Part 43 (1/2)
”It's these cops who are a joke. Wolverines. Pfff.” She puffed air through her lips. ”d.i.c.kheads would be more like it.”
I was stunned by the hatred in her eyes.
”Tell me why you're upset.”
There was a long silence while she studied my face. Her gaze seemed to focus then withdraw, as if grabbing my image for testing in some mental equation.
”He didn't deserve what he got. No f.u.c.kin' way.” The obscenities sounded odd in French.
Quietly I said, ”If you don't explain I can't help you.”
She hesitated, taking a final tally, then the angry eyes fixed on mine.
”George Dorsey didn't kill that old man.”
”Cherokee Desjardins?”
She answered with a shrug.
”How do you know?”
She frowned, deciding if the question was a trap.
”Anyone with the IQ of celery would know that.”
”That's not terribly convincing.”
”A real mechanic would have done it right.”
”What does that mea-”
She cut me off. ”Do you want to hear this or not?”
I waited.
”I was there that night.”
She swallowed.
”I was hardly in the door when some guy showed up, so I went into the bedroom. He and Cherokee started talking, friendly at first, but pretty soon I heard shouting, then slamming and banging. I knew something was coming down, so I hid in the closet.”
”Why were you there, Jocelyn?”
”Cherokee was gonna sponsor me in the Kiwanis,” she sneered.
”Go on.”
”I hunkered in until things quieted down, then when I thought the guy was gone, I started to split. That's when I heard the gunshot. Jesus.”
Her eyes slipped past me to a spot somewhere over my shoulder. I tried to imagine what for her was memory.
”Then I heard the guy banging drawers and flinging c.r.a.p around. I figured he was a smackhead looking for Cherokee's rock, and I nearly s.h.i.+t my shorts, 'cause I knew the stuff was in the bedroom with me.
”When I smelled smoke it was time to haul a.s.s, junkie or no junkie. I smashed the window, dropped to the alley, and ran to the corner. Now here's the weird part. When I cut around the building and looked up the block, the little roach was still outside Cherokee's pad, scratching at something in the mud. Then a car turned onto the street and he took off.”
”What was he looking for?”
”How the h.e.l.l should I know?”
”Then what?”
”When I was sure he wasn't coming back I walked over and poked around.”
There was a long silence. Then she dropped a purse strap from her shoulder, dug inside, and withdrew a small, flat object.
”I found this where the guy was squatting.” She thrust it at me.
I unfolded a pharmacy sack and removed a photograph framed in cheap plastic. Two men smiled through a mist of spattered blood, inner arms entwined, outer arms raised, middle fingers pointing skyward. The one on the right was Cherokee Desjardins, robust and full of life.
When I recognized the man on the left my throat tightened and my breath came in short, quick spurts. Jocelyn went on speaking but I didn't hear her.
”. . . torn bag beside it. When the headlights. .h.i.t him he bolted like a jackrabbit.”
My thoughts raced. Images flashed.
”. . . why the f.u.c.k he wanted it. But go figure what burns in a junked-out head.”
I saw a face.
”. . . wish I'd gotten a look at him.”
I saw a baseball cap.
”. . . this son of a b.i.t.c.h get away with it.”
I saw flecks of gold circling in a watery vortex.
”. . . didn't deserve a s.h.i.+v up his a.s.s.”
I pulled myself back to the present and willed my face neutral.
”Jocelyn, do you know a newscaster named Lyle Crease?”
”English?”
”Yes.”