remuneration to a public servant in exchange for favors. Your life is just a whole bunch of ugly."
"I'm sorry."
He nodded and said, "That's good, but sorry don't pay my bills."
"What does?"
"Well, since you brought up money, how much is your brother paying you to work the desk at his place?"
I told him.
"What's the matter," he asked, "you guys not close?"
"It's all he can afford to pay me."
"I reckon I can make due with twenty-five percent," Belton said.
"Extortion is a crime, you know. Ever think I might just march my ass down to the state parole board and tell them about this shakedown?"
"A former prison guard who did time for beating up a prisoner, who's been out of the joint one week, whose first PO just happened to die in her company, and who now wants to claim—with no evidence, mind you, besides her own good word—that her new PO tried to extort pennies from her … please excuse me while I shit my pants, Bennett."
I met his stare. What the fuck was there to say?
I nodded.
He smiled. "Well said. From now on, I'm your first stop on payday. Twenty-five percent. Every two weeks. Past that, I'll stay out of your way. That's good news, ain't it?"
"Sure."
"Sure it is." He stood up and walked back to his chair and sat down. "You can go where you want, do what you want, see who you want. And it's only for a few years. I'll write up nice little reports about you, about how well you're doing and how hard you're working, and at the end you'll come out rehabilitated. If you really think about, that's a hell of a deal."
"It's an incredible value," I said. "You should advertise."
He beamed at me. "Hey the jokes are back! Glad to hear it." He motioned at the door. "You can go, darlin'. I think we've reached an understanding."
I stood up, took one last look at his stupid, smiling face, and left.
* * *
I walked out of Belton's office building and an American flag mounted by the doorway slapped me in the face. No one saw it. His building was a four story cinder block in the middle of town, but no one was around. I wasn't sure that Belton had any neighbors in his building because my car was the only one in the parking lot. For that matter, I wasn't even sure Belton had a car himself.
I leaned against the tired old Escort and stared at the empty parking lot like it might have some answers.
It didn't.
I dug out my cell phone and called Nate. I told him I'd be doing things in the city the rest of the day and begged off dinner with the family.
He muttered that it was okay, but when I hung up I got the feeling that he wasn't happy.
* * *
Indian Head Estates was a large trailer park sitting just off the interstate. At the entrance to the park, I passed a five-foot wooden Indian head mounted on concrete. The road wound around a little pond and a sandy playground and split off into a grid of streets. I drove down the estates, passing row after row of mobile homes on streets with names like Redskin, Geronimo and Tomahawk, and it took me a few minutes to figure out that Indian Head Loop was the road that encircled the entire park. Once I had pieced that together, it didn't take me long to find the office/home of the manager. It was the last trailer before a long stretch of woods, and the road itself even stopped, blocked off by a heavy orange construction barricade that read: Do Not Enter. An old Arkansas Razorback flag hung limply by a door with a sign that read: Management.
There was a new black Ford F-150 in the driveway, so it looked as if Management was in. I walked up and knocked on the thin door.
I hadn't heard a television going inside, but I noticed when the sound shut off and someone grumbled and padded across the floor.
The shirtless man who opened up the door to me had skinny arms and a beer gut. Scars covered his bald head like haphazard tattoos. A deep gash split his chin as if someone had once tried to cut him a cleft with a hatchet.
"Yeah?"
"You Evan?"
He stared at me as if I'd insulted him. Then he
"I'm sorry."
He nodded and said, "That's good, but sorry don't pay my bills."
"What does?"
"Well, since you brought up money, how much is your brother paying you to work the desk at his place?"
I told him.
"What's the matter," he asked, "you guys not close?"
"It's all he can afford to pay me."
"I reckon I can make due with twenty-five percent," Belton said.
"Extortion is a crime, you know. Ever think I might just march my ass down to the state parole board and tell them about this shakedown?"
"A former prison guard who did time for beating up a prisoner, who's been out of the joint one week, whose first PO just happened to die in her company, and who now wants to claim—with no evidence, mind you, besides her own good word—that her new PO tried to extort pennies from her … please excuse me while I shit my pants, Bennett."
I met his stare. What the fuck was there to say?
I nodded.
He smiled. "Well said. From now on, I'm your first stop on payday. Twenty-five percent. Every two weeks. Past that, I'll stay out of your way. That's good news, ain't it?"
"Sure."
"Sure it is." He stood up and walked back to his chair and sat down. "You can go where you want, do what you want, see who you want. And it's only for a few years. I'll write up nice little reports about you, about how well you're doing and how hard you're working, and at the end you'll come out rehabilitated. If you really think about, that's a hell of a deal."
"It's an incredible value," I said. "You should advertise."
He beamed at me. "Hey the jokes are back! Glad to hear it." He motioned at the door. "You can go, darlin'. I think we've reached an understanding."
I stood up, took one last look at his stupid, smiling face, and left.
* * *
I walked out of Belton's office building and an American flag mounted by the doorway slapped me in the face. No one saw it. His building was a four story cinder block in the middle of town, but no one was around. I wasn't sure that Belton had any neighbors in his building because my car was the only one in the parking lot. For that matter, I wasn't even sure Belton had a car himself.
I leaned against the tired old Escort and stared at the empty parking lot like it might have some answers.
It didn't.
I dug out my cell phone and called Nate. I told him I'd be doing things in the city the rest of the day and begged off dinner with the family.
He muttered that it was okay, but when I hung up I got the feeling that he wasn't happy.
* * *
Indian Head Estates was a large trailer park sitting just off the interstate. At the entrance to the park, I passed a five-foot wooden Indian head mounted on concrete. The road wound around a little pond and a sandy playground and split off into a grid of streets. I drove down the estates, passing row after row of mobile homes on streets with names like Redskin, Geronimo and Tomahawk, and it took me a few minutes to figure out that Indian Head Loop was the road that encircled the entire park. Once I had pieced that together, it didn't take me long to find the office/home of the manager. It was the last trailer before a long stretch of woods, and the road itself even stopped, blocked off by a heavy orange construction barricade that read: Do Not Enter. An old Arkansas Razorback flag hung limply by a door with a sign that read: Management.
There was a new black Ford F-150 in the driveway, so it looked as if Management was in. I walked up and knocked on the thin door.
I hadn't heard a television going inside, but I noticed when the sound shut off and someone grumbled and padded across the floor.
The shirtless man who opened up the door to me had skinny arms and a beer gut. Scars covered his bald head like haphazard tattoos. A deep gash split his chin as if someone had once tried to cut him a cleft with a hatchet.
"Yeah?"
"You Evan?"
He stared at me as if I'd insulted him. Then he
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