The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear (26 page)

“It's mine,” Jessie said.

“Nice,” Tyler said, then handed it to Jessie. She grabbed it and then swiveled around and tried to angle the shotgun toward Tyler.

“You stupid motherfucker! You scared the shit out of me!” she shouted.

Tyler shrugged, pushing the barrel aside. “You tell anybody else about the boat?” he asked.

“That's it?” Jessie yelled. “No apology?”

I could see Tyler looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Is she always like this?” he asked.

Jessie pumped the shotgun and aimed it at him. It didn't seem to bother him. “Tyler, what are you doing?” I asked.

He didn't say anything but got out of the car and walked toward his boat. “Is he crazy?” Jessie asked. Tyler turned and motioned for us to follow him. “He is fucking crazy,” Jessie said. We got out of the car and followed him. I didn't try to convince Jessie not to bring the shotgun.

Tyler had Fox News playing silently in the background and was making coffee. One of the Fox blondes was interviewing Eddie Basha. “You're Jessie, that newspaper chick,” Tyler said when we walked into the cabin. “I read your stuff. I like it. You want some coffee?”

The total normalcy of the moment was completely abnormal. Jessie looked at me. “Sure,” she said. “Black.”

Tyler handed her a mug of coffee. “You're hot. You ever think of dancing?”

For a second I was afraid she would throw her coffee at Tyler, but she shook her head. “I'm too shy.”

He collapsed back on the bench couch, and suddenly he looked very, very tired. “I heard you got shit-canned,” he said to me. I nodded.

“Oh, fuck,” Jessie said softly. “Oh, fuck.” She was staring at the television. They had cut from inside the Superdome to a confused scene that felt terribly familiar. It was outside a Hampton Inn in Metairie. I knew it because the Alabama delegation was staying there and had complained that the out-of-the-way location was payback for supporting Armstrong George. Which was true. Behind it was a desolate parking lot that had once been a used-car dealership. In the middle of it sat what had once been a car, burning.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Tyler said from the couch. “I'll be damned.”

Jessie and I looked at him. “It's that George kid, right?” I asked. “He got you to do this.”

“Somerfield?” Tyler said. “He's hopeless. Worse than hopeless.” He sighed. “It's Tommy. Crazy fucking Tommy.” He got up and picked up the photo from his army days. “Crazy fucking Tommy.”

Tyler had a look on his face that I'd never seen before. His usual ironic smirk faded and he suddenly looked very young, scared, and sad. While the scene at the newest bombing played out silently on the television, Tyler began to talk. And he kept on talking until he had told us everything.

There had been a group of them who became pals at Fort Benning basic training. They had this skinhead thing in common, liked the same music, and loved the army for all its toys: cool guns, high explosives. They even liked some of the discipline. Somerfield George was sort of a big deal since his dad was governor of Colorado. They talked a lot about becoming mercenaries when they got out: make a big score, knock off some island, like those South African mercs. Tommy Mayfield was the craziest. It wasn't like he was some kind of southern racist, he was just an Irish Catholic mutt from Erie, Pennsylvania. But he was the only one who had a problem with blacks or Puerto Ricans. They loved the idea of the Confederacy and watched every Civil War video they could download. Tommy was always trying to egg Somerfield on about how he bet his father really didn't like those lazy scumbag minorities either, he just couldn't come out and say it, right? Somerfield would tell him he was crazy. More than anything, they loved to get high and blow up cool stuff, like old cars. That's what they were doing when Tyler got himself scorched and blown half to hell. Just high and messing around blowing up an abandoned bus out in the woods. It had been Somerfield's fault, actually. He was the one who had screwed up the detonation.

The army didn't know what to do with them after that, but they didn't want to pick a fight with a governor's son. So they just looked the other way and called it a “training accident.” Afterward, while Tyler was still going through the first of a dozen operations, their little group started to fall apart. Only crazy Tommy still talked about trying to get hired as a mercenary. The rest were like kids who were playing Cowboys and Indians and one day somebody put in real bullets and arrows and scared the crap out of everybody. Somerfield got out of the military and went to work for his dad. Tyler did his strip club/security service gig. They drifted apart, like any other group of guys who were close in the military or college and swore they'd always be close but, of course, it didn't end up that way. It never did. They still loved the same music.

