Cripple Creek E-Book

James Sallis

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Turner Trilogy
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 212

Beschreibung

In Cypress Grove, James Sallis introduced his compelling new protagonist - Turner. Susannah Yager of The Telegraph said: "Sallis's deceptively easy style disguises the skill with which he has produced a satisfyingly complete portrait of a man's life" - Now Turner is back in Cripple Creek, a novel as atmospheric and eventful as anything Sallis has written. A year or so has passed since the events of Cypress Grove. Ex-policeman, ex-con, former therapist, Turner has become Deputy Sheriff in the small town within driving distance of Memphis, Tennessee, to which he had migrated in hopes of escaping his past. His life is mending as he and Val Bjorn grow closer. And then a young man, arrested on a routine traffic stop with more than $200,000 in his trunk, is forcibly sprung from jail after Sheriff Don Lee is brutally assaulted. Throwing caution aside, Turner goes in pursuit to Memphis, unleashing ghosts he thought he had left behind, and endangering all that matters to him now.

Leseprobe

The second part of James Sallis’ sequence of Turner novels

In Cypress Grove, James Sallis introduced his compelling new protagonist — Turner.

Susannah Yager of The Telegraph said: “Sallis’s deceptively easy style disguises the skill with which he has produced a satisfyingly complete portrait of a man’s life” - Now Turner is back in Cripple Creek, a novel as atmospheric and eventful as anything Sallis has written.

A year or so has passed since the events of Cypress Grove. Ex-policeman, ex-con, former therapist, Turner has become Deputy Sheriff in the small town within driving distance of Memphis, Tennessee, to which he had migrated in hopes of escaping his past. His life is mending as he and Val Bjorn grow closer. And then a young man, arrested on a routine traffic stop with more than $200,000 in his trunk, is forcibly sprung from jail after Sheriff Don Lee is brutally assaulted. Throwing caution aside, Turner goes in pursuit to Memphis, unleashing ghosts he thought he had left behind, and endangering all that matters to him now.

Jim Sallis has published thirteen novels, multiple collections of short stories, essays, and poems, books of musicology, a biography of Chester Himes, and a translation of Raymond Queneau’s novel Saint Glinglin. He has written about books for the L.A. Times, New York Times, and Washington Post, and for some years served as a books columnist for the Boston Globe. In 2007 he received a lifetime achievement award from Bouchercon. In addition to Drive, the six Lew Griffin books are now in development as feature films. Jim teaches novel writing at Phoenix College and plays regularly with his string band, Three-Legged Dog. He stays busy.

SELECTED WORKS BY JAMES SALLIS

Novels Published by No Exit Press

The Long-Legged Fly – Lew Griffin Book One, 1992

Moth – Lew Griffin Book Two, 1993

Black Hornet – Lew Griffin Book Three, 1994

Death Will Have Your Eyes, 1997

Eye of the Cricket – Lew Griffin Book Four, 1997

Bluebottle – Lew Griffin Book Five, 1998

Ghost of a Flea – Lew Griffin Book Six, 2001

Cypress Grove – Turner Trilogy Book One, 2003

Drive, 2005

Cripple Creek – Turner Trilogy Book Two, 2006

Salt River – Turner Trilogy Book Three, 2007

The Killer Is Dying, 2011

Driven, 2012

Other Novels

Renderings

What You Have Left: The Turner Trilogy

Stories

A Few Last Words

Limits of the Sensible World

Time’s Hammers: Collected Stories

A City Equal to my Desire

Poems

Sorrow’s Kitchen

My Tongue In Other Cheeks: Selected Translations

As Editor

Ash of Stars: On the Writing of Samuel R. Delany

Jazz Guitars

The Guitar In Jazz

Other

The Guitar Players

Difficult Lives

Saint Glinglin by Raymond Queneau (translator)

Chester Himes: A Life

A James Sallis Reader

Praise for James Sallis

‘Sallis is an unsung genius of crime writing’ – Independent on Sunday

‘James Sallis is a superb writer’ – Times

‘James Sallis - he’s right up there, one of the best of the best… Sallis, also a poet, is capable of smart phrasing and moments of elegiac energy’ – Ian Rankin, Guardian

‘[A] master of America noir…Sallis creates vivid images in very few words and his taut, pared down prose is distinctive and powerful’ – Sunday Telegraph

‘Sallis’s spare, concrete prose achieves the level of poetry’ – Telegraph

‘Sallis is a wonderful writer, dark, lyrical and compelling’ – Spectator

‘Sallis is a fastidious man, intelligent and widely read. There’s nothing slapdash or merely strategic about his work’ – London Review of Books

