‘More than I was before Molly Bow told me about what happened in Cadillac, Indiana.’
Parker had the sense – not unfamiliar to him in the course of investigations – of being surrounded by a series of disparate pieces, some, none, or all of which might be linked. The challenge was to resist imposing a pattern where no pattern existed, because to do so was to follow a path that could take one further from the truth. Parker had learned instead to examine each piece of a puzzle in isolation, while also remaining cognizant of the places where the tabs and slots might join in the hope of ultimately creating a picture as yet unknown. In any given situation, this task was made more difficult by the fact that every piece was open to multiple interpretations. Each was a signifier, but could also be the thing signified. Practical investigation as semiology: perhaps, Parker mused, he might write a textbook on it, if he lived long enough, and was really bored.
‘Do you want to go there?’ asked Moxie.
‘To Indiana?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever been to Indiana?’
‘Nope. I don’t think I even know anyone who’s been to Indiana. You’ll be the first.’
‘I haven’t said I’ll go yet.’
‘I didn’t ask if you were going; I asked if you wanted to go. That’s two different questions.’
‘I don’t remember taking the stand, Your Honor.’
‘Old habits.’
Parker really didn’t want to go to Indiana, but Leila Patton was incommunicado and he was worried that she might eventually run. The trip to Indiana could entail just a night or two away, if all worked out well. There were also direct flights from Boston to Cincinnati, marginally the nearest airport to Cadillac, which would save him a transfer. But it was still Indiana. He had nothing against the state; he just didn’t want to be there.
‘You do seem impatient to be rid of me,’ said Parker.
‘Not at all. But if Lombardi’s disappearance is connected to the death of this man Dobey, and the disappearance of Bachmeier, then someone is working his or – given the Patton incident – her way toward the missing boy.’
‘Which means our caller doesn’t just have the police and us to worry about.’
‘Could be he already knows,’ said Moxie, ‘which is why he’s reaching out.’
‘All the more reason for you to reel him in as quickly as possible.’
‘I’ll do my best. In the meantime, go home and get some rest. You look weary. I don’t like seeing you weary. You might force me to become distressed. I’ll let you know what Corriveau says.’
Parker was already at the door when Moxie shouted ‘Just one more thing,’ like some better-fed version of Columbo.
‘Any more from Bobby Ocean or his idiot son?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Good.’ Moxie returned to his papers. ‘That fucking kid is trouble.’
70
The streetlights caught the mottled paintwork on the replacement truck that circumstances had forced Billy Ocean to drive. Every time Billy got behind the wheel of this used piece of shit, he was reminded of his departed Chevy. Since he was required to drive the used truck in order to work, thereby justifying the salary his father paid him, he was constantly forced to recall what had been lost.
Bobby Ocean owned properties scattered over Portland, South Portland, Westbrook, Gorham, and Auburn. His son’s main task was to manage these properties, which Billy did with as little good grace as possible. He ignored at least one call in three to his business phone, since there were only so many complaints about damp, noise, plumbing, smells, trash, rats, and roaches to which a man could listen without wanting to break some heads. There was always some problem to be dealt with – or not dealt with, as the case might be.
Billy’s dereliction of duty might have been more of a problem if his father was aware of it, if only because Bobby Ocean didn’t want any trouble with the city inspectors. But as the management company didn’t bear the family name, and most of the tenants were poor, or immigrants with only minimal English (the Stonehursts being happy to screw over non-natives for having the temerity to infest the United States to begin with), or mentally deficient, Billy was able to ride roughshod over them without having to worry about anyone making a complaint to a higher authority. The tenants had only the management company as their point of contact, and aside from a single secretary, Billy was the management company.
It helped that the rents were low, and the occupants lived in fear of finding themselves out on the street if they kicked up a fuss. They’d end up on the street eventually, Billy knew. Gentrification had caused rents in the city to rise forty percent in five years, and a number of influential people, Bobby Ocean among them, were involved in stifling talk of stabilization. Ultimately even the apartments owned by the Oceans would become unaffordable to many. At that point, it might be worth putting some money into the units and finding tenants a couple of levels above the current intake, maybe ones who could carry on a conversation in English, or whose mouths didn’t hang open when they weren’t speaking.
But until that happened, Billy was reasonably content to manipulate a system that was purpose-built for the exploitation of the poor. His father paid little attention as long as the money kept coming in, and he wasn’t bothered by small shit. This left Billy free to levy cash fines for the smallest of infractions; regard security deposits as nonrefundable, using anything from a stain on the carpet to a busted shelf as justification for retention; and turn his correspondence-school lawyer loose for contractual breaches, real or perceived, mainly in the form of regular threats of legal action over insufficient notice to vacate, because even if such notice had been given, it was hard to prove. These people hadn’t the resources to file a notice with their own lawyers or accountants because they were barely putting food on the table, albeit food that looked alien to Billy, and smelled like garbage. So it was that Billy was garnishing the wages and bank accounts of half a dozen individuals who had done nothing worse than to sign a lease agreement with a venal company.
Billy hoped to leave all this behind someday. He hated dealing with busted toilets and overflowing garbage. Managing the Gull could be the first step to bigger and better things. His father was entrusting him with a new business, and it was up to Billy to run with it, thereby proving himself worthy of still greater responsibility down the line.
At the thought of his father, Billy found himself touching his left cheek, just where the slap had landed. It wasn’t tender anymore, but it still hurt deep inside. All because of some leaflets left under car wipers; all because Billy chose to take a stand.
Billy wondered if the Negro responsible for blowing up his truck might not be among his own current or former tenants. He had a couple of Somalis in a place in Gorham, some of whom undeniably had an attitude, but he wasn’t sure they even knew what the Confederate flag looked like – or if they did, what it signified. Then again, they might just have spotted his truck and decided to seek some payback for the dump in which they were living. But Billy decided that, on balance, it seemed unlikely.
Of course, it was also possible that someone had learned of his extracurricular activities, the kind that involved sticking racist pamphlets under doormats and windshield wipers in the dead of night. Billy didn’t know much about the Klan beyond bedsheets and burning crosses, and cared even less to find out, but he understood the value of the brand.
Which brought him back to the flags.
Which brought him back, as ever, to the Negro in the bar.
Billy Ocean wasn’t about to let this go.
It was a matter of principle.
71