Chat - Archer Mayor [80]
“She died,” he said simply, taking another deep swallow.
“Must’ve been hard on the boys.”
“Hard on Andy. He was like her. Dan didn’t give a shit. He’s like the first one.”
Joe’s mother had described that death as a suicide. Willy now wondered if even the method had been similar for mother and son. He wasn’t about to ask E. T., but he made a note to check into it.
Given the broad nature of Joe’s assignment to him, Willy was in the comfortable position of considering everything E. T. said to be of potential value. After all, from Andy’s fate in prison to Dan’s side business in drugs, to the car crash that had hospitalized Joe’s family, even to the true story about why Andy had pleaded guilty in the first place, Willy and his colleagues had nothing but unanswered questions.
“How long ago was that?” he asked.
“Ten years.”
“That when Dan started acting up?”
E. T. paused then, staring out at how the ebbing light was casting his pit into shadow, almost like a premonition.
“Nah, Dan was always a bad kid,” he said darkly. “Annie’s death only took off the last set of brakes. What was yours named?” he asked suddenly.
Willy hesitated, at first wondering what he meant, before remembering his own cover story. He then couldn’t resist answering, “Joe.”
“Huh,” his companion grunted.
Willy then realized the fringe benefit of his private joke.
“That mean something?”
“Just a coincidence. I got a guy named Joe causing me problems.”
Willy pushed his advantage, trusting E. T.’s inebriation to have dulled his perceptiveness. “Gunther? The Mackies were telling me there was bad blood there. He’s a cop, right? VSP or something?”
“Yeah—something. Not state police. The new one. Bureau of something. Anyhow, a pain in the ass.”
“I hate cops,” Willy said. “He after you for the business? Is he like the Better Business Bureau?”
E. T. looked at him with widened eyes. “Better Business Bureau? Jesus Fuck, Butch. You don’t get out much, do you? The Better Business Bureau is a bunch of limp dicks. They don’t have cops. I don’t know what this prick is after. He’s just chewin’ on me, is all—fucking dog with a bone.”
Willy took another pull on his bottle of tea, wincing at its bitter taste. E. T.’s response didn’t imply that Joe was much more than a generalized pest. But if Willy kept probing, even Griffis was likely to notice. He decided not to respond, but to do some of his own silent gazing out the window, not that the sunset was allowing for much of a view anymore.
“He’s the one who got Andy in trouble,” Griffis finally said in a low voice, having obviously been mulling over the subject for the past couple of minutes.
“Andy got in trouble?” Willy asked. “I thought he was your good kid.”
“He is,” E. T. answered angrily, throwing his empty can into a corner. “Was,” he added a moment later. “Give me another beer.”
Willy complied without comment.
“Gunther arrested him on a bullshit charge a few years back. Got him sent to prison. That’s why he killed himself.”
“I thought you said it was a woman,” Willy protested.
“You said that,” E. T. countered, knocking off another half can.
“What kind of charge gets you to jail first time out?” Willy asked. “I thought Vermont was super soft there—never putting anybody behind bars.”
“You thought wrong,” Griffis replied.
Willy was starting to worry how much he should pursue this line of inquiry. He’d gotten a fair amount so far. But that was part of the game—how much to pay out versus how much to reel in.
He went for one more try and then figured he’d give it a rest. “I did time once,” he said. “Wasn’t too bad. Three hots and a cot, like they say. Mostly boring. Your kid must’ve been the sensitive type.”
That hit a chord. E. T. swung on him in a rage, spilling beer