14. Poet
14
POET
The sun rises between two distant mountains. I rise from bed, perform a quick stretch, and cover two slices of toast with peanut butter to begin the day.
Desert Shores is a neighborhood like no other. A lake pools in the center of it that reflects sunlight as it rises and sets. Today, gradients of orange, pink, and yellow fill the lake, but peace doesn’t wind through me when I open the back door to admire it today. There’s a heaviness to my chest that day by day continues to increase in weight, and the need to unshackle her from Felix’s chains grows more pressing as my feelings for her deepen.
Our time with her in the casino bathroom two nights ago restored peace to my chest, but only temporarily. As soon as we exited those doors, the heaviness creeped back.
This morning, my chest thuds.
Wrangler stumbled upon vital information yesterday that revealed all about Zoe’s circumstances. Of course it was a contracted marriage. One that benefited all parties except her.
One good thing has come out of this situation—we’ve been tasked with a good mission. Investigating Paul directly brings us closer to Zoe.
We just gotta break Paul and peel back layers that will expose Felix’s dark truth. Because there has to be one. A guy this rich has to be hiding something, and Paul has answers.
I lock up and hop on my Harley to head toward Cash Pot Palace. At this point, they might as well hand me a loyalty card. This is my third consecutive day entering.
Wrangler and Bullwhip are meeting me there. Walking anywhere together in public at the moment prompts unwanted rumors, and Zoe already has enough on her back.
Up ahead, outside of the casino, stand clusters of guests chatting among themselves. I squint and shield my eyes from the sun. 8:30 AM reads the time on my phone. Paul’s casino opens bright and early at eight.
I speed-walk until I’m outside the doors. Police tape flaps in the wind, crossing over the doors to form an X shape.
“What the fuck?” I end up saying aloud.
“Average day in Vegas,” says some guy next to me.
“What happened?”
“It’s a mystery, like everything else in this goddamn city.” He leaves after that before I have time to question him anymore.
A line of cops stroll by, four abreast, in their sandstone-colored uniform. There’s no sign of blood, which has to be a good sign, although their bland faces scream danger. You know there’s trouble when four poker-faced cops march past you, each wearing radios that fizzle every two seconds. I frown and concentrate on the static voices that speak, but teaching high school kids for years fries your hearing.
“Shit.” Wrangler and Bullwhip approach from behind. “Do we know what happened?”
“We should report back to Grizzly,” says Bullwhip, face in a staring competition with the yellow police tape instructing nobody to cross.
“Or…” I leap forward, rip the tape from the door, and bullet inside.
“HEY!”
Footsteps pelt after me. Briefly, I look over my shoulder and catch one of the four angry cops, chasing after me.
“Sir? This is a crime scene. Please?—”
THUD!
I glance over my shoulder just in time to see Bullwhip ground two of them.
Wrangler takes the third.
Turning back around, I continue my run. It’s easier to navigate without guests swarming the place, although the complicated carpet designs blur my vision and make the run harder than it needs to be. I scan the atmosphere.
They’re fussing over fucking nothing.
“Try outside.” Wrangler catches up to me. “There might be something there.”
Another thump sounds behind us.
I glimpse a gilded mirror, and we run past it to scale how far away the cops are. Bullwhip keeps them off, bare-knuckling them to the ground every time they manage to climb back up. One of them flings an arm around him, but he loosens the lock by kicking them in the groin.
Then he sprints.
“HEY! COME BACK HERE!”
“THIS IS A CRIME SCENE!”
Wrangler kicks open the back door, looks up, and freezes.
My intestines knot together. It’s something bad. His eyes widen in shock, and Wrangler’s a very unfazed guy. The last time something caught his attention like this was when Sheila died so unexpectedly.
Two polished shoes dangle midair.
I raise my head and see a pair of legs in suit pants.
A shirt ruined with blood.
And last but not least…
The noose knotted around Paul’s neck.
Fuck. He’s been there for some time too. Overnight, by the looks of things. His pallid skin blotches this purple-blue color, and it takes all the life out of his face. His eyes are stuck open, holding pain from the moment it happened. His blue lips part from the strain, and the skin around the rope is torn, dried blood coloring the noose a sort of reddish-brown hue. There’s the smell, of course. Lots of things stink, but nothing stops you in your tracks quite like the rancid aroma of human flesh rotting in the morning sun.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
Then a cuff locks around my wrist.
I’m tugged backward.
Cops intercept Wrangler and Bullwhip too. None of us fight. We just stare up at the body, knowing our investigation has reached a dead end.
* * *
A ceiling fan whirls above us in the dark room, generating dry air.
My arms are peppered in goose bumps, so I run a hand over them to keep warm. The cold doesn’t affect me, but something about being under arrest in a police station turns my internal body temperature icy cold.
I sit sandwiched between Bullwhip and Wrangler in a metal chair that has zero cushioning. Already, it digs into my ass. We’ve only been here five minutes.
I tap my shoe against the concrete ground to induce some life back into it.
“Stop that,” hisses Bullwhip.
“I have no feeling in my ass.”
It’s the first time we’ve been reunited since the arrest. All of us were ferried away in different cop cars.
“You didn’t have to fuckin’ punch them, Bully,” says Wrangler. The country accent has a richer twang to it in this echoey interrogation room.
