True Crime

2

"C’mon, ya motherfucking hunk of tin!” I was screaming, meanwhile. “Ya shuddering pile of roasted shit, come on!”

But it was not the poor Tempo’s fault. With its carburetor gagging on years of filth and its sluggish oil as black as remorse and its spark plugs kicking with all the timing of a fourth-rate cabaret chorus line, the car still managed to rocket through the still heart of the night, its tires squealing. But the goddamned road. The goddamned road kept wavering in front of me, melting, spreading, blurring behind undulating wisps of whisky fog. Sometimes, it vanished altogether as my head fell forward, as my eyelids slowly closed. And when I jacked my eyes open, when I jerked back against the seat, the Tempo would be angling off toward the curb, squeaking against it as the tires were squeezed or even hopping the hump to skim the grass along the pathways until I wrestled the machine back onto the asphalt, screaming as I say, cursing sloppily, righting the speeding hunk for long moments before I started to sink under again.

So drunk. I was so drunk. It was nearly eleven now and I was so bloody drunk I could hardly stay awake. A sodden anvil in my skull seemed to bear me mercilessly toward the earth. Nearly eleven: the helpless panic seemed to be tearing its way out of me. And I was so goddamned drunk.

I was cutting across Forest Park. Thundering through pools of streetlamp light with the rolling hills of darkness spreading out all around me. Feeling the time pass, feeling the hopelessness of it. At moments, in the depths and edges of the whisky haze, there were groups of black kids and I saw their faces, saw their eyes going wide as the Tempo swerved toward them, heard their hoots of laughter as it arced away again and swerved along the road. And the laughter seemed to follow me, envelop me as my head sank forward. Why did it have to be so late? Why did I have to get so goddamned drunk. Hopeless, hopeless.

Now came the bridge over the park’s winding lake. Nearly the finish for me, nearly a bad end. Confused by the sparkle-capped ripples in the water beneath the lamps, I turned the car too sharply and almost rammed the bridge’s railing. I straightened in the grim nick of time, guided the creature between the bridge walls-and at that speed, in that state, it felt like threading a needle with a jet plane.

But then I was nosing down the hill on the other side, the water sweeping back from me like wings and the night road whipcording in front of me again as I pitched forward sickly against the wheel. Screaming drunkenly: “Come on, come on, come on, you piece of crap!” and the drool running over my lips and down my jaw.

While, from a spotlit pool of grass atop a hill, the noble Roman columns of the art museum haughtily watched me zipping past.

Then-or sometime-I saw the expressway traffic-up ahead-red taillights going in and out of focus, going past. It hurt my eyes and made the cut on my forehead-where the tavern door had struck me-throb and ache. Squinting, my teeth gritted, I edged through the stoplight at the overpass, turning my neck this way and that, my heavy head swinging after it moments later. Horns honked somewhere, someone screamed, but then I was through, shrieking across the intersection and bounding again into the deeper darkness of Dogtown.

“God, drunk, late, Fairmount,” I mumbled.

Fairmount. Because the woman at Pocum’s had told me that. That afternoon when I had gone there and seen the potato chips. The family used to live on Fairmount, she said; they still do. And I had to see them. The Robertsons. I had to see Amy Wilson’s father. I did not know if I could get the locket; I did not know if I could bring it to Lowenstein in time. But if I did, I knew I had to prove it was Amy’s. Only then would it be enough. Maybe. Maybe just enough.

I had to slow the Tempo now. Just a little. The parked cars on the narrower Dogtown streets seemed to be closing in on either side of me. Even so, as I took the corner, I felt the old car lifting on its right side. I was tilted over with that anvil in my skull listing too, making my cut forehead swell. Man, the pain. The dizziness. I couldn’t do it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it and I wanted to weep and cry aloud in frustration and rage.

And I thought: Fairmount. Oh God, drunk, sick, drunk. No time. Eleven. Past eleven now. Minutes past …

I saw the house. A neat, white two-story clapboard. A little hill of lawn. A Chevy in the drive. And a large policeman standing at the door.

And others too, out there, in the night: cameramen, reporters, photographers; a small clutch of them on the sidewalk just beyond the grass. The squeal of my tires as I came into view made them all turn toward me. The two reporters gossiping in the street leapt back onto the grass border. The rest huddled together, watching me warily, as I careened toward them.

Pressing against the steering wheel to keep myself upright, I stomped down on the brake. The tires locked. The Tempo slid toward the parked cars. I was thrown forward against the wheel. And then the Tempo stopped.

I belched.

I didn’t park. I left the car right there in the road. Rolled out through an open door and swung to my feet, going three steps sideways before I straightened out.

I heard the journalists chuckle as I staggered toward them through the sultry air. I saw teeth in smiles, and glints on camera lenses and glasses. “Hey, Ev,” one guy called, “you been habben ne carvenson?” That’s what it sounded like to me, but it made the others laugh.

I stumbled right into them. Felt the pressure of their bodies around me, against me. Smelled some woman’s perfume, rousing and sickening at the same time.

“I gotta talk to the Robertsons,” I said, pushing through.

“They’re not seeing anyone,” a woman answered. “They’re seeing me,” I said.

“Whoa, Ev!”

I shoved through the little crowd. I felt hands on my sleeves and felt them fall away as I moved toward the lawn.

“They said they’d give a statement after it’s over,” someone called behind me.

“They’re seeing me now,” I said, and barreled on over the grass toward the house.

