under his hat, that’s what he’ll do. We can stop and interview him again if we need to on the way out.”
Marlin could tell that Wylie didn’t like it. “All right, the first thing I need to do is a more thorough search,” Wylie said. He looked at Marlin. “I’d prefer it if everyone just stayed out of my way.”
Wylie turned and made his way back toward the fence, returning to Garza’s patrol car for equipment. After he was gone, Marlin looked at Garza and said, “That boy needs his cinch tightened a little.”
“We gotta clean dis shit up and quick, before your mother gets home,” Sal said, placing the handgun on his desk.
“But, Pop, what the hell happened?”
“Never mind dat shit now. Go out to the garage, grab dat tarp on the shelf above the washer. Bring a bucket and a bunch of rags. We don’t got much time,” Sal said, glancing at his wristwatch. It was three-twenty. Angela had said she and Maria would be home by six at the latest, when her Crock-Pot dinner would be ready.
Vinnie hustled to gather the items, and both men went to work cleaning up the scene.
First they wrapped Slaton in the tarp, bound it tightly with duct tape, and dragged him into the garage. Vinnie hopped into his Camaro in the driveway and backed it into the garage, parking in his mother’s usual spot. Fortunately, the Mameli home sat on five acres, and this provided plenty of privacy. Vinnie easily hefted the corpse and plopped it into his trunk.
For the next hour, the men attacked the grotesque residue in Sal’s den. They scrubbed, washed, wiped, and sponged, and the evidence was quickly disappearing—except for a large oval bloodstain on the carpet where Slaton’s body had fallen.
“Dis ain’t workin’,” Sal muttered, rubbing the rust-tinted carpet. “Fuck! Dis ain’t workin’!”
“Want some more water?” Vinnie asked, holding the bucket.
Sal pondered the situation for a moment. “Naw, we’d be here all night. Look, what you gotta do is run down to the Super S and rent a carpet cleaner, one-a dose portable jobs. Take my Lincoln, and get your ass back here pronto!”
“What about his truck, Pop?”
Damn it to hell! Sal had forgotten about Slaton’s Ford out front. “Why didn’t you remind me!” he shouted, Vinnie shrinking back. Sal thought things through, gears spinning. “Okay, listen. I’ll take my Lincoln, you follow in his Ford and we’ll ditch it somewhere along the way.”
He turned and grabbed something off the shelf behind him. “Put on dese gloves. We don’t need your fuckin’ prints all over the place.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By five-thirty, U.S. Marshal Smedley Allen Poindexter was wolfing down his fifth Twinkie, sitting in his nondescript sedan, bored out of his mind. That was the thing about this job—there were times when you sat for hours doing nothing but watching and waiting.
Unfortunately, Smedley had a habit of combating the tedium by eating; there was always an assortment of packaged cookies, donuts, chips, and salty snacks on the passenger seat beside him. Sometimes a quart or two of Big Red soda, which tasted just fine to Smedley even when it was warm. In the past eleven years, he had packed a total of seventy disgusting, blubbery pounds onto his already pudgy body. He now tipped the scales at a whopping 280, way too much for his five-ten frame.
The worst part of it all was that he shared a name with a certain cereal-loving pachyderm. When the Cap’n Crunch folks had come out with Smedley the Elephant decades ago, Smedley Poindexter had been a skinny boy of thirteen. Sure, he had gotten razzed because of the name, but it would have been much worse if he had been overweight. He had had other problems to deal with—acne, shyness, a mild stutter—but thank God he hadn’t been fat!
Now, however, he was fat. Way too fat. And when you’re an overweight guy walking around with a name like
Marlin could tell that Wylie didn’t like it. “All right, the first thing I need to do is a more thorough search,” Wylie said. He looked at Marlin. “I’d prefer it if everyone just stayed out of my way.”
Wylie turned and made his way back toward the fence, returning to Garza’s patrol car for equipment. After he was gone, Marlin looked at Garza and said, “That boy needs his cinch tightened a little.”
“We gotta clean dis shit up and quick, before your mother gets home,” Sal said, placing the handgun on his desk.
“But, Pop, what the hell happened?”
“Never mind dat shit now. Go out to the garage, grab dat tarp on the shelf above the washer. Bring a bucket and a bunch of rags. We don’t got much time,” Sal said, glancing at his wristwatch. It was three-twenty. Angela had said she and Maria would be home by six at the latest, when her Crock-Pot dinner would be ready.
Vinnie hustled to gather the items, and both men went to work cleaning up the scene.
First they wrapped Slaton in the tarp, bound it tightly with duct tape, and dragged him into the garage. Vinnie hopped into his Camaro in the driveway and backed it into the garage, parking in his mother’s usual spot. Fortunately, the Mameli home sat on five acres, and this provided plenty of privacy. Vinnie easily hefted the corpse and plopped it into his trunk.
For the next hour, the men attacked the grotesque residue in Sal’s den. They scrubbed, washed, wiped, and sponged, and the evidence was quickly disappearing—except for a large oval bloodstain on the carpet where Slaton’s body had fallen.
“Dis ain’t workin’,” Sal muttered, rubbing the rust-tinted carpet. “Fuck! Dis ain’t workin’!”
“Want some more water?” Vinnie asked, holding the bucket.
Sal pondered the situation for a moment. “Naw, we’d be here all night. Look, what you gotta do is run down to the Super S and rent a carpet cleaner, one-a dose portable jobs. Take my Lincoln, and get your ass back here pronto!”
“What about his truck, Pop?”
Damn it to hell! Sal had forgotten about Slaton’s Ford out front. “Why didn’t you remind me!” he shouted, Vinnie shrinking back. Sal thought things through, gears spinning. “Okay, listen. I’ll take my Lincoln, you follow in his Ford and we’ll ditch it somewhere along the way.”
He turned and grabbed something off the shelf behind him. “Put on dese gloves. We don’t need your fuckin’ prints all over the place.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
By five-thirty, U.S. Marshal Smedley Allen Poindexter was wolfing down his fifth Twinkie, sitting in his nondescript sedan, bored out of his mind. That was the thing about this job—there were times when you sat for hours doing nothing but watching and waiting.
Unfortunately, Smedley had a habit of combating the tedium by eating; there was always an assortment of packaged cookies, donuts, chips, and salty snacks on the passenger seat beside him. Sometimes a quart or two of Big Red soda, which tasted just fine to Smedley even when it was warm. In the past eleven years, he had packed a total of seventy disgusting, blubbery pounds onto his already pudgy body. He now tipped the scales at a whopping 280, way too much for his five-ten frame.
The worst part of it all was that he shared a name with a certain cereal-loving pachyderm. When the Cap’n Crunch folks had come out with Smedley the Elephant decades ago, Smedley Poindexter had been a skinny boy of thirteen. Sure, he had gotten razzed because of the name, but it would have been much worse if he had been overweight. He had had other problems to deal with—acne, shyness, a mild stutter—but thank God he hadn’t been fat!
Now, however, he was fat. Way too fat. And when you’re an overweight guy walking around with a name like
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