He picked up the card, glared at it, glared at Dave. “What business is it of yours, anyway?”
“Maybe none,” Dave said. “I don’t know yet. If it has something to do with Paul Myers’s death, it’s important, isn’t it? With what happened to him, why it happened, and who was behind it?”
“What do you mean?” Kilgore licked his lips. “Myers appreciated my looking in on his family. He had to be out of town a lot. He was a cross-country trucker. If he was going to earn a living, he had to leave them here, unprotected. And that’s not a figure of speech, either. After his testimony put Silencio Ruiz in jail, the G-G’s harassed them night and day. Ruiz was their leader.”
“Mrs. Myers told me,” Dave said. “She didn’t tell me it was you who made them stop.”
“First I tried the Sheriff.” Kilgore dug among the disorder on his desk, found a handball, and began squeezing it. He snorted. “Fat lot of good that did. Even after they smashed the windows, even after they shot the dog, the Sheriff wouldn’t put a guard on the house. Didn’t have the manpower, they said.” He switched the ball to his other hand and squeezed. Muscles showed in his forearm. “Then they started this program to get the gangs off the streets. They enlisted businesses, banks, churches, to start basketball teams, figuring the G-G’s and The Edge would get the same kick out of slamdunking as they do out of slaughtering each other with guns and knives and bicycle chains.” His laugh was sour. “It didn’t work, of course. I mean, you know what we’re talking about here—subhumans, primitives, savages. Jungle warfare. It’s in their blood, right?” Dave said wearily, “Is there a point to this?”
“There’s a rich old geezer out here,” Kilgore said. “Maybe you’ve seen his house. The old mansion on the hill with all the gingerbread work? De Witt Gifford. And this is the interesting part—he donated the jackets for one of the basketball teams. The Gifford Gardens gang, the Latinos. There’s no team anymore, but they still wear the jackets.”
“I’ve seen them. What’s interesting about it?”
“It didn’t add up. He never contributes anything to this community—not a dime. It’s named after his family, but he doesn’t give a damn what happens to it or anybody in it. So why the jackets for the G-G’s? I began nosing around, asking questions. About Silencio Ruiz’s trial. Now, normally he’d have had a public defender, right? And normally he’d never have made bail. He’d have sat behind bars for months, waiting for his day in court. Well, he didn’t. He made bail. And he had an expensive attorney. At first everybody kept their mouths shut. They’d been paid to. That’s what I figured. So I shelled out a little money myself. And guess what I found out?”
“Gifford put up the bail and paid the lawyer. You mean you used this to get him to make the G-G’s quit harassing the Myerses? Seriously? He worried about it being known? At his age? In his condition?”
“He was scared to death.” Kilgore flipped the handball into an empty metal wastebasket across the room. “I only went to him on a hunch. I was surprised as hell when it worked. He panicked. Gave me a five-hundred-dollar check for the school, and made me promise I wouldn’t tell anybody about him helping Silencio.”
“You’re telling me,” Dave said.
“All bets are off now,” Kilgore said. “Silencio killed Myers. The minute he got out of prison. Gifford didn’t prevent that, did he? It was him who told you I was seeing Mrs. Myers late at night, wasn’t it? He spies from one of those towers up there. Everybody knows it. He hates me because I won’t let Latinos in my school. Crazy old bastard. He wears dresses—did you know that?”
“Mrs. Myers has her brother to guard her now,” Dave said, “but you still see each other at night. Only now she comes to you. What about? The children’s grades?”
“I don’t have
“Maybe none,” Dave said. “I don’t know yet. If it has something to do with Paul Myers’s death, it’s important, isn’t it? With what happened to him, why it happened, and who was behind it?”
“What do you mean?” Kilgore licked his lips. “Myers appreciated my looking in on his family. He had to be out of town a lot. He was a cross-country trucker. If he was going to earn a living, he had to leave them here, unprotected. And that’s not a figure of speech, either. After his testimony put Silencio Ruiz in jail, the G-G’s harassed them night and day. Ruiz was their leader.”
“Mrs. Myers told me,” Dave said. “She didn’t tell me it was you who made them stop.”
“First I tried the Sheriff.” Kilgore dug among the disorder on his desk, found a handball, and began squeezing it. He snorted. “Fat lot of good that did. Even after they smashed the windows, even after they shot the dog, the Sheriff wouldn’t put a guard on the house. Didn’t have the manpower, they said.” He switched the ball to his other hand and squeezed. Muscles showed in his forearm. “Then they started this program to get the gangs off the streets. They enlisted businesses, banks, churches, to start basketball teams, figuring the G-G’s and The Edge would get the same kick out of slamdunking as they do out of slaughtering each other with guns and knives and bicycle chains.” His laugh was sour. “It didn’t work, of course. I mean, you know what we’re talking about here—subhumans, primitives, savages. Jungle warfare. It’s in their blood, right?” Dave said wearily, “Is there a point to this?”
“There’s a rich old geezer out here,” Kilgore said. “Maybe you’ve seen his house. The old mansion on the hill with all the gingerbread work? De Witt Gifford. And this is the interesting part—he donated the jackets for one of the basketball teams. The Gifford Gardens gang, the Latinos. There’s no team anymore, but they still wear the jackets.”
“I’ve seen them. What’s interesting about it?”
“It didn’t add up. He never contributes anything to this community—not a dime. It’s named after his family, but he doesn’t give a damn what happens to it or anybody in it. So why the jackets for the G-G’s? I began nosing around, asking questions. About Silencio Ruiz’s trial. Now, normally he’d have had a public defender, right? And normally he’d never have made bail. He’d have sat behind bars for months, waiting for his day in court. Well, he didn’t. He made bail. And he had an expensive attorney. At first everybody kept their mouths shut. They’d been paid to. That’s what I figured. So I shelled out a little money myself. And guess what I found out?”
“Gifford put up the bail and paid the lawyer. You mean you used this to get him to make the G-G’s quit harassing the Myerses? Seriously? He worried about it being known? At his age? In his condition?”
“He was scared to death.” Kilgore flipped the handball into an empty metal wastebasket across the room. “I only went to him on a hunch. I was surprised as hell when it worked. He panicked. Gave me a five-hundred-dollar check for the school, and made me promise I wouldn’t tell anybody about him helping Silencio.”
“You’re telling me,” Dave said.
“All bets are off now,” Kilgore said. “Silencio killed Myers. The minute he got out of prison. Gifford didn’t prevent that, did he? It was him who told you I was seeing Mrs. Myers late at night, wasn’t it? He spies from one of those towers up there. Everybody knows it. He hates me because I won’t let Latinos in my school. Crazy old bastard. He wears dresses—did you know that?”
“Mrs. Myers has her brother to guard her now,” Dave said, “but you still see each other at night. Only now she comes to you. What about? The children’s grades?”
“I don’t have
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