Mama Gets Trashed

“Well, I’m not sure this will help, but guess what I found out about our friend, the mayor.’’

“What?’’ Sal, Marty, and I asked at once.

Mama put a pout in her voice. “She said ‘guess.’”

I felt my eyes roll. “It’s not a game, Mama. It’s a figure of speech. Go on, Elaine.’’

“He’s into rough sex; and I know where he indulges his fantasies.’’

forty-six

The insistent blare of a car horn made me jump. The protestors in front of the police department stirred. Henry piloted his Lexus through the jostling throng. In the passenger seat, a white-faced Ke

A whisper grew into a wave of sound.

“That’s him!’’ someone cried.

“It’s Ke

Mama climbed on top of the picnic table. “Y’all should be ashamed of yourselves!’’ She was using her Sunday school teacher’s voice, and it carried across the crowd. “A lot of you have known Ke

Some members of the crowd looked embarrassed, eyes on the ground. Others, more bold, shouted Mama down: “Justice for Camilla!’’ one yelled.

Another voice rang: “No mercy for murderers!’’

The hissing began as Ke

“Killer!’’ The blonde’s veins popped on her scrawny neck; her voice throbbed with hatred.

The TV camera caught everything.

I was just glad Maddie wasn’t there. Her husband was a pitiful sight, the very picture of shame and humiliation. Was it seeing friends and neighbors taunt and belittle him? Or, God forbid, was it guilt over what he had in fact done?

Henry and Ke

“Is Ke

“No comment.’’

The reporter aimed the mic again, poking it at Carlos’s chin. “Are you arresting him?’’

Carlos answered the question with a nonverbal glare. He took Ke

I knew exactly what footage would lead the evening newscast: My sister’s husband, being escorted through a jeering crowd by a grim-faced homicide detective. His defense attorney was plastered to his side—just like every other guilty S.O.B. hauled in to perform a perp walk for TV.

When the doors closed behind the three men, I glanced at Sal. He shook his head. “That don’t look good for Ke

“No kidding,’’ I said. “And I’m fixin’ to do something about that.’’

_____

Marty and I stood outside the NoTell Motel, following up on the tip from Elaine Naiman. Someone in her book club reported a mayor sighting, along with a rumor about sexual bondage, at the sleazy hotel. My sister and I decided to see if we could confirm that.

The sun was dropping in the sky. The motel’s neon sign buzzed and popped, lighting up for the evening. Or, at least some of it was. With its burned-out letters, the sign read NoT M el. Only a few vehicles besides Marty’s were parked in the lot. Beaten and battered, they all had a lot of miles on them—not unlike the beds at the NoTell.

A cluster of aluminum lawn chairs sat empty on the pool deck, their plastic webbing frayed and gaping. Cracks and weeds cut trails across the dirty gray of the deck. A couple of feet of rainwater had collected at the bottom of the unused pool—green, scummy, and harboring who knows what kind of nasty creatures. Not unlike the motel itself.

Marty slapped at a mosquito on her neck. “Lovely place.’’

“I don’t think anyone comes here for the amenities.’’ A roach scurried onto the deck from a wadded fast-food bag. I squashed it under my boot. “You ready?’’

“As I’ll ever be. Hey, Mace, when we talk to the hotel clerk, could I be ‘bad cop’ for a change?’’

My sweet sister putting the screws to someone to extract info? “Sure,’’ I said. “Knock yourself out.’’

The front door stuck when we tried to enter the lobby. Heavy rains and humidity had swollen the old wood. I gave it a kick. It inched open, making a horror-film creak. Small and dim, the lobby looked like it was lit with a single twenty-watt bulb. It stank of stale cigarettes and fried food.

An immensely fat man sat behind the counter, watching a game show on TV. He slurped from a sixty-four-ounce convenience store soda in a superhero cup. It looked like a small keg in his hand, which was boyish and surprisingly delicate. His stained T-shirt, ripped at the neck, failed to cover the bottom third of his substantial gut.

The TV switched to a commercial, and he looked up at us. “Well, two beautiful ladies. Don’t see that too much here. Y’all can get a room for an hour; or pay the half-day rate and have yourselves a nice, long session of fun.’’

I realized he thought we were a couple. Marty must have caught on at the same moment, because her face turned as red as a cherry tomato. So much for her playing the tough one.

“We don’t need a room,’’ I said. “We’re just looking for a friend of ours. Big guy. Drives a dark sedan with campaign bumper stickers.’’

The clerk gave me a sly smile. His nametag said Timothy. “You mean His Honor, our mayor?’’

Well, that was easy.

“A police detective has already been here. I told him all about the mayor.’’

Marty and I exchanged glances. I’m sure my face looked as surprised as hers did.

“Carlos Martinez?’’ she asked.

Timothy riffled through messy stacks of papers and empty take-out containers on the counter. Extracting a business card, he held it at arm’s length and squinted to read it in the dim light. “One and the same,’’ he said. “I’ll tell you what I told him. I almost had a maid quit after the last time the mayor rented a room here with a lady friend.’’

“Was his friend Camilla Law, the woman who was murdered?’’ I asked.

“Couldn’t tell. When I saw the lady, she was carrying a whip and wearing nothing but black stockings with garters and some kind of hood. I couldn’t see her face, not that I was looking there.’’

He leered, showing a mouthful of decayed and broken teeth. Must be all that soda.

“How did you come to see her?’’ Marty asked.

“Another guest complained to the maid about the racket they were making in that room.’’

“Do you get many complaints like that?’’ she asked.

“Not usually. Our guests tend to be … uhmm … tolerant.” He took a long swallow from his bucket o’ beverage. “That night, though, there was the sound of screaming and furniture banging. I think the other guest was scared someone was getting murdered.’’

That word seemed to jolt both Marty and me. The clerk clarified. “Nobody was. They were into role-playing, not bloodshed.’’ He sucked on his straw; drew in air. Pulling a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew from under his counter, he refilled the empty plastic cup. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, I saw the superhero was the Hulk.

“Anyway, the maid went up and knocked at the door. His Honor yelled ‘C’mon in.’ She did, and got an eyeful. There he was, spread eagled on the bed. He was naked as a baby, except for a dog collar around his neck. Black fur handcuffs held his wrists at the headboard. His ankles were trussed up with black leather straps, tied to the footboard.’’