Milk and Honey (18 page)

“You need some help,
Officer
?” he asked. He was smiling, teeth as soft and brown as rotten apples.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Decker said.

“Well, you just tell me how I can be of service.”

Decker stiffened as he spoke. Asshole’s breath was vile.

Decker said, “You can start by getting out of my way.”

“Why don’tchu walk ’round me?” the biker challenged.

Decker said, “Look, buddy, I’m not here to give you shit, but if you want shit, I can give you a truckload. So why don’t you get out of my way and let me do my business?”

“You ain’t here to sling no shit, why the hell are you here, big city-boy cop?”

Calmly, Decker said, “Move your ass, buddy.”

The biker’s smile slowly faded. His eyes hardened, and the fat-lipped mouth was about to speak when it was interrupted by a deep male voice.

“Pig, just what the hell you think you’re doin’? Get the fuck away from them.”

The man who spoke was big, around two-fifty, and all muscle. He seemed to be about thirty-five, 6'1", had brown eyes, a Fu Manchu mustache, and buck teeth that were accentuated by a receding chin. He wore a red cook’s apron over his bare chest and leather chaps, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. At first Decker thought the pig epithet had referred to him, but a moment later the muscle man punched the fat man in the shoulder.

“Can’t you see that this dude and dudette are law? They ain’t here to roust us none. Law’s not crazy enough to roust us with just two people—one of them only a woman. Sheeeet. Use your head, Pig.”

“Why’s he here then?” Pig said.

“Move your fat ass and I’ll find out.” The muscled biker gave Pig a shove. “Get out of their fucking way, man.”

Pig spat, muttered obscenities, but stepped aside.

“This way,” the muscle man said. “I’m Chip. I own the place. We’ll talk inside, in the back. It’s about the Darcy thing, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” Decker said.

“Who are you two?”

Marge briefly explained their business, their connection to the Darcy murders.

Chip seemed satisfied. He led them inside—a dimly lit tavern/poolhall. Six green-felted tables—two of them in use—rested on straw-covered floors. Three fly fans were working overtime, whirling smoky air from one corner of the room to the other. The bar was U-shaped, occupying the two side and back walls. A dozen bikers were parked around the bar top, big leathery hands gripping beer bottles and whiskey glasses, drumming offbeat rhythms to ZZ Top.

Decker and Marge followed Chip through a door at the end of the back bar, into the well-lit kitchen, which reeked of ripe cheese and garlic. Swirls of flour had dusted the countertops and coated the floor. A rectangular butcher-block table sat in the middle, filled with pizza pans, stacks of cheese, and bowls of tomato sauce and toppings. A runt of a kid was spooning sauce onto pizza dough, his body junkie-thin. Two middle-aged Hispanics were cleaning the pizza oven and cooktop. A walk-in cooler spanned the back wall.

Chip stopped, leaned against the table and screamed at the kid. Something about the pizza sauce. The kid lifted up his head and nodded, his eyes hooded by drooping lids.

“Shit-for-brains,” Chip muttered. He motioned them back toward the cooler. “He wastes half the sauce, splattering it all over the place. Goddam, it’s hard to get good people.” He surveyed the kitchen, told one of the Hispanics in fluent Spanish to bring more beer out front, explaining that the pizza wasn’t served until noon, but the booze was served as soon as the doors opened.

Chip wiped his face on his apron, then said to Decker, “Pig’s right in a way. You shouldn’t be coming in here without warning. Some of them out there don’t like the police.”

“I take it Pig has had some prior trouble with the law,” Decker said.

“Man, I don’t want to go into that. Let’s just say the police make Pig jumpy.”

Decker said, “Right now, I’m not interested in anyone’s past. I’m only interested in the Darcys.”

Chip eyed Marge, then said to Decker, “You two ever fool around…like ball on your lunch hour?”

Marge broke into laughter.

Chip said to Decker, “What’s so funny? You a fag or something?”

Decker said, “Is this where we talk about the Darcys?”

Chip said, “Darcys! Sheeeet! Byron was around here yesterday, telling us what the fuck went down. Or his version. Old man’s face was green, man. Fucking
green
. Never saw By like that. Like he
needed
a drink. Gave him a beer on the house. You guys want a beer?”

Marge said, “I’ll pass.”

Decker said, “What did Byron tell you?”

“What a mess it was. That Linda, Luke, and Carla was whacked.”

“I heard Byron had a thing with Linda,” Marge said.

“Byron?” Chip exclaimed. “With
Linda
? You’re shittin’ me!”

