Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [162]
He watched Benny shove his shirtsleeves up over his veiny forearms, not bothering to fold or roll them, revealing one of those legendary scars. It intersected a tattoo, a Polynesian dancer who now had a jagged red line across her abdomen as if she had been sliced in half. Benny could still make the dancer dance, flexing his arm and sending the lower half of her into a slow, sexy sway while the other half—the top half—froze in place, disconnected. The tattoo fascinated Del, intriguing and repulsing him at the same time.
Now his partner climbed into the armored truck’s passenger seat, concentrating on negotiating the narrow steps up into the cab. The man moved slower than usual this morning, and Del immediately knew his partner had another hangover. He swung up into the driver’s seat, buckling himself in and pretending, once again, not to notice.
“Who’d you say this asshole is?” Benny asked, while he twisted his thermos lid, the short stubby fingers desperate to get at the coffee. Del wanted to tell him the caffeine would only compound his problem, but after four short weeks on the job, he knew better than to try to tell Benny Zeeks anything.
“We’re taking Brice and Webber’s run today.”
“What the hell for?”
“Webber’s got the flu and Brice broke his hand last night.”
“How the fuck do you break a hand?”
“All I heard was that he broke it. I don’t know how. Look, I thought you hated the monotony of our regular route. Plus, all the traffic just to get to the courthouse.”
“Yeah, well, there better not be more paperwork,” Benny shifted restlessly as if anticipating the dreaded change in his routine. “And if this is Brice and Webber’s run, that means this asshole’s headed up to Glades, right? Puttin’ him in close custody until his fucking hearing. Means he’s some big-time fuckup they don’t want down here in our wussy detention lockup.”
“Hector said the guy’s name is Albert Stucky. Said he’s not such a bad guy, pretty intelligent and friendly. Hector says he’s even accepted Jesus Christ as his savior.”
Del could feel Benny scowling at him. He turned the key in the ignition and let the truck vibrate, then rumble to a slow start while he braced himself for Benny’s sarcasm. He turned the air-conditioning on, blasting them with hot air. Benny reached over and punched it off.
“Give the engine some time, first. We don’t need that goddamn hot air in our faces.”
Del felt his face grow red. He wondered if there would ever be anything he could do to win the respect of his partner. He ignored his simmering anger and rolled down the window. He pulled out the travel log and jotted down the truck’s odometer and gas tank readings, letting the routine calm him.
“Wait a minute,” Benny said. “Albert Stucky? I’ve been reading about this guy in the Miami Herald. Feebies nicknamed him The Collector.”
“Feebies?”
“Yeah, FBI. Jesus, kid, don’t you know anything?”
This time Del could feel the prickle of red at his ears. He turned his head and pretended to be checking the side mirror.
“This Stucky guy,” Benny continued, “he carved up and slaughtered three or four women, and not just here in Florida. If he’s the guy I’m thinking of, he’s one badass motherfucker. And if he’s claiming he’s found Jesus Christ, you can bet it’s because he wants to save his sorry ass from being fried by Old Sparky.”
“People can change. Don’t you believe people can change?” Del glanced at Benny. The older man’s brow was beaded with sweat and the bloodshot eyes glared at him.
“Jesus, kid. I bet you still believe in Santa Claus, too.” Benny shook his head. “They don’t send guys to wait for their trial in close custody because they think he’s found Jesus-fucking-Christ.”
Benny turned to stare out the window and sip his coffee. In doing so, he missed Del wince again. He couldn’t help it. Twenty-two years with a daddy for a preacher made it an instant reaction, like scratching an itch. Sometimes he did it without even knowing.
Del slipped the travel log into the side pocket and shifted the truck into gear.