“I located the twins, found them finally in a house they rented along Sand Mound Slough. They’d been murdered.”
Shel said, “Sounds like you got there late.”
“People tell me the twins had been seen recently with a man named Frank Maas.”
“Here it comes,” Shel groaned, feigning enough-is-enough. “And know what I hear? Those two Briscoe kids were slumming it. Pair of coked-up little freaks. They were due.”
“Where did you hear that?”
Shel waved her off. “I’ll tell you something else. Kids don’t run away from home ‘cause everything’s great. I’d say the people paying you want to calm a bad conscience.”
Jill Rosemond’s expression conveyed she had heard this before. “What else,” she asked, “would you like to tell me?”
Shel shook her head. “You’ll listen to damn near anything, I’ll bet. Earn your fee. Family’s got as much use for you now as they do their kids, right? You were supposed to make contact with these prodigal twins of yours. Get them in touch with the family again, work up that backslapping get-together everybody was pretending they wanted. But you took too long. You blew it.”
“It appears we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”
“Stop the heartfelt sincere bit, will you? It is very annoying.”
“I do not- ”
“Have you been paid?”
Abatangelo pressed Shel’s knee harder with his hand. She jerked her leg away.
“I beg your pardon?” Jill Rosemond said.
“This family, they’re into you what, a few grand now? Maybe more. So you tell them, I’ll go the extra yard. I’ll keep on pushing, pass on everything I find out to the boys in Homicide. ‘Cause if a perp crops up, or somebody who’ll pass for one, you want it to look like you helped out. And then you mail the Briscoes the bill, Jill. You’ve made it worth their while to pay up finally. They’ll get some vengeance, which’ll keep up appearances. Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I merely want to talk to Frank Mass,” Jill Rosemond said. “I think he can help me. Maybe. How can I know till I talk to him?”
“Oh Lord,” Shel groaned. “The scent. Go get ’em.” She leaned forward. “Horseshit.”
“I’m sorry, but this attitude of yours strikes me as just a bit hysterical.”
“Then, like I said, you’re not from around here, honey. We’re skeptical out this way. We’re white trash. Your kind never brings good luck.”
Shel gathered her things and dropped off her bar stool. “I’ve got nothing else to say to you.” She headed for the door. Abatangelo left his change and scrambled to catch up with her in the doorway.
“Let’s take my car,” he said under his breath.
“Danny, that’s not a good idea. Go home.”
Outside, the parking lot glowed from overhead lamplight. Up the hill traffic rushed past on the Delta Highway, cruising west into Pittsburg or east toward Antioch.
Abatangelo took Shel’s arm. “She’s going to follow you.”
Shel shook off his hand. “She’ll be in for a rude shock.”
Jill Rosemond stormed up from behind. Her face was flushed. Reaching them, she came to, adjusted her glasses and struck a pose of righteous fury. “I want to paint you a picture,” she said. “It’s a picture the family’s going to live with for a long time.”
Abatangelo tried to turn Shel away but she fought off his hold. She held out her finger as though intending to ram it through the other woman’s chin.
“You listen…,” Shel hissed.
“No, I’ve listened enough,” Jill Rosemond replied, holding her ground. “It’s your turn. I found the Briscoe twins in an upstairs room with their chests torn up by close-range gunfire. I had to wave through a cloud of flies to make sure it was them. Blood spread into the carpet like a paste, I still smell it sometimes. The twins, they were all of eighteen years old. Eighteen. Left there like meat, bloated, swimming with maggots. But that’s just another day in the life of white trash, I suppose.”
Shel crossed her arms, made a low caustic laugh and said, “That it?”
“I want to talk to Frank Maas.”
“No no no,” Shel said. “My turn now. My turn to paint the scene.” She cocked her head. “You ready? This Frank Maas you want so bad, he had a baby boy once, know that? Name was Jesse. He was all of three years old when he died. Killed with a hammer through his skull. Killer made his mother watch all this till he beat her to death with the same fucking hammer. There’s more, God yes, but I’ll spare you the details. Here’s a promise, though: I got you beat on the gore scale, sugar. His own damn kid. Frank’s kid. And who do you think got dragged in for questioning. Right. Sorry-ass Frank. He didn’t have money to hire an item like you, he just had to sit there and take it. Four damn days they grilled him. When they had to let him go they put him on surveillance, followed him up and down the county. He was the one, they were positive, no doubt. Go get ’em. Frank loved that boy. Loved him with every ounce of strength he had. But if the real killer through some thunderbolt from above hadn’t heard his conscience calling, walked in and given himself up, they’d still be out to nail Frank for his own boy’s murder. Just like you want to do with these twins. Don’t tell me otherwise. Christ. Listen to you. Wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you. Wouldn’t care. The hell with you. I’ve seen your kind. Frank and me, we’ve been through this. And that, my dear, is another day in the life of white trash, if you so much as give a shit.”
She spun away toward her truck. Abatangelo stood there, not moving. No wonder, he thought. A boy. He shook himself from his stupor, offered Jill Rosemond a shrug and hurried toward Shel.
“You have my card,” Jill Rosemond called after him. Her voice seemed brittle and false now. Abatangelo started to run as Shel sorted through her keys. He reached the truck as she was getting in and lodged his arm inside the door.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he said. “This is nuts.”
“I gotta run now,” Shel said, voice cracking. “It was nice to see you. I mean that.”
She turned the ignition key and released the parking brake. She did not put the car in gear, though. She leaned forward in the seat and rested her forehead against the steering wheel, inhaling through her mouth.
Abatangelo said, “I didn’t know. I never heard about- ”
“Danny, don’t,” Shel moaned.
He pulled a pen from his pocket, scrawled his number and address on the back of Jill Rosemond’s card. “In case,” he said, handing it to her.
Shel took the card, dropped it in her lap and put the truck in gear. “Thank you,” she whispered.
She pulled away in a shrieking jolt and fishtailed onto the road. He stared after her, watching the taillights flicker beyond a row of aspens. For the first time he felt the wind on his skin, cold and damp off the river. He turned back toward his own car and discovered Jill Rosemond standing there. She waited in the middle of the parking lot, casting a small round shadow in the lamplight. One hand clutching her purse strap, she called out to him in a tone of newfound resolve: “I still didn’t catch your name.”
Chapter 11
The two cars bearing Frank, the Akers brothers and the other gunmen sped north through the Delta. Frank and the Akers brothers rode with Dayball and Tully in the Lincoln, Hack and the others trailing behind in the old Le Mans. At a rest stop just beyond the Antioch Bridge, Dayball and Tully told Lyle to stop and let them out. They were due to return to Bethel Island, join the birthday celebration for Felix Randall’s niece which would serve as their alibi. Before getting out, Dayball helped Frank roll up his sleeve, and with a fresh spike submit to a booster of his medicine. With his usual flair for theater, Dayball booted the liquor in the cylinder, drawing back blood and watching the thin dark threads waving in the fluid. Finally with his thumb he drove the plunger home, withdrew the needle tip from the skin and told Frank to roll his sleeve back down. As Frank buttoned his cuff, Dayball pocketed the spike and removed his spiral notebook, as always checking the time, then recording his secret notation.