Sarah Jane E-Book

James Sallis

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 230

Beschreibung

A spare, sparkling tour de force about one woman's journey to becoming a cop, by master of noir James Sallis, author of Drive. A spare, sparkling tour de force about one woman's journey to becoming a cop. Sarah Jane Pullman is a good cop with a complicated past. From her small-town chicken-farming roots through her runaway adolescence, court-ordered Army stint, ill-advised marriage and years slinging scrambled eggs over greasy spoon griddles, Sarah Jane unfolds her life story, a parable about memory, atonement, and finding shape in chaos. Her life takes an unexpected turn when she finds herself named the de facto sheriff of a rural town, investigating the mysterious disappearance of her predecessor - and the even more mysterious realities of the life he was hiding from his own colleagues and closest friends. In the tradition of James Crumley's The Last Good Kiss and Ivy Pochoda's Wonder Valley, this kaleidoscopic character study sparkles in every dark and bright detail - a virtuoso work by a master of both the noir and the tender aspects of human nature.

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CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR JAMES SALLIS

‘Wry… Powerful… A rich tapestry of social unrest and vividly evoked characters and settings…’ – New York Times

‘Allusive and stylish, this stark metaphysical landscape will leave a resounding impression’ – Guardian

‘Poetic storytelling of the highest quality, entrancing and yet utterly unexpected’ – Daily Mail

‘Sallis creates vivid images in very few words and his taut, pared down prose is distinctive and powerful’ – Sunday Telegraph

‘Sallis’ voice is unique among mystery writers, and this novel, like previous ones in the series, is unforgettable’ –Publishers Weekly

‘Fast-moving, elliptical, and like a jazz trumpet solo, has a plaintive note of melancholy woven through it’ – Washington Post Book World

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

‘James Sallis is a superb writer’ – Times

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

To my students,

who help me remember

why this is so important

…from that day forward she lived

happily ever after. Except for the dying

at the end. And the heartbreak in between.

Lucius Shepard

Memory is a hunting horn

It dies along the wind

– Apollinaire

Chapter One

My name is Pretty, but I’m not. Haven’t been, won’t be. And that’s not really my name, either, just what Daddy calls me. Beauty’s only skin deep, he used to say, so when I was six I scratched my arm open looking for it. Scar’s still there. And I guess it’s like everyone saying if you dig deep enough you’ll find China. All I got from that was blisters.

My real name is Sarah Jane Pullman. Kids at school call me Squeaky. At church I’m mostly S.J. or (as Daddy’s girl, a real yuck for the old guys in their shiny-butt suits standing by the Sunday School door having a cigarette) I’m Junior. Seems like everyone I know calls me something different.

I wrote all the above in a diary when I was seven. It wasn’t a real diary, it was a spiral-bound notebook, the kind you got for school, with a daisy-yellow cover that said Southern Paper and wide-spaced lines. For security I kept a paperclip on the pages in a changing pattern, how many pages got clipped together, where on the page. Who I thought might want to sneak in and read what a seven-year-old wrote about her life, I can’t now imagine.

Back then we were raising chickens, six thousand of them at a time in long buildings like army barracks, this the most recent of money-making gambits that included selling dirt from the hills behind the house, building backyard barbeque pits for people, and doing lawn-mower repair. We’d pull sweet little chirpy chicks out of corrugated boxes, then months later wade in among terrified chickens, snag them by their legs, and cram them into cages to get stacked on trucks and hauled away. You had to move fast or they’d pile up in corners of the houses and smother.

Not that my parents were lacking. They worked their butts off, holding down regular jobs then coming home to this. Loading and unloading fifty-pound sacks of food, turning the sawdust litter daily, scooping and replacing it on schedule, making sure there was water and that the gas heaters in the brooders were good, jets clear, gas low and steady, no leaks. But there wasn’t much money to be had in the town and what money there was, most of it flowed from and went back, having grown like the chicks, to the Howes or the Sandersons.

I grew up in a town called Selmer, down where Tennessee and Alabama get together and kind of become their own place, in a house that spent the first sixteen years of my life getting ready to slide down the hill, which it did right after I left. Daddy moved into a trailer then and never much left it so as you’d notice. I don’t want to say much about my marriage to Bullhead years later and all that. More scars.

But I didn’t do all those things they say I did. Well, not all of them anyway.

