As he attacked the fence his biceps bunched and his chest swelled. Big, slablike muscles but slackened—drained of bulk, like goatskins emptied of wine.
“Give that to me,” said Milo.
Teague ceased punching, stared at the lock, panted, tried once more to fit the key into the hole. His knuckles were bloody, and wild hairs, pale and brittle as tungsten filament, had come loose from the ponytail. The shotgun, lying in the dirt like a felled branch, might’ve made him feel younger, sharper.
Finally, he succeeded in springing the lock, ripped the chain free, and flung it behind him. It clattered in the dirt, and he yanked the gate open, holding his hands out defensively, letting us know he didn’t want to be comforted.
“Inside,” he said, hooking a thumb at his house. “Fuck if I’m going to let any of these bastards see it.” Squinting at me, he stared, and I prepared myself for recognition. But he turned his back on both of us and began marching toward his front door.
We walked along with him.
Milo said, “By the bastards you mean the neighbors?”
Teague grunted.
“Neighbor troubles?” asked Milo.
“Why do you think I came out carrying? If the assholes were human, they’d be neighbors. They’re fucking animals. Couple of months ago they poisoned my Rottweiler. Tossed in meat laced with antifreeze, the damn dog got kidney failure and started shitting green. Since the summer we’ve had three drive-bys. All those shitty apartments crammed with low life. Fucking wetbacks, cholos, gangbangers— I’m not prejudiced, hired plenty of them in my day, for the most part they worked their asses off. But that scum, over there?” His lower jaw shot out and beard hairs bris-tied. “I’m living in a war zone—this used to be a decent neighborhood.”
The shotgun was in reach. Milo got to it first, emptied the weapon, pocketed the shells.
Teague laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not blowing anyone’s head off. Yet.” He stared at me again, looked puzzled, turned away.
“Yet,” said Milo. “That’s not too comforting, sir.”
“It’s not my goddamn job to comfort you.” Teague stopped, placed his hands on his hips, spit into the dirt, resumed walking. The shorts rode lower, and strands of white pubic hair curled above his waistline. I remembered the way he’d dressed to showcase his body. “Your job is to find the low-life motherfucker who killed my daughter and bust his fuckin’ ass.”
“Agreed,” said Milo. “Any suggestions in that regard?”
Teague halted again. “What’re you getting at?”
“Any specific low-life motherfucker in mind?”
“Nah,” said Teague. “I’m just talking logic. . . . How’d they—What did they do to her?”
“She was shot, sir.”
“Bastards. . . . Nah, I can’t tell you a damn thing. Lauren never told me a damn thing.” Wolfish grin. “See, we didn’t relate. She thought I was a piece of shit and told me so whenever she had the opportunity.”
We reached the house. The door was still open. Reaching in, Teague switched on a light. A bare bulb hung from the raw fir ceiling of a twelve -by-twelve living room paneled in rough knotty pine. Red linoleum floors, faded hooked rug, brown-and-black-plaid sofa, coffee table hosting a Budweiser six-pack and five empties. A green tweed La-Z-Boy faced a big-screen TV. Illegal cable converter on top. Very little space to walk. Two openings along the rear wall, one leading to a cramped kitchen, the other exposing a chunky corridor with two doors to the right. The smell of must and lager and salted nuts, but no clutter. The carpet was old but clean, the linoleum rubbed dull. Different tax bracket.
Teague said, “You can sit if you want, I’m staying on my feet.” Standing next to the recliner, he folded his arms across his chest. The scar tissue over his eye was the color of cheap margarine. A hairline scar ran from the corner of the socket down to his jaw. The right eye was filmy. Not inert, but lazier than its mate. Milo and I remained standing. Teague looked us over, tilting his head so his left eye caught a full view of my face. “Do I know you?”
“Alex Delaware. Lauren was my patient—”