JJ08 - Blood Money Read online

  Thankfully, I reached the front of the line, got my grenadine, and was able to slip away.

  “You guys enjoy your evening,” I said.

  I found Jake over near the barn helping fry the fish and boil the shrimp.

  He was standing in front of a large outdoor deep fryer hooked to a propane bottle, stirring the boiling shrimp with a wooden boat paddle.

  He wore an apron with an American flag and the words HOME OF THE FREE BECAUSE OF THE BRAVE written on it. Beneath the words was the silhouette of soldiers before a red, white, and blue background.

  “Last batch,” he said. “Want some fresh, hot shrimp?”

  “Thanks,” I said, not wanting to reject any offer of civility he made toward me and searching desperately for something to do.

  “Coming up.”

  I thought about how much I had always loved fresh Gulf shrimp, and how the Deepwater Horizon oil spill had changed that for me. I couldn’t eat anything from the Gulf without thinking of and even sometimes tasting 4.9 million barrels of oil and 1.84 million gallons of Corexit dispersant in every bite––all of which still remained under the surface of the beautiful blue-green waters, and would continue to long after we who were doing so much damage were dead and gone.

  “I can take over if you want to go mingle,” I said. “Mingle?”

  “What would you call it?”

  “Not something gay like mingle,” he said. “Thanks, but I’m done after this. I’ll go get my mingle on then.”

  He knew how much using gay as a pejorative bothered me, but seemed to be saying it more out of habit than aggression.

  Given the fragile nature of our new relationship, I let it go.

  “How are the Jordan boys tonight?” Judge Richard Cox said as he walked up.

  Richard Cox was a tall, trim man in his early sixties with bright blue eyes and a calm, confident manner.

  He had been a judge in the county for as long as I could remember. He was respected and liked, but lacked the warmth and personableness to be loved. To the right of the most rightwing conservative, he was rigidly religious and punitive in his sentencing, but his approach to the law and life emanated from genuine conviction and he applied his judgements both in and out of the courtroom with equal severity for all.

  “Just fine, Judge Cox,” Jake said. “How are you?”

  “Be better if I could trouble you for a few of those fresh shrimp.”

  “You got it.”

  “They’ve run out over there and I didn’t get to try any. They’re my favorite. ’Specially in that spicy cajun seasoning.”

  “Have all you like, Judge. We got plenty.”

  “Don’t want any more than my fair share.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said. “Of course, sir.”

  “Chaplain Jordan, how are you?” he said.

  He said chaplain the way he always said it––with a hint of ironic derision. He had told me on more than one occasion that my belief in grace and the absolute unconditional love of God was misguided and dangerous, and that what he called my cheap grace, social gospel, works theology was leading weak and vulnerable people astray, away from instead of unto God.

  “Good,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Blessed,” he said. “You read any of the books I recommended to you yet?”

  I shook my head.

  I’d read books like them before, both in my youth and in seminary, and had no desire to ever read any like them again. They were all judgement-filled Fundamentalist rhetoric that took a literalist, exclusive approach to sacred texts and religion and were antithetical to everything Jesus taught, lived, and died for.

  Dressed far more formally than anyone else in attendance, he wore a gray suit, white shirt, and black wingtips. His only concession to the casualness of the setting and event was to unbutton his top button and loosen his tie ever so slightly. His idea of letting loose.

  One of his lapels held an American flag pin, the other a white button with the silhouettes of a man and a woman, an equals sign, and the word marriage.

  “Well, if you boys’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take these shrimp to go,” he said. “Have a lot of people to see and a speech to prepare for and pray about.”

  Each of the four candidates would have five minutes to address the crowd tonight after the pledge and prayer and before the meal.

  “You think Dad is praying about his speech?” Jake asked when he was sure Cox was far enough away not to hear.

  I smiled.

  “He asked me to do it,” I said. “Have you?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “The hell you waitin’ on?”

  Chapter Three

  The speeches were what you’d expect.

  They took place on a makeshift stage consisting of a flatbed trailer that had been towed here for just that purpose. In addition to the speakers, the yellow lowboy trailer held the American and Florida flags, a Republican Party of Potter County banner, a mic on a stand, and a PA speaker on each end.

  Each candidate was truly honored to serve God and the best county in the best state in the best country in the world. Their doors were always open. Small government.

  Answerable to the people. Washington was bad, bad, bad. Local was where it was at. Honesty. Integrity. Humility.

  In the sea of white faces, I saw two black ones. One belonged to the county commissioner from the “black” district, the other, an activist minister and the pastor of the largest African-American church in Potter County.

  Dad didn’t do a bad job, but public speaking wasn’t where he excelled.

  After each candidate spoke and the host and the organizer and the head of the party recognized and thanked everyone several times and took the opportunity to promote themselves and their projects and agendas, dinner was served at a little after five.

  Large, tender, juicy steaks, baked potatoes, a salad, and a roll.

  The rest of the evening consisted of excessive eating, drinking, and talking––and me regretting not having driven myself.

  The night wore on.

