Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Lee Lamothe
cup down and made a face. “You know, the other night we were hanging out, me and my buddy here, and we had nothing to drink except gins and waters. Gins and tap waters, who the fuck drinks that? Alkies, that’s who.”
Ray Tate said, “And beatniks. The cool folk in the nighttime.” He leaned confidentially to Phil Harvey. “It’s the big thing right now, Harv, in Paris. I read it in a magazine.”
“Them folks, gin-and-tappers, them’s us.” Djuna Brown shook her head solemnly. “I never thought of myself that way. When I was in high school, think about this, Harv, when I was in high school do you think I could ever imagine a series of events that would take me from my homeroom class to a grimy pad in the middle of the night, fighting off a beatnik pervert? That I’d become a gins and taps kind of girl? Me neither. But there I was, getting stupid at three in the morning with this here hipster. Then again, Harv, I bet the last time you were in the bucket waiting for parole you never thought of a possible series of events that would have you shooting the shit with some cops, buying melons in the countryside, right? Sitting with guys trying to help you out from the mess you’ve got yourself in. Life. It’s a winding road. So, look, I know you’re worried. But we don’t want you.”
“I’m going now. I’m not putting anybody in. Under no circumstances does that happen.”
“Hey, Harv? We’re the Chemical Squad. We don’t lock people up, we handcuff pills. We investigate a bit then we swoop in and suck up all the chemicals, leaving the host body drained, to wander the underworld and tell the tale, instill fear and confusion. We’re like vampires. ‘Hey,’ we hear guys go afterwards on the wiretaps, ‘Hey, where the fuck did those fucking guys swoop down outta? Yikes. They’re everywhere.’” She looked at Ray Tate, pleased with herself. “Them’s us, them guys.”
“So that’s it?” Phil Harvey made a reluctant laugh and shook his head. He looked like he’d enjoyed Djuna Brown’s riff. “You just fucking want pills? No people?”
She shrugged and looked at Ray Tate.
“That’s the game,” he said. “We just want chemicals and this week we want Double C pills. Pills, Harv.” He wanted to put her back in the game: “We don’t get no points for bodies, right Djun’?”
“Bodies, no.” She tilted her head as though weighing in with a complex thought. “Pills is good, bodies is trouble. Bodies need warrants and reading those confusing Constitutional rights and handcuffs and stuff. Pesky shit. Then you got to get sobered up enough to go to court and make sure you didn’t make any mistakes, depriving liberty of some poor citizen. So, no, we don’t do that, Harv. You ever heard of us taking in a serious body?” When he didn’t speak she continued. “Or how about this one: you ever see a cop giving evidence against a guy, getting in the box and in the middle of telling his lies to the jury he just starts puking up gins and taps on the prosecutor? Juries think it’s fucking funny when it happens but it can tank the case when they get in the deliberation room. ‘That cop puking on the lawyers?’ they say. ‘Seemed a little sketchy to me, that guy.’” She shook her head. “Me? I’d rather not say nothing under oath to nobody.” She felt she’d said enough and sat back.
Ray Tate said, “You know we’re on you. We’re an inch from that place you got up near … Passion?”
Djuna Brown said, “Passive. The stinky place off the highway there. A day or two, we swoop, Harv.”
Phil Harvey was startled. “Ah, fuck …”
“Yeah,” Ray Tate said, “we know about that. We know there’s that fat prick in all this someplace, causing no end of misery. If we’re going to pile on anybody and wire him up to the pain machine it’s him. We’re going to take that guy. We like you, Phil, but we don’t want you, short of murder. Give us the pills, give us the fat guy, take a hike, get your face fixed.”
Phil Harvey shook his head. “No bodies. I don’t tip nobody over.” He was silent for a long time then looked from one to the other and said to Ray Tate, “I think your car alarm’s going off.”
Ray Tate immediately stood up and left the shop.
* * *
He was dozing in the passenger seat of the running Xterra when Djuna Brown came out of the shop with Phil Harvey. They stood a moment on the little parking area, close enough that their visible breaths mingled. He noticed how little she seemed, swinging her bag of melons, her chin lifted towards Harvey, massive in the sinister leather coat. His hair was tied back in a ratty ponytail. He’d found some sunglasses somewhere and in spite of the gathering darkness he’d put them on.
Phil Harvey looked away and said something.
She nodded and tilted her head.
He said something else and pointed across a field opposite the shop.
She turned and looked and made a beautiful smile.
Harvey handed her something and she put it into her pocket.
Ray Tate twisted to see what they were looking at. But there was just a lone tree with clouds roiled above it.
For some reason Djuna Brown touched Phil Harvey’s arm as she walked over to the Xterra.
She dropped her melons behind the seat and started up as Phil Harvey stood watching them. Ray Tate looked over his shoulder as she drove off onto the road and headed to the Interstate. Phil Harvey didn’t move. He stared at the tree in the field.
Djuna Brown checked Tate’s seatbelt as though he was a child. Just before they reached the highway back to the city she pointed at another lone tree on a hilltop.
“See that tree, Ray? You know there’s more of that tree under the ground than on top — a lot more than we see? Harv was talking about that.”
“Wow.” Ray Tate nodded. “Heavy.”
“No wonder he thinks you’re an asshole.” But she laid her hand on his thigh.
Chapter 25
Connie Cook was into his third plate of ribs, paper napkins tucked into his shirt collar, a crumpled field of them stained red across the table. He felt pretty good. The waitress was a pal. When he’d asked for a hot red sauce she’d said, How hot? He’d said, Honey, you don’t got a sauce hot enough that I can’t eat. She had a wicked smile and said, Oh, yeah? She came out of the kitchen with an unmarked bottle and held it over his platter. Say when. She began soaking down the meat.
The ribs were fiery and he sweated immediately. His nose ran, his scalp tingled. He enjoyed himself immensely, sitting in a country place with his jacket off, bullshitting with a waitress, sucking meat from bones, stacking them into a log house on the side plate. Fat he was, sure, but he had the impression the hot red sauce was melting the blubber. His bland skin was taking on a healthy pink glow. When he looked up he saw the waitress pulling on a ski jacket over her apron and handing her tickets to another woman, he called her over.
“You off?”
She nodded. “Those are pretty good, huh?” She lifted an eyebrow. “And the sauce? I didn’t bring you the real hot stuff. I took pity.”
He laughed and reached into his pocket. “I feel like I just blew a fireman.”
“Been there, done that.” She laughed, a pretty middle-aged woman his wife’s age who, he thought, might have missed the boat at some point and had accepted the fact. There was poorly covered grey in her hair and she had clear, direct eyes. He put a twenty on the table.
“That’s okay, mister, we split here, it all goes in the pot.” She zipped her jacket. “Good to see a man that knows how to enjoy a meal.”
“Look,” Connie Cook said, “there’s gonna be a good tip on the bill. The twenty … Well, I needed this, okay. I’m in the middle of a hard couple of days and this … Well, I want you to have it. Humour me.”
“Sure. Thanks. Come again, huh?” She took the twenty