‘Unlike those pretenders who play in dark alleys and think they’re tough, James Sallis writes from an authentic noir sensibility, a state of mind that hovers between amoral indifference and profound existential despair’ – New York Times

CRIPPLE CREEK

Turner Trilogy Book Two

JAMES SALLIS

www.noexit.co.uk

Contents

PraiseTitle PageDedicationEpigraphChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-NineChapter ThirtyCopyright

To my brother John and beloved sister Jerry – in memory of our search for food somewhere near where Turner lives

The blood was a-running And I was running too…

— Charlie Poole and the North Carolina Ramblers

Chapter One

I’d been up to Marvell to deliver a prisoner, nothing special, just a guy I stopped for reckless driving who, when I ran his license, came back with a stack of outstandings up that way, and what with having both a taste for solitude and a preference for driving at night and nothing much on the cooker back home, I’d delayed my return. Now I was starved. All the way down County Road 51 I’d been thinking about the salt pork my mom used to fry up for dinner, squirrel with brown gravy, catfish rolled in cornmeal. As I pulled onto Cherry Street for the drag past Jay’s Diner, the drugstore and Manny’s Dollar $tore, A&P, Baptist church and Gulf station, I was remembering an old blues. Guy’s singing about how hungry he is, how he can’t think of anything but food: I heard the voice of a pork chop say, Come unto me and rest.

That pork chop, or its avatar, was whispering in my ear as I nosed into a parking space outside city hall. Don Lee’s pickup and the jeep were there. Our half of the building was lit. Save for forty-watts left on in stores for insurance purposes, these were the only lights on Main Street. I hadn’t, in fact, expected to find the office open. Lot of nights, if one of us is gone or we’ve both worked some event, we leave it unattended. Calls get kicked over to home phones.

Inside, Don Lee sat at the desk in his usual pool of light.

“Anything going on?” I asked.

“Been quiet. Had to break up a beer party with some of the high school kids around eleven.”

“Where’d they get the beer—Jimmy Ray?”

“Where else?”

Jimmy Ray was a retarded man who lived in a garage out back of old Miss Shaugnessy’s. Kids knew he’d buy beer for them if they gave him a dollar or two. We’d asked local stores not to sell to him. Sometimes that worked, sometimes it didn’t.

“You got my message?”

“Yeah, June passed it on. Good trip?”

“Not bad. Didn’t expect to find you here.”

“Wouldn’t be, but we have a guest.” Meaning one of our two holding cells was occupied. This happened seldom enough to merit surprise.

“It’s nothing, really. Around midnight, after I broke up the kids’party, I did a quick swing through town and was heading for home when this red Mustang came barreling past me. Eighty-plus, I figure. So I pull a U. He’s got the dome light on and he’s in there driving with one hand, holding a map in the other, eyes going back and forth from road to map.

“I pull in close and hit the cherry, but it’s like he doesn’t even see it. By this time he’s halfway through town. So I sound the siren—you have any idea when I last used the siren? Surprised I could even find it. Clear its throat more than once but it’s just like with the cherry, he’s not even taking notice. That’s when I go full tilt: cherry, siren, the whole nine yards.

“‘There a problem, Officer?’ he says. I’m probably imagining this, but his growl sounds a lot like the idling Mustang. I ask him to shut his engine off and he does. Hands over license and registration when I ask. ‘Yeah, guess I did blow the limit. Somewhere I have to be—you know?’

“I call it in and State doesn’t have anything on him. I figure I’ll just write a ticket, why take it any further, I mean it’s going to be chump change for someone in his collector’s Mustang, dressed the way he is—right? But when I pass the ticket to him he starts to open the door. ‘Please get back in your car, sir,’ I tell him. But he doesn’t. And now a stream of invective starts up.

“‘There’s no reason for this to go south, sir,’ I tell him. ‘Just get back in your car, please. It’s only a traffic ticket.’

“He takes a step or two towards me. His eyes have the look of someone who’s been awake far longer than nature ever intended. Drugs? I don’t know. Alcohol, definitely—I can smell that. There’s a friendly bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor.

“He takes another step towards me, all the time telling me I don’t know who I’m messing with, and his hands are balled into fists. I tap him behind the knee with my baton. When he goes down, I cuff him”

“And you tell me it’s been quiet.”

“Nothing we haven’t seen a hundred times before.”

“True enough… He get fed?”

Don Lee nodded. “Diner was closed, of course, the grill shut down. Gillie was still there cleaning up. He made some sandwiches, brought them over.”

