Greg Iles 3-Book Thriller Collection: The Quiet Game, Turning Angel, The Devil’s Punchbowl. Greg Iles
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the Spike closes the distance between us and squeezes my right shoulder, his grip like the claw of a wild animal, like he could close his hand a little tighter and snap the bone.
“That’s where I come in. Boy, you lookin’ at dangerous. Ask anybody.”
We do not speak as Ransom drives back towards my parents’ house. I watch the dark streets drift by, lost in memory. I think mostly of the malpractice trial, of Marston’s savage cross-examination of my father just five weeks after his triple coronary bypass surgery. It required a supreme concentration of will on my part not to jump up in the courtroom and attack the man. In all my years as a prosecutor, I never stooped to the tactics Marston used that day.
“You got any FBI contacts?” Ike asks.
“A few. Why?”
“You might not want to use them on this.”
“Why not?”
“Free advice. Take it or leave it.”
“You know Ray Presley worked the Payton case, don’t you?”
Ike glances away from the road long enough to give me a warning look. “Presley was dirty from the day he was born. That motherfucker crazy as a wall-eyed bull and mean as a snake. You don’t talk to him unless I’m somewhere close.”
This does not bode well for my meeting tomorrow morning.
The radio chatters over a low background of static. There’s a domestic-violence call in the southern part of the county, followed by a disturbance at the gangplank of the riverboat casino. As we roll into my parents’ neighborhood, I glance over at Ransom. The man is too old to be doing the job he has.
“Can I ask you a question, Ike?”
He takes a Kool Menthol from his shirt pocket, lights up, and blows a stream of smoke at the windshield.
“How’d you wind up a cop?”
“That’s what college boys ask whores. How’d a girl like you end up here?”
“I remember the stories about you playing ball. Ike the Spike. You were a hero around here.”
He sniffs and takes another drag. “Like the man said, that was my fifteen minutes.”
“You must have played college ball.”
“Oh, yeah, I was the BNOC.”
“What’s that?”
“The Big Nigger On Campus.” His voice is laced with bitterness. “I got a full scholarship to Ohio State, but I went to Jackson State instead. First quarter of the first game, a guy took out my shoulder. Back then doctors couldn’t do shit for that.”
“You lost your scholarship?”
“They gave me my walking papers before I even caught my breath. I was good enough for the army, though. I’d been drafted in early sixty-six, but I had a college deferment. When I lost my scholarship, I couldn’t afford to stay in school. Next thing I knew, I was landing at Tan Son Nhut air base in DaNang.”
I am starting to perceive the twisted road that led Ike Ransom to this job. “I’d like to hear about it sometime.”
Another drag on the Kool. “You one of them war junkies?”
“No.”
“You get off on other people’s pain, though. That’s what writers do, ain’t it? Sell other people’s pain?”
“Some do, I guess.”
“Well, this is your big chance. There’s a heap of fucking pain at the bottom of this story.”
I try to gauge Ransom’s temper, but it’s impossible. “Sam says you’ve got a bad rep. Even with black people.”
He stubs out his cigarette and flips it out the window. “I was the third black cop on the Natchez P.D. Back then a lot of the force was Klan. I didn’t take that job to make no civil rights statement. I’d been an M.P. in Saigon, and that was the only thing I knew how to do. The first time I got called to a black juke, I had to go alone. When I walked in the door, everybody thought it was a big joke. Patting me on the back and laughing, handing me beer. But this big field nigger named Moon had a machete in there. He’d already cut the guy who was dicking his old lady, plus the first nigger who said something about it. He was sitting by hisself at a corner table. I’d seen lots of guys lose it overseas, and this guy was like that. Gone. I told him he had to give up the blade. He wouldn’t do it. When I held out my hand, he jumped up and charged me. I shot him through the throat.”
“Jesus.”
“I didn’t want to waste that brother. But I didn’t have no backup. And that pretty much set the tone for the next twenty years. I had the white department on one side, watching me like a hawk, making sure I was tough enough, and my people on the other, always fucking up, always begging for a break. I cut slack where I could, but goddamn, it seemed like they never learned. It got where I hated to pull a nigger over, knowing he’d be drunk or high. Hated to answer a domestic call. Couple of years of that, I was an outsider. It fucked with me, man. That’s what got me on the bottle.”
“Why didn’t you resign?”
Ransom rolls down his window, hawks and spits. “I didn’t come here to give you no Jerry Springer show.” He pulls something out of his shirt and hands it to me. It’s a card. On it are printed Ransom’s name and rank, and the phone numbers of the sheriff’s department. “My cell phone’s on the back. When you call, don’t use names. I’ll know you, and I’ll pick a place for a meet.”
“You’re the only person not named Payton who seems to want the truth told.”
The radio crackles again, this time about a theft of guns from a hunting camp in Anna’s Bottom. Ike picks up the transmitter and says he’ll respond to the call.
“You gonna do this thing?” he asks, putting the transmitter back in its cradle.
I think of my father and his trouble, of Ray Presley and the gun I hope to have in my possession by tomorrow. “I don’t know yet.”
His eyes flash with dark knowledge. “You know you lying. Get out of my fucking car.”
Before I can close the door, the cruiser screeches off into the night.
My father is waiting in the kitchen with a bowl of melted ice cream in front of him, smoking the last of a cigar in his boxer shorts and a tank T-shirt. Beside the ice cream lies the pistol he wore to the party, a 9mm Beretta.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Are you sure you want to try to buy that gun from Ray? I’d rather throw myself on the mercy of the court than get you involved in this.”
I shake my head. “It’s the only way. You just call Presley in the morning and set up the meeting.”
“You’ll have to go to his trailer. He lives out toward Church Hill, past the Indian mound. It won’t be pretty. He’s a bitter son of a bitch.”
“You say he gets around okay?”
“Yeah. The home-health people see him a good bit. And I hear he’s got a private nurse now. I’ve made a couple of house calls to give him shots for pain. Trailer calls, I should say.”
“Fifteen-mile house calls for Ray Presley?”
“I’ve treated the man for thirty years, Penn. He doesn’t call unless he’s hurting bad. And if Ray says it’s bad, it’s bad.”
This is vintage Tom Cage, making house calls on a man who is blackmailing him, not out of fear but because he feels he should.
“Prostate cancer was about the worst thing for Ray to get,” he reflects. “He’s got the biggest dick I ever saw on a white man, and he likes to brag about it. I think the surgery probably made him