Madman on a Drum by David Housewright Page A

told me that she would do all the talking. I told her to be careful not to use my name.
    A bell chimed when we stepped into the store, and a black man dressed in a blue work shirt looked up at us from the paperwork he was reviewing. He set down a pen and put both hands on the chest-high counter in front of him. Years ago, I took a course that taught officers how to identify drug couriers by observing their facial expressions and body and eye movements. The man smiled when he first saw Karen. Then he raised his upper eyelids showing fear, thrust his jaw forward displaying anger, wrinkled his nose in a sign of disgust, and let the corners of his lips drop down portraying sadness—I’ve known very few people who could burn through so many emotions so quickly.
    â€œKaren,” he said and extended his hand.
    â€œMr. Cousin,” she answered and shook the hand.
    â€œDid one of my boys go astray?” he asked. The sadness in his voice matched his expression.
    â€œOne of your boys?” I said.
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œHe’s with me,” Karen told him. To me she said, “Mr. Cousin has been very good to us. He’s given work to a lot of parolees over the years. A good man.”
    Cousin shrugged off the compliment. “Just trying to help them make it,” he said.
    â€œWhy?” I asked.
    Cousin studied me hard. “You’re a cop,” he said.
    I didn’t answer—if he wanted to believe that, it was fine with me.
    Karen flicked her thumb in my direction. “He’s observing,” she said.
    â€œIs he now?” Cousin wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but he didn’t press it.
    â€œHow many boys do you have?” I asked.
    â€œEight. All of my employees are on parole. I try to… Listen. A man, any man, who’s been in the system, I don’t care if he’s guilty or not guilty, I don’t care if he’s been acquitted or exonerated or pardoned or what, I don’t care if he’s just a kid who screwed up or a repeat offender, if you’ve been in the system, you’ll never be considered innocent again. You’ll never be given the benefit of a doubt. People look at you; to them you’ll always be a thief.”
    I had a feeling he was talking about himself, so I asked, “How long have you been out?”
    â€œTwenty-three years, seven months, eighteen days.” Cousin recited the numbers like a recovering alcoholic who knows the exact moment when he had his last drink. “It took me so long to get a decent job. I started applying when I was in stir. Back then you had to have a job or be assured of getting a job before you got parole. I only responded to the want ads that had a post office box. You don’t make collect calls from Stillwater. I’d tell them they’d never have an employee who would work harder. ‘So what?’ they’d say. ‘We’ll be getting a thief.’
    â€œThe jobs I did get, they treated me like a leper, like I had a communicable disease. Or worse. One employer tried to blackmail me, said he was going to accuse me of stealing from the company unless I boosted some TVs for him. I turned him in. Nothing happened except that I had to get another job. When I became manager here, I figured I might be able to help some guys who were like me, guys who did stupid things when they were young and paid the price and now were trying to live it down. The owners, they didn’t care as long as sales were solid, as long as there were no complaints about service. Now I am the owner.”
    â€œGood for you,” I said, and I meant it, although I doubt it sounded that way.
    â€œWhy are you here?” Cousin asked.
    â€œScottie Thomforde,” Karen said.
    â€œWhat about him?”
    â€œI want to talk to him.”
    â€œHe’s gone. His shift ended a couple hours ago.”
    â€œWas he here?”
    â€œYeah, he was here.”
    â€œFor his entire