“Then about six months ago, I'm at the club, and fucking Tommy Mayfield walks in. Back from the dead,” Tyler said, and looked at me. “Just like you, big brother who isn't a brother. And just like you, he was all jacked up about Armstrong George. All this shit about how he could be president and we had to help him.”

“Help?” I asked. “By doing what?”

Tyler held up his hand. He was going to tell this in his own time. “You think I'm batshit crazy—don't try to fucking deny it—but let me tell you, Tommy Mayfield was really batshit crazy. I play it up because it freaks people out and gives me an edge and maybe I
am
a little wacked. But he was loony tunes. Said he was trying to get in touch with Somerfield and couldn't reach him. Wanted me to help. I bought him a lap dance and told him to relax and chill out. When he left, I called Somerfield and told him Tommy was fucking crazy and out there looking for him.”

“You called Somerfield?” I said. “You had his number?”

Tyler looked at me, head cocked with a flash of anger in his eyes. “A guy fucks up and blows you up, the least he can do is call back. And Somerfield isn't a bad dude. Just weak. He told me he'd look out for Tommy. That was it. I figured Tommy was off being crazy Tommy until he called me a few days before you came to see me. Told me he was going to help Armstrong. Just watch.”

“Before the first bomb,” I said.

“Yep.”

“So what the fuck did you do?” Jessie demanded. “Just sit back and wait for it to happen?”

“Fuck you,” Tyler said tiredly. “I didn't know what he'd do.”

“Until he did it,” I said. “Then you could have gone to the cops.”

“I didn't know for sure.”

“But you know now?” Jessie laughed. “Gimme a fucking break.”

“It was the song. He posted it.”

Tyler pulled out his phone and brought up a website: ConfederateDead.com. “It's the site we had for the band. We would post tracks and lyrics we were working with. It was linked to a Dropbox account to back everything up. Tommy posted this a couple of days ago. It was laid down at one of the gigs we played at some shitkicker club. I never liked this mix but it was the version he loved.” He tapped his phone:

Racial pride ain't no racist hate.

Cops beat down, no it's not too late.

On the news, in the streets,

Doin' it right, still take heat.

Point a finger,

Truth don't matter,

Got a gun.

Get it done.

Whole world's gone crazy.

We're losin power but it just won't last.

Screw bodycam. Change is comin and it's comin fast.

Babies in the crib

lyin in wait.

grow up to game the system,

But it ain't too late.

Clock strikes. Time ticks.

Hold on. Don't quit.

Turn back time to when America was goin' strong.

Keep the faith. Do what's right because it's all gone wrong.

Our walk, long walk. Our fight.

Get yourself straight. Get it right.

We're losin power but it just won't last.

Screw bodycam. Change is comin and it's comin fast.

“Jesus Christ,” Jessie yelled, grabbing Tyler's phone. “That is the worst piece of shit.”

Tyler laughed but looked almost hurt. “That was our best song. Everybody loved it. ‘Death Sunrise.' I love that name.”

“Tyler,” Jessie said, “trust me. This song is why you are in the tittie bar business and not a famous rock star.”

Tyler shrugged. “This was Tommy's way of saying he was going to fuck things up. I know it was. I know Tommy. It's how he thinks. The only people who still go on this site are me, Somerfield, and Tommy. We're the only ones with the password. He's talking to us. He wants Somerfield to know he's trying to help his old man.”

“That's insane,” Jessie said.

“But why'd you run here?” I asked. “Why didn't you just go to the cops?”

Tyler looked at me like I was drooling. “I run a strip club. I have thugs who work for me we call ‘security contractors.' I pay off cops, city officials, and every kind of inspector. I was into the big bang-bang stuff in the army and there are emails out there where we were talking shit about going mercenary. I look like a freak. My mother was a fourteen-year-old babysitter and there's no father listed on my birth certificate. You know that? ‘Father unknown' is what it says. I checked.”

