Tussinland (11 page)

TWENTY-SIX

Miranda pointed her iPhone into her grandmother’s room. It captured a naked Fagan as he put down his phone, turned back to a giggling Mavis. The door was open a crack—enough room for her to film the two fucking. It wasn’t the first time she’d watched Mavis with a man, but she was it was the first time she’d seen her do it with a cop.

She’d also taken pictures and video of the two of them out on the porch. She had footage of Fagan drinking vodka while he played with Mavis’ tits. She’d also captured him unzipping his pants and trying to get Mavis to get on top of him to do it right there on the porch. Dude was horny.

But Mavis managed to get him to go into the bedroom. Miranda was impressed that there were some things even her grandmother wouldn’t do. Maybe she just wasn’t into the whole sex-in-public thing.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Fagan couldn’t get enough of Mavis Love. He was forty-eight years old, six-foot-five, and he weighed 310 pounds. His gut was huge, he had dangerously high blood pressure and was most likely going to get adult onset diabetes and/or have a stroke if he didn’t watch his diet and lose about a hundred pounds. Fagan never did anything his doctor told him to do, but he’d been dismayed for several years at his inability reach and maintain a good stiff erection—something that, according to his doctor, was because of his diet, his blood pressure, his obesity, his age, and his habit of drinking about two pints of hard alcohol every day.

But with Mavis, that problem was gone. When he’d first saw her that morning in her doorway in the silk robe, he felt his erection push up against his pants. This shocked him, nothing like that had happened since he was a teenager. Nowadays, he had to look at porn and stroke his cock to get hard enough to orgasm, and even then he really needed to concentrate. He hadn’t been with a woman in about three years because he was tired of trying to explain away his impotence and deal with the sympathetic words and pitying attitudes of his disappointed dates.

Every time he saw Mavis that day and she looked at him so boldly and smiled that sexy smile, he was hard as a piece of steel beam, and his mouth went dry. Out on the porch, after she’d told him the story of her and Paul’s life, he knew he needed to take notes, follow up on the information to apprehend him. He was fairly certain Paul had gone to Clyde Pike’s house, or that it was at least the most likely place to start looking, and all he needed was to get the address from Mavis. But all he could do or think about was getting inside that woman’s goddamn pussy and fuck and fuck and fuck. When she had to talk him into waiting until they went inside to her bed, he was surprised that he’d forgotten that they were outside.

After Paul’d called him they went at it
again
—another shocker. His phone rang a couple of times but he ignored it—
screw
police work,
this
shit was important.

When he was spent, he checked his messages. The first one said that Paul Dunn’s Honda had been found in the parking lot of a church on Carver. It was crookedly parked and the driver’s side door was open. The keys were in the ignition. Clearly the owner had parked and left in a hurry, possibly under duress. They’d even managed to open the trunk but didn’t find a shotgun anywhere. They did find a black garbage bag that was sent to the lab. This all matched Paul’s story.

The next call was from the Assistant DA, who wanted to know what he’d found out at the Love house and if he was any closer to locating and arresting Mr. Dunn.

Shit.

The ADA also said he’d learned that Jorge Rincon had a history of minor drug-related offenses and was suspected to be a minor player in the local heroin trade. In fact, the DEA out of Fresno had been investigating him off and on for the last year. Plus, he’d done time in Folsom for multiple assaults and had been arrested for murder before getting released due to lack of evidence after witnesses changed their stories. The DEA said they’d recently started a file on Mark Pisko and Tina Dunn as well, and they were very interested in that morning’s murder. Two agents were on their way.

He checked his texts and opened the one from Paul. He watched the video, then called the station and had two units go to the spot in the orchards Dunn had described.

“Tell them I’ll be right there,” he said. “And get me ADA Adams ASAP.”

He caught Adams up on everything he’d learned at the Love house and on what Paul had told him.

He watched Mavis put on that sexy robe again while he worked the phone. She walked out the door and came back with a bong. She smiled, sat down on the bed beside him, and handed him a little plastic pink disposable lighter.

“Light me up?” she said.

“Sweetheart, I’d surely love to join you,” he said. “But I really must be going.” He found his underwear and his pants and put them on while Mavis watched.

“That spot in the orchard you just described?” Mavis said.

“Where Logan Swift is located?”

“That’s awfully close to Clyde Pike and Scott Love’s place, out on Bangs.”

“Really? That’s interesting.”

Fagan was nearly dressed now. He just needed to tie his tie and put on his shoes.

“What’s the address?”

Mavis stood up to help him with his tie.

“I’ll tell you on two conditions,” she said.

Fagan smiled, “Yes?”

“First, that you make sure Paul is protected and that he’s treated fairly.”

Fagan kissed Mavis’ neck and caressed her nipples with both hands.