  Eventually a few of the overly full, inebriated men began to stumble to their trucks and take their leave, most of them far too under the influence to drive but driving anyway.

  I missed Anna. Ached for her.

  But there were still voters present and Dad showed no sign of stopping until he had spoken to everyone individually.

  As I scanned the still not insubstantial crowd for someone to talk to, I saw only one face that looked even more miserable than I felt.

  Richard Cox, Jr. was sitting at one of the tables in the corner of the event tent alone, nursing what looked to be a Tom Collins.

  I found him staring blankly into the bottom of his glass.

  “Richie, if you’re contemplating suicide just remember they’ll run out of food and booze eventually,” I said as I walked up to stand across the table from him.

  “John, I didn’t know you were here. How are you?”

  “Been better,” I said, indicating the event.

  “I’m being punished for my sins,” he said. I smiled.

  “I’m truly shocked he even wants me here.”

  Though not out, there was no doubt about Richie’s sexual orientation––something that must keep his homophobic dad up nights.

  He was a talented actor and theater director, frustrated by the few opportunities the Panhandle offered him.

  “Pretty sure the demographic I appeal to isn’t here,” he added. “Though I did see one or two public servants I’ve serviced before.”

  “If my dad’s one of ’em don’t tell me,” I said. “Honey, you can smell the straight on him.”

  “Actually, it’s Old Spice,” I said, “but I can see why you’d confuse the two.” He laughed.

  “Your dad’s all right,” he said. “Mine’s the prick.”

  I started to say something but Richard Cox, Sr. called to him from across the way.

  “Richie, come over here. There’s some
one I want you to meet.”

  “Duty calls,” he said, rising wearily and a bit unsteadily. “By the way, when you gonna let me write and direct a play about your life?”

  He had asked before and like before I just laughed it off.

  Walking beside him for several steps to make sure he was okay, I broke off and wandered down in the direction of the lake, passing the barn, leaving the pandering and promise-making behind.

  The moon was just a small silver sliver in a cloud-tinged sky, but was enough to shimmer on the glass surface of the lake.

  The air was damp and cool and the dew on the ground caused sand and small blades of grass to cling to my shoes as I followed the slope down to the water’s edge.

  As I neared the closest bank, I became aware of a figure leaning against a pond pine, the red glow of a cigarette tip blazing in the dark.

  “Showin’ any sign of stopping?” she asked.

  “The shindig?” I said, nodding. “Food and booze are nearly all gone. Won’t be long now. You waiting for someone?”

  “Sort of,” she said. “Waiting for this farce to end so the real party can begin. You stayin’ for it?”

  It was dark. Her disembodied voice all there was of her save for red lips, pale skin, and blond hair seen intermittently in the red glow accompanying big, long drags.

  “It?”

  “The after-party. You’re cute. You should stay.

  There’s poker, real liquor, cigars, and me.”

  “You’re . . .”

  “The entertainment,” she said. “Won’t be the only one. There’ll be others if I’m not your type.”

  “Only have one type,” I said. “And she’s waiting at home for me.”

  “Ah, that’s so sweet. Is it true?”

  “As true as anything you’ll ever hear.”

  “Well, damnation honey, a simple yes would’ve sufficed.”

  I smiled, but shook my head. “No. It really wouldn’t’ve.”

  “Gotcha handsome,” she said. “You’re a one-woman man and you don’t care who knows it. Not many of those left these days. And I’m in a position to know.”

  “Hey John,” Richie yelled. “You down there?”

  He was standing near the barn, backlit by the bank of halogen lights.

  “Yeah.”

  “I talked my sister into comin’ to pick me up. You wanna ride?”

  “There’s your big chance to get home to your one-and-only type,” she said. “You gonna take it?”

  “Thanks,” I yelled back to Richie. “I’ll be right there.”

  “There’s a shocker,” she said.

  “Can we give you a lift somewhere?” I asked. “Have you been listening, sugar?”

  “I have,” I said, “which is why I’m offering you a ride out of here.”

  “Whatta you know,” she said, “an honest to God good Joe. Thanks, but I got work to do.”

  I took out one of my cards and handed it to her. “You change your mind,” I said, “just give me a call.

  I’ll come back out and get you.”

  She shined the light from her cellphone onto the card.

  In the spill and reflection from the light, I could see that she was a shortish, thickish, heavily made-up blonde with large breasts dressed and like a TV prostitute.

  “Prison chaplain?” she said. “No shit?”

  “None.”

  “Okay, Chap,” she said. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Chapter Four

  “No women allowed,” Diane Cox was saying. “Why? It’s so creepy.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, sister,” I said.

  “Do they do secret man stuff? Walk around, dicks swinging, drinking testosterone and plotting how to oppress women even more?”

  “You know Dad wouldn’t be party to that,” Richie said. “Well, at least the dicks swinging part. His might touch another man’s and he’d go straight to hell.”

  “The shit we do for our dads,” I said.

  “You have a reputation, you know,” Diane said to me. “I’ve heard about you. Really surprises me you’d be at something like that.”