I hadn't known that and was suddenly ashamed that I'd never checked or asked.

“You know what the fuck would happen to me if I called the cops and said, ‘Hey, this old pal of mine I used to blow shit up with may be blowing up some shit around town but I don't have anything to do with it'? And say I did tell them, you think they would be any better at finding crazy Tommy than they are at stopping these bombs? You've got every kind of cop you ever heard of and a bunch you didn't know existed in town and they can't stop Tommy. So no, I didn't call the cops.”

Tyler stood up and looked out the cabin window. An NOPD cruiser was driving right toward the boat. He turned around and with one quick move grabbed the shotgun from Jessie. “What the hell?” she yelled, as he spun her around and pulled out the Glock she had stuck in the back of her pants.

“Jesus,” Tyler said. “You called the cops. That was really goddamn stupid.” Then he relaxed and started to laugh. It was that half-crazed laugh I'd heard in the club the first time I visited him. “It's our brother,” he said to me. “And that football buddy of his.”

Tyler opened the door and pointed the shotgun at them.

“Goddamn it!” Walter shouted.

Tyler laughed and lowered the gun, and just as he was turning around Jessie kicked him hard in the balls. He doubled over, groaning. Jessie grabbed the shotgun and the Glock. Walter and Paul came on board and looked down into the cabin.

“Oh Christ,” Paul said. “It's Annie Oakley again. Every time I see you, you've got another gun.” He looked down at Tyler, who was lying on the floor, holding his crotch. “How's it hanging, bro?” He looked around the boat and whistled. “Sweet. And you never invited me? What the hell happened to family ties?”

Walter pushed Paul into the cabin and shut the door. “Shut up and listen,” he said. In the distance we could hear a helicopter. “That's Joey Francis's boys. They are looking for this guy.” He pointed to Tyler, who was just getting up. “And if we can find this boat, they sure as hell can.”

“Jesus,” Tyler moaned, then laughed that crazy laugh. “That hurt like a bastard.”

Walter listened to his police radio through an earpiece. “We really should go. Now.”

We hurried off the boat. I started to walk back to Jessie's car. “Hey,” Walter yelled, “in here.” He opened the trunk of his NOPD cruiser and motioned to Tyler and me to get in.

“Are you kidding?” Tyler asked, but then we heard the helicopter again and we both got in. It was terrible and crowded, and Tyler smelled like fear. I probably did too. I pulled out my phone and dialed Paul in the front seat.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Shut up,” he said as we both heard sirens. In a minute the car stopped, and then I heard Joey Francis talking to Walter.

“Boat's empty,” Walter said. “Just checked it out.”

“Did you, now? And you brought your own reporter?”

Jessie was following in her car.

“Sure did,” Walter said. “If I busted the bastard, I wanted to get all the credit.”

Francis laughed. “Honest, at least. What a fucking mess.”

“Yep.”

“Walter, look, if you're fucking with me, just remember I can fuck you worse. Okay? And don't associate with known gambling degenerates. It's bad for the department's reputation.”

“Good to see you too,” Paul said.

In a minute we were moving. “Tyler,” I whispered, and then I realized that he was snoring. Snoring. The guy was asleep. I tried to count back how many hours it had been since I'd been the campaign manager for the vice president of the United States. Now I was in the trunk of a cop car with my strange quasi-brother, on the run from the FBI. It had been humiliating with Sandra, but this was far worse.

The car stopped, and the trunk opened. Paul looked down at us. “Is he really asleep?” He laughed, shaking Tyler, who woke with a start. “Easy, tiger.”

I crawled out of the trunk and looked around. We were parked in a small garage. Just as I was about to ask where we were, Tobias Green opened the door that led into the house. “First time I ever was glad to see a police car at my house. Come on in.”

Tobias's house was a cross between a mid-seventies bachelor pad and a civil rights museum.

“Good God,” Jessie said. “That's a disco ball.” She jumped up and touched the silver ball. “This is like Barry White's love nest.”

“Barry was here more than once,” Tobias said. “I introduced him to some fine local talent.”