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“Point is Derne’s got enemies with deep pockets. Nothing pisses off a businessman more than being cost money. Derne’s company—innocently or not—has done it.”
“Recently?”
“Here and there over the past thirty years.”
“So a patient businessman is unhappy with his rock masonry and waits thirty years before he burns down three houses just to try and get Derne?”
“Mob. They’d do it.”
“The mob would drag him out to the Bay and drown him or take him over the airport and execute him while a plane flies over. How do you connect the fires then?”
“Don’t have to.”
“Seriously, Volksman?”
“Rudd needs to investigate her case, Riggens needs to investigate his, and I need to investigate mine.”
“Can’t you see the obvious connection here?”
“Again, RDB: I don’t have to.”
“Oh, I see,” I rub my face. “The standards for investigator have been lowered that much, eh?”
“Say what you want, RDB. Don’t think I don’t know it was you who leaked the Filipino girl thing around here.”
“It wasn’t me,” I say. “I wouldn’t have to. It was a running joke in the department that your wife would follow you around town. What kind of cop doesn’t know he’s being tailed by his own lady?”
Volksman is that kind of cop. It’s true: his ex-old lady suspected him of cheating and followed him for weeks until he led her right to his other woman.
Volksman’s left eye twitches: tell. Big time. He shoots up out of his chair. I rear back to swing. Clevenger catches my fist. He’s one of only a few people who can do that and actually stop my punch. He’s had practice for
years now.
Standoff. Clevenger knows just how bad I’ll fuck up Volksman. Volksman knows it too; he’s just too big a cocksucker to care about his hospital stay right now.
Clevenger’s got both his hands gripping my right fist. I think about throwing a left cross and drilling Volksman into next spring but I don’t. This is Clevenger’s show and even if I don’t have to face the music—Volksman will never press charges—I don’t want to put my old buddy’s ass in a sling.
I ease up. My eyes still on Volksman’s. Clevenger lets go, presses me backwards. Same to Volksman. He backs away easily; he doesn’t need to be told he’ll lose the fight and welcomes Clevenger making distance. Although Volksman still plays the gangster theatrics—tough talk, throwing his arms up, acting like he’s not going to get his ass handed to him—so he can look good. In reality he looks like a retard doing a chicken dance.
His neck and face flush red. His thin chest puffed out as far as it will go. His arms out to his sides in that come on posture. All done so he can look like he didn’t need Clevenger to stop me from demolishing him.
“Scram, Volksman,” Clevenger says. “If Reichman were still alive you could bitch at him for laughing about the Filipino girl.”
“Sure. Blame the dead guy to protect your fucking butt buddy,” Volksman nearly shouts. He grabs the packet of paper Clevenger gave him and throws it. Clevenger’s neatly organized case rains down in a thousand white squares. The gentle way they flutter through the tension in the room, the quiet paper snap each sheet makes is an explosion.
I smile, say, “Even your fits of rage are girly-weak, Volksman. But thanks for playing with the big boys.”
“Fuck the both of you,” he says, wasting no time heading for the door. “You’re the kind of cop nobody likes to be around, Clevenger.”
Clevenger makes an act of looking to both sides before acting shocked that Volksman would say such a thing. “Who? This guy?” Clevenger asks, pointing at himself.
“Yes, you.”
“Why on earth are you being so downright hateful?”
“Because you’re his little protégé and everybody hates that piece of shit.” Volksman points to me. “Don’t think there’s a person on this force who knew RDB that doesn’t see his ugly fucking face when they look at you. Not one.”
Volksman storms out like a child. Nobody says anything for a moment. Rudd starts gathering her things and Riggens looks like a sixth grader who just had front row tickets to the big fight between jocks. I can tell he’s fighting showing his giddiness.
