“They’re not friends. Just guys I grew up with.”
“Didn’t you also grow up with the late Kevin Hurlihy?” Poole brought the car to a stop in the left lane, waiting for a break in traffic on the other side of the road so he could cross Route 2 and enter the prison driveway.
“Last I heard, Kevin was just missing,” I said.
Broussard smiled over the seat at me. “And let’s not forget the infamous Mr. Rogowski.”
I shrugged. I was used to my association with Bubba raising eyebrows. Especially cops’ eyebrows.
“Bubba’s a friend,” I said.
“Hell of a friend,” Broussard said. “Is it true he’s got a floor of his warehouse mined with explosives?”
I shrugged. “Drop in on him sometime, see for yourself.”
Poole chuckled. “Talk about your early retirement plans.” He turned into the gravel driveway of the prison. “Some neighborhood you come from, Patrick, that’s all. Some neighborhood.”
“We’re just misunderstood down there,” I said. “Hearts of gold, every one of us.”
When we stepped out of the car, Broussard stretched and said, “Oscar Lee tells me you’re not comfortable with judgment.”
“With what?” I said, and looked up at the prison walls. Typical of Concord. Even the prison looked inviting.
“Judgment,” Broussard said. “Oscar says you hate judging people.”
I followed the cyclone wire at the top of the wall. A little less inviting, suddenly.
“Says that’s why you hang with a psycho like Rogowski, maintain relations with the likes of Cheese Olamon.”
I squinted into the bright sun. “No,” I said. “I’m not very good at judging people. Every now and then I’ve had to.”
“And?” Poole said.
I shrugged. “Left a bad taste in my mouth.”
“So you judged poorly?” Poole said lightly.
I thought of my calling Helene “stupid” just a couple of hours ago; the way the word seemed to shrink her and stab her at the same time. I shook my head. “No. My judgment was correct. Just left a bad taste in my mouth. Simple as that.”
I stuck my hands in my pockets and walked toward the front door of the prison before Poole and Broussard could think of any more questions regarding my character or lack thereof.
The warden posted a guard at each of the two gates that led in and out of the small visitor’ yard at Concord Prison, and the guards in the towers shifted their attention to us. Cheese was already there when we arrived. He was the only convict in the yard, Broussard and Poole having requested as much privacy as possible.
“Yo, Patrick, how’s it hanging?” Cheese called, as we crossed the yard. He stood by a water fountain. In comparison to the Orca with yellow hair that was Cheese, the fountain looked like a golf tee.
“Not bad, Cheese. It’s a nice day.”
“I am fucking down with that, brother.” He brought his fist down on top of my own. “Day like this is like righteous pussy, Jack Daniel’s, and a pack of Kools all rolled into one. Know what I’m saying?”
I didn’t, but I smiled. That’s how it worked with Cheese. You nodded, you smiled, you wondered when he’d start making some sense.
“Damn!” Cheese reared back on his heels. “You brought yourself the law with you. The Man is in the house!” he shouted. “In da house. Poole and…”—he snapped his fingers—”Broussard. Right? Thought you boys left Narco.”
Poole smiled into the sun. “We did, Mr. Cheese, sir. We certainly did.” He pointed to a long dark scab on Cheese’s chin. It looked like a slice left by a jagged blade. “You’ve been making enemies here?”
“This? Shit.” Cheese rolled his eyes at me. “Motherfucker ain’t been born yet can put the Cheese down.”
Broussard chuckled and toed the dirt with his left foot. “Yeah, Cheese, sure. You been talking your black rap and pissed off some brother don’t like white boys with a confused sense of identity. That it?”
“Yo, Poole,” Cheese said, “what’s a cool-as-ice-cream cat like yourself doing with this deadweight-nappy-headed-couldn’t-find-his-own-ass-with-a-map motherfucker?”
“Slumming,” Poole said, and a small smile twitched the corners of Broussard’s mouth.
“Heard you lost a bag of cash,” Broussard said.
“You did?” Cheese rubbed his chin. “Hmm. Can’t rightly recall that, officer, but you got a bag of cash you’re looking to unload—well, I’ll be happy to take it off your hands. Give it to my man Patrick, he’ll hold it for me till I get out.”
“Aww, Cheese,” I said, “that’s touching.”
“We down, brother, ’cause I know your shit’s straight. How’s Brother Rogowski?”
“Fine.”
“Motherfucker did a year in Plymouth? Cons still shaking in that place. ’Fraid he might come back, he seemed to like it so much.”
“He ain’t going back,” I said. “He missed a year of TV he’s still catching up on.”
“How’re the dogs?” Cheese whispered, as if they were a secret.
“Belker died about a month ago.”
The information rocked Cheese in place for a moment. He looked up at the sky as a soft breeze found his eyelids. “How’d he die?” He looked at me. “Poison?”
I shook my head. “Hit by a car.”
“Intentional?”
I shook my head again. “Little old lady was driving. Belker just beelined into the avenue.”
“How’s Bubba taking it?”
“He’d had Belker neutered the month before.” I shrugged. “He’s pretty sure it was suicide.”
“Makes sense.” Cheese nodded. “Sure.”
“The money, Cheese.” Broussard waved a hand in front of Cheese’s face. “The money.”
“Ain’t missing none, officer. What I tol’ you.” Cheese shrugged and turned away from Broussard, walked over to a picnic bench, and took a seat on top, waited for us to join him.
“Cheese,” I said, as I sat down beside him, “we got a missing girl in the neighborhood. Maybe you heard about it?”
Cheese lifted a blade of grass off his shoelaces, twirled it between his chubby fingers. “Heard a bit. Amanda something, wasn’t it?”