“You think I’ve never seen Grey’s Anatomy, asshole? What’s your name?”
“Justin Townes.”
I hit him again. He tried to pull back, which did him no good. I’m not particularly fast on my feet, but there’s nothing wrong with my reflexes. I’m pretty sure that one broke his nose instead of just bloodying it. He screamed… but in a high whisper.
“You must think I don’t know Justin Townes Earle, either. I’ve even got one of his albums. You have one more chance, fuckwad. Then I put a bullet in your head.”
“Polley,” he said. His nose was swelling—the whole side of his face was swelling—and he sounded like he had a bad cold. “Chris Polley.”
“Throw me your wallet.”
“I don’t have a—”
He saw me draw back and put out the good hand again. I had plans for that hand, which will probably take me down even further in your estimation, but you have to remember I was in a fix. Also, I was thinking again of Rumpelstiltskin. Maybe I couldn’t make this motherfucker stick his foot in the ground and tear himself in two, but I might be able to make him run away. Like the Gingerbread Man, ha-ha.
“Okay, okay!”
He got up and reached into the back pocket of his cords, which weren’t just dirty; they were filthy. The warm-up jacket had a torn sleeve and ragged cuffs. Wherever this guy was staying, it wasn’t the Hilton. The wallet was beat-up and scuffed. I flipped it open long enough to see a single ten in the billfold and a driver’s license with the name Christopher Polley. It showed a picture of him as a younger man with an intact face. I flipped it closed and put it in my back pocket, with my own wallet. “Looks like your license expired in 2008. You might want to renew it. If you live long enough, that is.”
“I can’t—” His mouth snapped closed.
“Can’t renew it? Had it jerked? OUI? Or prison? Have you been in prison? Is that why it took you so long to rob and kill Mr. Heinrich? Because you were in Stateville?”
“Not there.”
“Where?”
He kept silent, and I decided I didn’t care. As Mr. Bowditch might have said, it wasn’t germane.
“How did you know about the gold?”
“I saw some in the kraut’s store. Before I did my bit in County.” I could have asked how he found out who the gold came from, and how he set up the vagrant, Dwyer, but I was pretty sure I knew both of those things. “Let me go, I’ll never bother you again.”
“No, you won’t. Because you’ll be in jail, and not just county jail. I’m calling the cops on you, Polley. You’re going away for murder, so let’s hear you say ha-ha about that.”
“I’ll tell! I’ll tell about the gold! You won’t get any!”
Well, I would, actually, according to the will it was mine, but he didn’t know that.
“That’s true,” I said. “Thanks for pointing it out. I’ll have to put you with the pumping machinery after all. Lucky for me you’re a little shit. I won’t strain my back.”
I raised the gun. I could tell you it was a bluff, but I’m not sure it was. I also hated him for tearing up Mr. Bowditch’s house, for defiling it. And as I believe I’ve said, killing him would simplify everything.
He didn’t scream—I don’t think he had air enough—but he moaned. The crotch of his pants darkened. I lowered the gun… a little.
“Suppose I told you you could live, Mr. Polley. Not only live but go your own way, like the song says. Would that interest you?”
“Yes! Yes! Let me go and I’ll never bother you again!”
Spoken like a true Rumpelstiltskin, I thought.
“How did you get here? Did you walk? Take the bus as far as Dearborn Avenue?” Given the single ten in his billfold, I doubted if he’d taken a Yoober. He could have cleaned out Mr. Heinrich’s back room—the stuff planted on Dwyer made that seem likely—but if so, he hadn’t converted any of his stash into cash. Maybe he didn’t know how. He might be crafty, but that wasn’t necessarily the same thing as being smart. Or connected.
“I came through the woods.” He gestured with his good hand in the direction of the greenbelt behind Mr. Bowditch’s property, all that remained of the Sentry Woods that had covered this part of town a century ago.
I reappraised his filthy pants and torn jacket. Mrs. Richland hadn’t said the little man’s corduroys were dirty, and she would have—her eyes were sharp—but she had seen him days ago. My guess was that he hadn’t just come through the woods, he was living in them. Somewhere not far from the fence at the rear of Mr. Bowditch’s yard there was probably a piece of scavenged tarp serving as a shelter, with this man’s few possessions inside. Any swag from Mr. Heinrich’s store would be buried close by, the way storybook pirates did it. Only storybook pirates buried their doubloons and pieces of eight in chests. Polley’s was more likely in a satchel with a sticker on it saying SUBSCRIPTION SERVICE OF AMERICA.