Part 3

twenty-five

Deke Stubbs knocked on Timothy Lancaster’s door. He smelled like a six-pack of Busch. He swallowed a belch.

Lancaster opened the door a crack, eyed the detective. Lancaster looked a little annoyed and also worried. A nervous bookworm type, custom-made to cave under pressure. Stubbs liked it when they were worried. He could lean on them good and stiff and get them to talk. He hadn’t had to do that with Annie Walsh’s mousy roommate, but he wouldn’t mind with this guy.

They stared at each other a long second.

Finally Lancaster said, “Yes?” The word slipped meekly through the crack in the door like an apology.

“Lancaster?”

Another long pause from the kid. “Yes.”

“Can I ask you some questions?”

The pause was really long this time. “About what?”

“About Annie Walsh,” Stubbs said. “And about drugs.” Stubbs threw the part in about drugs at the last second. Sure. Shake the kid up. He looked nervous already, so why not push the envelope?

The kid paled. “Are you the police?”

“Drug Enforcement Administration.” Stubbs flipped his wallet open and closed again at light-speed before shoving it back into his jacket. “I think you better let me in.”

Lancaster stepped back, eyes steady on Stubbs.

Stubbs closed the door behind him, looked around the apartment. The kid had about a thousand books stacked along the walls. He read the title of one at eye level, “The Spanish Tragedy.”

Lancaster didn’t say anything.

“We had a Spanish tragedy ourselves a few months ago. Buncha wetbacks coming across near Juarez, and we knew some of them were mules, carting a wad of smack across the river. So we figured what the heck, shoot ’em all and let God sort ’em out.” Stubbs mimed sighting a rifle. “We picked ’em off as they hit the American side. That’s how we handle drug dealers in the DEA.”

Lancaster looked like he was about to puke or faint.

“Listen, kid. I think you know why I’m here. I need you to talk and I need you to talk right now and real loud about what you know.”

“About what?”

“Everything. All of it.” This wasn’t the approach Stubbs had in mind when he came to talk to Lancaster, but it was obvious the kid was right on the edge. If Stubbs could just nudge him over, he might spill his guts big-time. There was some shit going on here and it was all tangled together, drugs and Annie Walsh and this kid Lancaster. A lot of dumb shits thought detective work was all fingerprints and looking at cigar ash under a magnifying glass like Sherlock fucking Holmes. Bullshit. It was asking the right questions and squeezing out useful answers.

Lancaster started to shrug and talk and stammer all at the same time.

“Hey, take it easy,” Stubbs said. “I’m here to save your ass if you cooperate. You got any beer?”

Lancaster raised an eyebrow. “Uh… I have a Grolsch in the refrigerator.”

“And that’s beer?”

Lancaster nodded.

“Bring it.”

Lancaster went to the kitchen, came back with a big green bottle, and handed it to Stubbs. His hands shook.

Stubbs tried to open the bottle. But the cap wouldn’t twist.

“Sorry,” Lancaster said. He went to the kitchen again and came back with a church key. He popped open the beer for Stubbs.

Stubbs drank. “This some foreign shit?”

“From Denmark.”

Stubbs took another slug. “Not bad.”

“I haven’t seen Annie Walsh in weeks,” Lancaster said.

Good. The kid was ready to talk. The suspense was eating him alive.

“To hell with Walsh, kid,” Stubbs said. “Talk to me about the drugs.”

“I really don’t know anything about that.” Lancaster’s voice was weaker than dishwater. He wouldn’t meet Stubbs’s eyes.

“Talk, kid.”

“I–I don’t know anything.”

“Talk, you little shit. I’ll put you in jail and you’ll get butt-raped by a nigger the size of Mike Tyson.”

“I don’t know-”

“Talk!”

“Please, I-”

“You little prick.” Stubbs shook the beer bottle at him. It foamed, dripped on the carpet. “I’ll shove this bottle up your ass and break it off. You don’t fuck with the Drug Enforcement Agency.” He put his nose an inch from Lancaster’s, yelled, beer spit flying.

Lancaster backed up, eyes wide. Terror.

“Come back here.” Stubbs grabbed Lancaster’s arm at the elbow, dug into a pressure point with his thumb.

Lancaster winced, tried to twist away. Stubbs held him one-handed.

The detective finished the beer, tossed the bottle onto the floor. It rolled up against a stack of books. “This way.” Stubbs pulled Lancaster into the kitchen.

“Hey.”

“Shut up.”

Stubbs shoved the kid up against the kitchen cabinets. “Stay put.”

Lancaster obeyed.

The kitchen was dim and yellow, paint chipping on the cabinets. The linoleum needed a good scrub.

Stubbs opened the refrigerator, took out another Grolsch, opened it. He smacked his lips, stood examining Lancaster’s open refrigerator. “Holy shit, kid. How do you live?” There were two more beers, a jar of pickle brine, a soy sauce packet, and a defeated length of sagging celery.

He closed the refrigerator again, gulped the beer as he opened random kitchen cabinets.

“Don’t you need a warrant or something?” Lancaster asked.

Stubbs tapped his chest with a fat finger. Hard. “You a lawyer, kid?”

“What department did you say you were with?”

“Drug Enforcement Agency, so don’t yank me off, okay?”

Lancaster said, “When you first came in you said you were with the Drug Enforcement Administration. Not Agency.”

Stubbs froze. “What?”

“I think you’d better go,” Lancaster said. He was wary, but the tables were slowly turning. “Or maybe I should call the local authorities, and we could all discuss this together.” Lancaster was testing the waters. He had a piece of something and was pushing it now.

“Now hold on, kid. Wait a minute.” Stubbs was losing control of the situation, scrambling to get the upper hand again was making it worse. “Dammit, I’m with the Drug Enforcement- The DEA goddammit!”

Lancaster lifted the phone off the hook. It was an old rotary dial model on the kitchen wall. “Let’s get a few deputies over here.”

“Kid, don’t-”

“I’m sure impersonating an officer of the law is some kind of serious offense,” Lancaster said. He had a full smug going. He didn’t believe in Stubbs anymore.

“Kid, I swear, you’re making a mistake.”

Lancaster dialed.

Stubbs grabbed the phone with two meaty hands and ripped it off the wall. Dropped it on the floor and kicked it. Lancaster was already running. He pushed past Stubbs, through the living room, making for the front door.

Stubbs ran after him, dove at the kid’s legs, and tangled him up. Both on the floor. Lancaster tried to kick Stubbs away, the heel of his shoe digging sharply into the top of Stubbs’s head. Stubbs yanked his legs, climbed on top of them so he couldn’t kick, punched Lancaster hard once in the gut.

Lancaster whuffed air. His eyes bulged.

Stubbs shifted up, sat on Lancaster’s chest. Stubbs was huffing hard at the sudden exertion. Slick beer sweat under his arms and on his forehead. He felt the distant tug of nausea.

“Drugs,” Stubbs barked.

“It wasn’t me. I–It was Ellis.” Lancaster gulped air. Tears streaming from the sides of his eyes.

Stubbs slapped him loud across the face. “Who the fuck’s Ellis?”

“Sherman Ellis. A student in my class with Professor Morgan. He had a whole bag of cocaine. I only even looked at it once.”

A whole bag of coke? How much? Stubbs wondered.

“Please, I can’t breathe.” Lancaster writhed beneath Stubbs’s mass.

Stubbs took Lancaster’s throat in his hands. “You’ll get worse than that. How much coke? Did the Ellis kid say?”