  “See previous answer,” I said. “Being a dutiful son.”

  “How far does that go?”

  “That far,” I said. “That was the limit.”

  “Thanks for gettin’ us out of there, Dir,” Richie said. “I did it for our father as much as you,” she said.

  “Knew it was only a matter of time until you had enough to drink and did or said something that would cost him the election.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  “Far worse than you think,” she said. “Try living this year without his . . . ah . . . assistance, and let me know how that works out for you.”

  “Dir?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You called her Dir.”

  “Oh. Started as Dirty Diana back when the song came out. Then Dirty and eventually Dir.”

  “It true you’re beddin’ Anna Rodden?” Diane asked. “Dir,” Richie scolded.

  “What?”

  “They haven’t invented a word for what we’re doing,” I said, “but beddin’ doesn’t even begin it.”

  “Oh my,” she said. “A romantic.”

  “And then some,” Richie said. “Lucky girl,” she said.

  “I’m the lucky one.”

  “That you think that makes her a very lucky girl.”

  “Dirty Diana thinks you’re a very lucky girl to be bedded by me,” I said.

  I found Anna asleep on the couch, braless in a soft T-shirt and yoga pants, one of my old theology books resting on her breasts.

  “I am,” she said.

  She slid over toward the back cushions and I sat down next to her, hugging and kissing her as I did.

  “I missed you,” I said. “Was it torturous?”

  I nodded. “Pretty damn bad.”

  “Who’s Dirty Diana? Thought no women were allowed.”

  “Judge Cox’s daughter. She picked up Richie and they gave me a ride.”

  “I hope she said it in front of him. Me not even divorced yet and pregnant with another man’s child. It’d give him conniptions.”

  “Still wouldn’t be as bad as if you were a dude,” I said, “but sadly, no. She didn’t say it in front of him.”

  “How does she know we’re beddin’ one another?”

  “Apparently, everyone does.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “That I was the lucky one.”

  “Such a good, sweet man. I’m the luckiest girl in the whole wide world.”

  “Do you know how long I’ve waited to be with you?” I asked.

  “I do. Same as I’ve waited to be with you. Forever.” I touched her cheek.

  “Sorry about this place,” I said, looking around at my old trailer. “Didn’t realize just how bad it had gotten until you moved in.”

  “There’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be.”

  “We’ll find a place soon.”

  “No rush. Really. I’ve never been happier anywhere.”

  “We’ll look some more after work tomorrow.”

  I was sleeping very soundly when the call came. And dreaming.

  I was dreaming of being trapped in an airplane submerged in the sea. I was trying to make my way up to where Anna was, but the people between us were panicking and the floating debris was so thick, I couldn’t get to her.

  I startled awake, my heart pounding, but began to settle down the moment I reached over and felt Anna there in the bed beside me, her skin smooth and warm.

  “Hello.”

  “Chaplain?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Sergeant Sterzoy from the control room. Sorry to wake you, sir, but we’ve got a . . . we’ve got something . . . a situation. I know the warden wouldn’t want me to call you so please don’t let him know I did, but . . .”

  “I won’t,” I said. “What is it?”

  “A young
woman,” he said. “Trying to break in to the prison. Well, I mean she was. She’s . . . she’s dead now.”

  “Trying to break in?” I said. “Is that how she got killed?”

  “No, sir. We found her that way. She was already dead. And your card was in her pocket.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter Five

  As I drove to the institution, I thought about who the victim could be and why she would be trying to break in to the prison.

  I gave a lot of my cards out––especially to the families of inmates. Was it one of them trying to get in to see their boyfriend or husband or son? Probably not the last, since Sterzoy called her a young woman, but I couldn’t rule it out.

  My phone rang again as I neared the institution. It was Dad.

  “Sorry to call so late but we’ve got a situation at the prison,” he said. “Can you meet me out here?”

  “I’m pulling up now.”

  I parked in the mostly empty lot in front of the admin building, and when I rounded the corner in front of the main gate and control room, Dad was waiting for me.

  “Who called you?” Dad asked.

  “As far as the warden knows, you did,” I said. He nodded.

  I got into his truck and we rode around the perimeter of the prison toward the flashing lights flickering in the darkness in the distance.

  The entire prison was surrounded by an asphalt road used by a roving perimeter patrol. We were driving on it down the east side of the institution.

  When we reached the scene, Dad pulled up at an angle and shined his lights on the area, adding them to the deputy’s car and prison patrol vehicle already doing the same.

  Though the light was uneven and dim and the deputy’s flashers hindered instead of helped visibility, they provided enough illumination to show a white woman in her midtwenties standing stiffly in front of the fence, her body leaning forward at an odd angle, only her face actually touching the chain link.

  I could see well enough to identify the victim and determine she had been placed here after she died.

  “Chaplain, Sheriff,” Officer Barber said by way of greeting.

  He was a young CO with puffy, acne-scarred cheeks and a brown buzz cut. His brown uniform hung loosely on his narrow frame.