He also had no credit cards. That meant either Dale was fronting him pocket change for beer and gas and the like or he had a problem. Gambling or drugs or something else. I wondered if she had a part-time job or if she was nimble-fingered and following in the rest of the family’s footsteps.
The question became: Did Dale know what Butch was up to? Or, worse, was she in on the score with him? The idea of it made the back of my skull ache. But she was fifteen. At fifteen, the rest of us Rands had been creeping around second-story bedrooms and stealing silverware and jugging tiny safes.
I pocketed his six bucks and tossed the rest out the window as soon as I hit the highway. Butch Cassidy. Motherfucker. I gunned it down the road, thinking, When Butch went down, would he take Dale with him? What was I going to have to do to protect her? How far was I willing to go? And how many of these kinds of questions had filled my brother’s head before he got caught in the underneath and never came up again?
12
My head was full of the dead. I sat at the bar in the Elbow Room with the photocopied files and ordered a Jack and Coke.
The place was a dive. It had gotten worse since the last time I’d had a drink here. The men looked the same except maybe a bit more desperate. The drinks were watered down, the felt on the pool tables that much more worn. The mirror behind the bar had a thick film of grime on it so you could barely see your own face. Maybe it was a blessing.
The whores worked the losers a little more brazenly. They didn’t bother with subtlety. They didn’t play the buy-me-a-drink-and-maybe-I’ll-go-home-with-you-and-oh-by-the-way-I-cost-a-C-note-sorry-I-didn’t-mention-that-sooner game. It was all out front. I wasn’t sure if I liked it better or not. At least you didn’t waste time or get your heart chipped away when you realized the girl with the cool blue eyes and the slow smile wasn’t really turning it on because you might be Mr. Right. You knew at the start you were wrong, and so was she.
The cops had interviewed the owner and two bartenders who had been working the night Collie went on his spree. All three swore he hadn’t been drunk. That he hadn’t started any kind of a ruckus or been involved in any sort of disturbance. That he hadn’t been pestering anybody. There had been no fights. He hadn’t pawed any of the girls. He hadn’t tried to rob the place. No one reported having their pockets picked.
The juke purred a trio of female voices, low and tempting. The speakers beat at my back. I chowed on cocktail peanuts and sucked beer. My concentration skittered around the room, picking up pieces of conversations and lonely muttering. Men were talking standard shit. Who’d beenwas-year9;t b of a ripped off by the boss, the government, the wife. Men with preteen sons talked proud. Men with older sons talked about intense disappointment. It was times like these that I was glad my family was full of men who kept quiet.
Someone bumped my shoulder and I spilled a quarter glass down my shirt. He didn’t say excuse me. I turned and glowered. I wondered if this could start a chain reaction that would land me on death row.
I glanced at the register. I could have it cleaned out in under ten seconds. I could wait for the bartender to go get another case of beer from the storeroom. Or I could sucker-punch him and nab the cash. No one would try to stop me. That kind of draw was always there for me. Knowing I could reach out and grab what I wanted at any time. Of course it was. I was a thief. The devil had to be in Collie’s ear all the time as well.
I wondered what set of circumstances would have to come together to send me on a spree where I would kill old women and nine-year-old girls. I knew my rage could send me into barroom brawls. But Suzy Coleman. I just couldn’t imagine anything pushing me to murder a little girl.
I stood and moved toward a table in back. As I passed the end of the bar, a middle-aged pro with greasy eyes put her arm out and grabbed my wrist. She smelled of Four Roses and stale hamburger. I thought if she was making a play for me this was the wrong way to go about it. She held on tightly without so much as lifting her gaze or saying a word. She was sitting with a john who either hadn’t been buying her whiskey fast enough or was taking too long cracking open his wallet and paying for her services. Now I saw she was using me to make him jump. He glanced up as if I was disturbing him and gave me the death glare.
I thought about Collie. I was going to be thinking about Collie for a long time to come, but especially in this place. Every scent, motion, action made me wonder. Was this what did it? Could this do it to me?
She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind when she looked into my eyes.
I walked on, snapping her grip.
I got a table and eased into the bench seat and thought about my brother doing the same thing. It would’ve been a tight fit for him five years ago. He’d had a substantial gut. He would’ve had to suck it in. The table edge would be cutting into him. He’d try to ignore it, throw back another Corona.
I didn’t want my brother in my head, so why was I so desperately trying to get into his? It was a setup. I knew it. I could feel it. He was positioning me in some kind of a play in a game that wasn’t even mine.
I started to slide out of the booth just as the waitress came around. She was thin-lipped, frizzy-headed, bony-shouldered, and small-breasted, yet somehow exuded sensuality.
“Get you?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
Was there any possibility Collie was telling the truth? He seemed to believe it, but what kind of proof was that? He was at least as nuts as everyone else on death row, and that was a heap of crazy.
I slid back into the booth and knew I had to make a decision. Read the files or burn them. Stay or book. Give in or get the hell out. I’d gone this far for reasons I didn’t understand. Maybe I should head back out west. Maybe I should pull the job with Butch. Maybe I could show up at Kimmy and Chub’s front door and invite myself in. Had I come home to flame out like my brother?
“Fuck,” I said.
“What’s that?”
The waitress was watching me. She didn’t seem bored waiting. A hint of talcum powder trailed across her cleavage. She probed a bad back tooth with her tongue and winced but didn’t stop.
“Sorry. Give me a Dewar’s and Coke. A lot of ice.”
“You okay, man?”
“Sure.”
She tilted her head back toward the bar. “Flo over there wants you to buy her a dirty martini.”
I could guess who Flo was. “And why would she expect me to do that?”
The waitress shrugged. “It’ll make her more friendly to you, you know?”
“I’ve got all the friends I can handle.”
“The guys like her. Some of them anyway.”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay, man.”
I spent the next forty-five minutes reading and slowly getting drunk. My stomach was empty by now, and the liquor hit me harder than it should have. It didn’t slow me down. I kept knocking them back, hoping to disconnect. The pages flashed before me. Facts, dates, blood-spatter patterns, interviews. I knew the picture but details kept adding color and texture. More than I wanted to know.
The reports were about as cool and dry as they came. There wasn’t a hint of emotion anywhere, not even in my brother’s confession. He’d told the cops the same thing that he’d told me. There was no reason. He explained what he’d done that night step by step. How he’d moved from one victim to the next. He named the seven. He didn’t name Rebecca Clarke. She’d been completely left out. No one seemed to care.
The victims soon emptied of whatever personality I’d instilled them with. Paul Coleman. Sarah Coleman. Tom Coleman. Neal Coleman. Suzy Coleman. Doug Schuller. Mrs. Howard.