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Both house parties go apeshit. Poked hornet’s nest. People scramble, cars peel out. I know guns are drawn and pointed at everything under the sun.
Now, if the car I stole is somehow attached to the Carnivore Messiah bloo
dbath, it’ll be traced back to this ridiculous house party that I’m sure is filled with felons and other gang members. No one else treads through this particular neighborhood. No one here will talk. No reason.
And if it’s not attached, oh well. Anyone who saw me arrive or leave will have their memories muddled by the mass exodus going on right now. Human cattle turning into a frenzied stampede, a million directions taken by a million fools all at once.
Overall, it’s a good night.
23
Morning
I call Carla Gabler, lean back in my office chair and put my feet up.
The morning light spilling into the single room hasn’t quite yet reached the opposite wall, but it’s making a steady march towards it. Never ending, I guess.
“Hello?”
“Carla, it’s Richard Buckner, the detective who was asking you about Mickey the other day. How are you?”
“Oh. I’m fine. Did something come up?”
“Yes. While you were in prison and Mickey was getting out, you said he talked about a big score.”
“The one he disappeared after. Yes.”
“Can you tell me anyone who might know anything about that? Anyone. Friends, family.”
“His parents are both dead. He has a sister named Joann. She lives somewhere north of the river. We don’t speak.”
“Okay. What’s Joann’s last name? Cantu?”
“She married. It’s something French. Starts with a P. I’m sorry. She never cared for me. Mickey said his little sister never cared for any girl he brought home, even when she was eight years old and he introduced his homecoming date.”
“All right. Joann P-something French. Got it.”
“She lives in a posh townhome. I know that. Her husband is an accountant.”
“All right. I appreciate your help.”
“Anything else just let me know.”
Hank Madison’s words float up into my mind and bring with them that horrible Gyro taste. “There is one more thing, Carla.”
“Yes?”
“When you were incarcerated, do you remember a guard by the name of Clarence Petticoat?”
She hums a monotonous, scratchy note while she thinks. I can imagine her eyes squinting, one hand running through her hair. Finally she says, “Yes, I think so.”
“Do you remember anything about him in particular?”
“Just that he was one of the guards who was accused of fiddling with the inmates. He disappeared in that big house cleaning I told you about.”
“Did Mickey ever talk about him?”
“No. Why? Is he involved in this?”