Mom wasn’t around much after I got to be ten. Nobody talked about it. She’d be gone, for weeks, months, then one morning walk out of the big bedroom and be around a while, moving here to there in the house like a stray piece of furniture we were trying to find a place for.

Once she left in the middle of a movie, didn’t say a thing, just walked away, some stupid comedy about a couple who had a first date and kept not being able to get together for a second one because of weather and cute animals and traffic jams and parades. My brother and I watched the rest of it, right up to the big ending with the guy stage right and her stage left and big open spaces between. Darn and I waited outside for half an hour before begging a city bus driver to let us ride home free, since we didn’t have any money. My brother’s name was Darnell, but everyone called him Darn.

Daddy looked up from mixing a milk punch at the kitchen counter when we came in. ‘Huh. Gone again,’ he said.

I told him she’d be back.

‘I expect she will.’ He took a sip, added more sugar. ‘Life’s not the pizza place, Pretty. It don’t deliver.’

We’re speeding along at 23 mph in that all-forsaken foreign desert and there’s dust over to the right. East or west, who knows. There’s not much by way of landmarks out there, you have to look at the compass. Damned sun’s everywhere, so that’s no help either. Oscar pulls the jeep over to get some idea how far away the dust is, what direction the vehicle’s moving, how fast. Our engine’s idling, but the bucks and jolts and bottom-outs are stamped into our bodies. We still feel them. Oscar doesn’t have sweat stains under his arms and I’m thinking Damn, this man’s not human, he’s some kind of alien. Some creature.

You ever think about having kids, Oscar asks me. Weird shit comes up out there in that deadly sunlight, conversations you’d never have anywhere else. Like the featurelessness around you draws it out. Someday I mean, he says.

I don’t tell him I already had one.

Six hours after I had her, two or three in the morning, they told me they’d done all they could but my baby had died. They brought her for me to hold, wrapped in a pink blanket. Her face was ghostly white. Had she ever really lived? An hour after they left, I was gone.

Nope, I told Oscar.

The shadow of a bird comes across us as it flies above. We watch the shadow move away from us, towards a distant dust devil. The engine pings. Smells hot. Everything smells hot.

Just the way weird shit comes up out there, words can start to get away from you. Sentences won’t hang together, they have holes in them. Verbs drop out, answers don’t fit questions. With losses like that, you have to wonder if what we think, what we’re able to think, gets dialed down too.

Moving away from us, Oscar says. One vehicle, you think?

Looks like.

And we’re moving again.

Oscar with less than an hour left to live.

A year after I left Selmer, on my seventeenth birthday, I was on a bus nosing slowly northward, always within sight of the river, like a boat gone off course and sniffing out some access that had to be just ahead. The family behind me, parents, two kids maybe eight and six, bought box lunches when a vendor came aboard at a rest stop. Fried chicken, biscuits the size of saucers, coleslaw. Familiar food for the long, uncertain voyage to somewhere else. All four had serious body odor; oil sparkled in the man’s and the boy’s hair. Even then I knew this signaled something. I found out what, when the boy walked to the front of the bus and came down row by row, repeating the same phrase, a Slavic language of some sort, I think, at each. Foreigners. So much for familiar food. They were embarked on an adventure as brave and as foolhardy as my own.

I came to ground somewhere past St Louis, in a college town whose population halved whenever school let out, flatland unrolling to every side, geographically so ambiguous that you couldn’t tell if you were still in the South or had tumbled ass-end-up into some not-Kansas. Place had once been a farmhouse, in times long past had got sectioned up for student rentals, then in its slow, sure decline endured torn-out walls till all that remained were two arenas, one for those in bed or sleeping, one for those not. A stream of passers-through came and went about a core of regulars. Gregory called the temporaries mayflies. Some days he was himself a fly, as in fly-in-the-ointment, other days he was our mentor, leader, truthsayer, shaman. He knew shit, right? For sure he did.

We met at the student union where I hung around awaiting the great or small whatever. I figured with that many young people, so many hundreds of in-between lives, stuff had to be happening. Moments would crackle, shadows jump like crickets. Gregory found me in the cafeteria lurking over my second hour-long cup of coffee in the still, blanched afternoon of my fourth day. He took me home, gave me a bologna sandwich and bedded me, threw me back in the water.

I swam.

‘Here’s what it comes down to,’ Gregory said, ‘wandering to find direction. All of it. The more you wander, the more direction you find.’ Rain scattered like birdshot on the roof, rolled hopefully into gutters packed with years of detritus, gave up and bailed. About us we could hear breathing, sighs and farts, whispers of dream-time conversations.