“That’s what I heard,” Decker said.

“Well, Byron was upset, I’ll tell you that much,” Chip
said. “Old man usually talks in one-word sentences. But yesterday, man, he let it all hang out.”

“What did he say specifically?” Marge asked.

“I remember him saying, ‘Who woulda done it, who woulda done it,’ over and over. Byron gets a whole sentence out, he likes to repeat himself.”

Decker wrote in his notepad:
Byron upset! Too upset?

“Remember him saying anything else?” Marge said.

Chip shook his head, paused a moment, then said, “Byron Howard and Linda Darcy.” He shrugged. “I sure wouldna figured it, but who the fuck knows? Linda was rumored to have a thing with lots of people, but I never seen it. Never, ever. Boys ’round here like to wag their dicks, know what I mean?”

“What about Carla?” Marge said. “She was also rumored to have a lot of boyfriends.”

“Carla’d fuck anyone in pants. Right out back—two, three in a row. In daylight. That lady was a rabbit. You ever see Carla?”

Only dead, Decker thought. He shook his head no.

“Man, she was ugly.” Chip sniffed his nose in disgust. “I mean
ugly
—big ears, big nose, no tits, and an ass as flat as a pancake. And was she
stupid
. Used to be a rumor going round that she and Earl were twins. You know ’bout Earl, don’t you?”

Marge nodded.

“’Course, it ain’t true,” Chip said. “Earl is retard stupid. Carla’s just normal stupid. But she was nice enough. Nice fuck if there was no one else around. Linda was a different piece of ass altogether. Smart, sexy. Maybe a few of the guys were slipping it to her, but she kept it to herself.”

Chip stopped and yelled another order to the sauce-splattering hype. Then he said, “I had the hots for Linda. Almost had her once. Think she was strung out, then.”

“On what?”

“Mostly booze, but a little weed, maybe. I thought she
was giving me that hungry look, but it didn’t work out.” He frowned at the memory. “Best I got that evening was a blow job from Dawg’s old lady. What a pisser!”

“Know anyone who didn’t like the Darcys?” Marge asked.

Chip said, “Far as I know, the Darcys were cool. The old ones were a little cranky—Granny D’s a Bible-thumper—full of fire and brimstone. Pappy D never had a problem telling you his opinion, whether you wanted to hear it or not. Man, the old fart really hates niggers and rich folk. Has a real hard-on for them developers—Man something.”

“Manfred,” Marge said.

“Thems the ones,” Chip said. “Froths at the mouth when he talks ’bout them. But Luke and Linda and Carla…nothing. Used to come around here, eat my pizza, drink my beer, tip my ladies, shoot the shit. Carla would ball some of the guys. That’s it. None of us knew the fuck what happened. Sheeeet, we knowed something was goin’ down when all them cop cars started driving past. But till Byron came crawlin’ in, we didn’t know diddlysquat about details.”

Marge pulled out the Polaroids. “Ever seen this guy, Chip?”

The biker took the snapshots, clucked his tongue. “Man, is he fucked up. Who’s the nigger?”

“The man is white,” Decker said.

“Can’t be. Look at his skin.”

“Skin does that when it’s been left out in the elements,” Marge said.

“But his lips are thick like nigger lips,” Chip insisted.

“That’s bloat,” Decker said. “Take my word for it, Chip, he’s white.”

Marge said, “He had a tattoo of a naked lady in a helmet on his right arm, the name Gretchen tattooed on his rear end. Ring any bells?”

Chip stared at the picture. His eyes widened. “Goddam, is that Rolland?”

“Rolland who?” Decker asked.

“Sheeeet! Man, is that Rolland?” Chip asked.

Marge said, “We’re asking you, Chip.”

Chip said, “Rolland has a naked lady in a helmet on his right arm and Gretchen on his ass. Couldn’t be two guys with those tattoos, huh?”

“Not likely, Chip,” Decker said.

“Man-oh-man, did he ever get fucked in the ass.” Chip muttered another “sheeeet.” “I can sort of make him out now, but if you hadn’t told me nothing about the tattoos, I never would have recognized him.”

Marge said that was understandable. Decker asked if Rolland had a last name.

“Uh, yeah. Rolland Mason. Lives in your neck of the woods over the mountains. Bums off of his old lady. Think she hops tables in Saugus.”

“Do you know his address?” Marge said.

“Not offhand. Try the book.”

“What’s his old lady’s name?” Marge asked.

“Fuck was it? Betty or Betsy something. A real shit-for-brains.”

