The Big Bout Page 10

  David nodded. “Yes sir.”

  Butch didn’t say anything.

  “Detective?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Butch said. “I don’t mind none. A case is a case is a case. I’d rather not deal with the likes of her anyhows.”

  “Jimmy, I’d like you to try to talk to her again. Let’s see how that goes. Depending on that . . . will determine my approach. In the meantime I’d like to talk to Kay Hudson. Can you bring her in?”

  “Sure.”

  “And David, find me an alternative way to get a positive ID on the body. Dental records. Medical records. Something.”

  “Yes, sir. Already working on it. Should have something soon.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Mrs. Bennett ain’t home,” Lawrence Vickery said when I stepped out of my car.

  He was walking toward me from the garage.

  “Don’t call her that,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Her late husband’s mother will always be Mrs. Bennett.”

  A smile ticked the corner of his lips but he resisted it, tightening his mouth, pursing his lips, suppressing even the slightest sign of amusement.

  “So where is Birdie?” I said.

  “Away.”

  “And how’d she get there since her car and driver are here?”

  “The lady’s transportation arrangements are none of your concern.”

  I turned and started toward the front door. “I’ll just check for myself. Not doubting you. Not at all. Just being thorough. Birdie expects no less from all her employees. I know you know all about that.”

  “Do what you like, mister,” he said. “No one will come to the door.”

  He was right. No one did.

  “Told you,” he said when I returned.

  “Where is Jeff Bennett?” I said.

  “Still at the morgue, I think.”

  “Where is his wife?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “His mother?”

  “Somewhere safe and quiet, dealing with her grief.”

  “I know you think you’re protecting her, but you’re not,” I said. “Next visit will be from the cops.”

  “I’m pretty sure Birdie owns them,” he said. “Now if that’s all . . . I have work to do.”

  Before I could tell him that wasn’t all, a black car pulled into the driveway and Miles Lydecker’s elephantine twins got out and walked toward us.

  “I’m kinda busy right now, fellas,” I said.

  “Not here for you, Riley,” the one closest to me said.

  “So beat it,” the other one added.

  “You need to come with us, Larry.”

  No wonder Vickery had reacted to my remark about horses. He must have thought I was making a crack about his gambling problem.

  “Now’s not a good time, fellas,” Vickery said.

  The one near him drew a gun, pointed it at him, and said, “How about now? Is now better?”

  The one closer to me turned and aimed his withdrawn weapon at me. I lifted my arm.

  “Thought I told you to beat it,” the other one said.

  “What I was just about to do,” I said, beginning to back down the driveway toward my car, my arm still raised.

  “Wait,” Vickery said.

  “For what?”

  He tried to think of something. Finally he said, “Help me.”

  “With what?”

  I continued easing down the driveway until I reached my car, got in, cranked it, and pulled away as the two behemoths were loading Vickery into their car.

  Turning the wrong way on Bunker’s Cove, I drove up about a quarter mile or so and turned around. By the time I reached Lady Bird Bennett’s driveway again, they were several car lengths in front of me headed toward town.

  I followed.

  I had to slow down several times not to get too close to them and speed up several others not to lose them.

  They turned left on Cherry Street, past the Cove Hotel, curved right onto Beach Drive, crossed over Massalina Bayou, then took a left on Harrison.

  Traffic on all the streets was steady, but only Harrison was crowded, its sidewalks as congested with pedestrians as its street with cars.

  The day was nice and bright, cold but not too.

  They drove to a quiet corner at the end of Harrison near the water, where Miles Lydecker was waiting for them in sunglasses, a buttoned, up overcoat, and a gray hat he had to keep a hand on to keep it from blowing into the bay.

  I parked across the way, and by the time I reached them, all four men were standing in a small circle on the sidewalk between the hood of Lydecker’s car and the guardrail.

  “How much he into you for?” I said to Miles as I walked up.

  “Enough to warrant a little chat when he misses a payment. Whatta you want, Riley?”

  “I was having a little chat with him myself when these little bastards showed up and interrupted.”

  “Popular guy,” Miles said.

  I nodded.

  “What’s he involved in?” Lydecker asked. “Anything I’d be interested in?”

  I shook my head.

  “Anything that’d keep him from paying what he owes?”

  I shrugged. “How much does he owe?”

  “Let’s say I have a substantial investment in him and I don’t want anything hindering my return.” He turned suddenly to Vickery. “Do you have my money?”

  “Not on me, no sir,” he said, “but I can get it.”

  “‘You can get it’ as in if I have my associates run you to where it is, you can secure it and return here and promptly pay me, or as in ‘Mr. Lydecker, sir, I’m good for it. Just give a little more time. I can get it. I can. I just need more time. Please, sir. Please don’t kill me.’”

  “The second one. Mostly. But it’s true. I can get it. You know who I work for. You know I’m good for it.”