‘There were these guys that used to play in the next building over. Years ago, when I was older than you but not by much. And I’d listen. The drummer’d play three beats, drop out for maybe six, come back in for one, the bass thumped away irrespective of tonal center or time signature or any need to keep time, the guitarist’s hand never once strayed from the tremolo bar, milking it, stretching a single note like an elastic band about to pop over nine, ten almost-measures. What the hell was that? So I kept listening. And after a while I found my way in. It was a music of pure potential, music that never quite came into being, that refused to surrender a single possibility.’

Deep.

Not that he didn’t have hold of something.

Gregory had hold of a lot of things. Some of it real, much of it not. He threw out lines like someone fishing close to shore from a boat. Meanwhile, all kinds of stories about him banged up against one another. He’d killed a woman up in Canada, or almost did, or she’d tried to kill him. He’d been a professor at Antioch and one day walked away from it. He was on the run from government agents. He’d lived in a commune near Portland which he left weeks before an FBI raid. What the stories had in common is that in all of them he fled.

Everybody called the place the Cracker Barn, and it didn’t take long before I had my Cracker Barn best friend. I’d gone to grab some sleep, this was my third or fourth day there, only to find all the mattresses occupied. On one of them near the door a skinny girl with too much eye makeup raised her head like a turtle, body not moving at all, just the head poking up, scootched over and patted the ticking next to her. Why the hell not. She probably wasn’t already talking when I woke up hours later, but it seemed that way. She hailed from Scottsdale, Arizona, ‘where people live right. But I never could make sense of the rule book. Hell, they wouldn’t even give me a copy of the fucking rule book. Like I was supposed to just know.’

What I knew about Arizona came down to cactus and cowboys and hot, which years later turned out to be pretty much it.

Shawna had been at the Barn a long time. The year before, Gregory bought a cake for her twenty-first birthday and they had a party. I found out about that when I asked wasn’t someone looking for her and she said they’d have given up by now. She’d been my age, seventeen, when she left. Told me how she stood at a bus station on 16th Street in Phoenix looking at destinations painted on the side wall, Albuquerque misspelled, whited out for repainting or mostly, then misspelled again.

It was at the Barn that I first felt a life taking shape around me. I learned to cook there, chiefly from self defense since no one else was up for it and what came to the table was often unrecognizable and always horrible. Took some doing to get the hang of it, but I had a resident supply of experimental subjects. Cooking proved to be a skill that put me in good stead, as books say, in later life. I also started to learn to read body language there, figuring out how to look behind what others said and what they thought they were saying, all the shady stuff lurking back there.

Sometimes, especially late at night, Gregory’s stories tumbled over the cliff into true weirdness, like when he started talking about how he invented underclothes.

‘We were just sitting around one day, my friend Hogg and me, in the kitchen as usual with a bottle of something, drinking the heart out of a fine summer afternoon, and it came to me. I sketched them out on the table with a flat carpenter’s pencil. That was a long time ago, a few weeks after we came up with mushrooms, tubas and wasps, or maybe right before. Never thought for a minute the damn things would catch on. Never once saw a penny from any of it.’

We can’t ever know how others see the world, can’t know what may be rattling around in their heads: loose change, grand ideas, resentments, pennies from the fountain, spiffed-up memories, codes and ciphers.

That knowledge was the most important thing I carried away from the Cracker Barn.

‘Had you awareness of your peers’ intent, Miss Pullman?’

No downtown Did you have for this refined lawyer lady with her tailored suit and silk scarf artfully draped. Maybe if I stared real, real hard, the scarf would start to tighten, strangle her slowly. She’d reach up and touch it. Touch it again, harder. Stagger a step or two. Eyes begin to bulge.

And peers rather than friends or crew – another quality touch.

Since I’d left the Cracker Barn, some weird stuff had gone down, weirder still awaiting me, stuff I couldn’t then imagine, just ahead.

Judge Fusco didn’t allow water in his courtroom, they said, because it slowed things down. I sure could have used some.

He had no problem allowing fans, though. They were everywhere. Three overhead, circling sluglike to drag shadows across the ceiling, a table oscillator on the bench beside him. Close by, a box fan tilted to bounce off the back wall like a rock band’s amplifier.