“Know what his connection to the Darcys was?” Decker asked.

“No. He might have been ballin’ Carla. But I can name four other guys swiggin’ beer out there that was ballin’ Carla as well.”

“We’d like to talk to them,” Marge said. “Would you tell us who they are?”

Chip thought a moment. “Why not? Maybe they know Rolland’s connection to Carla. Anything, so shit like that doesn’t happen here again. I’ll introduce you. Tell them you’re okay.”

“Thanks,” Marge said.

“Anything for you, honey,” Chip said. “I like big women.” He smiled at her. Marge smiled back, then rolled her eyes when he wasn’t looking.

Decker said, “So you don’t know of any other connection Rolland had with the Darcys other than his relationship with Carla?”

Chip smiled. “Relationship? You call being fucked belly down on a Harley a relationship?” He laughed. “Sheeeet, you don’t know Carla. She don’t have no relationships. Sure as shit don’t know what Rolland was doin’ at her house. Maybe he was putting the make on Linda. He’s tried it before. Maybe he got lucky.”

“Maybe Carla didn’t like him getting lucky,” Decker said out loud.

Chip thought a moment. “Not a bad point, Mr. Cop. Carla didn’t like the attention that Linda got.”

“Rivalry between the two?” Marge asked.

Chip asked, “You mean like did they fight?”

“Yes,” Marge answered.

“Not in public,” Chip said. “But Carla would get a mean look on her face when guys paid too much attention to Linda. Maybe she didn’t like her sister-in-law stepping out on her brother, though she never said nothing to me about it.”

“So you don’t know if Linda was getting it on with Rolland?” Marge asked.

“Nope,” Chip answered. “Ask Rolland’s old lady. Woman used to watch Rolland like a hawk. That’s why he stopped taking her here. I bet
she’d
know.”

“Betty or Betsy something,” Marge said. “A waitress in Saugus.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Chip eyed the picture once again. “Man-oh-man, I sure don’t want to sign off like this. He was found with Linda, Carla, and Luke?”

Decker said yes.

“Linda, Carla, and Luke look like this, too?” Chip said. “Like niggers?”

Decker nodded.

Chip said, “Sheeeet.”

After jawing with a few inarticulate bikers, discovering nothing of significance, Decker gave Marge the “Let’s beat it” look. They walked out to the parking lot, Decker offering to drive this time. As he slid into the driver’s seat, he noticed Pig leaning against a chopper, glaring at the unmarked. The son of a bitch looked mean as hell, but his corpulent body language didn’t suggest confrontation. Decker shook his head. To think that this blob had once been a baby bouncing in his crib.
What do we
do
to ourselves?
He gunned the motor and peeled off.

“What now?” Marge asked.

“Byron Howard,” Decker said.

“Mister Chatterbox?” Marge said. “Guess we should know where he was when all this went down.”

“No doubt he was on his farm,” Decker said. “And we won’t be able to prove or disprove it. But it won’t hurt to push him a little, see how he reacts. Also, maybe he knows something about Rolland Mason.”

Decker pushed the pedal to the floor and whizzed by the idyllic landscape, his mind trying to picture Byron Howard as the culprit. His extreme reaction: It could have been guilt, or he still carried the torch for Linda.
Or
maybe they were still seeing each other and no one knew about it. Then Luke found out and bam…But how did Carla Darcy and Rolland Mason fit into that scenario?

Witnesses?

Did Byron shoot everyone to get rid of witnesses?

Jigsaw-puzzle time. Can’t force the pieces in, they just have to fit.

Decker slowed when he reached the Howard Honey Farm sign, then pulled the unmarked onto the gravel path and parked next to the green shack-
cum
-business office. As luck would have it, Byron was in, perched behind the metal desk. And he’d thrown out the fly-studded pizza. The bee
keeper said nothing as they walked in, but his eyes were anything but welcoming. Decker spoke first.

“We might have identified the other man who was murdered along with Luke, Linda, and Carla Darcy. Name Rolland Mason ring a bell?”

“No,” Howard said.

“Never heard the name before?” Marge asked.

“No.”

“He was a friend of Carla’s, maybe a friend of Linda’s too,” Decker said.

“Don’t know him,” Byron said.

“He was a biker.”

“Don’t know him,” Byron persisted. “Is that all?”

“No,” Decker said. “I need to ask you some questions about your affair with Linda Darcy.”

Byron turned deep red, but maintained eye contact with Decker. He said, “It was over afore it started, and it ain’t none of your business.”