I approached the cop as steadily as I could. His large silhouette grew larger, darker, as I marched on. I was drunk, all right, but some part of my mind kept fighting to come into focus. Its voice was very solid, very loud. Just take this step, it would say, and then it would say, Just take this next step, that’s all. Man; drunk, I would tell it. Less than an hour, Can’t do it, can’t do it all in less than an hour. If you can just get through this next step, the voice would answer, then you can rest a while. Gonna kill him, can’t stop it, gonna kill him, I’d say. Rest time’s over, here’s another step … And I reached the cop and stood before him.

Or stood beneath him. Because he was standing up on the front step and he was very tall and he loomed over me. A husky black soldier with a slick moustache and a big hand resting on the billy in his belt.

“I need to see the Robertsons,” I said-I did everything I could to keep my voice steady, the words clear, but they came out too steady, too clear, like any drunken man’s.

The officer raised his big arms in a friendly gesture. “They’re not seeing anyone right now.”

“Thish-this-is an emergency,” I said. I had started swaying on my feet. And then-it suddenly seemed to be a good idea-I started screaming. “An emergency! Emergency!” I cupped my hands around my mouth and bellowed at the house’s lit windows. “I need to see the Robertsons! It’s an emergency!”

“Hey,” said the cop. And now he raised his hand at me in a not-so-friendly gesture. “Go back to your friends. The Robertsons’ll be out to make a statement in a little while.”

“Listen,” I said, breathing hard, blinking hard to clear my vision. I moved closer to him as he watched me, shaking his head. “I know they would want to talk to me if they …” And I made my move: dodging to the side, leaping onto the step, thrusting out my hand, I jammed my fingers against the doorbell button, screaming, “Emergency! Emergency! Mr. Robertson!”

The cop jostled me back, braced his forearm against my chest and shoved. I tumbled off the step hard, my arms thrashing. I stumbled two long strides, fighting to keep my feet. When I managed to steady myself, I straightened-and there was the cop. He was coming down after me.

We confronted each other on the edge of the lawn. He placed a finger lightly against my sternum.

“Let’s have a little quiz,” he said quietly. His brown eyes were pellucid and still. “I’m a police officer; you’re a drunken asshole. If we tangle, who do you think is going to get hurt?”

“I need to speak to the Robertsons!” I screamed, cupping my hands around my mouth again.

“Do you want me to make this multiple choice?”

“Officer …” I was gasping now. I was still swaying, but the excitement had steadied my brain a little. “I can see you’re a good guy. But there’s no time to …”

The front door opened. Mr. Robertson looked out. I recognized him from the television show I’d seen that afternoon. The tie and the studio makeup were gone-he was wearing a light blue polo shirt that bulged at the belly-but I recognized the frowning granite face beneath the white widow’s peak.

The cop turned at the sound of the opening door and I grabbed the chance and ducked around him. I was up the front step so fast that Robertson backed away, edging the door forward, narrowing the gap.

But I got there before he closed it. I got my face in front of his.

“Please,” I said. His nose wrinkled as he caught the whiff of booze. “Describe the locket.”

“What? What the hell do you want?”

“Amy’s locket. The one the killer stole. A heart? Gold? AR with a fringe around it.”

He went blank, surprised. “Yeah. Yeah,” he said automatically. “And AW inside. She had her married initials done on the inside.”

“She …” My mouth hung open, but no more words came out. AW inside. She had her married initials engraved inside. Then Mrs. Russel knew. Warren’s grandmother-she had to know. If she hadn’t known before, she knew now. She knew after talking to me.

A strong hand took hold of my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Robertson,” I heard the cop say behind me. He started to pull me back, away from the house.

“Frank Beachum didn’t kill your daughter, Mr. Robertson,” I said.

On the instant, the man’s face darkened-I could almost see the shadow fall across him like an axe. “What are you talking about?”

“He didn’t …”

“Horseshit. Bullshit,” he said. “Who are you? Get the fuck outta here. Get this drunk the fuck offa my lawn.”

The cop tugged at me harder. I grabbed hold of the doorframe. I stared into Robertson’s hard eyes. “I’m telling you …” I said.

With a short, sharp shove, Robertson slammed the door onto my fingers-bang — and jerked it back again. I screamed. Hugged my hand to my chest. Reeled back as the cop tightened his grip and hauled me off the step.

This time, I stumbled; fell. Felt the jarring shock go through my skull. Felt the dewy grass seep cold through my pants leg. I clambered to my feet in a second, quick as I could. Clutching my own hand against me. I was clearheaded enough now. Sober enough now.

“Fuck you!” said Robertson, jabbing his finger at me from the doorway. And then the sight of him was blotted out by the shape of the big cop as he moved in.

“All right,” I said. “All right, I’m going.”

Hunched and ready, his hand on his club, the cop kept moving toward me.

“I said I’m going. But he’s innocent.”

“Get the fuck outta here,” Robertson shouted.

I turned my back on both of them and hurried away across the lawn. In front of me, I saw the clutch of journalists. Their faces big, watching me, wide-eyed, as I came on. A camera went up over their heads. A flash snapped against the night background. Blue spots spiraled in my vision as I kept walking toward them.

I heard the cop call after me-not a shout-his voice still cool and even.

“And lose that vehicle, mister,” he said. “You operate that vehicle drunk and I’ll have every badge in St. Louis on your ass.”

I wheeled round recklessly, screaming. “Are they flying jets? Cause if they ain’t flying jets, pal, they ain’t gonna catch me!”

And I wheeled back, blindly at first, but fixing my trajectory on the cluster of journalists, bulling my way toward them, toward my car.

“What is he, crazy?” I heard the cop say. “He’s driving a fucking Tempo.”

I threw back my head as I walked, and laughed like a madman.