tries to slide in through the cracks.
“Then he calls me up, man. Jack-blue sky. Says, let’s have lunch.”
I click my pen open and closed three times.
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
“When?”
“Don’t know. July? No. It was right after I got shit-canned.June. Says he’s been thinking about me, since all this bullcrap got started.”
He extends one forefinger and aims it out the window, up at the sky.
All this bullcrap
. My phone rings, and I glance down at it. Nico. I thumb it off.
“And so, what exactly did you and Mr. Zell do together, the two of you?”
“Same stuff, man.”
“You played Dungeons & Dragons?”
He looks at me, snorts, shifts in his chair. “Okay, man. Different stuff. We drank beers. We drove around. Did some shooting.”
I pause, the wind whipping. Toussaint lights another butt, guesses what I’m going to say next. “Three Winchester rifles, officer. In a cabinet. Unloaded. They’re mine and I can prove they’re mine.”
“Locked up tight, I hope.”
Gun theft is a problem. People are stealing them and hoarding them, and other people are stealing them to sell, for astronomical sums, to the first kind of people.
“Nobody’s going to take my fucking guns,” he says quickly, harshly, and levels a hard look at me, like I was considering it.
I move on. I ask Toussaint about Monday night, the last night of Peter Zell’s life, and he shrugs.
“Picked him up after work.”
“What time?
“I don’t know,” he says, and I can feel it, he’s liking me less and less, he’s ready for me to go, and maybe this man killed Peter and maybe he didn’t, but there is no avoiding the impression that he could pound me to death if he wanted to, just like that, three or four blows,like a caveman destroying a deer. “After-work time.”
Toussaint says they cruised around for a bit, then went to see the new episode of
Distant Pale Glimmers
, the science-fiction serial, at the Red River. They had some beers, they watched the movie, and then they split up, Peter saying he wanted to walk home.
“Did you see anyone at the theater?”
“Just the people who work there and stuff.”
He sucks the last life out of his second cigarette, crushes out the butt in the state house. Houdini pads over unevenly, darting pink tongue finding the last bites of biscuit at the corners of his mouth, and rubs his thin head against the broad expanse of his master’s leg.
“I’m gonna have to shoot this dog,” Toussaint says, suddenly, absently, matter-of-fact, and stands up. “At the end, I mean.”
“What?”
“He’s a little scaredy cat, this one.” Toussaint is looking down at the dog, his head tilted, as if evaluating, trying to imagine how it’s going to feel. “Can’t think of him dying like that, fire or cold or drowning. Probably I’m gonna go ahead and shoot him.”
I’m ready to get out of here. I’m ready to go.
“Last thing, Mr. Toussaint. Did you happen to notice the bruising? Under Mr. Zell’s right eye?”
“He said he fell down some stairs.”
“Did you believe him?”
He chuckles, scratches the dog’s thin head. “If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t. I’d figure he whistled at the wrong dude’s girlfriend. But Pete, who knows? I bet he fell down some stairs.”
“Right,” I say, thinking,
I bet he didn’t
.
Toussaint cradles Houdini’s head in his hands, and they’regazing at each other, and I can see into the future to the terrible and agonized moment, the raised .270, the trusting animal, the blast, the end.
He looks away from his dog, back up at me, and the spell is broken.
“Anything else? Mr. Policeman?”
* * *
One of my father’s favorite jokes was when people asked him what he did for a living, he would say he was a philosopher king. He would make this claim with perfect seriousness, and the thing about Temple Palace was that he wouldn’t let go of it. Inevitably, he would get that blank look from whoever had asked—the barber, say,
“Then he calls me up, man. Jack-blue sky. Says, let’s have lunch.”
I click my pen open and closed three times.
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
“When?”
“Don’t know. July? No. It was right after I got shit-canned.June. Says he’s been thinking about me, since all this bullcrap got started.”
He extends one forefinger and aims it out the window, up at the sky.
All this bullcrap
. My phone rings, and I glance down at it. Nico. I thumb it off.
“And so, what exactly did you and Mr. Zell do together, the two of you?”
“Same stuff, man.”
“You played Dungeons & Dragons?”
He looks at me, snorts, shifts in his chair. “Okay, man. Different stuff. We drank beers. We drove around. Did some shooting.”
I pause, the wind whipping. Toussaint lights another butt, guesses what I’m going to say next. “Three Winchester rifles, officer. In a cabinet. Unloaded. They’re mine and I can prove they’re mine.”
“Locked up tight, I hope.”
Gun theft is a problem. People are stealing them and hoarding them, and other people are stealing them to sell, for astronomical sums, to the first kind of people.
“Nobody’s going to take my fucking guns,” he says quickly, harshly, and levels a hard look at me, like I was considering it.
I move on. I ask Toussaint about Monday night, the last night of Peter Zell’s life, and he shrugs.
“Picked him up after work.”
“What time?
“I don’t know,” he says, and I can feel it, he’s liking me less and less, he’s ready for me to go, and maybe this man killed Peter and maybe he didn’t, but there is no avoiding the impression that he could pound me to death if he wanted to, just like that, three or four blows,like a caveman destroying a deer. “After-work time.”
Toussaint says they cruised around for a bit, then went to see the new episode of
Distant Pale Glimmers
, the science-fiction serial, at the Red River. They had some beers, they watched the movie, and then they split up, Peter saying he wanted to walk home.
“Did you see anyone at the theater?”
“Just the people who work there and stuff.”
He sucks the last life out of his second cigarette, crushes out the butt in the state house. Houdini pads over unevenly, darting pink tongue finding the last bites of biscuit at the corners of his mouth, and rubs his thin head against the broad expanse of his master’s leg.
“I’m gonna have to shoot this dog,” Toussaint says, suddenly, absently, matter-of-fact, and stands up. “At the end, I mean.”
“What?”
“He’s a little scaredy cat, this one.” Toussaint is looking down at the dog, his head tilted, as if evaluating, trying to imagine how it’s going to feel. “Can’t think of him dying like that, fire or cold or drowning. Probably I’m gonna go ahead and shoot him.”
I’m ready to get out of here. I’m ready to go.
“Last thing, Mr. Toussaint. Did you happen to notice the bruising? Under Mr. Zell’s right eye?”
“He said he fell down some stairs.”
“Did you believe him?”
He chuckles, scratches the dog’s thin head. “If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t. I’d figure he whistled at the wrong dude’s girlfriend. But Pete, who knows? I bet he fell down some stairs.”
“Right,” I say, thinking,
I bet he didn’t
.
Toussaint cradles Houdini’s head in his hands, and they’regazing at each other, and I can see into the future to the terrible and agonized moment, the raised .270, the trusting animal, the blast, the end.
He looks away from his dog, back up at me, and the spell is broken.
“Anything else? Mr. Policeman?”
* * *
One of my father’s favorite jokes was when people asked him what he did for a living, he would say he was a philosopher king. He would make this claim with perfect seriousness, and the thing about Temple Palace was that he wouldn’t let go of it. Inevitably, he would get that blank look from whoever had asked—the barber, say,
Similar Books
