Warpath

“Yes. Don’t think it doesn’t eat me up inside.”

I study him for a second and guess what? I don’t see him eaten at all. Something that egregious would leave all kinds of gnawing marks. Chunks torn out and still bloody after all these years. But strangely, he looks calm, like he’s a few steps into a choreographed rant now. A tell. “Why?”

He inhales in a very practiced manner. “The way it came about...it’s a long story.”

“Did you have it at the time?”

He covers his mouth. He says too loudly, “No.” Tells. This is getting thick.

“Well, Mr. Petticoat. Maybe I can help you,” I say, easing back my chair.

A brilliant, relief-soaked smile. “I knew it! I knew it! I’ve got the best man in this line of work on my side now and—”

I stand. Slide the packet of bills into my suit coat pocket. Forty-four Magnum in hand. I don’t point it at him. Not yet.

“Get out,” I say, as unwavering as if he were a bar fly I’d picked up and brought her home just to discover she has a boner. In both situations, I don’t play these games.

“Now, Mr. Buckner.” Instead of leaving he slinks down into the small chair I have for guests and crosses a leg rather effeminately. He draws his head down between his shoulders as if he’s a turtle getting ready for decapitation.

One hand to the side of his face and he says, “Mr. Buckner there is no reason why we can’t—”

“I suggest you go to the police. Tell them about this girlfriend and they can connect the dots from there.”

I cock the hammer back on the revolver and his face freezes into wide eyes and granite. “But, Mr. Petticoat, you’re so full of shit that I’m done listening. So, get out.”

He holds his hands out to me, palms up. He won’t make eye contact. He very slowly reaches into the pocket of his jacket and withdraws another packet of money. A flick of his wrist and it lands with a thud onto my desk.

“So the last ten grand had run out of listening time. Okay. Sure,” he says, lowering his hands slowly like he was underwater. “Just let me buy some more time. Okay? Okay?”

Twenty grand?

Twenty grand.

“Fine.” The .44 goes away. I sit down, take the packet of bills and flutter them with my thumb, looking to make sure each one has ol’ Benjamin on it. Satisfied, the packet goes inside my jacket next to the other one.

“The girlfriend. Why me instead of the police. Your real intentions. Get this over with.”

“Right, right,” he says, wiping away more sweat. “The girlfriend’s name is Carla Gabler. Well, I should say ex-girlfriend. And let me clarify: I did not have the information at the time. My buddy, he got it later.”

Double-back. A tell.

“What buddy?”

“Dan Martins. He was a parole officer with the city. Gabler, she was at Happenstance prison up north. You know, the women’s prison? Anyway, she was in for robbing houses I think, and when she got out, Dan was her PO.”

He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Actually, Dan says he had been making house calls with her as well.”

Parole officer shitting where he eats. Sounds like a quality guy.

“Dan said one night during some pillow talk, she was recounting her life. Telling him about the boyfriend she used to date who got her in trouble. She went with him and they robbed a house and they got busted. That’s how she got imprisoned. She said his name, but Dan never told me. Then she said something about him robbing my house. I guess he had just gotten out as well, I don’t know.”

Petticoat’s face is forlorn. His fists bunch up, his shoulders tighten. “Carla Gabler.”

“Dan didn’t say anything because he didn’t make the connection? Or was he too shitty to mention how he got the info because he didn’t want to lose his job?” I ask, light a smoke.

“Dan never said.” Petticoat’s voice is flat as ash. “But I know Dan. I know that guy. He just didn’t want to lose his job.”

“When did he tell you?”