“Seems like a good guy.”
“You two work together?”
“Not exactly.”
She puffed a cloud of smoke off to one side. “What’s that mean?”
“I’m a reporter. We kind of,” I tried to finesse it with my hands, “work against each other.”
That got a laugh. “Good. That’s what he needs. Girl who’ll come straight at him, not stab him in the back like a damned sneaky-”
“Damned sneaky what, Nana?” Curzon crossed the patio in three long strides. He wasn’t hurrying but he plopped the glass ashtray into her hand with obvious irritation. Curzon Senior laughed.
“Damned sneaky yourself, Jack-over. Give me that ashtray. And I don’t want to hear any of that ‘you shouldn’t be smoking at your age’ crap. Damned few enough pleasures left at my age, I oughta know.” There was a patter to it, like a comedian’s routine. Everybody seemed to have heard it before.
“Nana,” Curzon’s mother chided. Donna Curzon struck me as one of those round, settled women who read sad novels in their spare time and always wore the wrong color lipstick.
“Keep it up, Ma. Jack’s gonna buy you a case of cigarettes for your birthday.” The old guy laughed at his own joke. I saw one hand reach for his wife’s ass, give her a squeeze.
Donna didn’t seem to mind. She shifted her weight toward him, leaning until her shoulder touched the whole length of his body. His hand popped into view at the small of her waist, holding her close.
That seemed to be the cue for Donna to take charge of the conversation. Had I ever met Barbara Walters? Was Peter Jennings handsome in person? In between the small talk, I nudged the sheriff twice about talking to his cousin. He continued giving me the brush-off. To make matters worse, I could see Jenny across the way, smiling and talking with some of the older kids. Even though I was itching to get the interview and get out, I wasn’t looking forward to dragging her away, now that she seemed to be having fun. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her have fun.
The whole scene felt odd as hell. I am not familiar with adjusting my schedule to someone else’s good time. I needed how-to training in standing around watching. Not to mention, the feeling that Curzon was being more than merely helpful by inviting me here. Richard Gatt had it right when he said small-town business wasn’t that different from the Chicago neighborhood politics I remembered. My clan instincts were all a-tingle.
Across the lawn, a pair of Curzon women were chatting up a pair of guests who stuck out as non-family. The older man was early forties, tall, with a jawline as chiseled as a comic book hero’s. His lanky body contrasted with a head of thick silver hair for that youthful-but-mature look. The other man I knew. Mr. Vegas himself. Pat. Tom Jost’s ambulance partner.
Interesting. I entertained the fantasy of grabbing a quick interview and crossing him off my pick-up list.
“Who’s Dick Tracy over there?” I asked Curzon. “The guy with the chin.”
“That’s Marcus Wilt. We went to law school together. He and my sister are-”
“Don’t remind me,” Nana interrupted.
“Law school?” I prodded.
Curzon shrugged. “Didn’t stick for either of us. Marcus ended up going to work for his father’s construction company.”
“You guys are friends?” I asked.
“Not close.”
Senior hacked out one of those old-man gargle sounds. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”
“Dad.” It was a warning.
Too late.
“So you guys are enemies?” I repeated with the same cheerfulness.
“Marcus is running for sheriff,” Curzon answered in a bland voice.
“Why shouldn’t he? You aren’t putting up a fight,” his father accused. “Shit or get off the pot, son. If you don’t, the dogs’ll get you with your pants around your ankles.”
“You want another drink?” Curzon asked me politely. “I’m going to the bar, Dad. You want something?”
“No.” Senior flapped a hand in dismissal. “Fine. Go on then.”
“Phaw. You tell me ‘keep it up.’” Nana jut her jaw forward and blew a stream of smoke straight up.
“Give it a rest, Ma.”
Curzon took hold of my elbow and walked us toward the patio serving area. Clearly, they didn’t need an audience to enjoy themselves.
“So what’s Pat doing here?”
“Pat who?”
“Pat, Tom Jost’s buddy, who is right now, sidled up to your frenemy Marcus. That’s who.”
“Marc’s got a contract with the hospital. Those two know each other.”
I looked back at Marcus Wilt. He was dapper enough to be entertaining a gentleman caller. “Are they like, together?”
“Christ. I’ll give you twenty bucks to ask Marc that question.” Curson laughed. “No. It was my mother’s idea. She asked Marc to invite the guy. And here’s Nicky. Perfect timing,” Curzon grumbled. “Now you can ferret out the rest of the family secrets. I’ll leave you to him.” Another brief introduction and Curzon marched off in the direction of the bar.
I tried to think of Nicky Curzon as the bad-cop type, but it just wouldn’t stick. A couple inches shorter and a couple years younger than the sheriff, he had the same width in the chest and shoulder. Cop-sized. He’d changed into a red-on-black Be Like Mike T-shirt which, given his earlier net loss, seemed kind of cute.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He shook my hand-not squishy, not stiff.
I didn’t want to launch straight into the Jost thing. Rarely does the best stuff flow at the start of an interview. I glanced across the patio at Senior. “Seems like your uncle’s pretty annoyed with the sheriff.”
Nicky shrugged. “It happens.”
Occupational hazard of mine-with only a taste of information, I felt compelled to feed him another opening. Something vague and open-ended like, “He doesn’t think Jack’s fighting for it?”
Nicky shot me a skeptical look. “Jack talked to you about the election?”
“More or less.” Curzon would gut me with a spoon if he caught me wheedling personal secrets out of his cousin. I smiled, casually.
“Jack told me to watch myself around you.” Nicky gave me a smug once-over. “Guess that’s because you got to him first, huh?”
I feigned a little maidenly modesty.
Nicky plopped down on the bench beside me and stretched his legs out in front of him, making himself comfortable. He had the blunt body of so many cops. Not clumsy, but stiff. Made to be in motion, they never seemed quite happy at rest.
“I have to agree with Uncle Mike. Jack’s not trying very hard. I think he wants to lose.”
“Really? Why?”
“Don’t know. I do know the work’s a part of him. Being sheriff, law enforcement, all of it. Part of his heritage. You can’t just walk away from that.”
“Not easily.” I took a stab. “Do you think the divorce had something to do with it? It’s not uncommon. Guy splits with his wife, wants to make some changes across the board.”
Nicky stared hard at me. “Jack talked to you about that, too?” He exhaled as if he were blowing off steam. “It’s been two years since the She-bitch left. Guess it depends on whether the change improves things or makes it worse. He’s a good sheriff. He knows the job. Marcus-” The look I saw was long-suffering and skeptical. “I don’t want Jack to lose. None of us do. Some good press would help.”
Ah ha. My invitation to the party suddenly made sense.
“Good press can be hard to come by. Tell me about your letter to Jost’s commander at the fire station.”
Nicky was ready for my question. “Maybe I was trying to keep things from getting worse.”
“Tell me.”
There was no camera running. There was no one to hear but the two of us. Sometimes, guy has a problem, all it takes is someone asking nicely.
“What did the girl say to you?” he asked.
“Rachel Jost said you interrupted a clinch. She sounded ashamed and worried for Tom.”