Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

28

Behr wanted to be the first one into the Caro Group that morning, to have a conversation with Potempa, for whatever it would yield, but he had something else he needed to do first. It was why he’d driven out to the southeast side in a gray, dripping rain and nosed his car up the dirt entry road to South County Landfill. This was a place he found himself from time to time, when he needed an answer or at least a thread to pull. Whatever was going on in town, Terry Cottrell seemed to know something about how it happened or who was involved. If he couldn’t point Behr in the right direction, Terry would break things down into a likely strategy at the very least. The only question was: Would he? There had been bad blood between them the last time they’d met, and it was Behr’s fault. He had pushed too hard on something and crossed invisible boundaries of friendship and trust. Behr had broken the unspoken code between them and had kept his distance accordingly, in order to let the wrong of it subside. But now it was time to lay it down. Which was why Behr had a large, expensive coffee table book called French New Wave resting on his passenger seat. A glamorous blonde graced the cover of the book chronicling the existential foreign films of which Terry was such a fan. It was a peace offering, just a token, but enough, hopefully, to bring about a thaw.

Behr parked by the double-wide trailer that was both office and home to Cottrell. When the weather was clear, he’d often find Terry outside, overseeing the dumping and spreading of waste at the landfill, or shooting rats with an air gun, or listening to music in the morning sun. It was usually later in the day, when the sun was ready to go down, that the Old Grand-Dad with a splash of coffee or cola would come out.

Behr rapped on the trailer door, surprised not to hear the sounds of jazz or a film bleeding through. After a moment the door opened and revealed a large gentleman fifty pounds heavier and twenty years older than Cottrell.

“Scale’s closed for a half hour yet,” the man said.

“Not here to dump,” Behr said. “I’m looking for Terry Cottrell.”

“You a friend of his?” the new man asked. Behr nodded. “He’s gone.”

“Gone? Where?” Behr wondered. But the man just shrugged.

“After the county hired me, he ran me through the workings of the place six months back. Then he packed out and left. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“He leave a number or an address?” Behr wondered. He had a cell phone number for Cottrell, but it was only good for leaving voice mails as it was rarely answered.

“Sure didn’t,” the man said. There wasn’t much left to say. “Well, we’re here if you need to do any dumping.”

Behr tucked the plastic-wrapped book under his arm and walked back to his car, feeling empty.