gigantic beach ball floated in the water, a bloated two-tone beach ball, red on one side, blue on the other. As Jimmy approached, a cloud of blackflies lifted up from the pond, drifting overhead like a cartoon thought-balloon of dark intentions, and then the breeze shifted, blowing the stink toward him, and Jimmy covered his mouth and nose, his eyes burning. It was Walsh—or what was left of him.
“Fuck,” said Rollo, right behind Jimmy now.
Walsh floated face-down in the dirty water, unrecognizable, hands and feet chewed away. He wore jeans and no shirt, just like the night they had first met, his swollen torso lobster red from the sun, blistered, the flesh of his back split open. The devil tattoo on his shoulder was so stretched and distended, it looked like a map of terra incognita. Fat foot-long koi swam lazily around the body as the blackflies settled back down.
Jimmy stared at the body, feeling light-headed, his skin clammy in the heat, the crickets sawing away, the rhythm broken by B.K.’s sobs. “Did you tell anyone else where Walsh was staying?” he asked Rollo.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you?”
“No, man—I only gave B.K. directions this morning.” Rollo was breathing heavily, but the smell didn’t seem to bother him. “Mr. Walsh, I was keeping him for myself. To be honest, I was half sorry I told
you.
”
Jimmy sidled toward the body, swatting at the bugs, until he reached the rock border of the koi pond. He had been in apartments that smelled worse—crackheads who bought a pound of raw hamburger, left it on the counter while they fired up a rock, and a month later it was still there. The fish had long since finished with the soft parts—Walsh’s face was eaten away to the ears, and the koi were grazing now on his fingers and toes, the tips of the finger bones stark white in the murky water. There was no obvious wound to the head or torso, no gunshot at least, but decomposition could have hidden almost anything. He could see the outline of the linoleum knife in Walsh’s back pocket, so whatever had happened to him had come as a surprise.
Rollo tossed a pebble at a shattered bottle of brandy at the edge of the pond, sending ripples across the water. Broken glass glittered in the sunlight. “It’s like I always told you, Jimmy, alcohol
kills.
” He fired up the remains of the joint he had started in the car, inhaled, then held it out. “Take a hit, Jimmy. Kills the stink.”
Jimmy turned, walking quickly now.
“Where you going?” called Rollo.
The trailer was unlocked. Jimmy stepped inside, careful not to touch anything. The lights were all on, so Walsh had probably died at night. The sink was piled high with empty cans and crusted plates fuzzy with mold—after the koi pond the stale beer smell was like fresh-cut flowers. The main room looked pretty much the way it had the last time Jimmy had been there, but it was Walsh’s study that Jimmy was interested in. He pushed aside the curtain and stayed there, surveying the small room. The bed was made, the sheets pulled tight and pillow fluffed. The two Academy Awards were back on the bookcase, and the typewriter was still on the table. But the script was gone, as was the accordion-style file folder with the investigator’s raw notes. There was no balled-up paper in the wastebasket.
Jimmy barged into the room, looking for something amiss: a book askew, a piece of the fake wallboard bowed out, a ceiling panel that didn’t quite fit—anything to indicate where Walsh might have stashed his precious script, his notes, his files. He rested a hand on Walsh’s chair, still seeing the fear in the man’s eyes as he begged for help that night, hearing his voice crack as he glanced out the window. Jimmy knocked over the chair and picked it back up, clumsy now. He bent down and checked under the mattress, felt the mattress itself, then moved into the tiny bathroom, looking behind the toilet and inside the tank. He wasn’t really
“Fuck,” said Rollo, right behind Jimmy now.
Walsh floated face-down in the dirty water, unrecognizable, hands and feet chewed away. He wore jeans and no shirt, just like the night they had first met, his swollen torso lobster red from the sun, blistered, the flesh of his back split open. The devil tattoo on his shoulder was so stretched and distended, it looked like a map of terra incognita. Fat foot-long koi swam lazily around the body as the blackflies settled back down.
Jimmy stared at the body, feeling light-headed, his skin clammy in the heat, the crickets sawing away, the rhythm broken by B.K.’s sobs. “Did you tell anyone else where Walsh was staying?” he asked Rollo.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you?”
“No, man—I only gave B.K. directions this morning.” Rollo was breathing heavily, but the smell didn’t seem to bother him. “Mr. Walsh, I was keeping him for myself. To be honest, I was half sorry I told
you.
”
Jimmy sidled toward the body, swatting at the bugs, until he reached the rock border of the koi pond. He had been in apartments that smelled worse—crackheads who bought a pound of raw hamburger, left it on the counter while they fired up a rock, and a month later it was still there. The fish had long since finished with the soft parts—Walsh’s face was eaten away to the ears, and the koi were grazing now on his fingers and toes, the tips of the finger bones stark white in the murky water. There was no obvious wound to the head or torso, no gunshot at least, but decomposition could have hidden almost anything. He could see the outline of the linoleum knife in Walsh’s back pocket, so whatever had happened to him had come as a surprise.
Rollo tossed a pebble at a shattered bottle of brandy at the edge of the pond, sending ripples across the water. Broken glass glittered in the sunlight. “It’s like I always told you, Jimmy, alcohol
kills.
” He fired up the remains of the joint he had started in the car, inhaled, then held it out. “Take a hit, Jimmy. Kills the stink.”
Jimmy turned, walking quickly now.
“Where you going?” called Rollo.
The trailer was unlocked. Jimmy stepped inside, careful not to touch anything. The lights were all on, so Walsh had probably died at night. The sink was piled high with empty cans and crusted plates fuzzy with mold—after the koi pond the stale beer smell was like fresh-cut flowers. The main room looked pretty much the way it had the last time Jimmy had been there, but it was Walsh’s study that Jimmy was interested in. He pushed aside the curtain and stayed there, surveying the small room. The bed was made, the sheets pulled tight and pillow fluffed. The two Academy Awards were back on the bookcase, and the typewriter was still on the table. But the script was gone, as was the accordion-style file folder with the investigator’s raw notes. There was no balled-up paper in the wastebasket.
Jimmy barged into the room, looking for something amiss: a book askew, a piece of the fake wallboard bowed out, a ceiling panel that didn’t quite fit—anything to indicate where Walsh might have stashed his precious script, his notes, his files. He rested a hand on Walsh’s chair, still seeing the fear in the man’s eyes as he begged for help that night, hearing his voice crack as he glanced out the window. Jimmy knocked over the chair and picked it back up, clumsy now. He bent down and checked under the mattress, felt the mattress itself, then moved into the tiny bathroom, looking behind the toilet and inside the tank. He wasn’t really
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