Mission Flats

37

While Kelly chatted with one of the old-timers in the courthouse, I called Versailles from a pay phone to check in.

Dick Ginoux answered. I could imagine him at the station, feet up on an open drawer, eyeglasses propped on his bald forehead, USA Today spread out on the desk. ‘Hello?’

‘Dick? Is that how you answer the phone?’

‘Hey, Chief Truman. Yeah.’

‘What happened to ‘Versailles Police Department’?’

‘Well, Ben, I expect people know who they just called.’

‘That’s not the point. The point is to sound professional.’

‘For whom?’

I had to give Dick credit for that whom, which he threw in for my benefit as the brainy college boy. But he was as stubborn as he was grammatical.

‘Dick, just answer the phone the right way, will you?’

‘Righty-o, Chief.’

Dick skipped the Versailles gossip this time. He was burning to tell me something more important. ‘Jimmy Lownes — you know Jimmy — called just t’other day and he says, “I heard you been asking around about a white Lexus.” I hadn’t got ahold of Jimmy before that. He was off to the lakes or somewhere for the weekend. So when he got back, somebody told him I’d been asking about it. Anyway Jimmy says he seen the kid out on Three Mile Road. Said they both come to those stop signs there, where it crosses over 2A, and they slowed down and kind of looked at each other. He says he saw the kid. He couldn’t remember the face too well, but he says the kid had this weirdo haircut, kind of shaved along the sides with a little Japanesey-type ponytail. You know, like a samurai? So I had him come in and showed him the mug shot of that Braxton character. And Jimmy says he thinks that’s the kid. He was almost positive. It was your man Braxton, just like those guys said.’

I was stunned. Both at the ID and at the fact it was Dick who discovered it. ‘Dick, you did all that?’

‘Yessir.’

‘That’s great.’

‘I figured you’d be happy to hear it.’

We were talking about different things, but it was okay.

‘Hold on, Ben, there’s someone here wants to say hello.’

There was a series of clicks and muffled voices. Dick had his palm over the phone, but I heard him say, ‘Go on, just say hello.’

‘Hi, Ben.’ A big basso boomed out of the tiny speaker in the earpiece.

‘Hey, Dad.’

‘How’s everything going down there?’

‘Just alright, Dad.’

He fell silent.

Another conversation was audible on the line. Women’s voices, faint, the words indistinct but the tone cheerful. Two women unaware of Claude and Benjamin Truman and all our history. There must have been millions — billions — of voices out there murmuring in the network.

‘What does that mean, “just alright”? Is something wrong, Ben?’

‘Yeah, you could say that.’

‘What is it?’

What could I tell him? That his son was a murder suspect? What would he have done about it? And what would the news have done to him?

‘It’s nothing, Dad. Don’t worry about it.’

‘You say it’s nothing like maybe it’s something.’

‘No. It’s really nothing. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. Just don’t worry. And don’t drink anything.’

‘Don’t — I’m not-’ I could hear his breath huffing in and out in big greedy nostrilfuls as he composed himself. He cleared his throat. ‘I’m not drinking.’

‘Good.’

‘You want me to come down there, Ben?’

‘No, Dad. Don’t do that.’

‘I feel like I should be there with you. I feel like I’m letting you-’

‘No. You stay put. There’s nothing to worry about. It’s nothing.’

‘Everything’s nothing with you.’

‘Dad, you got to do what I tell you, just this one time. Don’t come down here. You understand?’

‘I can come down just to see you, make sure you’re alright.’

‘No. You can’t. I’m alright, I promise.’

I could see him in the little stationhouse, holding the base of the phone in one hand and the handset in the other, as was his habit.

‘It’s not something you can help with, Dad. I’ve got to do it myself. It’s gonna be alright.’

I wanted to tell him more. I wanted to tell him everything. And I wanted to hear him say nobody was getting to me without going through Claude Truman — and nobody was getting through Claude Truman. But this was one problem he could not fix. He could not twist its arm or bully it into submission. He couldn’t make it come out right. I was on my own.

Now, looking back, I’m glad I did not tell him more. Just a few hours later the case would be broken and I would be cleared of all suspicion. There was no need to worry the old man.

Around two that afternoon, Gittens called me personally to say it was over. ‘You can breathe again,’ he told me. I was no longer Danziger’s killer.

Turned out, Gerald McNeese was wrong — the cops could touch Braxton after all.