It was almost eleven and many of the trailers were dark. Occasionally, I could see the blue-gray flicker of a TV set. I found the Chevrolet, hood warm, the engine still ticking, parked beside a dark green battered trailer with a torn awning and half the aluminum skirting ripped away. From inside, I could hear the dull thump of rock and roll music being played too loudly in too small a space.
The trailer windows were ovals of hot yellow light, positioned about a foot higher than eye level. I edged around to the right-hand side, easing in as close as I could, checking the area to see if any of the neighbors had spotted me. The trailer next door had a FOR RENT sign taped to the siding, and the one across the lane had the curtains pulled. I turned back to the window and got up on tiptoe, peering in. The window was opened slightly and the air seeping out was hot and smelled of fried onions. The curtains consisted of old cotton dish towels, with a brass rod threaded through one end, hanging crookedly enough to provide a clear view of Billy Polo and the woman he was talking to. They were both seated at a flop-down table in the galley, drinking beer, mouths working, words inaudible in the thumping din of music. The interior of the trailer was a depressing collage of cheap paneled walls, dirty dishes, junk, torn upholstery, newspapers, and canned goods stacked on counter tops. A bumper sticker pasted above the front door said, I’VE BEEN TO ALL 48 STATES!
There was a small black-and-white television set perched on a cardboard box, tuned to what looked like the tag end of a prime-time private-eye show. The action was speeding up. A car careened out of control, flipping end over end before it went off a cliff, exploding in midair. The picture cut to two men in an office, one talking on the phone. Neither Billy nor his companion seemed to be watching and the music must have made it impossible for them to hear the dialogue anyway.
I could feel a cramp forming in my right calf. I cast about for something to stand on to ease the strain. The yard next door was a jungle of overgrown shrubs, the parking space choked with discards. There was a set of detached wooden steps tucked up under the trailer door. I blundered through the bushes, my jeans and boots getting drenched in the process. I was counting on the thunder of music to cover the sound of my labors as I hefted the box steps, tramped back through the shrubs, and set the steps under the window.
Cautiously, I mounted, peering in again. Billy Polo had a surprisingly boyish face for a man who’d lived his thirty years as a thug. His hair was dark, a curly mass standing out around his face. His nose was small, his mouth generous, and he had a dimple in his chin that looked like a puncture wound. He wasn’t a big man, but he had a wiry musculature that suggested strength. There was something manic about him, a hint of tension in his gestures. His eyes were restless and he tended to stare off to one side when he spoke, as if direct eye contact made him anxious.
The woman was in her early twenties, with a wide mouth, strong chin, and a pug nose that looked as if it was made of putty. She wore no makeup and her fair hair was dense, a series of tight ripples that she wore shoulder length, brittle and illcut. Her skin was very pale, mottled with freckles. She was wearing a man’s oversized silk bathrobe and apparently nursing a cold.
She kept a wad of Kleenex in her pocket which she honked into from time to time. She was so close to me I could see the chapping where the frequent blowing had reddened her nose and upper lip. I wondered if she was an old girlfriend of Billy’s. There was no overt sexuality in the way they related to one another, but there was a curious intimacy. An old love affair gone flat perhaps.
The continuous rock and roll music was driving me nuts. I was never going to hear what they were saying with that stuff booming out all over the place. I got down off the steps and went around the other side of the trailer to the front door. The window to the right was wide open, though the curtains were pinned shut.
I waited until there was a brief pause between cuts. I took a deep breath and pounded on the door. “Hey! Could you cut the goddamn noise,” I yelled. “We’re tryin’ to get some sleep over here!”
From inside the trailer, the woman hollered, “Sorry!” The music ceased abruptly and I went back around to the other side to see how much of their conversation I could pick up.
The quiet was divine. The volume on the television set must have been turned all the way down, because the string of commercials that now appeared was antic with silence and I could actually catch snatches of what they were saying, though they mumbled unmercifully.
“… course, she’s going to say that. What did you expect?” she said.
“I don’t like the pressure. I don’t like havin’ her on my back …” He said something else I couldn’t make out.
“What difference does it make? Nobody forced her. Shit, she’s free, white, and twenty-one … the point is … getting into … just so she doesn’t think … the whole thing, right?”
Her voice had dropped and when Billy answered, he had one hand across his mouth so I couldn’t understand him at all. He was only half attentive anyway, talking to her with his gaze straying to the television picture. It must have been 11:00 because the local news came on. There was the usual lead-in, a long shot of the news desk with two male newscasters, one black, one white, like a matched set, sitting there in suits. Both looked properly solemn. The camera cut to a head shot of the black man. A photograph of John Daggett appeared briefly behind him. There was a quick shot of the beach. It took me a moment to realize that it must have been the spot where Daggett’s body had been found. In the background, I could see the mouth of the harbor and the dredge.
Billy jerked upright, grabbing the woman’s arm. She swiveled around to see what he was pointing to. The announcer talked on, smoothly moving the top sheet of paper aside. The camera cut to the co-anchor and the picture shifted to a still shot of a local waste disposal site.
Billy and the woman traded a long, anxious look. Billy started cracking his knuckles. “Christ!”
The woman snatched up the paper and tossed it at him. “I told you it was him the minute I read some bum washed up on the beach. Goddamn it, Billy! Everything with you comes down to the same old bullshit. You think you’re so smart. You got all the angles covered. Oh sure. Turns out you don’t even know what you’re talking about!”
“They don’t even know we knew him. How would they know that?”
She gave him a scornful look, exasperated that he’d try to defend himself. “Give the cops some credit! They probably identified him by his fingerprints, right? So they know he was up in San Luis. It’s not going to take a genius to figure out you were up there with him. Next thing we know somebody’s coming around knocking at the door. ‘When’d you last see this guy?’ Shit like that.”
He got up abruptly. He crossed to a kitchen cabinet and opened it. “You got any Black Jack?”
“No, I don’t have any Black Jack. You drank it all last night.”
“Get some clothes on. Let’s go over to the Hub.”
“Billy, I’ve got a cold! I’m not going out at this hour. You go. Why do you need a drink anyway?”
He reached for his jacket, hunching into it. “You have any cash? All I got on me is a buck.”
“Get a job. Pay your own way. I’m tired of givin’ you money.”
“I said you’d get it back. What are you worried about? Come on, come on,” he said, snapping his fingers impatiently.
She took her time about it, but she did root through her purse, coming up with a crumpled five-dollar bill, which he took without comment.
“Are you crashing here?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet. Probably. Don’t lock up.”
“Well, just keep it down, okay? I feel like hell and I don’t want to be woke up.”
He put his hands on her arms. “Hey,” he said. “Cool it. You worry too much.”
“You know what your problem is? You think all you have to do is say shit like that and it’s all okay. The world doesn’t work that way. It never did.”