“Okay, that’s no problem. I like the guy. And I got a pretty good idea of what’s really going on. ”

“And second,” she said. “Be sure and come back here to this bed tonight.”

Again, Fagan grew hard.

“That’s another promise I’ll be sure to keep, darling.”

Miranda left the doorway and went down the hall to her room. She listened as Fagan walked out of the house. She went to her window and watched him pull away. She pulled the detective’s card out of her pocket and stared at the cell number. Then, she called Logan.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Mavis Love adored cocks. Actually, she loved cocks. Mavis Love loved cocks. Always had. She encountered her first cock at age twelve, in church, back in Nacogdoches. She and Layton Culpepper, who was 13, and very cute with long blonde hair, happened to find themselves alone together in a Sunday School classroom while everyone else was attending the church service. He pushed her against the wall and held her there by her shoulders. He kissed her, tongue and everything. Mavis did not protest.

“Look at this,” Clayton said. He unbuttoned, unzipped and pulled his pants down to his knees. He motioned for her to look at the front of his boxer shorts. A very large penis was sticking out of the slit. To Mavis, it appeared to vibrate and writhe. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“Do you want to touch it?” he said. She put her right hand on it and squeezed tight. Clayton moaned. She liked that. Then they heard the sound of someone opening the door and quickly separated. Clayton pulled his pants back up.

It was all over so quickly.

Clayton and Mavis were never alone together again. Every time she saw him she tried to catch his eye but he wouldn’t look her way. She felt vaguely ashamed of what had happened, but, still, she couldn’t stop thinking about that hard cock.

When she and Jason got together in high school she shocked him by reaching for his penis on their third date, while they were making out in his dad’s car. She loved his cock too and when they got married, she felt like it was his cock she was wedding, that she vowed to have and to hold.

She liked everything about cocks. She liked the way they looked and she liked the way they felt. She liked them in her hand, she liked them in her mouth, she liked them in her vagina, and in her asshole. She thought all of them had distinct qualities and personalities and while she loved some more than others, she’d never met one that didn’t fascinate her, and that she couldn’t fascinate.

After Bobby Joe Love died and Mavis was really alone, her cock mania accelerated. If she wasn’t out chasing cock or fucking, she watched porn to see the hard cocks. She went on the internet and found pictures of hard cocks and saved them to her hard drive and sent them to her phone. She was cock crazed.

She went to the backyard to light her bong after Fagan left. On the way she stopped in the living room for her bag of pot.

She’d recently begun both chemo and radiation therapy for anal cancer and the weed was a great help with the nausea.

Never one to regularly see a physician, the disease had not been detected until it had progressed to stage III. Her oncologist said that by the time her treatment plan had started, the cancer was spreading rapidly and would soon reach stage IV. This meant that the therapy was merely palliative—it was much too late for surgery or any kind of procedure that could cure the cancer or prolong her life. Checkups years earlier would’ve revealed and prompted treatments for her HPV infection, which is considered a possible later cause of anal cancer.

Miranda came into the backyard. In her hand was a leather pouch and a small rubber balloon. “How are you feeling, Grandma?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart.” Mavis patted the picnic table seat next to her. Miranda sat. The two hugged and Miranda kissed Mavis gently on her checks.

“How’s your stomach? Do you feel sick?”

“A little. I’ll feel better after I smoke.”

Miranda took the lighter and leaned forward and lit the marijuana as Mavis took a long deep drag. She leaned back and sighed. “Oh, that
is
better.”

Miranda was the only person Mavis had told about her illness. Logan knew too, of course, and the two of them helped Mavis as much as they could and went with her to all her appointments and treatments. She was starting to think that Bethany had somehow found out, because she and Pete had begun asking too many questions about her “estate,” trying to act like they were concerned and trying to help. She knew what their true interest was. Didn’t matter, the entire world would find out she was dying when her hair started falling out—though Mavis did
not
plan to live quite that long. She didn’t think she could bear that.

Plus, she had Miranda’s help.

“Okay, Grandma,” Miranda said. “Now let’s treat your pain.”

Miranda took a small cardboard box out of the pouch. The box contained a hundred sterile syringes and needles manufactured and packaged for diabetics to inject insulin. Logan stole these from medical buildings. They had dozens of the boxes and never used the same needle twice. She pulled a spoon, a lighter, a piece of cotton ball, and a thick rubber band from the pouch. She showed Mavis how to cook and purify the heroin in the balloon, how to draw it into the syringe using cotton as a filter, and how to inject it into her right butt cheek.

“This is a slightly better grade of shit than usual, Grandma,” Miranda said. “It’s going to make you feel very good.”

Mavis leaned back. She smiled. “Thanks, sweetie.”

“I’d do anything for you, Grandma, you know that.”

Mavis pointed at the baggie. “Will there be enough of that for later?” She looked intently at Miranda.

