Heads You Lose - Lisa Lutz [64]
They sat for a moment, watching the game.
“Spoken like a true Raider fan,” Paul said.
Walter laughed. He pointed to the overgrown jasmine in the corner of the yard. “Smell that? Every night the breeze comes right through that thing and I’m just transported.”
“They say the sense of smell bypasses the rational part of the brain,” said Paul.
“It definitely bypasses the part of the brain that would allow me to cut that fucker down.”
“Do you ever hear from Jasmine or . . . Victor?” Paul asked.
“Not since she sent the divorce papers.”
“Where are they now?”
“I try not to give it much thought,” he said, staring at the unruly bush. “I mean, what are the odds?”
“Of what?” Paul asked.
“Her name was Jasmine, and that’s exactly how she smelled.”31
Paul had no answer for that. The Broncos waltzed in for another score.
Paul stopped at the Timberline to collect his thoughts. The place was lively for a Sunday night. He figured the regulars had finally recovered from Terry’s wake and were ready to resume, as Terry would say, “fightin’ that bear.”
Paul was surprised to see Rafael running the pool table. It was unusual for him to be here on a Sunday night. Paul sat in the corner and put his name up on the chalkboard. In fifteen minutes Rafael had dispatched a couple of players, bringing Paul’s turn up.
“Not a bad send-off, huh?” Rafael said, seeming a little tense as they shook hands.
“What’s that?”
“Terry’s party.”
“Yeah. He would have been pleased.”
Raf made two solids on the break, sunk another, and then missed a bank shot. Paul chalked his cue and asked, “So . . . did you know Terry well?”
“Tell you the truth, I only met him a few times. Great dude, though. My buddy Brice was friends with him. Anyway, I kind of figured Terry wouldn’t mind a couple of freeloaders looking for free booze.”
Paul laughed. “You got that right. So what brings you up here on a Sunday night?”
Instead of answering the question, Rafael asked, “What do you think happened to Terry?”
“No idea,” Paul said, losing his smile. “Why?”
Rafael shrugged as he prepared for his next shot. “I haven’t heard from Brice in a couple of weeks. He didn’t show up at Terry’s wake. Normally I’d be cool with it. Now that the whole random-violent-death thing is looking more chronic than acute, I’m not so cool with it.” He sank the shot with unnecessary force.
“Nice shot,” said Paul. “Tough leave, though.”
Rafael gave him a cool look, then missed.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Paul said. “But is a week out of touch really so bizarre for your friend? Mercer isn’t exactly known for its reliable nine-to-five types. I mean, Terry used to disappear all the time.”
“Point taken,” Rafael said. “Brice isn’t the most predictable dude in the world. But we’re tight—he should have at least texted me. All I’m sayin’ is, whoever killed Hart and Terry might know at least something about Brice, too.”
“Who says someone killed Terry?”
“Come on, man.”
“Shit happens,” said Paul. “Some towers just collapse. Some planes just explode. A lot of stuff goes on that we never understand. Seems to me that people don’t really go off the rails until they try to assign meaning to things that are just random.”
“Okay. But once you figure out one death, what if everything else starts making sense? Then maybe we could all stop worrying about where the hammer’s gonna fall next.”
Rafael crouched down to size up the eight ball. “I’m on your side, man,” he said quietly. “Looks like we both lost our best friend.”
Paul was already returning his cue to the rack when the eight clicked into the pocket. He didn’t feel like they were on the same side. His best friend was dead; Rafael’s had just become suspect number one. Or would have, if Paul were investigating.
On the way to his truck, Paul noticed Lito sitting in his car, talking on his cell phone. Paul gave