Part 8 (2/2)
”We're supposed to ride during the parade at the fair,” he said. ”We'll probably make a statement then.”
”What kind of statement?”
”I can't discuss it,” he said apologetically. ”Club rules. But you can bank on it. The boys will respond.”
I felt like I'd been dropped into some sort of weird B-movie version of Fight Club, but I let it go for the moment. ”Were you serious about trying to get on the fair board?”
”I don't really know,” he said. ”I'm pretty busy at my office and I got some other stuff going on, but I really think she's ripping everyone and everything off.”
”Why do you think that?”
”I'm an accountant,” he said. ”When I'm not out riding my hog, I crunch numbers all day. Nothing she says or does makes sense. I love this fair. Been coming since I was a kid. And I think she's got something cooking and it's not good for any of us. But I can just eyeball the amount of cash that goes through here and this fair should be growing. Instead, it feels like it's shrinking.”
The crowd was finally starting to disperse. I agreed with Butch. The fair did seem to be shrinking and there really wasn't a good answer for it.
”So, maybe not me, but I think someone else needs to get on that board and break up her little family-run monopoly,” he said, frowning. ”It's not fair. No pun intended.”
I thought for a moment. ”George worked for the fair, right?”
He nodded. ”Yes, sir. Every year. He was in charge of the grounds. Big job. And he did it for nearly free because he loved the fair. It cut into his other jobs, but he didn't care.”
”What other jobs?” I asked.
”He had a landscaping business and did some handyman work,” Butch said. ”He was just one of those guys who could do a bit of everything. But come fair time, he'd clear his schedule. He liked being around the fair and being a part of the setup and upkeep. I mean-he loved it. He planned his entire life around it.”
”He work a lot with Mama?”
He smirked. ”What do you think? Of course. She calls the shots, so she was the one giving him his workload.”
”He get along with her?”
”Actually, better than most,” Butch admitted. ”He just kind of laughed about her. I think he just liked working here so much, that he was willing to overlook all of her c.r.a.p. He found a way to coexist with her.”
Cars were now streaming out of the parking lot.
”Was George in a relations.h.i.+p?” I asked. ”Was he married? Girlfriend?”
Butch's face went crimson just like it had during the meeting. ”Hey, man. I can't talk about that kinda stuff.”
”Why not?”
”It's against club rules to talk about other guys' girls,” he said with a straight face. ”That kind of thing could lead to bad news for me.” He shook his head, as if he was reminding himself. ”No, sir. I can't talk about that. My bros might find out and I'd have to answer to the rest of the PDs.”
”The PDs?”
”The Petal Dawgs,” Butch said. ”That's the name of the club.”
16.
”So you think she's lying?” I asked.
Victor nodded. ”Yep.”
We were leaning against my minivan in the parking lot of the library. Most everyone had left and there were only a few cars remaining. Butch had excused himself, driving off in a late model Ford pickup rather than on a motorcycle like I'd expected, and I was left to ponder the validity of the Petal Dawgs when Victor came shuffling out of the library and motioned me to the parking lot.
”I didn't ask Matilda anything point-blank,” Victor said. ”I didn't want to freak her out. So I asked a couple of questions about how long she'd been on the board, that kind of thing. Then I asked how well she knew Spellman and she got real quiet.”
”So you think Matilda was having an affair with Spellman, then?”
He adjusted the hat on his head. ”I don't know if it was an affair, or what it was, but there was something going on. I started asking her questions and she turned red like a tomato and that bozo in the wig came over to intervene.”
”Bruce. The bozo's name is Bruce.”
He waved a tiny hand in the warm evening air as if shooing away a pesky mosquito. ”Yeah, sure, Bruce. Whatever. The dope in the wig. But he came over and tried to get all tough-guy with me and I told him if he didn't back off, I'd beat the c.r.a.p out of him like I do everyone else.”
”I'd like to see that list.”
”Shut up. Anyway, she didn't give me a single straight answer about Spellman, and I felt like the rest of that group was eavesdropping the entire time. The old bag was definitely trying to listen in. We need to get Matilda alone and talk to her.” He paused. ”Actually, I'd rather you get her alone. I'm afraid she might sit on me and kill me. Jesus, is she big.”
Before I could come up with a way to get her alone, the doors to the library opened and Mama emerged, leading her crew. The Nor-volds walked quickly to their old pickup, Bruce and Matilda walked slowly toward an old SUV, and Mama was beelining right for us.
”What exactly am I paying you two to do?” she demanded, her eyes bearing down on me first, then Victor.
”Investigate,” Victor said. ”That's what you gave me the retainer for.”
”Right. So what exactly do you think you're doing in there upsetting Matilda?”
”I wasn't upsetting her. I was asking her questions.”
”That upset her,” Mama said, her eyes bulging.
”What exactly were you asking her?”
”That, ma'am, is exactly none of your business.”
Mama's head looked like one of those cartoon characters whose heads were about to explode and steam started to shoot out their ears.
”Shorty, I am paying you and you work for me,” she said through locked teeth. ”Everything you do is my business.”
Victor looked at me, bored. ”Do all of you tall people just resort to short jokes when you got nothin' else?”
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