“There’s enough for whatever you need. Don’t worry about it.”

Miranda saw that Mavis was crying. She knew why, but willed herself not to get emotional. Not now. She had too much to do.

Afterwards, as Mavis’ eyes grew heavy, Miranda gently laid her back on the chaise lounge to rest. She left the needles, the spoon, the lighter, and ten more balloons on a small table next to the lounge.

TWENTY-NINE

Paul walked up the long driveway. The closer he got to the house, the better he felt. He saw Scott, dripping sweat and wearing only a red and blue flowered sarong from the waist down, doing yoga postures on the large deck. His massive orange cat, Dr. Bob, sat very close to Scott’s mat. The cat sat upright and it almost looked like he was meditating as he watched Scott exercise. Paul laughed, he loved that cat. Too bad the cat hated him and would never let him pick him up or sit in his lap.

Paul couldn’t get over Scott’s good looks and fitness. Even at fifty, he still had a youthful, handsome face, and his lean, tan body was heavily muscled. He even had a six pack. In addition to his daily yoga practice, he did cardio and lifted weights at the YMCA. He wore his thick blonde hair long—down to his shoulders. Paul was convinced that he might’ve had a chance at an acting career if he hadn’t gotten so hooked on drugs. He’d been in a couple of TV shows and movies and had nearly missed getting cast for some pretty good roles.

Now though, both Clyde and Scott were semi-retired. Scott’s father’s estate, which included several dairy farms, the successful cheese business, several thousand acres of vineyards and almond orchards, homes in Modesto, Monterrey, and Sausalito, and a substantial amount of cash and stocks, was worth more than 200 million dollars. As the only child, Scott inherited the bulk of the money, but everyone knew that Mavis had gotten a large portion too.

Paul often heard Bethany and Pete discussing Mavis’ worth. He’d caught Bethany trying to pry the facts out of their mother about the size of her estate and the details of her will—subjects Mavis so far had refused to discuss. Paul never talked to his mother about such things. He felt it was in bad taste, but he liked having a mother with plenty of money, and he hoped that someday he’d get at least some of it. But he knew that whatever he got, it wouldn’t be for maybe thirty years or more—his mother had always been extremely healthy in spite of her lifestyle. He’d never even heard her mention having a doctor. He didn’t get why Bethany was so fucking interested.

Paul didn’t know what Clyde and Scott knew about recent events and his particular situation. Scott was very hooked into Facebook and Twitter and many other online sites, so Paul was pretty sure he knew and had told his husband. Clyde hated computers and the internet. He didn’t even have a smart phone. He counted on Scott to provide him with all pertinent information, a job Scott seemed to relish.

When Scott saw Paul approaching, he jumped off the mat and ran to greet him.

“Oh, no,” Scott said. He put his arms around Paul and hugged him tight. Then he looked at his face, at the black left eye, the swollen black and blue nose, and the lip cut in two places. “My poor boy, what has happened to you? You are just
completely
fucked up, aren’t you?”

Paul fell into Scott’s arms and began to sob. Scott stayed still and let Paul weep until he was finished. He stroked his face, hair, and back.

He led Paul into the house where Clyde waited and watched through the big picture window in the living room. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said and pointed Paul in the direction of their large kitchen. He pulled a first aid kit out of a drawer and set it on the counter. Then, he led Paul to the sink and cleaned his face and ear before applying ointment and bandages to his wounds.

Clyde appeared in the doorway dressed in his usual blue denim overalls he’d taken to wearing since his retirement. On his large feet were thick white socks and Birkenstock sandals. Dude never seemed to get hot or even sweat, even during the torrid Modesto summers. His gray hair was cut close to his scalp and he wore a neatly groomed grey beard. Paul loved the man’s bright clear blue eyes, though now, just as when he was a young boy, he found it hard to meet his aggressive and intelligent gaze.

“Hello, Dad,” Paul said, quietly.

“Hello son,” Clyde said. He stood still and didn’t smile. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Paul said, “that means a lot to me.”

“I know you loved her very much.”

“Yes, I did, I really did.”

“But she treated you like shit, Paul,” Scott said, “You have to admit that.”

“Yeah,” Paul said, “I guess she could’ve been more supportive?”

“Jeez,” Scott said, “you think?”

Scott’s face fell when he saw Paul start to cry.

“Why don’t we go into the other room?” He put his right arm around Paul and led him into the living room. Clyde followed.

“Sit down, dear,” Scott said, “would you like an iced tea?”

“Yes, please,” Paul said.

“Clyde?” Scott said as he went into the kitchen.

“Yes, thanks,” Clyde said.

Paul sat down in the middle of the large, cushy brown-leather sectional that dominated the room. God, he loved that couch. He wished he could’ve moved here instead of in with Mavis, but he didn’t want to deal with her jealously. The place was so much more peaceful … sane. Especially without Miranda and Logan running in and out and all of Mavis’ escapades.

