Forever Man by Brian Matthews Page B

knew he was trouble,” said Chet, “from the moment I saw him.”
    “And you,” Gene said, jabbing a finger at Chet, “can quit stirring the pot.”
    Chet sat quietly, sliding his empty glass back and forth across the bar, first to one hand, then to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. His eyes followed the glass. “I thought you wanted a real musician. I didn’t think you was gonna bring in one of them.”
    So that was it, Gene thought. And I thought I’d left that garbage behind in Chicago. “Chet, you don’t need to go there.”
    Then Denny Cain finished it. “You brought in a nigger.”
    “My kid’s dead and what does that asshole do? He throws me out!” Denny shoved one hand down his jacket pocket, fumbled around, and came up empty. His other hand was no more successful than the first. “Where the fuck are my car keys?”
    “Gene took ‘em,” Chet replied. “Yours and mine, remember? We’re walkin’ tonight.”
    Denny didn’t remember. Truth be told, after he’d gone to see his boy, he didn’t remember much of anything. His day in hell had started late this morning with the visit from Chief Morris. The woman had broken the news about Jimmy’s death. Then things got worse. Maddie, after learning that her boy was dead, had taken down every dish, plate, saucer, glass, knife, fork and spoon from the cupboards and washed them—every single damn one of them. And when she was done with them, she’d piled that crap on the floor and proceeded to wipe down all the cupboards and counters. Then Denny had gotten the call: could someone come over to the hospital and positively identify the deceased’s remains? He’d asked Maddie if she wanted to go. At the time, she was scrubbing the ceiling with a brush and a bucket of undiluted Pine-Sol. With a flick of her wrist, she’d nailed him point blank on the top of his head with the brush. Well, having gotten his answer, Denny drove alone to the hospital. And when the doctor pulled back the sheet, when Denny saw what had been done to his son, he ran to the nearest sink and threw up until he got the dry heaves. After that, the rest of the day was a smudge of memory.
    But now, in the cold clarity of the night, Denny’s alcohol-hazed brain pushed , a thought advanced—and the smudge was gone as completely as if it had been scrubbed away by Maddie’s mad brush.
    He knew who’d killed his boy. It had to be. Goddammit , it was so simple. Why hadn't anyone else figured it out?
    “He did it.”
    “Who did it?” Chet asked as he continued to lead Denny out of the parking lot. “I mean, who did what?”
    “That guy. Owens. He did it. He killed my boy.”
    Chet Boardman stopped walking. He let go of Denny’s arm. “You ain’t serious.”
    “That damn nigger killed him.”
    “Come on, Denny. That’s crazy. The man looks like trouble, sure, but—”
    “He’s an ex-con,” Denny said, his voice hot enough to raise blisters on asphalt. “He came into town, killed Jimmy, and now he’s in there singing.” He gestured toward the Lula. “Like nothing happened. How fucking arrogant can you get?”
    “Christ, you’ve lost your mind. Seriously, who’d kill someone and then hang around, in public, while the cops are investigatin’? It don’t make no sense.”
    “Excuse me, fellas,” said a new voice.
    Denny turned. A Chevy Silverado sat in the entrance to the Lula’s parking lot, blocking any potential traffic. Under the harsh glow of a nearby streetlamp, the truck looked colorless; it could’ve been white or silver, or perhaps even light blue. A man sat in the cab. His left arm hung outside the window, a cigarette dangling casually from between his fingers. Shadows concealed his face.
    “Sorry to bother you,” the stranger continued, “but I thought you fellas might need a lift. Especially you.” The man flicked cigarette ashes in Denny’s direction. “You look like shit.” He brought the cigarette to his lips and drew in deeply, then blew