“You’re welcome,” he huffs. “If it wasn’t for me stalling them, we wouldn’t have seen anything. Besides”—Bullwhip turns to me—“you started it by barging in unannounced. A heads-up would’ve been nice.”
“There wasn’t time.”
For Zoe, time doesn’t exist.
Wrangler slouches in his chair. “Looks like we’re back at square one now.”
“I know.” I scratch my head. It hurts from the turn of events. “What are?—?”
The iron door cracks open and two FBI agents walk in.
I hope for the club’s sake Bully didn’t punch them too hard.
Saying nothing, they each take a seat opposite us at the table. Their rolled sleeves expose hairy arms, but ours are hairier. They’re similar ages to us, and both wear unamused expressions on their chubby faces. We might’ve been fine without Bullwhip’s assistance. They would’ve slowed themselves down carrying all of that weight.
One two many Wendy’s deliveries.
“Do you know why you’re here?” one asks.
“Why did Paul commit suicide?” Wrangler counters.
“We ask the questions, thank you, not the other way around,” says baldie on the right.
Charming.
“Answer my colleague’s question. Do you know what you’re doing here today?” says the left guy with the chin dimple.
Bullwhip sits up. “Enlighten us.”
The man turns to Wrangler. “You assaulted an officer.” He turns to Bullwhip. “Several.”
“And we’re sorry about that, but it was just the heat of the moment.” Wrangler fidgets in his seat. “Look, can we go? We’re working.”
“So are we.”
“Are you aware?” questions the second, “how serious of an offence this is?”
“Yes,” says Bullwhip. “And we’re sorry.”
I twiddle my thumbs, unsure how to contribute.
Baldie slips a laptop out of his briefcase and opens the lid. The white screen illuminates the network of fine lines on his face. Poor guy. Looks closer to sixty than fifty. I underestimated his age earlier. His fingers type something into the machine. Then he stops to click a couple times. His eyes peer at me over the top of the device.
“You.” He returns to the screen momentarily as if to check that the details are correct before he speaks them. “Harrison Reeves. You used to work as a literature teacher. Why did you leave?”
“Mental health leave. I was going through a divorce.”
It’s the truth. Some of it…except the midlife crisis part.
“Where are you employed now? Your social security number shows no current record of work.” Eyeing the other two, he types away again, probably to locate their records. He scratches his chin. Looks up at us. “Are none of you currently employed?”
“I’m on vacation,” lies Wrangler. “From Texas.”
“And I’m—” Bullwhip clears his throat. “Currently doing cash-in-hand jobs.”
“What trade?”
“Bike mechanics.”
“None of you are paying taxes. Are you all aware of this?”
Great. Fucking great.
“Yes,” I say. “But that’s because I’m currently seeking employment.”
“And you?” Baldie turns to Bullwhip.
“I’ll sort them out ASAP. I file them myself.”
A silence stretches between us as the two officers tap away on the computer together.
My heart thumps, breath shallow. One wrong word could ruin everything Grizzly has built. None of us can afford to see Venom Vultures taped up in yellow police tape. I took a gamble, and I can’t afford to lose. Even the safety net of returning to teaching is out of the equation now that I have this on record. Wrangler can’t afford to go under either, especially since he’s funding his parents’ retirement. And Bullwhip…I don’t know what the fuck he’ll do since killing is the only thing he excels in.
The door flies open again to reveal three more officers suited in sandstone.
“The meeting is finished. Now, you’ll each be escorted to a cell where you will stay the night.”
Oh, you’re fucking joking.
What about Zoe?
Where is she while all of this is going on?
An officer ushers me up, locks his hands around my wrists, and guides me out of the room. We lead the other two down a gray corridor that houses criminals. Most seem to accept their fate, but one young delinquent in cell number sixty-four screams, “Try a salad for lunch next time you big fat ugly slug.”
Cell eighty-two is home for tonight. Wrangler and Bullwhip disappear into other cells, each a fair distance apart. Great. We can’t even chat.
I perch my ass on the single bed positioned over in the corner. It’s a small cell with a two-inch wide window. Only a sliver of daylight streams in—not enough for me to read the size eleven Times New Roman font text inside of a book that the previous inmate so kindly left behind.
Letting out a groan, I collapse on the bed—which seems to be made of bricks—hoping that Zoe is safe enough to be without us for…God knows how long. Assaulting an officer sure crosses the line of what’s right and wrong, but it’s not like we fucking murdered anyone…
To their knowledge.
I shut my eyes and see those two Oxford shoes dangling midair again. They were freshly polished. He probably gave them a shine that morning because he wanted to die with some dignity. Paul’s always been a dignified guy. Nobody ever saw him wear anything that wasn’t a suit, and the unserious manner paired with the formal attire made him very likable. Some people constantly carry around rain clouds wherever they go, but Paul always seemed to carry the sun.
It would make sense for him to hang himself.
He’s always been a man in control, so maybe he killed himself before Felix and Warren got there first, to deny them the satisfaction.
It must’ve been bad, the dirt Felix and Warren had on him.
Paul was our only tie to Felix. Our only hope to dig and discover whatever was going on between them.
Now, the only thing we’re gonna be digging is his grave.
Oh well. His dead body is still a satisfying middle finger to them both.