“What’s this bullshit I hear about you being the main suspect?” Clyde said.

“That just what it is, bullshit,” Paul said.

Scott walked back in with a pitcher of tea and two filled glasses on a tray. He set it down on the coffee table between the two. He sat next to Clyde.

Paul, desperately thirsty, drank his tea so fast much of it spilled all over his shirt. Having a split lip didn’t help with his drinking ability.

“But right now,” Clyde said, “it doesn’t look very good for you.”

“No, and whoever did do it I think is trying to pin it on me. Oh shit, did I really say that? ‘Pin it on me?’ I sound like some dumbass movie character.”

“That guy Rincon told
The Bee
that you had the murder weapon,” Scott said. Scott wasn’t only a former heroin junkie, he was also a recovering alcoholic very active in the local twelve-step community. Instead of the Hole, he went to a gay-oriented AA club downtown called the Galano Club (completely different vibe from the Hole; Paul went there occasionally). Scott was on the club’s board, and he and Clyde had donated the money to purchase the building. He had twelve years of sobriety. He worked with young gay addicts and sponsored several of them at any given time.

“How could that be true?” Scott said. “You are so
not
a sawed off shotgun kind of guy.”

“I know, right?” Paul said. He told them the whole story of Miranda setting him up.

“That bitch,” Scott said. “She has turned into such the little junkie whore, hasn’t she?”

Paul told them both the entire story from the time Fagan had shown up in the morning. He told them about the gay bashing (“oh, bless your heart,” Scott said), about Miranda, about his mom seeming to believe Miranda over him, and about Logan and the gun and the almond grove and the bag of dope. During the story, Dr. Bob shocked everyone by jumping into Paul’s lap, curling up, and going straight to sleep.

Clyde just sat still the entire time, taking it all in. That’s how he was. There was no use trying to hurry Clyde Pike. He kept his own counsel and did what he wanted when he wanted. Once he’d made up his mind on a course of action, he was swift and decisive. No one in Modesto liked to get on the wrong side of Clyde Pike because he’d use every tactic short of violence to right a wrong. And, so far, he’d never lost a fight.

“Let me see the video,” Scott said. He walked over and looked at the screen of Paul’s phone. “Oh shit.”

“Is that a lot of heroin or what?” Paul said.

“It’s a shit load,” Scott said.

“How much do you think it is worth?”

“Well, I’ve been out of the day-to-day of all this for years now, but my babies talk.” He reversed the video, watched it again, pausing on a good image of the bricks. “I’d say anywhere from five hundred to seven hundred and fifty K, like this, and maybe a two million or more if it was all put into bags and sold that way.”

“Scott,” Clyde said, “do you think you could do some asking around? See if anyone knows what Pisko and Tina had been up to? And maybe Logan and Miranda as well?”

“That’s what I was hoping,” Paul said.

“There’s a meeting in about an hour at the club.” Scott checked his watched. “I’ll leave a little early. There are a couple of regulars there who would know something, or know who to ask. I’m pretty sure Justin will be there and that guy is fresh off the streets.”

“Do you think I could clean up and rest? Here?” Paul said.

Scott looked at Clyde.

“It’s not a problem for us, of course,” Clyde said. “But if the police are looking for you, don’t you think they will come here?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t really see the point in hiding, if they come, they come, fuck it. I just needed to talk to you guys.”

“You can stay as long as you need, son,” Clyde said. “You know that.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Paul went down the hall to the bathroom. As soon as he closed the door behind him he had an incredible urge to move his bowels. Barely got his shorts off and sat down in time to avoid an embarrassing accident. Sitting on the toilet, he looked at the wall in front of him. There was a framed quote, one he’d heard and seen a million times:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

He wasn’t going to accept Tina’s death any time soon, but he knew he would eventually. He knew he couldn’t bring her back to life. Getting blamed for it was something that he would not accept, but he wasn’t positive he had the courage to change it. It sucked sometimes to not believe in God.

When he was done, he wiped his ass. He looked at the toilet paper before dropping it into the toilet and saw that it was red with blood. He looked in the bowl at his shit and it was covered in bright red as well. He didn’t feel clean and kept wiping his ass and inspecting the paper, brown and red. As he often did after a shit, he decided to take a shower so he could get his asshole clean with soap and water.

He washed his hands and took off his clothes. He looked in the mirror. He couldn’t believe how awful he looked. His eye was black now, and his nose was swollen. The cuts on his lips were bright red and he wondered if they were getting infected. The bandage that Scott had applied to his ear was already starting to come off. He looked in the medicine cabinet for some more bandages and saw a bottle of Robitussin.

Extra strength. Large. Looked full and brand new.