Had I awareness, like she asked? Well, awareness comes in all shapes and sizes, doesn’t it? Knowledge too. But yeah, at some level I must have known. Usually we do.

I started trying to say that and the lawyer stopped me.

‘Yes or no, Miss Pullman?’

I opened my mouth again and Yes came out.

My court-appointed lawyer looked all of sixteen, had hair like pubes, his second chin a stand-in for the other’s scarf, and he did what he could. But from that point it was a slam dunk, right up to Judge Fusco telling me to rise and saying that while some would question his decision, he was old school, and in light of my youth (of which there had not been all that much, light I mean) and my obvious contrition (really?) he was giving me a choice: Go to jail, or join the armed services.

I saluted the old fart, right then and there.

As a child I’d lie in bed at night, in absolute dark out on town’s edge where we lived, wrapped in a dull thrum from the generator substation atop Crow’s Ridge nearby, and try to imagine not being, to envision a world without me. My mind groped forward, small steps at first, then bolder, ever reaching. I’d wake with no idea where I was, with no sense of self, my mind floating free. And when the world in time began to right itself, every connection between mind and body was lost. My arm refused to rise into the darkness before me. My legs wouldn’t move however forcefully I summoned them. In that pitch black there were only sounds: the hammer of my heartbeat, the thrum from Crow’s Ridge, the wordless hum of the radio from my father’s bedroom. The world’s static.

Another thing Daddy did, along with raising chickens, selling off dirt and building brick barbeque pits, was he got called on to fix things from time to time.

Like Jenny Siler’s problem with the King boys. They were two strong, Daniel and Matthew, Bible names, and their father had disappeared when they were kids, buried somewhere in the swamp, everybody said, which served him right as the man had been born no good, and the list a long one as to who might have put him to rest there. Daddy was of the opinion that the boys had been looking for something, maybe for their old man without knowing it, ever since. They did their looking mostly on other people’s property, in other people’s houses, among other people’s possessions.

First, small things started to go missing at Miss Siler’s. Pearl earrings and an insect brooch with jewels that looked real for eyes, her long-dead brother’s silver baby spoon, an engagement ring she wore for six weeks when she was thirty-four. Saturday last, she came out on the back porch and found her dog Simon halfway up the stairs, stiff and cold, tongue swollen out of his mouth. Poisoned. Old Simon had been hit by cars and trucks twice, shot by hunters, lost a leg, and survived it all. Now look at him. When Miss Siler came by with an apple pie baked in a pan that could have been a Civil War relic, Daddy listened to her, nodded, and said he’d see to it.

Why don’t you just call the police? I asked him. In school this was what they said we were supposed to do.

We’re from good hillbilly stock, Pretty. We don’t call police.

Daddy paid the boys a visit. Next day they were gone, never to be seen again in these parts. Daddy said he reckoned they might have finally found their worthless old man.

First you smell the target material. Pulverized stone, cement. Hot metal. Then the reek of the explosive itself comes up under in waves. Ammonia, chlorine. A hard sting to it. Gets in your nose and can’t be dislodged.

We’d been sitting watching the dust devil, trying for a fix on how many and how far. I remember Oscar dropping it in gear and pulling away again. I look over and his mouth is open and there’s no sound. Then I’m on the ground looking sideways at the jeep trying to right things in my head, figure out which of us is upside down, and Oscar’s pulling himself toward me from what looks like half a mile away, barely moving, and when my head clears I see why. He’s holding his leg on with one hand, pulling himself along with the other. Not much left of the leg.

My legs don’t want to work either, but I can crawl, so I do that and get to him. Just like before, his mouth is moving and I don’t hear anything. Then I realize that I don’t hear anything at all, just this roar in my ears.

The leg’s completely gone below the knee, the rest connected only by flaps of skin. I’m thinking how it looks like fringe on old fake-buckskin jackets and holding his hand when he stiffens, blinks, and stops breathing.

Had to be an RPG. So where are they? Why would they fire and not come on in?

Strange how much of your world goes away when you can’t hear. I had a nose full of bleach and nothing in my ears but ocean.

But when you’re down, in the absence of active fire you stay down. Wait it out. Assess. That had been drilled into me.

Lots more bleach and ocean and smoke, then I felt vibrations from the ground behind me. Footfalls. Very close. A foot poked at me, moments later pushed under and kicked up, withdrew. I was breathing as shallowly as possible. Three toes of a bare foot showed at the edge of my vision. Stopped there. Kicked at my head. I could no longer see the foot then, but shortly felt whoever it was tugging hard at my boot. Down there, probably kneeling, trying to get the boot off.

