Detective Anderson: Says the man who’s got a jacket for possession and possession with intent to sell.
Bolton: All due respect, sir, but that’s just mean. I’ve been clean for six years. Go to NA and all. You want me to drop a urine? Happy to oblige.
Detective Anderson: That won’t be necessary, and I congratulate you on your sobriety. So you were circulating around eight thirty—
Bolton: That’s right. I checked the bar, then I started down the hall to take a peek in the men’s, and that’s where I saw Coach T, just hanging up the phone. There are two pay phones back there, but only one of them works. He was . . .
Detective Anderson: Claude? You kind of dropped out on me there.
Bolton: Just thinking. Remembering. He looked kind of funny. In a daze, like. You really think he killed that kid? I thought it was just because it was his first visit to a place where young ladies take off their clothes. It gets some guys that way, makes them kinda stupid. Or he might’ve been high. I said, “Hey, Coach, how’s that team of yours looking?” And he gives me this stare like he’s never seen me before, although I went to just about every one of the Pop Warner games Stevie and Stanley played in, and told him about how to run a double reverse, which he never did because he said it was too complex for little kids. Although if they can learn long division, they ought to be able to learn something like that, don’t you think?
Detective Anderson: You’re sure it was Terence Maitland.
Bolton: Oh God, yes. He said the team was fine, and told me he just stopped in to call a cab. Sort of like the way we all used to say we only read Playboy for the articles when our wives saw it in the bathroom beside the toilet. But I went along with it, the customer is always right at Gentlemen’s as long as he doesn’t try to grab a handful of tit. Told him there might be a cab or two outside already. He said the dispatcher already told him that, and thanked me, and off he went.
Detective Anderson: What was he wearing?
Bolton: Yellow shirt, jeans. Belt buckle with a horse’s head on it. Fancy sneakers. I remember those, because they looked pretty expensive.
Detective Anderson: Were you the only one who saw him in the club?
Bolton: No, I saw a couple of guys tip him a wave as he went out. Don’t know who they were, and you might have trouble finding them, because a lot of guys don’t want to admit they like to visit places like Gent’s. Just a fact of life. I wasn’t surprised he got recognized, because Terry’s pretty close to famous around here. Even won some sort of award a few years back, I saw that in the paper. Call it Flint City all you want, it’s really just a small town where most everybody knows everybody else, at least by face. And anybody with sons who are what you’d call athletically inclined, they know Coach T from baseball or football.
Detective Anderson: Thank you, Claude. This has been helpful.
Bolton: I remember one other thing, no big deal but kind of spooky if he really was the one who killed that kid.
Detective Anderson: Go on.
Bolton: It was just one of those things that happen, nobody’s fault. He was on his way out to see if there was a cab, right? I stuck out my hand and said, “I want to thank you for everything you did for Tony’s nephews, Coach. They’re good boys, but a little rambunctious, maybe because of their folks getting divorced and all. You gave ’em something to do besides hell around town.” I think I surprised him, because he jerked back a little before he shook with me. He had a good strong grip, though, and . . . see this little scab on the back of my hand? He did it with his pinky nail when we shook. It’s pretty much healed up already, wasn’t no more than a nick in the first place, but it took me back to my drug days for a second or two.
Detective Anderson: Why is that?
Bolton: Some guys—Hells Angels and Devils Disciples, mostly—used to grow out one of their pinky nails. I’ve seen some as long as those Chinese emperors used to have. Some of the bikers even decorate ’em with decals, like the ladies do on theirs. They call it their coke nail.
17
After the arrest at the baseball field there was no possibility of Ralph playing the good cop in a good cop/bad cop scenario, so he simply stood leaning against the wall of the interview room, looking on. He was prepared for another of those accusing stares, but Terry only glanced at him briefly, and with no expression at all, before turning his attention to Bill Samuels, who had taken a seat in one of the three chairs on the other side of the table.
Studying Samuels now, Ralph began to get an idea of how he had risen so high so quickly. While the two of them were standing on the other side of the one-way glass, the DA had simply looked a bit young for the job. Now, facing Frankie Peterson’s rapist and killer, he looked even younger, like a law office intern who had （due to some mixup, probably） landed this interview with a big-time perp. Even the little Alfalfa cowlick sticking up from the back of his head added to the role the man had slipped into: untried youth, just happy to be here. You can tell me anything, said those wide, interested eyes, because I’ll believe it. This is my first time playing with the big boys, and I just don’t know any better.