“You ever thought of getting one of those, um, I don’t know what you call it, but it’s a bunch of metal balls hitting each other. Looks like a magic trick.”
“No,” Ike said. Buddy Lee stroked the scruff on his chin. The smell of sweat and cheap whiskey hung around him like a cloud.
“It’s two months today,” he said. Ike crossed his arms across his massive chest.
“Yeah, I know.”
“How ya been? Since the funeral and all?” Buddy Lee asked.
Ike shrugged. “I don’t know. Doing alright I guess.”
“You heard anything from the cops?”
“They called me once. Ain’t heard nothing since.”
“Yeah, they called me once, too. Didn’t seem like they had much in the way of leads,” Buddy Lee said.
“I guess they working on it,” Ike said. Buddy Lee ran his hands over his jeans.
“I’ve become a homebody in my old age. I go to work, then I go back to my trailer. In between I kill a few cold ones. That’s about it. If I can help it, I don’t have nothing to do with the cops. But this morning I got up at six and drove up to Richmond. I went by the police station and I asked for the detectives on the Derek Jenkins–Isiah Randolph murder case. Do you know what they told me?” Buddy Lee said. A quiver ran through his voice.
“No, I don’t.”
“Detective LaPlata said the case is currently inactive. No one knows anything, and if they do, they ain’t talking,” Buddy Lee said. He swallowed hard. “I don’t know about you, but that don’t sit right with me.” Ike didn’t respond. Buddy Lee rested his chin on his fist.
“I see him in my dreams. Derek. The back of his head is busted open. His brain is beating like a heart. There’s blood running down his face.”
“Stop.”
Buddy Lee blinked his eyes. “Sorry. It’s just I keep thinking about what the cop said. That their friends won’t talk to them. I can’t say I blame them. I think we both know it can be dangerous to talk to Johnny Law,” Buddy Lee said.
“I ain’t shocked it went inactive. They ain’t making a priority out of two … out of two men like Isiah and Derek,” Ike said. Buddy Lee nodded.
“Yeah. I wasn’t never a fan of that gay shit, but I loved my boy. I didn’t show it all the time, and I was gone a lot, but I swear I loved him with everything in me. I think you felt the same way about your boy. That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” Buddy Lee said.
“What did you want to talk about?” Ike asked. Buddy Lee took a deep breath. He’d been working on his pitch for a week, but now that he was about to say it out loud, he realized how crazy it was.
“Like I said, I don’t blame people for not talking to the cops. But what if they didn’t have to talk to the cops? What if they talked to us? Folks are liable to tell a couple of grieving fathers shit they wouldn’t tell the police,” Buddy Lee said. The words spilled out in one long continuous sentence. Ike cocked his head to the side.
“What, you want us to play some private-eye shit?” Ike said.
“There’s a motherfucker walking around right now. He getting up in the morning and he eating him a big breakfast. Then he goes and does whatever the fuck he does during the day. Then he probably gets him a piece of ass at the end of the night. This motherfucker killed our children. He popped them full of holes like a piece of chicken wire. Then he stood over them and blew their fucking brains out. Now, I don’t know about you, but I can’t live with myself while that son of a bitch is on this side of the dirt,” Buddy Lee said. His eyes were bugging from their sockets.
“Are you saying what I think you saying?” Ike asked. Buddy Lee licked his lips.
“You didn’t get that BG tattoo by being a wannabe. That’s shot-caller ink. And you don’t get to be a shot caller unless you done put in some work. A lot of work by the looks of it. Now, I won’t no shot caller but I’ve done my share of work, too,” Buddy Lee said. Ike let out a chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Buddy Lee said.
“You should hear yourself. You sound like some cracker in an old hillbilly crime movie. Like you should be an extra in Gator. Look around here. I’ve got fourteen people that work for me, not including my receptionist, who’s late again. I’ve got fifteen property-management contracts. I have a little girl in my house that I’ve gotta help raise because your son and my son made my wife her legal guardian. I’ve got responsibilities. I got people depending on me so they can put food on their tables. And you want me to what? Play some Rolling Thunder or John Wick shit with you? You’re drunk, but I can’t believe you’re that drunk,” Ike said. Buddy Lee rubbed his forefinger against his thumb. Ike could hear the calluses rasp as they slid against each other.