Keller leaned back in the seat and looked out the window. “She’s got some pretty bad scars. Burns. She doesn’t like people staring at them.”
“How’d she get burned?”
Keller looked at her. “Her husband founded H & H bail bonds. He was a big shot, knew everybody, liked to throw his money around. He also used to beat her up. Finally, she had enough and took out a warrant on him. He went into court and denied everything. He had been a major supporter of the D.A. in the last election, so they dismissed all charges without even a trial.” Keller looked out the front window. “Jeff Hager went home, kicked in the front door and broke both her legs with a baseball bat so she couldn’t run. Then he set the house on fire.”
“Damn,” Jones whispered. “He do any time for it?”
“No,” Keller said. “But only because he shot himself in front of her.”
“How’d she get out?”
“Dragged herself out of the house on her elbows.”
Jones gave a low whistle. “That is one tough lady.”
“Yeah,” Keller said. They were pulling up to the chain-link fence that surrounded the impound lot. As Keller moved to get out, Jones took off her sunglasses and turned to him.
“Mister Keller,” she said. “When this comes to court, I’ll tell what happened. All of it.”
“That’s not going to help your career much,” Keller said.
“I know,” she said.
Keller looked at her. She obviously meant it. Her jaw was set and she stared at him defiantly, as if daring him to question her resolve. He noticed that her eyes were blue, the sharp, hard blue of the sky on a clear winter day. Finally, he shrugged.
“It’ll be a moot point anyway,” he said. “The D.A.’ll make a lot of noise about jail time, then when it gets close to trial, they’ll offer to dismiss everything in exchange for me agreeing in writing not to sue the department for excessive force.”
“And you’ll agree.” Her voice was flat.
He looked away. After the idealism she showed in her offer to testify, he hated what he was about to say. “It’s not like I’m giving up much. With your help, I may win the resisting, but they’re scared shitless of the publicity that they’d get from a civil suit. So they’ll make damn sure I go down on something. Even if they have to make something up.”
“Pretty cynical,” she said.
He shrugged. “Yeah, it is,” he said, “But I’ve seen it happen. If it happens to me, I lose my bondsman’s license. I weigh that against the possibility of winning a civil suit against the Fayetteville police. Even if I take it to a jury, who do you think they’ll believe?” He thought for a moment about the judge’s description of him as a violent man. “I’ve got better things to do with my time than take on lost causes. Even my own.” He closed the car door. He was walking towards the small guardhouse at the entrance to the impound lot when he heard her voice. “Mister Keller.”
He turned. Her hand was out the window, holding a small piece of paper. He walked back and took it. It was a business card, the type cops gave to victims and witnesses who might need to contact them. The police switchboard number was scratched out and another number written in blue ink.
“That’s my cell phone number,” she said. “In case you change your mind. Or, you know, if you want to, like, talk about anything else.”
He smiled at her. “That’s not going to do a lot to help your career, either.”
She didn’t smile back. “Yeah. Well.” She didn’t go on. She’d replaced the mirror shades, so it was impossible to read what was in her eyes.
“Okay,” Keller said. “I’ll keep it in mind. And my name is Jack.”
“I’m Marie,” she said. She looked like she was about to say something else, but she stopped. She put the car in gear and backed out of the gravel driveway. Keller put the card in his shirt pocket as he watched her go.
“What about the neighbors, what they gonna say, hey little sister got carried awayyyy,” DeWayne sang in a loud, slurred voice. He reached over to crank up the volume on the cassette deck.
DeWayne’s buzz had been veering back and forth all day from catatonic stupor to manic lunacy. It was the fifth or sixth time that he had played the song, stopping it at the end to rewind and play it again so he could sing along and play air guitar on the solos. It had been getting on Leonard’s nerves since the second run through.
“Damn it, DeWayne,” he said, “Shut up for a second and pay attention.” DeWayne lurched back in the truck seat with his eyes closed, playing air guitar along with Stevie Ray. His back arched orgasmically as he launched into the chorus. Part of the beer in his left hand spilled on his shoulder as he mimed the solo. “Hey, hey…” he wailed. “Look at little sisterrr…”
“DEWAYNE!” Leonard bellowed. He reached over and turned the stereo off.
DeWayne’s eyes snapped open. “‘Eyyyy, man,” he whined. “The fuck’d you do that for?”
“I got no idea where we are, man.” Leonard said. “You been to Crystal’s, I ain’t. You gotta tell me where to go.”
DeWayne straightened up and look around blearily. He squinted as if to bring the road into better focus. “I’m gettin’ hungry,” he said.
“One thing at a time, cuz,” Leonard said. “We gotta--”
“Wait, turn here, man!” DeWayne yelled. “Turn right, turn right!”
They were almost past the turn. The tires screeched as Leonard instinctively obeyed. The truck rocked up slightly on two wheels.
“Whoo!” DeWayne shouted. He laughed and drained the last of his beer. “It’s down here at the end.”
In the daylight, it was apparent that the neighborhood was struggling against becoming decrepit, and losing. Some of the houses were in good repair, others had sagging roofs and trim that was badly in need of fresh paint. There were small clumps of skinny, half-bare trees in some yards. In others, the owners who had apparently given up on even mowing the weeds that grew around the stumps where the trees had once been.
A red Corvette was parked in the driveway in front of the house at the end of the street. It was the newest, brightest object visible. There were still a few flakes of the original white paint clinging to the picket fence in front of the house. The rest had weathered to gray.
Leonard picked up the bag with the money in it and got out. DeWayne followed. The two men got out of the truck and walked towards the white house, with DeWayne leaning on Leonard’s shoulder for support. He was singing again: “Heyyyy, hey, look at little sisterrrr…” All of the shades were drawn. Had it not been for the car parked out front, the house would have appeared deserted.
Leonard pushed
