Rules of Evidence by Jay Brandon

Author:Jay Brandon [Brandon, Jay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: elsambeth publishing
Published: 2016-05-15T22:00:00+00:00

“See this scar right here?” The black man indicated a tiny triangular depression on his cheekbone. “Almost put my eye out. ’Nother half inch I be blind.”

Raymond inspected it like a medical student, like he’d never seen a scar before. “What was that, a ring?”

“Yeah, ring. Big old heavy lump of gold, you know, with ragged edges?”

Raymond nodded and sat back on the couch. The stuffing shifted under his weight and the cushion he was sitting on sank a little too deep. The supporting springs had separated, or a slat had broken. He sat up again, delicately, trying to balance his weight on his thighs, which were pressing down on the wood frame.

He had gotten as far as the living room of the shotgun shack, and hadn’t been offered a tour of the other three rooms. Someone was rustling around in the back. In the living room Raymond had the couch and the man he was interviewing had the rocking chair, the only other piece of furniture. There was little else to see. The only decorations were photographs of people, mostly children, some of them just Polaroid pictures thumbtacked to the walls.

“What did he want?”

“Didn’t want nothin’ far as I could tell. Wanted to beat the shit out of somebody and I was available.”

“Maybe he was dissatisfied with the quality of something you sold him?”

The man didn’t respond. He was probably about Raymond’s age but looked like he could have been in his fifties. He’d said his name was Ali. He wasn’t a client. One of Raymond’s clients had given Raymond Ali’s name and said he had a story. But it was a short story. Raymond had heard it twice already, he’d killed five minutes, he was ready to leave. It was Saturday morning. He’d had trouble deciding whether to wear a suit and look like a lawyer. Instead he’d decided to go casual, look like a brother. He was wearing old corduroys and his “It’s a black thing, you wouldn’t understand” T-shirt, which had been a mistake. In this setting it made him feel like Gene Wilder trying to be black. The man he was interviewing wore torn jeans, no shoes, and a hacked-off sweatshirt that said “Newport refreshes.” Effortless authenticity.

“He didn’t tell you anything? Ask for names, nothing?”

Ali looked up and stroked his chin, as if it were the first time he’d ever considered anyone’s motive for beating him up. After a second he started shaking his head and didn’t stop.

“All right. Just so we’re sure, was this him?” Raymond handed him the photo. It was a poor reproduction of a bad likeness from Stennett’s personnel file, but it was the only picture Raymond had been able to find. Both the newspaper libraries had turned up several articles but no photos. He’d known better than to ask Stennett for a picture of himself.

“Probably him. Got a better picture? Yeah, I think that’s him. Mean bastard, shoulders about like this? Why you asking? Who is he? You gonna sue him?”

Raymond decided to protect Stennett’s cover for the time being.

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