Knock Out
Page 72
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How could the FBI possibly know about Blessed and Whistler? He remembered that sheriff calling him about Blessed from somewhere in the mountains back in Virginia. He must have called the FBI. Damnation.
The fed had asked him a question—oh, yeah, about Whistler. He said, the hot rage burning the air between them, “You’ll have to ask Blessed for Whistler’s address. I don’t know it. I never knew it, you got me?”
“Not yet, but I’m beginning to think I probably will,” Savich said easily, and walked straight at the sheriff, making him hop to the side. Sherlock saw the flash of rage in the sheriff’s eyes when he realized he’d been outsmarted, and tried not to smile. They watched the sheriff walk inside the Quik Mart and lean close in to speak to Doreen. They waited. After only about a minute he came out, put sunglasses on his nose, climbed into his truck, and peeled out. She arched an eyebrow.
Savich said, “Thanks for calling Director Mueller for me.”
“You’re more than welcome. He was right there, as if he’d been waiting for me to call him.”
“I must say, you sure got a hold of him fast. I’m impressed.”
“And so you should be. We’re off to see Grace and Shepherd?”
“Doreen said Grace wasn’t here either,” Savich said. “She could have been blowing me off—we’ll find out when we get to the Backmans’.”
Savich stared after the black truck. “Do you know, I don’t think Sheriff Cole and I are going to be best friends.”
Sherlock said, “He’s afraid of the Backmans, and he hates you all the way to his steel-tipped boots. He really wants to kick your butt, Dillon, big-time.”
Savich quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do you think that might be fun?”
“Yeah, for you.”
Savich drove down Main Street, only two blocks long, past its short row of businesses, from the Intimate Apparel boutique to Higgins Bar on the corner, with its neon flashing Dos Equis signs, to Polly’s Dry Cleaners right next door. He stopped when he saw a little boy on his bike and asked him where the Backmans lived.
The boy, who was missing two front teeth, gave him a big grin and leaned close. “My ma doesn’t like me to go anywhere near where the spooks live,” he said, and pointed east.
“Why do you call them spooks?”
The boy said, “Everybody knows they’re spooks, but my ma says I’m not supposed to talk about them. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s scared of them.”
“Why do you think that’s true?”
The boy frowned over Savich’s left shoulder. “Whenever she and my dad are talking about them, they whisper.”
“Got you. Do you ever see the Backmans in town? Blessed, Grace, Mrs. Backman?”
“Miz Backman sometimes talks to Dolly down at Fresh Fish Filet—that’s our restaurant, you know. Ma doesn’t like to eat there, says the fish is off sometimes, whatever that means.”
A gold mine of information. Savich said, “What do your parents do here?”
“My dad—he’s Reverend Halpert; he’s the preacher at the First Pilgrims Baptist Church. He’s always saying we’re lucky to have more members than Father Michael at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Michael tells my dad he’s a heretic and laughs. Dad tells him he might be a heretic, but we have better potluck suppers. Catholics can’t make good potato salad, he tells Father Michael, and then he laughs too.”
“Do the Backmans go to your church?”
“No, they’re Catholics, but they donate money to us anyways. Lots, I heard my dad say.”
“What’s your name?”
“Taylor.”
“Well, Taylor, I’m Dillon Savich. You’ve been a big help. Go buy yourself an ice cream. I saw Elmo’s Thirty Flavors. Are they good?”
“Oh, wow, thanks, mister. The triple-fudge chocolate’s the best.” The dollar bill disappeared in Taylor’s pocket and he’d pedaled halfway to the ice-cream shop by the time Savich slid back into the Camry. Taylor yelled over his shoulder, “Elmo’s really got thirty-three flavors, I counted them! Thanks again, mister!”
“Spooks, hmmm,” Sherlock said as Savich pulled away from the curb. “Cute kid. So Mama’s afraid of the Backmans?”
“So it appears,” Savich said, and gave a nod toward a couple of old geezers who appeared to be playing checkers in front of The Genesis Spirit, the lettering stenciled in gold against black glass.
