Madman on a Drum (Mac McKenzie #5)

I am embarrassed to admit I was glad to finally leave Shelby’s home. It was as if a heavy, wet canvas tarp had been lifted from my shoulders. I felt like I could move again; I felt like I could breathe. When we hit the freeway, I powered down all the car windows and let the warm autumn air slap my face and ruffle my hair. Karen put her hand on the top of her head to keep her own hair from blowing about and gave me an impatient look. I ignored her. I understood Bobby’s frustration at sitting helplessly in his home. Only I was out and about, now. I was being useful.

We took the Dale Street exit and turned north toward University Avenue. In the old days, this had been one of the most notorious intersections in St. Paul. When I first broke in with the cops, it embodied 20 percent of the city’s adult businesses, including all of its sexually oriented bookstores and movie theaters. It also accounted for over 70 percent of its prostitution arrests. That made it a political issue. To appease voters, the city bought out the X-rated Faust Theater for $1.8 million, and it eventually was transformed into the Rondo Community Outreach Library. The gay-oriented Flick Theater was replaced by a shopping mall. R&R Books was bought for $600,000 to make room for a commercial development, and a strip joint called the Belmont Club became the Western District headquarters of the St. Paul Police Department. Now neighbors don’t find as many condoms on their lawns and sidewalks as they used to, there are fewer sex acts performed by prostitutes and their johns on the street and in alleys, and girls going to school and young women coming from work aren’t as likely to be propositioned. Still, I kind of miss the old neighborhood. It had color, and St. Paul was becoming less and less colorful as we went along.

I followed Karen’s directions and pulled into the parking lot of a store that sold and mounted brand-name tires under the banner of a well-advertised national chain. Before we left the car, Karen told me that she would do all the talking. I told her to be careful not to use my name.

A bell chimed when we stepped into the store, and a black man dressed in a blue work shirt looked up at us from the paperwork he was reviewing. He set down a pen and put both hands on the chest-high counter in front of him. Years ago, I took a course that taught officers how to identify drug couriers by observing their facial expressions and body and eye movements. The man smiled when he first saw Karen. Then he raised his upper eyelids showing fear, thrust his jaw forward displaying anger, wrinkled his nose in a sign of disgust, and let the corners of his lips drop down portraying sadness—I’ve known very few people who could burn through so many emotions so quickly.

“Karen,” he said and extended his hand.

“Mr. Cousin,” she answered and shook the hand.

“Did one of my boys go astray?” he asked. The sadness in his voice matched his expression.

“One of your boys?” I said.

“Who are you?”

“He’s with me,” Karen told him. To me she said, “Mr. Cousin has been very good to us. He’s given work to a lot of parolees over the years. A good man.”

Cousin shrugged off the compliment. “Just trying to help them make it,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

Cousin studied me hard. “You’re a cop,” he said.

I didn’t answer—if he wanted to believe that, it was fine with me.

Karen flicked her thumb in my direction. “He’s observing,” she said.

“Is he now?” Cousin wasn’t satisfied with the answer, but he didn’t press it.

“How many boys do you have?” I asked.

“Eight. All of my employees are on parole. I try to… Listen. A man, any man, who’s been in the system, I don’t care if he’s guilty or not guilty, I don’t care if he’s been acquitted or exonerated or pardoned or what, I don’t care if he’s just a kid who screwed up or a repeat offender, if you’ve been in the system, you’ll never be considered innocent again. You’ll never be given the benefit of a doubt. People look at you; to them you’ll always be a thief.”

I had a feeling he was talking about himself, so I asked, “How long have you been out?”

“Twenty-three years, seven months, eighteen days.” Cousin recited the numbers like a recovering alcoholic who knows the exact moment when he had his last drink. “It took me so long to get a decent job. I started applying when I was in stir. Back then you had to have a job or be assured of getting a job before you got parole. I only responded to the want ads that had a post office box. You don’t make collect calls from Stillwater. I’d tell them they’d never have an employee who would work harder. ‘So what?’ they’d say. ‘We’ll be getting a thief.’

“The jobs I did get, they treated me like a leper, like I had a communicable disease. Or worse. One employer tried to blackmail me, said he was going to accuse me of stealing from the company unless I boosted some TVs for him. I turned him in. Nothing happened except that I had to get another job. When I became manager here, I figured I might be able to help some guys who were like me, guys who did stupid things when they were young and paid the price and now were trying to live it down. The owners, they didn’t care as long as sales were solid, as long as there were no complaints about service. Now I am the owner.”

“Good for you,” I said, and I meant it, although I doubt it sounded that way.

“Why are you here?” Cousin asked.

“Scottie Thomforde,” Karen said.