  “You’ve never been this late before, never owed so much before. I don’t want to be mistaken about you but fear I may have misjudged and let this go too far.”

  “You haven’t. I swear it.”

  “Okay,” Lydecker said. “I guess we shall see. Break the little finger on his left hand.”

  Quicker than I thought they were capable, the two men were on Vickery––one holding, the other breaking––snapping his little finger like popping the head off a shrimp. A small crunch of bone and yelp of pain followed by profanity pouring from the little man’s mouth.

  “I’m more than reasonable,” Lydecker said. “I gave you only a small reminder. Nothing to interfere with your ability to work and get me my money. I trust you can find your way back home.”

  “I’ll take him,” I said. “Give us a chance to finish our conversation.”

  “I’d rather walk,” Vickery said.

  “So, Miles,” I said. “What happens if Lawrence doesn’t pay?”

  “You mean at all?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is taken off the ledger. For good.”

  I turned to Vickery. “And what do you think happens if I tell Lady Bird Bennett about your little gambling problem?”

  “It’s not little,” Lydecker said.

  “You son of a––”

  “Wait for me in the car,” I said.

  “You heard the man,” Lydecker said.

  “Can I have a minute?” I asked.

  “Sure. You two wait in the car too.”

  “You said you wanted Freddy fighting,” I said. “So who wouldn’t?”

  “Pardon?”

  “If it’s in your interest for him to fight, whose interest is it in for him not to fight? I mean from your world.”

  “My world?”

  “I don’t mean other fighters or promoters. Anybody in your racket who wouldn’t want him to fight.”

  He shrugged. “Nobody I can think of. Men in my, ah, line of work typically only try to influence outcome. Who’s involved is only relevant in the way it affects the spread.”

  I
nodded and thought about it.

  “Hard to imagine it doesn’t have something to do with Gentleman Jeff bowing out.”

  “True.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Can’t help you with anything but the obvious.”

  “If Freddy does fight and doesn’t throw it, will he be permanently taken off the ledger too?”

  “Whatta you think? Ol’ little Larry over there owes peanuts compared to Fuckup Freddy.”

  “Where is Birdie?” I asked.

  “Inside her house, but she won’t open the door for you.”

  Lawrence Vickery and I were on Beach Drive in my car, heading back toward Bunker’s Cove and his place of employment. He was in obvious pain from the broken finger, but to his credit he was doing his best not to let on.

  “Where is Jeff?” I asked.

  “You really don’t think that’s him in the morgue?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything. Mrs. Bennett’s sure acting like it is.”

  “By hiding in her house?” I said. “Wouldn’t she do that same thing if she were trying to avoid people like me and the police?”

  “She can handle people just fine––especially people like you and the police.”

  “Birdie said Jeff was convalescing at a facility before she said he was dead. Any truth in it?”

  He nodded.

  “Where’s the place?”

  “West. Middle of nowhere. Near Fort Walton. Went in the middle of the night. Not sure I could find it again. No need if he’s dead, right?”

  I shrugged.

  “Hey pal, I’m tellin’ you everything I know. You’re not gonna foul me up with the bitch, are you? I really need this job. My life fuckin’ depends on it.”

  “Where is Rebecca?”

  “I drove her and Jeff and Mrs. B over there that night. Only Mrs. B came home with me.”

  “She’s in the same place?”

  “Was. At least that’s the last time I saw her.”

  “What do you know about Kay Hudson?”

  “Nothin’. Heard her name a few times. Not much else.”

  “If the victim is not Jeff, any idea who it is?”

  He shook his head. “But I’ll tell you what I do know. I know that something is very wrong with Jeff Bennett. He’s always been off. Long as I’ve known him. But now . . . he’s . . . I don’t know. It’s like the war did something to him. If he’s not the one who’s dead, wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he’s the one who checked whoever it is out of the Dixie Sherman and into the big hotel in the sky.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  While waiting for Lauren to come out of the USO club, I reread the notes and papers left by Jeff Bennett in the Dixie.

  Though most of the notes where incoherent and made little to no sense at all, I was able to make out several of the names and the connections between them.

  Buried within the many names I didn’t recognize were several that I did. Among them the mayor, a couple of county commissioners, a couple of cops, a few wealthy individuals––and a few sycophants aspiring to be them.

  Like Lee Perkins’s name, Harry Lewis’s had a slash through it.

  There were a few surprises. His own mother’s name was among the others. As was mine. Henry Folsom should not have been a surprise, but it was.

  Noah Mosley, the richest man in town––and the one said to be the most conservative––was also there.

  On one of the scraps of paper, Jeff had written: Illegal versus immoral. Difference between the two is . . . Does it even matter? Probably not for my purposes. How much do I need? What will it take to make the bargain? How far you willing to go? She’ll know if I’m just bluffing.