“Wonder what that’s all about?” Sherlock said.
The fed had asked him a question—oh, yeah, about Whistler. He said, the hot rage burning the air between them, “You’ll have to ask Blessed for Whistler’s address. I don’t know it. I never knew it, you got me?”
“Not yet, but I’m beginning to think I probably will,” Savich said easily, and walked straight at the sheriff, making him hop to the side. Sherlock saw the flash of rage in the sheriff’s eyes when he realized he’d been outsmarted, and tried not to smile. They watched the sheriff walk inside the Quik Mart and lean close in to speak to Doreen. They waited. After only about a minute he came out, put sunglasses on his nose, climbed into his truck, and peeled out. She arched an eyebrow.
Savich said, “Thanks for calling Director Mueller for me.”
“You’re more than welcome. He was right there, as if he’d been waiting for me to call him.”
“I must say, you sure got a hold of him fast. I’m impressed.”
“And so you should be. We’re off to see Grace and Shepherd?”
“Doreen said Grace wasn’t here either,” Savich said. “She could have been blowing me off—we’ll find out when we get to the Backmans’.”
Savich stared after the black truck. “Do you know, I don’t think Sheriff Cole and I are going to be best friends.”
Sherlock said, “He’s afraid of the Backmans, and he hates you all the way to his steel-tipped boots. He really wants to kick your butt, Dillon, big-time.”
Savich quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do you think that might be fun?”
“Yeah, for you.”
Savich drove down Main Street, only two blocks long, past its short row of businesses, from the Intimate Apparel boutique to Higgins Bar on the corner, with its neon flashing Dos Equis signs, to Polly’s Dry Cleaners right next door. He stopped when he saw a little boy on his bike and asked him where the Backmans lived.
The boy, who was missing two front teeth, gave him a big grin and leaned close. “My ma doesn’t like me to go anywhere near where the spooks live,” he said, and pointed east.
“Why do you call them spooks?”
The boy said, “Everybody knows they’re spooks, but my ma says I’m not supposed to talk about them. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s scared of them.”
“Why do you think that’s true?”
The boy frowned over Savich’s left shoulder. “Whenever she and my dad are talking about them, they whisper.”
“Got you. Do you ever see the Backmans in town? Blessed, Grace, Mrs. Backman?”
“Miz Backman sometimes talks to Dolly down at Fresh Fish Filet—that’s our restaurant, you know. Ma doesn’t like to eat there, says the fish is off sometimes, whatever that means.”
A gold mine of information. Savich said, “What do your parents do here?”
“My dad—he’s Reverend Halpert; he’s the preacher at the First Pilgrims Baptist Church. He’s always saying we’re lucky to have more members than Father Michael at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Michael tells my dad he’s a heretic and laughs. Dad tells him he might be a heretic, but we have better potluck suppers. Catholics can’t make good potato salad, he tells Father Michael, and then he laughs too.”
“Do the Backmans go to your church?”
“No, they’re Catholics, but they donate money to us anyways. Lots, I heard my dad say.”
“What’s your name?”
“Taylor.”
“Well, Taylor, I’m Dillon Savich. You’ve been a big help. Go buy yourself an ice cream. I saw Elmo’s Thirty Flavors. Are they good?”
“Oh, wow, thanks, mister. The triple-fudge chocolate’s the best.” The dollar bill disappeared in Taylor’s pocket and he’d pedaled halfway to the ice-cream shop by the time Savich slid back into the Camry. Taylor yelled over his shoulder, “Elmo’s really got thirty-three flavors, I counted them! Thanks again, mister!”
“Spooks, hmmm,” Sherlock said as Savich pulled away from the curb. “Cute kid. So Mama’s afraid of the Backmans?”
“So it appears,” Savich said, and gave a nod toward a couple of old geezers who appeared to be playing checkers in front of The Genesis Spirit, the lettering stenciled in gold against black glass.
“Wonder what that’s all about?” Sherlock said.