“And your guy got his phone call?”

“He did.”

“Don’t guess you’d have anything to eat, would you?”

“Matter of fact, I do. A sandwich Patty Ann packed up for me, what? ten, twelve hours ago? Yours if you want it. Patty Ann does the best meatloaf ever.” Patty Ann being the new wife. Lisa, whom he’d married months before I came on the scene, was long gone. Lonnie always said Don Lee at a glance could pick out the one kid in a hundred that threw the cherry bomb in the toilet out at Hudson Field but he couldn’t pick a good woman to save his life. Looked like maybe now he had, though.

Don Lee pulled the sandwich out of our half-size refrigerator and handed it to me, then put on fresh coffee. The sandwich was wrapped in wax paper, slice of sweet pickle nestled between the halves.

“How’s work going on Val’s house?” he asked.

“She’s got three rooms done now. Give that woman a plane, a chisel and a hammer, she can restore anything. Yesterday we started sanding down the floor in one of the back rooms. Got through four or five coats of paint only to find linoleum under that. ‘There’s a floor here somewhere!’ Val shouts, and starts peeling it away. Sometimes it’s like we’re on an archaeological dig, you know? Great sandwich.”

“Always.”

“Eldon Brown’s come by some days to pitch in, says it relaxes him. Always brings his old Gibson. Thing’s beat to hell. He and Val’ll take breaks, sit on the porch playing fiddle tunes and old-time mountain songs.”

Don Lee poured coffee for us both.

“Speaking of which,” I said, “I was sitting out front noticing how this place could use a new coat of paint.”

Don Lee shook his head in mock pity. “Late-night wisdom.”

Early-morning, actually, but he had a point. Beat listening to what the pork chop had to tell me, anyway.

“We’re way past due on servicing the Chariot, too.”

The Chariot was the jeep, which we both used but still thought of as belonging to Lonnie Bates. Lonnie’d been shot a while back, went on medical leave. When the city council came to ask me to take his place I told them they had the wrong man. You fools have the wrong man, was what I said. Graciously enough, they chose to overlook my ready wit and went ahead and appointed Don Lee as acting sheriff. He was a natural—just as I said. I’d never seen a man more cut out for law enforcement. I would agree to serve temporarily, I told city council members, as his deputy. Snag came when Lonnie found he liked his freedom, liked being home with his family, going fishing in the middle of the day if he had a mind to, taking hour-long naps, watching court shows and reruns of Andy Griffith or Bonanza on TV. Now we were a year into the arrangement and temporarily had taken on new meaning.

Headlights lashed the front windows.

“That’ll be Sonny. He was at his mom’s for her birthday earlier. Couldn’t break loose to tow in the Mustang till now.”

We went out to thank Sonny and sign the invoice. Probably he was going to wait a couple or three months for payment. We knew that. He did too. The city council and Mayor Sims forever dragged feet when it came to cutting checks. Just so she’d be able to meet whatever bills had to be paid to keep the city viable, payroll, electric and so on, the city clerk squirreled away money in secret accounts. No one talked about that either, though it was common knowledge.

“Could be a while before you get your fee,” I told him as I passed the clipboard back.

“No problem,” Sonny said. In the year I’d known him I’d never heard him say much of anything else. I just filled up, out front. No problem. Jeep’s pulling to the right, think you can look at it? No problem.

Sonny’s taillights faded as he headed back to the Gulf station to trade the tow truck for his Honda. Don Lee and I stood by the Mustang. Outside lights turned its red a sickly purple.

“You looked it over at the scene, right?” I said.

“Not really. Kind of had my hands full with junior in there. Not like he or the car was going anywhere.”

Don Lee pulled keys out of the pocket of his polyester-cum-khaki shirt.

Inside, whole thing smelling of patchouli aftershave and sweat, there was the half-bottle of Jack Daniel’s, the crumpled map like a poorly erected tent on the passenger seat, an Elmore Leonard paperback with the cover ripped off on the floor, some spare shirts and slacks and a houndstooth sport coat hanging off the

back-seat hook, an overnight bag with toiletries, four or five changes of underwear, a half-dozen pair of identical dark blue socks, a couple of rolled-up neckties.

A nylon sports bag in the trunk held two hundred thousand dollars and change.

Chapter Two

Two days earlier, I’d been sitting on my porch with the dregs of a rabbit stew. Not that I hunted, but my neighbor Nathan did. Nathan had lived in a cabin up here for better than sixty years. Everyone said set foot on his land, expect buckshot, but right after I moved in he showed up with a bottle of homemade. We sat out here sharing it silently, and ever since, every few weeks, Nathan turns up. Always brings a bottle, sometimes a brace of squirrels so freshly killed they still have that earth-and-copper blood smell, a bundle of quail, a duck or rabbit.

