she went on to explain that, for donkey-delivery purposes, she had a weekend place near Grady.
Rejondo stepped over to my Ranchero just as me and Desmond were settling in.
“Here about that Boudrot?” he asked.
We nodded.
“I’ll get on the horn and try to have something for you when you get back.”
When Desmond finally spoke, we were about halfway to Grady. He shook his head and said, “Ain’t this some shit?”
Naturally, we toted that woman’s donkeys all over what passed for her yard. She had a miniature windmill in it already, a canopied glider, a wishing well, a lawn tractor with a broken front axle, a flatboat on a trailer, and I think I counted three derelict barbecue grills. In her defense, it was hard to find a spot cement donkeys might improve. They ended up in her front yard either side of her stoop.
By way of thank you, that woman told us, “Don’t be looking for no tip.”
We were barely out of her driveway when Tula called me.
“Got something you’ll want to see,” she said.
“Right now?”
“Yep.” Then she shifted away from her phone to tell somebody, “Why don’t you back the hell on up.”
Tula was out by the river, off Highway 1 just north of Legion Lake, about halfway between Beulah and Rosedale. By the time me and Desmond arrived, Kendell was on the scene as well, along with a no-neck deputy I knew only by reputation. He was a bad one to tap on folks with his nightstick as a first resort.
There were maybe a dozen civilians as well—neighbors and passersby—who’d gotten wind of calamity and had swung over to have a look. They were all gathered in a sun-baked patch of open ground between a ratty trailer home and one of those corporate tractor sheds, a steel and tin monstrosity about the size of an airplane hangar.
An EMT truck pulled in just behind us, so me and Desmond walked over toward Tula and Kendell in the company of a couple of techs who were arguing over what constituted a college football fumble and kept at it—barking back and forth about whose damn knee was down—until Kendell plugged the pair of them up by saying one time, “Hey!”
That’s when me and Desmond saw the body. A white guy in his underwear. Maybe forty and on the stout side. His head was a sticky bloody mess, and he had what looked like a wooden chair leg jammed into his chest.
“Stole his car,” Kendell told us. “Yellow Gold Duster with lifters and mess.”
“Who?” Desmond asked, and Kendell pointed us to Tula.
She was squatting by the corpse taking photographs. She rose as me and Desmond approached. The mineral stink of gore was thick in the air, and what bugs there were had gathered.
“Show them,” Tula said to her no-neck deputy colleague who used the tip of his nightstick to lift a shirt off the ground. Green and gray stripes, like an awning. Baggy, scratchy twill. Parchman garb.
THREE
“Why are we even here?” Desmond wanted to know.
We were parked by then with Tula and Kendell in what passed with the Greenville PD for an interrogation room. It had been somebody’s office once. They’d left a credenza in it and had brought in a stout steel table and a half-dozen plastic chairs. There was a sheet of knotty plywood where the one-way glass should have been and boxes of files stacked head high full across the back wall.
“Whatever you got up to with that Boudrot—” Kendell started.
“Didn’t get up to nothing with him,” Desmond said.
“Fine.” Kendell settled back and showed us his palms. “All I’m telling you is we don’t care. You did what you did.”
Tula wasn’t entirely on board with that, which she made plain in a glance.
“You tell him,” Desmond instructed me.
“Tell him what?”
“About that gator of his and shit.”
“Gator?” Tula asked us.
I didn’t quite know where to start, so I wound all the way back to where it began. “Percy Dwayne Dubois owed on a TV. Instead of handing the damn thing over, he hit me with a fireplace
Rejondo stepped over to my Ranchero just as me and Desmond were settling in.
“Here about that Boudrot?” he asked.
We nodded.
“I’ll get on the horn and try to have something for you when you get back.”
When Desmond finally spoke, we were about halfway to Grady. He shook his head and said, “Ain’t this some shit?”
Naturally, we toted that woman’s donkeys all over what passed for her yard. She had a miniature windmill in it already, a canopied glider, a wishing well, a lawn tractor with a broken front axle, a flatboat on a trailer, and I think I counted three derelict barbecue grills. In her defense, it was hard to find a spot cement donkeys might improve. They ended up in her front yard either side of her stoop.
By way of thank you, that woman told us, “Don’t be looking for no tip.”
We were barely out of her driveway when Tula called me.
“Got something you’ll want to see,” she said.
“Right now?”
“Yep.” Then she shifted away from her phone to tell somebody, “Why don’t you back the hell on up.”
Tula was out by the river, off Highway 1 just north of Legion Lake, about halfway between Beulah and Rosedale. By the time me and Desmond arrived, Kendell was on the scene as well, along with a no-neck deputy I knew only by reputation. He was a bad one to tap on folks with his nightstick as a first resort.
There were maybe a dozen civilians as well—neighbors and passersby—who’d gotten wind of calamity and had swung over to have a look. They were all gathered in a sun-baked patch of open ground between a ratty trailer home and one of those corporate tractor sheds, a steel and tin monstrosity about the size of an airplane hangar.
An EMT truck pulled in just behind us, so me and Desmond walked over toward Tula and Kendell in the company of a couple of techs who were arguing over what constituted a college football fumble and kept at it—barking back and forth about whose damn knee was down—until Kendell plugged the pair of them up by saying one time, “Hey!”
That’s when me and Desmond saw the body. A white guy in his underwear. Maybe forty and on the stout side. His head was a sticky bloody mess, and he had what looked like a wooden chair leg jammed into his chest.
“Stole his car,” Kendell told us. “Yellow Gold Duster with lifters and mess.”
“Who?” Desmond asked, and Kendell pointed us to Tula.
She was squatting by the corpse taking photographs. She rose as me and Desmond approached. The mineral stink of gore was thick in the air, and what bugs there were had gathered.
“Show them,” Tula said to her no-neck deputy colleague who used the tip of his nightstick to lift a shirt off the ground. Green and gray stripes, like an awning. Baggy, scratchy twill. Parchman garb.
THREE
“Why are we even here?” Desmond wanted to know.
We were parked by then with Tula and Kendell in what passed with the Greenville PD for an interrogation room. It had been somebody’s office once. They’d left a credenza in it and had brought in a stout steel table and a half-dozen plastic chairs. There was a sheet of knotty plywood where the one-way glass should have been and boxes of files stacked head high full across the back wall.
“Whatever you got up to with that Boudrot—” Kendell started.
“Didn’t get up to nothing with him,” Desmond said.
“Fine.” Kendell settled back and showed us his palms. “All I’m telling you is we don’t care. You did what you did.”
Tula wasn’t entirely on board with that, which she made plain in a glance.
“You tell him,” Desmond instructed me.
“Tell him what?”
“About that gator of his and shit.”
“Gator?” Tula asked us.
I didn’t quite know where to start, so I wound all the way back to where it began. “Percy Dwayne Dubois owed on a TV. Instead of handing the damn thing over, he hit me with a fireplace
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