the details.”
He knew as soon as he said it that the phrasing came out wrong.
“I see,” she said. “You think because I cried for my friend, I’m—”
“No, that’s not it.”
“How’s this? Tell me who he is, or I won’t help you.”
Raney hesitated, remembered his promise to Bay.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But first I have to make sure you aren’t holding anything back.”
“Like what?”
“Anything you might know about Mavis. Her past.”
“Like I said, it never came up. I didn’t want to ask.”
“I thought the two of you were close.”
“You’re being mean.”
“No, I’m being a cop.”
“Look, Mavis didn’t open up to me. We were close, but not in that way. Sometimes I felt like a child around her. Sometimes I felt she was playing parent. Letting me into her home, letting me be around Jack, was the closest she came to confiding in me.”
It rang true: all signs pointed to Mavis as someone who told people what she wanted them to know and nothing more.
“Now it’s your turn,” Clara said. “Who is it I’m asking about?”
Raney braced himself.
“He’s Mavis’s son. From before Jack.”
“That’s insane. I saw Mavis nearly every day for three years. She may not have told me everything, but—”
“She didn’t raise him. As far as I know, she never laid eyes on him before last week.”
Clara turned, stared out the window.
“You think he killed her?”
“No, but I believe he was here. He may have fought with the man who did kill her.”
“You said he had a record. What kind of record?”
“A long one,” Raney said. “Long and violent.”
“So you think Mavis told him about Jack’s business? You think she enlisted him?”
“I don’t think anything. I’m following a lead.”
“That’s just something you feel you have to say. You’ve made up your mind, but you’re wrong. You’ve overlooked something. I would at least know what Mavis was capable of. She didn’t have her estranged son kill her husband and make off with a drug stash. She owned a crafts store. She was sixty-two. It’s fucking absurd.”
“I’ve been doing this job a long time…”
He felt her eyes gloss over.
“Spare me the things I’ve seen speech. Your years as a cop don’t make you clairvoyant. I knew her, and you didn’t.”
Raney let it pass.
He locked his gun and holster in the glove compartment, watched Clara cross the parking lot, counted to a hundred, and followed.
No Sims, no jolly-giant bartender. There was a peace about the place in the morning; the frenzy hadn’t yet begun. He dug in his pockets for loose change, walked the aisles of slot machines, hoping the right one would somehow call to him. There were nickel slots, dime slots, quarter slots; cherries, spaceships, full and half moons. He settled on one with an unlikely theme: cowboys and Indians, top prize for tomahawks straight across. He dropped in a nickel, pulled the lever. Lasso, peace pipe, stirrup. Prize: the chance to play again. Two pulls later, he won five dollars, a hundred nickels to keep him entertained until Clara came back. He found the random nature of the game liberating; with poker or blackjack you could trick yourself into believing there was skill involved, a system to be conquered. Slot machines demanded a total submission to chance. Raney understood why they were so popular with the elderly.
The action of feeding the machine turned mechanical. His mind drifted. He thought of Bay’s comment: cash in my forty. For eighteen years, Raney’s expenses had been subminimal. His car was state-issued, his gas paid for. He was even given a clothing allowance. Sophia, or, more likely, Sophia’s father, had refused all child support; the checks Raney sent were either returned or never deposited. No mortgage hung over his head. Little of what he liked to do required much money. If he continued to live as he had been living, he could resign tomorrow. So why didn’t he?
He knew as soon as he said it that the phrasing came out wrong.
“I see,” she said. “You think because I cried for my friend, I’m—”
“No, that’s not it.”
“How’s this? Tell me who he is, or I won’t help you.”
Raney hesitated, remembered his promise to Bay.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you. But first I have to make sure you aren’t holding anything back.”
“Like what?”
“Anything you might know about Mavis. Her past.”
“Like I said, it never came up. I didn’t want to ask.”
“I thought the two of you were close.”
“You’re being mean.”
“No, I’m being a cop.”
“Look, Mavis didn’t open up to me. We were close, but not in that way. Sometimes I felt like a child around her. Sometimes I felt she was playing parent. Letting me into her home, letting me be around Jack, was the closest she came to confiding in me.”
It rang true: all signs pointed to Mavis as someone who told people what she wanted them to know and nothing more.
“Now it’s your turn,” Clara said. “Who is it I’m asking about?”
Raney braced himself.
“He’s Mavis’s son. From before Jack.”
“That’s insane. I saw Mavis nearly every day for three years. She may not have told me everything, but—”
“She didn’t raise him. As far as I know, she never laid eyes on him before last week.”
Clara turned, stared out the window.
“You think he killed her?”
“No, but I believe he was here. He may have fought with the man who did kill her.”
“You said he had a record. What kind of record?”
“A long one,” Raney said. “Long and violent.”
“So you think Mavis told him about Jack’s business? You think she enlisted him?”
“I don’t think anything. I’m following a lead.”
“That’s just something you feel you have to say. You’ve made up your mind, but you’re wrong. You’ve overlooked something. I would at least know what Mavis was capable of. She didn’t have her estranged son kill her husband and make off with a drug stash. She owned a crafts store. She was sixty-two. It’s fucking absurd.”
“I’ve been doing this job a long time…”
He felt her eyes gloss over.
“Spare me the things I’ve seen speech. Your years as a cop don’t make you clairvoyant. I knew her, and you didn’t.”
Raney let it pass.
He locked his gun and holster in the glove compartment, watched Clara cross the parking lot, counted to a hundred, and followed.
No Sims, no jolly-giant bartender. There was a peace about the place in the morning; the frenzy hadn’t yet begun. He dug in his pockets for loose change, walked the aisles of slot machines, hoping the right one would somehow call to him. There were nickel slots, dime slots, quarter slots; cherries, spaceships, full and half moons. He settled on one with an unlikely theme: cowboys and Indians, top prize for tomahawks straight across. He dropped in a nickel, pulled the lever. Lasso, peace pipe, stirrup. Prize: the chance to play again. Two pulls later, he won five dollars, a hundred nickels to keep him entertained until Clara came back. He found the random nature of the game liberating; with poker or blackjack you could trick yourself into believing there was skill involved, a system to be conquered. Slot machines demanded a total submission to chance. Raney understood why they were so popular with the elderly.
The action of feeding the machine turned mechanical. His mind drifted. He thought of Bay’s comment: cash in my forty. For eighteen years, Raney’s expenses had been subminimal. His car was state-issued, his gas paid for. He was even given a clothing allowance. Sophia, or, more likely, Sophia’s father, had refused all child support; the checks Raney sent were either returned or never deposited. No mortgage hung over his head. Little of what he liked to do required much money. If he continued to live as he had been living, he could resign tomorrow. So why didn’t he?
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