“Tomorrow, or the day after, if Holley goes along,” Virgil said.
“All right, I’ll see who I can shake free. Stay in touch. And, Virgil . . . you’re sure about this sex thing?”
“I’m sure.”
“If you’re so sure, why can’t you just file on it, get a search warrant?” Davenport asked.
Virgil said, “That’s a sensitive issue.”
After a moment of silence, Davenport said, “I’ve had a few issues myself. Good luck with that.”
CLAYTON HOLLEY WAS eighty-nine years old and lived in the perfect house—perfect for a minimum-wage farm woman who’d fled her husband. The house was old and very small, white clapboard, two bedrooms, a narrow living room, a kitchen a little larger than the house deserved, a damp basement that smelled of mildew, rusting tools, sour drains, and clothes-dryer exhaust, along with the slightly musty alcoholic odor from five or six barrels of Concord grape and rhubarb wine that Holley usually had cooking in the basement.
Holley came to the front door when Virgil knocked, adjusted his glasses as he looked through the storm door window, then smiled and said in a frog’s croaking voice, “That effin’ Flowers, as I live and die.” He pushed the storm door open. “Come on in. What the hell are you doing here?”
Virgil kicked the snow off his boots and tracked into the living room, and Holley clicked off what looked like a new television and pointed Virgil at one of two purple corduroy La-Z-Boys.
Virgil sat, and said, “You gettin’ any?”
Holley scratched his crotch and said, “Matter of fact—”
“Okay, I don’t want to hear about it,” Virgil said. “How old is she?”
“A nice, crisp sixty-four,” Holley said. “She has an orgasm, the neighbors run for the tornado cellars.”
“Jesus, Clay, she’s a child. You’ve got kids older than she is,” Virgil said.
“Yup. Two of them, anyway,” Holley said. “Why are we talking about my sex life? It’s not all that interesting.”
“I was hoping you were shacked up with somebody so you could go away for a couple days,” Virgil said. “I want to borrow your house. And maybe a few of your friends.”
Holley studied him for a moment, then chuckled. “This is gonna be good, isn’t it?”
HOLLEY LISTENED to the story and said, “Marie lives two houses down, so I could stay there—I stay over every once in a while anyway, when I’m too fucked-out to walk back to the house. I’ll tell you what, that Viagra stuff can be the curse of old age.”
“Man, I really don’t want to hear about it,” Virgil said.
“Anyway, we definitely could set up a surveillance system. We’ve got the Johnsons down on the one corner, and the Johnsons down on the other corner—they’re not related—and the Pells, and the Schooners . . . they’re all retired, they’ve all got cell phones. I can call them up right now, we can meet over at Marie’s. She’s got the biggest house. These folks’ll all go for it.”
“So you’re ready to say ‘yes’?”
“Hell, yes. Goddamn interesting thing you got going here, Virgil,” Holley said. “I’ll call up the TV and give ’em an interview when you bust everybody. Be a hero.”
“You’re welcome to do that—I can even give you a name or two,” Virgil said. “All right. Call your friends. Let’s see if we can do it tomorrow.”
IT ALL WENT BETTER than Virgil had any right to hope, he told Coakley later that evening, when he got back to Homestead.
“His girlfriend slapped together a batch of oatmeal cookies, and we got all of these old folks there, having a party, and told them what we wanted to do, and they were all for it,” Virgil said. They were back in bed, covers up to their chins. “I called Gordon, and she’s up for it. I’ll go up there tomorrow, pick her up, truck her ass over to Hayfield. Davenport got me Shrake and Jenkins, a couple of thugs, perfect for this, and they’re coming down tomorrow. We’ll make the call tomorrow, noon or early afternoon. That’ll give Roland time to talk to other people, get organized, and get up there.”
“I think we’re putting a lot of weight on the idea that they’ll be able to trace the call,” Coakley said.
“Got to,” Virgil said. “They wouldn’t take any other kind of hook. They’ve got to work for it. They’ve all got computers, and it won’t take a genius to work the reverse directory. Clay’s in there, C. Holley. They’ll find it.”