Bloodfire

13

The woman who suspected her husband and sister of having an affair called again and apologized to Carver for not showing up for their appointment. She said she’d had second thoughts; she was afraid of what he might find out. He told her he understood, and that when she got straight in her mind what she wanted to do about the situation, he’d still be available to help her. He didn’t think she’d call back.

Only a minute or so after he’d hung up, McGregor walked into the office. If everybody who hated McGregor formed a single-file line, it would be hard to walk around it. Del Moray police lieutenant McGregor was an infuriating man to be around; he saw humanity as rotting meat and himself as a happy maggot. It was difficult to deal with someone like him, who embraced, and even exulted in, being completely amoral. Sometimes his logic was impeccable.

He was a coiled and lanky six and a half feet of bad taste and bad manners. He had on a cheap brown suit that hung from his bony shoulders as if from a bent hanger. His white shirt was wrinkled and stained. The narrow end of his kinked tie dangled below the wide. His huge brown wingtip shoes were scuffed. He loomed in an almost visible odorous cloud of the perfumey cheap cologne he favored over bathing. Grinning his gap-toothed smile, he shoved back the straight lock of his lank blond hair that always flopped over his forehead, stared at Carver with his intense, close-set pale blue eyes. He had a long, narrow face with a prognathous jaw, a ruby of dried blood on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving.

Carver tried not to breathe the cologne-fouled air too deeply and said, “You given up knocking on doors?”

McGregor kept smiling. He propped his giant’s hands on his hips. “I like to walk in unexpected on shitballs like you. Catch them off guard so I can see how the lower fifth lives.”

“You got an upside-down view of the world,” Carver said.

McGregor stuck the tip of his tongue, like a pink viper, through the wide gap between his yellowed front teeth, His grin became more of a leer as he said, “How’s you and your lady sackmate getting along these days?”

Carver couldn’t help it; he felt the anger stir in him. He put on a calm act, wondering if McGregor had somehow found out about his troubles with Edwina.

“Can’t answer, asshole? Tongue-tied by love? Or just tongue-tired?”

“That why you’re here, to ask me about my love life?”

“Hardly worth my time to find out how some gimp does it between the sheets.” McGregor probed at a molar with his tongue, staring at Carver with his cheek lumped out grotesquely. Then he said, “I see by the news you got yourself mixed up in a murder over in Orlando.”

“Not in your jurisdiction,” Carver said.

“But this is my jurisdiction, fuckface. Where we’re looking at one another right now. The name Roberto Gomez was in the same news items. It was his sister-in-law got herself offed, right?”

“Still in Orlando,” Carver said, “not Del Moray.”

“Well, I’d be remiss in my duties if I learned a known big-time drug lord like Gomez was in my fair city and I didn’t find out why. He left your office not long ago, didn’t he?”

Carver figured McGregor had put a watch on the office after hearing about the murder in the Gomez condo. He hoped McGregor hadn’t had the smarts or the manpower to watch the beach cottage up the coast, or he’d know about Beth Gomez’s visit. “Gomez was here,” Carver said. “He was my client for a while. He’s not anymore.”

“Sure. Assuming I trust you to tell me the truth. But the fact is, I trust you about as far as you can hobble without your cane.”

Carver shrugged. “Makes no difference to me what you believe.”

“Should, though,” McGregor said.

Carver leaned back in his chair and looked up at the long head on top of the basketball center’s body. “How come you’re interested in this?”

McGregor sneered down at Carver as if that were a stupid question. “I told you, Gomez is a big-time drug dealer and he’s here in my city talking to some pissant private eye. Big time means big bucks, hey? Real big bucks, since it’s drug money.”

“And you want some of it?”

“Christ, Carver, I’m a policeman!” Saliva sprayed as McGregor feigned indignation. Some of it speckled Carver’s bare forearm. Made him nauseated. McGregor wiped a fleck of dampness from his chin and started his shaving cut bleeding again.

“Some policeman,” Carver said, watching the worm of fresh blood ease its way toward the point of McGregor’s long chin.

“Let’s just say that air the money involved means nailing Roberto Gomez can make a hardworking cop’s career.”

“If the cop survives.”

“Sure. And he will if he’s smart. He’ll be promoted to captain, most likely.”

“Someday even chief.”

“I got no desire to be chief.”

“I know better.”

“So you think. But I’m not surprised you think small, Carver.”

“And I’m not surprised you think bigger than you are. You think you’ll bypass the rank of captain and move on to better things? Maybe they’ll make you dictator?”

“Something like that. If a person was considering tossing his hat in the ring for the mayoral election next year, it’d be better if it was a captain’s hat and not a lieutenant’s. You follow?”

“I follow,” Carver said. “And where it goes is horrific.” He knew McGregor was capable of fooling enough of the people enough of the time. Capable of anything, actually; he was a man with the brashness of Napoleon and the scruples of Hitler, not to mention a crude Machiavellian deviousness.

“You don’t think I’d make a good mayor?”

“I think you’d make a good politician, as long as the voters didn’t get to know you. Nobody’s better equipped with the necessary ego and moral vacuum.”

“You call it a moral vacuum, I call it pragmatism. I see the world the way it is. You see it through your boxtop code of honor you shoulda grown outa by the third grade. You sent in for your secret decoder ring yet, fuckhead?”

“What made you consider this possible jump into politics?”

“Everything’s politics,” McGregor said. “Politics is just called politics. And I have it on pretty good authority that the mayor doesn’t plan on running for reelection. Something about a potential scandal.”

“Would you have anything to do with that?”

“I told you, everything’s politics.”

Carver toyed with the crook of his cane. “Well, there’s no political hay for you to make here. I’m out of anything concerning Roberto Gomez. And I guess you ran a check on him and found out he’s not a fugitive.”

“Orlando police’d like to talk with him regarding the death of his sister-in-law,” McGregor said.

“But he’s not a suspect.”

“Guy like that, he’s always a suspect. That’s why the DEA’s on him like flies on shit.”

“So what do I do to get you to leave?” Carver asked. “You after a political donation?”

“I’ll talk to you about that if I become a candidate,” McGregor said seriously. “Right now I just wanted you to know I’m in the game here. You find out anything pertinent, you let me know or I’ll ream your ass.”

“Well, since you ask politely. . ”

McGregor flashed his gap-toothed grin again, probing between his front teeth with his tongue. He got his lanky body turned around section by section and moved toward the door, then paused and said, “Say hello to your lady love, hey?”

“Sure. She’s always glad to hear from you. Likes it when her skin crawls.”

The grin stayed. “Some of ’em do. Incidentally, you get tired of running through that, send it around to see me.”

Carver gripped his cane with aching, whitened knuckles. Held it as a jabbing weapon and stood up, leaning on the desk. “You get tired of breathing, step over here closer.”

Still smiling, McGregor walked out the door. He was obviously pleased; he’d gotten under Carver’s skin again.

Carver sat back down. He was breathing hard. The office seemed smaller and more confining. The dense air still reeked of perfumey cologne.

Carver stood up and limped over to the window. It couldn’t be opened, but just looking outside made it seem easier to breathe. He watched the unmarked Pontiac, McGregor’s tall form bent over the steering wheel so he’d have headroom, turn onto Magellan and pass from sight.

He knew McGregor had successfully goaded him, and he didn’t like it.

Mayor McGregor.

My God, it had a ring to it!