bra-less image now, hooked her thumbs into the narrow band of her white panties and cocked a hip… turned sideways and stared past her shoulder, letting her eyelids become heavy… turned full front again and stared with her bare feet apart, hands moving to her narrow hips.
She said, “Hey, are you Sandy Stanton?” and cocked her head slightly. “Yeah, I thought you were. You’ve got a dynamite body, you know it? I mean anybody can see you’ve got it together. Look at you. You are a fucking groovy chick, you know it? Yeah, I know it. Then what’s the problem? What problem? I don’t have a problem, you have a problem?…”
When Clement came in he said, “Where you think you’re at, a nudist camp?” Without a bit of fun in his voice. “Jesus, turn that boresome music off-”
“We a little irritable this evening?”
With a foot-dragging funky step and two whole joints working in her, Sandy got over to the hi-fi just ahead of Clement and saved the Bee Gees from being scratched to death. She said, “What on earth is the matter with you?”
He walked over to the windows and stood looking out at the downtown lights.
Sandy tried again. “This your thinking time?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ve been worried about you-sitting here all day. There’s such a thing as telephones, you know.” Yeah, get a little pissed at him.