  On another page a note read: KEEP KAY AWAY! Kay gets wind of any of this, she won’t sit on it.

  A line from another piece of paper said: Place to hide until I’m finished. Right under their noses.

  Jeff’s wondering about a safe place to hide made me think of Miki’s uncle and his men, and I stopped reading and looked around.

  A car in the distance, down near where Miles Lydecker’s giants had brought Lawrence Vickery, was running, the smoke of its exhaust curling up in the cold night air behind it and evaporating into the nothing above it. Its lights were off. Two men sat inside––dark figures in the darkness.

  I got out of my car to have a better look around.

  Why hadn’t they come for Miki yet? What were they waiting for?

  I thought they would’ve come the same night I didn’t show, but now days had passed and there was still no sign of them. What was their plan? What possible advantage could they be waiting for?

  I looked all around the area, keeping the car in the distance in my peripheral vision the entire time.

  Eventually, the car’s lights came on and it slowly drove away––past where I stood near the entrance to the USO and back down Harrison Avenue.

  “How was it?” I asked.

  I had Lauren safely in the car and we were headed toward the Marie Motel.

  Earlier in the afternoon we had switched to the Marie in order to be more a moving target, more elusive.

  Miki was staying at Clip’s tonight so Lauren and I would have the room to ourselves.

  “Went well,” she said.

  Her voice was soft and weak, which matched her movements. It was obvious she was spent, drained, depleted.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Just tired.”

  “You’re beyond tired,” I said.

  “Nothing being held by you and a good night’s sleep can’t cure.”

  “What all’d you do tonight?”

  “Listened. Lots of listening. All any of them really want to do is talk––talk about home and their life before the war, talk about what they’re doing now, what they’re afraid of, what they dream of, what they want their lives to be like after the war.”

  “What else?”

  “Talked some, of course, but not much. I mostly nod and listen.”

  “Did you dance?”

  “Sure. Some.”

  I nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something.”

  “I’m tired too,” I said.

  “I’m sure you are. You’d have to be, but it’s something else.”

  “It’s lots of things.”

  “Tell me. I’m a practiced and accomplished listener.”

  “I’m worried about you. Think you’re overdoing it.”

  “I am a bit. And I realize it. Gonna cut back some. I have to.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “I knew you would be. What else?”

  “It’s mostly that.”

  “Come on, Soldier. Level with me. I can take it. And you know I won’t quit until you do.”

  “It’s hard for me to think of you dancing with other men, listening for hours on end to their dreams.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll stop. I was just trying to find a way to help, to do something for . . . I never meant for it to bother you.”

  “When you respond like that,” I said, “it makes me see how ridiculous and juvenile I’m being. I’m sorry.”

  “I think your response to the situation is typical. I’m the one––”

  “I don’t want to be typical.”

  “I meant understandable. There’s nothing typical about you. And you’re handling all this very well.”

  “I can do better.”

  Later that night, holding her close to me in our bed in the Marie Motel, I said, “Clip thinks maybe my issue with the money is that I think you won’t need me as much, that I’m scared with more options you’ll leave me eventually.”

  “Anything in it?” she asked.

  We were spooning, my mouth at her ear, her question spoken into the darkness in front of us.

  I shrugged, her body abs
orbing it. “I’m not sure exactly. I don’t think you’re with me because you lack options.”

  “I had money––or at least access to it––when we met.”

  “He reminded me of that.”

  “In fact, except for a very brief time recently, I’ve had money our entire relationship.”

  “I know.”

  She slid away slightly, turned to face me, then slid back into my embrace, our faces inches apart now.

  “You’re right. I’m not with you because of a lack of options. And having more options won’t make me want you any less.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you? Really?”

  “I do.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s not just one thing.”

  She nodded––something I sensed more than saw.

  “I want no part of anything associated with Harry or his corruption,” I said. “I do have very real concerns about what money does to people. But . . . yeah . . . I guess . . . it’s not that I think you want it so you’ll have options or that I think you’re with me now because you don’t have options. But I guess I do see it as in one way or another shortening our relationship.”

  “I see it as just the opposite,” she said. “I thought with it I might be able to get the ongoing medical treatment I need so we can prolong our time together. Make it last. Give ourselves as much time as possible. I thought if it gave us even one more day together it’d be worth all the money in the world.”

  She was right. I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been.

  I shook my head in disgust.

  “How many ways can one man be wrong?” I asked.

  “I’m not saying I think you are, Soldier,” she said, “but if you are wrong, you are wrong for all the right reasons.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  “You think you righteous ’cause Clip your nigger?” Freddy said.

  I didn’t say anything.

  We were seated in the bleachers of the Bay High School gym. I was on the third row. Sitting. Watching. Where I had been the entire time we had been here. He was on the first row, having just sat down. Towel around his shoulders. Sweat still dripping off him. Unlacing his gloves.