I’d grown up with relatives much like Nathan. We’d see them once or twice a year maybe. On a Sunday, pack ourselves into the cream-over-green Dodge with green plastic shades above the windshield and forward of the wing windows, and drive along narrow highwaysthat let onto blacktop roads flanked on either side by cotton fields, bolls white and surprising as popcorn, sometimes a biplane dipping to spew double barrels of insecticide; then down dirt roads to a rutted offload by Madden Bay where pickups and empty boat trailers sat waiting, and where Louis or Monty would wave as he throttled down the outboard coming into shore, finally kill it and, paddle tucked under an armpit, tracing figure eights, ease the boat back to ground.

What freedom the boat gave up then.

Louis or Monty as well, I think.

I never knew quite what to say to them. They were kind men, tried their best to engage my brother and myself, to care about us and take care to show they did, but the simple truth is that they were as uncomfortable with us as with these towns sprung up all about them, this bevy of decision makers, garbage collectors, bills and liens. I suspect that Louis and Monty may have felt a greater kinship with the bass and bream they pulled mouths gaping from the bay than with Thomas or me. Deep at the center of themselves, my uncles longed for outposts, frontiers, forests, and badlands.

Your own penchant for living at the edge, could it have derived from them? my psychiatric training prompted—silent companion there beside me on the porch, though not as silent as I’d have wished. One of many things I had thought to leave behind when I came here.

The stew was delicious. I’d hacked up the rabbit, put it in a Dutch oven to brown with coarse salt and pepper rubbed in, then added a dash of the leftover from one of Nathan’s bottles, carrots and celery and some fresh greens, covered the whole thing, and turned the flame low as I could.

Val had left around midnight. Not only was she uncannily attuned to my need for solitude, she shared that need. We’d been working on her house earlier, came back here afterwards, where I’d set the stew on to simmer as we porched ourselves and sat talking about nothing much at all, clocking the barometer-like fall of whiskey in a bottle of Glenfiddich as the thrum of cicada and locust built towards twilight, then receded. Birds dipped low over the lake, rose against a sky like a basket of abstract fruit: peach, plum, grapefruit pink.

“Third session in court on a custody case,” Val replied when I asked about her day. Legal counsel for the state barracks, she maintained a private practice in family law as well. “Mother’s a member of the Church of the Old God.”

“Some kind of cult?”

“Close enough. Claim to have returned to the church as it began, in biblical times. Think Baptists or Church of Christ in overdrive.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Right… The father’s a teacher. Medieval history at university level.”

“Given the era and perspective, those must be interesting classes.”

“I suspect they are, yes.”

“How old is the girl?”

“I didn’t say it was a girl.”

“My guess.”

“She’s thirteen. Sarah.”

“What does she want?”

Val snagged the bottle, poured another inch and a half of single malt for both of us.

“What do we all want at that age? Everything.”

Dark had fallen. Dead silent now—broken by the call of a frog from down on the lake.

“Smelling good in there.” Val lifted her glass, sighting the moon through it as though the glass were a sextant. Find your position, plot your course. “She’ll wind up with the mother, I suspect.”

“You’re representing the father?”

She nodded. “Even though Sarah’s where my heart lies.”

“Given the circumstances, she must have… what do you call it? a court-appointed advocate, a spokesman?”

“Guardian ad litem, but more a guardian pro forma, I’m afraid, in this case.”

Taking my glass with its dreg of Glenfiddich along, I went in to check on our dinner. It would be better tomorrow, but it was ready now. I pulled out bowls and ladled rabbit stew with barley and thick-cut carrots into them, laid slices of bread atop.

Outside, Val and I sat scooping up steaming spoonfuls and blowing across them.

“It’s a messy system,” Val said after a blistering mouthful, sucking air. “All kinds of slippage built into it.”

“Slippage you can use, though.”

I was remembering Sally Gene, a social worker back in Memphis. The whole thing just kind of grew, Sally Gene told me, this whole system of child protection and the laws supporting it—the way people’ll take a trailer and keep adding on to it, a porch here, a spare room. No real planning. So half of it’s about to fall down around you, none of the doors close, stuff flies in and out of the windows at will. You can use that—but it can also use you. It can use you right up.

