Tool had returned to the Hummer, carrying the four crosses on his shoulders, saying brightly, "I got a whole field of these suckers at home."
"Hmmm," Chaz had managed.
"They look real nice in the ground, plus you don't gotta prune 'em like you do trees and shrubs."
"Excellent point," Chaz had said, making a mental note to call Red Hammernut first thing in the morning to plead for a new bodyguard.
After they'd returned to Chaz's house, Tool had borrowed a hammer and announced that he was planting the traffic crosses temporarily in the backyard. Chaz would have objected more strenuously if he'd known that Karl Rolvaag would be dropping by.
"How do you know Mr. O'Toole?" the detective asked at the door.
It was the first time Chaz had heard the thug's actual name.
"He's just a friend of a friend."
"The friend being Samuel Johnson Hammernut?" Rolvaag said.
"Yes, well, actually he was an acquaintance of my wife's. I barely know the guy."
"Mr. O'Toole or Mr. Hammernut?"
"Neither of them," Chaz said innocently.
The detective rubbed his chin. "That's sort of strange."
"What do you mean? 'Strange' how?" asked Chaz, on the verge of a blowup. The cop was toying with him, like a cat batting around a ball of yarn.
"Your Humvee-one of Mr. Hammernut's companies purchased it for you," Rolvaag said, "according to the records at the dealership."
Oh shit, Chaz thought.
"You hardly know the man and he's buying you a sixty-thousand-
dollar sport-utility vehicle?" Rolvaag now actually scratching his head, just like that flaky Columbo character on television. Chaz was seething on the inside but he managed to look calm.
"Let me explain," he said to the detective. "The Hummer was a birthday present from Joey. Red knew-Mr. Hammernut-he knew the salesman personally, so he got a really sweet deal. Joey paid him back later."
"With a check, or a wire transfer? Actually, it doesn't matter. Either way, the bank should have a record."
Chaz Perrone shrugged. "I don't know how she handled it. It was her money."
Now they were sitting in the kitchen; Chaz with an untouched beer, the cop with his usual Sprite. During lulls in the conversation, sizzles and pops could be heard from a frying pan on the stove.
Chaz leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Can we please cut all this ridiculous bullshit? Just tell me how much you want."
Rolvaag seemed genuinely baffled.
"Oh, come on," Chaz said. "Save me that god-awful trip to Flamingo." - "You're losing me."
Not wishing to spook the crooked detective, Chaz didn't want to come right out with the word blackmail.
Rolvaag said, "You should be aware that I've already spoken to Mr. Hammernut in LaBelle. He described Mr. O'Toole as a former employee, not a friend. Said he hardly remembered him."
Chaz sat back and crossed his arms. "Fine. We'll play it your way."
Like I've got a choice, he thought.
Glossy with perspiration, Tool lumbered into the kitchen to check on the entree. "Three more minutes," he announced, and walked out.
"He's staying here with you?" Rolvaag asked.
"Yeah. While his double-wide gets fumigated."
"What's with the highway crosses?"
"I'm not sure," Chaz Perrone said, "but it might have something to do with him being a deranged, half-witted sociopath."
"Right."
"He claims to be carrying a bullet slug in the crack of his butt."
"Everybody's got problems," Rolvaag said.
"Is there, like, a particular reason you're here?" Chaz inquired. Besides the sheer sadistic joy you obviously get from busting my balls.
"Yes, of course," said the detective.
"Then can we get to it, please? I've got a three-hour drive to the middle of nowhere, thanks to you."
Rolvaag reached for his briefcase, but then Tool reappeared, briskly toweling his sweaty torso. With uncharacteristic buoyancy he asked if anybody was hungry.
"Because I could eat a bus," he said, forking crispy hunks of alligator tail from the frying pan onto a platter.
Apparently, Rolvaag will be staying for supper, Chaz thought, and I'm helpless to stop it. He hoped that Tool had efficiently disposed of the illegal reptile carcass.
"I hope you like chicken," Chaz said to the detective.
Tool let out a cackle. "We're talkin' major chicken. Serious fuckin' swamp chicken."
"Smells delicious," Rolvaag said, "but no thanks. I've got a lasagna waiting at home."
"And my stomach is acting up again," Chaz chimed in, with barely masked relief. Gnawing on the deep-fried ass of a prehistoric lizard was not his notion of a gourmet experience. In fact, only imminent starvation could have induced him to consume anything from the sullied waters of Hammernut Farms.
"Then I'll eat the whole fucker m'self," Tool said eagerly.
So barbaric was the gustatory spectacle that Chaz Perrone and Karl Rolvaag retreated to the living room, the detective pausing to admire the re-stocked aquarium.
"Those little blue-striped fellows-are they wrasses?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." Chaz thinking: Do I look like frigging Jacques Cousteau?
"You were about to ask me something," he said, "before we got interrupted by Chef Cro-Magnon."
Rolvaag sat on the sofa and opened the briefcase. Leafing through a file folder, he said, "Yes. I need a sample of your wife's handwriting."
"What the hell for?" Chaz knew it wasn't a well-measured response, but the detective's request had flustered him.
"For comparison purposes," Rolvaag said.
Chaz rolled his eyes and snorted, an unfortunate reflex whenever he felt confronted by authority. It had caused him problems in college, as well.
"I don't need much," Rolvaag said. "A few lines in pen or pencil."
Chaz stood up and said he'd see what he could find, which of course would be nothing. He had thrown away everything Joey had ever written to him-birthday cards, love letters, Post-its. The detective hovered while Chaz pretended to search.
"I put away most of her stuff," he said, pawing through a bureau drawer in the bedroom.
"I remember. Where are those boxes?" Rolvaag asked.
"Storage." Chaz thinking: Under about five thousand tons of raw garbage.
"Even just a signature would be fine," Rolvaag said.
"Hang on. I'm still looking."
"What about her checkbook?"
Chaz shook his head and dug into another drawer. He didn't know where the detective was headed with the handwriting angle, but it couldn't be good.
"Credit card receipts?" Rolvaag said.
"God only knows where she put them."
"How about cooking recipes? Some people jot their favorite ones on index cards."
"Joey was a fantastic girl, but not exactly queen of the kitchen." Chaz trying to sound fondly reminiscent. "We ate out a lot," he added with a forced chuckle.
Rolvaag suggested searching Joey's car. "Maybe there's an old grocery list crumpled on the floor somewhere."
"Good idea," said Chaz, knowing full well the futility of that exercise. Rolvaag poked around the garage while Chaz picked through the Camry, which smelled faintly of his wife's killer perfume. Fearing another untimely erectile episode, Chaz breathed through his mouth in order to minimize his exposure.