I had to take this chance, along with the chance that there was only the one of them. Sheath knife in hand, I did the quickest sit-up of my life and thrust – blindly, by feel, where I thought he would be. He was small. And sitting, not kneeling. The knife struck him squarely in the throat. Driven by air bursting from a ruptured trachea, blood spray covered me. His face never once changed. His hands were still on my boot as he fell.

He may have been all of twelve or thirteen.

He could be fodder, of course. In the cities they recruited them that young and younger. But it was just as possible that he’d simply come upon an abandoned weapon and taken it. I waited some more and when no one else showed up, I embraced the latter.

Most of a full day went by, they tell me. All of it for me a bleed, a blur: dark leeching out from the bright center, zigzags of blindness, flashes, flares, empty spaces. Firmly believed myself to be heading back to the compound, keeping the sun to my left, but the sun kept moving, the sun was everywhere, right, left, full ahead, behind.

Another patrol came across me by accident. I asked if they were here to take me home. When they asked where’s home, I couldn’t remember. We had chickens, I told them.

Memory of the site, of where we’d been, was gone. I relayed what I could, and a team went back out to where they picked me up. Eventually they found the vehicle, but both bodies were gone. Oscar’s tags turned up in my pocket. I had no memory of taking them.

Chapter Two

Close to a year later, not long before I met up with Bullhead, I’m cooking in this resort that’s fitted out like a hunting lodge, with dark beams where no beams had gone before and walls of untreated wood that make it look like splinters are hanging off but even the splinters are sheathed in clear varnish. It’s mid-July, so hot the sweat lifts off you before you know it’s there. College boy Erik the Red has placed a breakfast order so vast that I have to look out to see if this could really be for a single person. The man’s sitting at the corner table in Erik’s station, alone all right, thumping at the glass to attract the attention of a squirrel outside among the shrubs, mostly sage and rosemary. Suit coat’s too big, regulation white shirt, ambiguously blue tie with some pattern I can’t make out from here. Last time he saw a barber was during cold weather. Something that looks like the love child of a lunchbox and a plastic briefcase in the chair beside him. Man might weigh a hundred-and-ten soaking wet and he’s ordered enough food for three.

I go back through the kitchen doors, throw eggs in the blender for the omelet, grab pancake batter from the cooler, check on the bacon bin to be sure it’s well stocked. ’Ski looks over to tell me he’s got to leave early today for an appointment with the immigration service. ’Ski’s Russian, came in as a student, now his visa’s expired and he’s angling to stay. ‘Why’re you telling me?’ I ask. ‘Go tell Lizard.’ Day-shift manager, Tony Lasardo. ‘I’m telling you because you’re the only one who gives a shit,’ ’Ski says. Man should get immigration points for nailing American vernacular.

Two pm, after lunch rush, my shift’s done, and I decide to swing by the arts and crafts festival downtown near the college. They close off the streets and let them fill with booths of jewelry, paintings, tie-dye clothing, lawn sculptures, blown glass and ceramics, boutique soap and dehydrated soup, chocolate-covered frozen bananas, kitsch and tchotchke of every sort. The streets fill with people too – though, hot as it is, along with the stands of port-a-potties there ought to be hose-down stations.

Squint hard, you can imagine you’re back in the bazaars that were everywhere over in sandworld. Different languages and different smells but the same bustle, same clogs and clots of people, same too much.

Something always follows me home. Soap dish shaped like a bear paw, wall hangers in the form of beckoning fingers, a tiny ceramic wombat. Once in a great while, an item goes immediately into use. Most remain where they touch ground, on table tops, shelves and random surfaces. A few lead immigrant lives, migrating from place to place until at length they fade into the general population.

Speaking of which, population, today at the festival it consists of young women about to fall off the front of their canted shoes, well-groomed guys in plaid shorts and expensive leather slip-ons without socks, prides of fiftyish women in flowery blouses and perfect hair with a million urgent things to say to one another, couples strolling behind trophy dogs, children of every age swarming as though chum has been scattered.

Flip-flops slap out rhythms, voices rise and fall, there’s the scent of perfumes and colognes, grilled meat, burned sugar, hot pavement and sweat, as moments sink into memory vaults of minds and cameras.