“Exactly,” Val said. “And a lot of what I manage to accomplish has more to do with slippage than with law. You’re standing there before a judge, you think you understand the situation, think you know the law and have made a case, but whatever that judge says decides it. Should one man or woman have that much power? Finally you’re just hoping the judge slept well, didn’t get pissed off at his own kids over the breakfast table.”

We ate, then Val, miming a beggar’s plea for alms, held out her bowl. I refilled mine as well and came back onto the porch, screen door banging behind. Immediately Val began dunking the bread, letting it drip.

“Always so dainty. Such manners.”

She stuck out her tongue. I pointed to the corner of my mouth to indicate she had food there. She didn’t.

“So often there’s just no right answer, no solution,” she said. “We always insist there has to be. Need to believe that, I guess.”

Neither of us spoke for a time then. Spooky cry of an owl from a nearby tree.

“You know, this may be the best thing I’ve ever eaten. We should have a moment of silence for the rabbit.”

“Who gave his life…”

“I can’t imagine it was voluntary. Though the image of Mr. Rabbit knocking at Nathan’s back door and offering himself up for the better good is an intriguing one.”

Finished, she set the bowl on the floor beside her chair.

“Sarah’s lost,” she said. “Nothing I can do about it. Life with her mother will warp her incontrovertibly. Her father is barely functional. Dresses in whatever’s to the left in his closet and through the month moves steadily right, has his CDs numbered and plays them in order. Books on his shelves are arranged by size.”

“Maybe she’ll save herself.”

“Maybe. Some of us do, don’t we? It’s just others that we can never save.”

Within the hour I saw Val to her car. Knew she wouldn’t stay but asked anyway. She pulled me close and we stood in silent embrace. That embrace and the warmth of her body, not to mention the silence, seemed answer enough just then to any questions the world might throw me. From the rooftop a barn owl, perhaps the one we’d heard earlier, looked on.

“Fabulous dinner,” she said.

“Fabulous companion.”

“Yes. You are.”

Owl and I watched as the Volvo backed out to begin the long swing around the lake and away. Owl then swiveled his head right around, 180 degrees, like a gun turret. As the sound of Val’s motor racketed off the water, I remembered listening to Lonnie’s Jeep as it came around the lake that first time. I’d put a spray of iris in the trunk where Val kept her briefcase and enjoyed thinking of her finding the flowers there.

Bit of Glenfiddich left in the bottle, meanwhile.

I poured as the owl flew off to be about its business. This Scotch was mine, and I was going to be about it.

I’d been close to two years on the streets when I came awake in a white room, hearing beeps and a soughing as of pumps close by, garbled conversation further away, ringing phones. I tried to sit up and couldn’t. A matronly face appeared above me.

“You’ve been shot, Officer. You’re fine now. But you need to rest.”

Her hand rose to the IV beside me and thumbed a tiny wheel there—as I sank.

When next I came around, a different face loomed above me, peering into my eyes from behind a conical light.

“Feeling better, I hope?”

Male this time, British or Australian accent.

Next he moved to the foot of my bed, prodded at my feet. Checking for pulses, as I later learned. He made some notations on a clipboard, set it aside, and reached towards the IV.

I grabbed hold of his hand, shook my head.

“Doctor’s orders,” he said.

“The doctor’s here?”

“Not at the moment, mate.”

“He’s not, and we are. But he’s still making decisions for both of us?”

“You’re refusing medication?”

“Do I need it?”

“You have to tell me.”

“That I refuse?”

“Yes. So I can chart it.”

“Okay, I refuse medication.”

“Right you are, then.” He picked up the clipboard, made another notation. “Surgeons here like to keep their patients snowed the first twenty-four to thirty-six hours. Some of the nurses question that, and rightly so. But who are we?”

“Besides the ones at bedside going through this shit with us, you mean.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Came in around six, p.m. that is, not long before my shift started. That’s to intensive care, mind you. You were in OR before, I’d guess an hour or so, started off in ER. They wouldn’t have kept you down there long with a GSW, you being police and all.”

“What’s your name?”

“Ion.”

Dawn nibbled at the window.

“Do you know what happened to me, Ion?”

“Shot on duty’s what I got at report, just back from OR, standard ICU orders, no complications. Always anxious to get home to her young husband, Billie is.

Hold on a sec. I’ll get the chart, we can sort this out.” He was back in moments. Phones rang incessantly at the nurse’s station outside my door. There must have been an elevator shaft close by. I kept hearing the deep-throated whine of the elevator’s voyage, the thunk of it coming into port, the shift in hallway sounds when the doors opened.

Ion pulled a molded plastic visitor’s chair up beside the bed, went rummaging through the chart.

“Looks as though you responded to a domestic dispute