Free Wicked City by Ace Atkins Page A

Ripples of light from the water scattered across them.
    “Ain’t you the fella from the fillin’ station?” Hoyt asked.
    “That’s me.”
    “I know your wife’s daddy. He sure is a pistol.”
    Matthews was dressed in a blue pin-striped suit, white shirt, and no tie. He waited, his legs crossed and posture erect.
    Hoyt got the stogie going and pulled an ashtray close. He smiled and grunted. That man really liked to grunt.
    “Now, John,” Hoyt said. “I want you to know right off that I didn’t have a thing to do with what happened. I didn’t want another day to pass ’fore I said that to you.”
    John nodded. The filter of the pool made whirring sounds in the silence. Matthews just looked into the face of John Patterson, meeting his eyes, and nodded along with Hoyt’s words.
    Hoyt had grown fatter since I’d seen him last, and his nose had started to swell in that big Irish way. He lifted up a Scotch filled with melting ice and took a sip and alternated it with the cigar. He’d always reminded me of W. C. Fields with a Southern accent.
    “Can’t I please get y’all somethin’? I know it’s been a heck of a day. But I’ve heard what all the newsmen have been saying about me and all those stories about me and Jimmie and the Bug and the nightclubs and all that ancient history. I never suspected you’d pay attention to it.”
    John looked up at him, his jaw tight. “Why wouldn’t I?”
    “Well,” Hoyt said, and grinned and then closed his mouth. His face flushed red. “Well, I mean, you know how things were between me and your daddy.” Hoyt turned to me. “Hey, you. You mind goin’ somewhere else while we talk?”
    “I do,” I said.
    “He stays,” John said.
    Hoyt just nodded. He pulled a wet napkin from under his drink and ran it over his face and fattened neck.
    “I know you did everything in your power to make sure that my father lost the election and the runoff,” John said. “I know you bought off every vote you could in Russell County and sent your men all across Alabama to do the same. How many tens of thousands of dirty money did you put out there?”
    “And we both know that Monday he was set to tell the grand jury in Birmingham about every dirty penny,” I said. “He had folks who could prove it.”
    “Boy, why don’t you go and scrape the grease from your fingernails?”
    I smiled at Hoyt. “And to think I got all dressed up to impress you.”
    Hoyt grunted. He smiled at me. It was like watching a bulldog pant.
    The back of the ranch house was mostly windows, and, inside, Hoyt’s wife, Josephine, glided through the family room in a pink satin robe with feathered ruffles. She was blond and built like a brick house, a damn-near twin for Betty Grable, and when she appeared outside and came toward us it was brisk and upright on three-inch high heels that I soon noticed were made from a cheetah print.
    A little dog yapped after her, a poodle trimmed in the traditional way and dyed a bright pink. (I knew she also liked to dye the dog blue on occasion.) “Can I offer you men a cocktail? We have some fresh cocktail shrimp.”
    John didn’t even acknowledge her, still studying his eyes on Hoyt Shepherd and Matthews, and they exchanged glances.
    “I don’t think these boys are stayin’, Josie.”
    I thanked Hoyt’s wife and she smiled and winked politely and moved away, her shapely backside switching and swaying like a pendulum.
    “You believe that woman married me for my looks?” Hoyt asked, watching her walk, and laughed till he coughed. He swigged down some more Scotch.
    “Are we finished?” John asked.
    “Just listen,” Hoyt said and reached out and touched John’s hand. “I may be a real sonofabitch and sometimes what many people may call a fool. And maybe I didn’t want your daddy becoming attorney general. I mean, can you blame me?”
    “Yes,” John said.
    I remained quiet and finished out a cigarette and crushed it under the heel of my shoe. I leaned forward,