17
MY NEXT CALL was to Lawrence Jones.
I got his machine when I phoned his home/office. I left a message, saying I would try his cell, which I then did.
“Jones,” he said.
“It’s Zack,” I said.
“Zack, my man, how’s it going?” In the background I could hear some piano, probably one of Lawrence’s jazz CDs.
“Pretty good, you know, more or less.”
“Yeah, well, people don’t usually call me unless they’ve got a problem, so I’m guessing you’re going to work up to it slowly.”
“Am I catching you at a bad time?”
“Just sitting in my car, listening to some Oscar Peterson, parked down the street from a motel where Mr. Corporate Executive is boffing his secretary, and by the time I get the photos back to his missus he’s going to be a lot more agreeable when it comes to working out the terms of the divorce.”
“I didn’t know you did that kind of work.”
“Oh, Zack, I bet you still believe there’s a tooth fairy, too.”
“This is a long-term job you’re working on?”
“I’ll be done soon as this guy walks out and gives his sweetie a kiss goodbye for the camera.”
“You got anything lined up next?”
“Zack, there’s always work. We live in cynical times. Did you know that people don’t trust each other anymore? It’s a very disturbing development, but it pays the bills. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m up in Braynor. You know Braynor.”
“I know I got called one all the time when I was in high school. The teachers thought I might be gifted, and I always did my homework. Of course, I also got ‘browner,’ but that might have had more to do with my skin tone.”
“Braynor’s an hour and a half north of the city. Lakes and mountains. Fishing. Wildlife.”
“Sounds nice. I’m not due for a vacation.”
“I’m up here at my dad’s place. He’s got some cabins he rents out. Lawrence, there’s a whole lot of shit going on up here and I think I could use your help.”
“I see. What sort of shit?”
“Well, there’s some people up here you might find interesting. They think the world’s going to hell in a handcart because of blacks and gays.”
“Hmmm,” said Lawrence. “That makes me a kind of double-header worst nightmare for them. Tell me more.”
I did.
“I could come up tonight, maybe tomorrow,” Lawrence said.
“I haven’t cleared this with Dad,” I said. “But I think he’d be prepared to hire you. He was ready to pay a lawyer. And if he’s a bit short, I can—”
“Zack, shut up. Every day I get, I thank you.”
I swallowed. “Okay.”
When I was finished talking to Lawrence, I found Dad plopped onto the couch, reading the Braynor Times I’d bought him at the grocery store.
“Poured you your coffee,” he said, nose in the paper. “Cream and sugar’s already in it.”
I grabbed my mug off the counter and sat down opposite him. “I’ve called in the cavalry,” I said.
“I figured, with your newspaper connections, it’d be Superman,” Dad said.
I told him about Lawrence Jones. That he was an ex-cop, an experienced private investigator, and, as a bonus in dealing with whatever the Wickenses might throw at us, black and gay.
“That’s comforting,” Dad said. “We’re gonna be rescued by a poofster.” I decided to let that one go, figuring Lawrence himself would be able to dispel the stereotypes once he got here.
As I took a sip of my coffee, Dad said, “I did a little checking on the Internet while you were outside.”
“Yeah?” The notion of Dad surfing the net was still difficult to imagine.
“I looked up ammonium nitrate. Fertilizer.”
I said, “Go on.”
“What McVeigh did was, he used four thousand pounds of the stuff and mixed it with diesel fuel, and some blasting caps, then put everything in fifty-five-gallon plastic drums, loaded it up into that Ryder truck, lit a fuse, and ran like stink.”
“I’ll bet,” I said, “even if you stole a lot less than four thousand pounds of that stuff, you could still make a hell of an explosion.”
“I suspect,” Dad said.
“A day ago, you didn’t even want to consider the possibility that something other than a bear ripped that man apart, and now look where your mind’s taking you.”
“You haven’t thought the same thing?”
“Of course I’ve thought the same thing. You know what kind of paranoid I am. I’m this close to pinning the Lindbergh kidnapping on the Wickenses. But we don’t have anything to suggest that Wickens had a thing to do with the murder of Tiff Riley. If we hadn’t seen that picture of Timothy McVeigh on their wall, hanging where most people might hang a picture of Jesus Christ, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You know, the Wickenses aren’t the only crazy people in the world, probably not the only crazy people in this county.”