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I was about to give up.
“But he said something weird.”
“Like what?”
“?‘You ought to be in the movies.’ I said, ‘You wising off?’ He said I had him wrong, that he had some movie connections with people who got Hurricane Carter out of jail. He said I was photogenic. I told him to get his eyes examined.”
“That’s Tillinger. That’s our guy.”
“What was he in for?”
“Burning his wife and daughter to death.”
Skip blew out his breath. He poured the remainder of the Dr Pepper can into my glass. “You know what’s the most depressing aspect of my job?”
“No.”
“Cleaning the bathroom at two a.m. and thinking about the people who were in there,” he said. “Ever have that feeling?”
Every day, I thought. But I didn’t say it.
• • •
I WENT BACK TO the department. On the way to my office, I passed Axel Devereaux in the corridor. He looked through me. When a guy like Devereaux looks through you, you’d better watch your ass.
“Axel?”
He turned around.
“Want to meet somewhere and talk this out?” I said.
“Talk it out? I feel like ripping your face off.”
“Because I hit you?”
“No, because you’re a goddamn liar.”
“I lied about what?”
“Me killing Sean McClain’s pets. You spread it around.”
“You mocked him,” I said. “You imitated the sounds of his cat and dog.”
“Whoever told you that is a liar. Just like you.”
“At my age, I don’t have a lot to lose, Axel. Know what I mean?”
“You’ll see me coming, asshole. I ain’t a sneak that goes around bad-mouthing people.”
Unless you are familiar with the nature of Southern white trash, you will not understand the following: They are a genetically produced breed whose commonality is a state of mind and not related to the social class to which they belong. Economics has nothing to do with their origins or their behavior. You cannot change them. They glory in violence and cruelty and brag on their ignorance, and would have no problem manning the ovens at Auschwitz. That’s not hyperbole. When I looked into Axel’s eyes, I knew my slap across his face had been a slap across his soul and that one day I would pay for it.
“You dealt the play when you disrespected my partner,” I said. “But I shouldn’t have struck you. For that I apologize. That also means I’m done.”
He put a toothpick in his mouth, then removed and stared at it, a glint in his eye. “So you got no problem.”
I walked away, then glanced back at him before entering my office. He was still standing in the corridor, by himself, silhouetted against a window like a black cutout without features or humanity.
• • •
