Leather Maiden by Joe R. Lansdale Page A

searched.”
    â€œWhat happened to the things she owned?”
    â€œMy guess, auction and/or Goodwill. Really, I got to go.”
    â€œThanks,” I said, then: “Just for the record, what do you think happened to her?”
    â€œWell, she’s not living in Argentina with Hitler. My guess is what’s left of her is under some mud somewhere, and the guy did it to her graduated or left town and is murdering folks somewhere other than here, which makes it a hell of a lot easier on us.”
    â€œYou think she was the victim of a serial killer?”
    â€œI don’t know. Could be. Maybe she just had a date with the wrong fellow. Jealous guy. Kinky sex. It could have been anything. I figure it was the guy called in about her car. That’s my take.”
    That would have been Jimmy. I said, “Oh?”
    â€œYeah, some turkey called in that her car was up there and it had been sitting there awhile, and he thought it was odd, but I think that’s just the way the killer got the ball rolling. Wanted to see the circus come to town. He probably had her in the trunk of his car and was already thinking about maybe cutting her up and fertilizing the river bottoms with her. Got his jollies calling it in. Or maybe he had some real remorse and wanted to tell someone before he dumped her. No way to know.”
    â€œCould have just been a concerned citizen,” I said.
    â€œThere’s that,” he said.

15
    I shook hands with him and left out of there. At least there wasn’t anything to tie Jimmy to the disappearance. Any DNA that might be tested, provided it could be afforded, had never been collected. Jimmy might have leaned against the car and left a print, but if the cops were as sloppy as I thought they were, and with the car gone now and no one to match the prints to, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if he had, wouldn’t have mattered if he had bled all over the seat, shit in the glove compartment and jacked off on the package shelf. I figured he was probably home free in the DNA department.
    Next person I had to find was Ronnie Fisher. But right then, I needed to get back to the paper and do some work.
    As I was driving back, my cell rang. I flipped it open as I drove, saw the number. Oklahoma prefix. Booger. I started not to answer. I didn’t want to answer. But I couldn’t help myself.
    â€œMy man,” Booger said.
    â€œHello, Booger. How’s things?”
    â€œWell, I had an early morning at the range, and a very fine constitutional shit that caused me to strain enough to temporarily cross into another dimension, drank six beers, and right now I’m lying here in bed with one hand on the cell phone and the other lying between Conchita’s legs.”
    â€œToo much information, buddy.”
    â€œI like to be thorough. That Gabby girl. You porkin’ her again?”
    â€œNo. Me and Gabby. We’re done.”
    â€œWell, all right then, come on back to Oklahoma. I told you I’d put you to work.”
    â€œI got a job.”
    â€œThat newspaper thing.”
    â€œThat’s the one.”
    â€œYou know what, Cason old buddy?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou sound like you got some woes to live on.”
    â€œHow do you mean?”
    â€œYour voice. There’s an imp down in it.”
    I tried to be very calm. Booger was like that. Some people thought because he was raw he was stupid. That would be far from the truth. And he had an instinct about things, could see the slightest disruption in the force. Not that he usually gave a damn how anyone felt, but he had keen radar. And in my case, he probably did care.
    â€œI’m just tired, Booger.”
    â€œDo I need to come down there?”
    â€œI can’t imagine what for.”
    Booger laughed. “I know I make you nervous, bro, but you ain’t got no worries. We done thrown in together. We been through hell’s ass and out the other side.