The Roundhouse: A Crime of Passion, Part VII

The cool night air whistled past my ears, drying the patina of perspiration on my forehead. Eighth Avenue North was nearly deserted but for a couple of cars that slowed down as we passed them. Whether they paused for the humidity or merely the sight of a man on a yellow bicycle pulling a drunken dog in a child’s trailer, I couldn’t tell. I signalled right with my arm and turned into the Bicentennial Mall.

“The trestle, the trestle. Let’s go see Wally,” Stan called out from behind me.

“No.”

“Balls,” he replied. I heard tin clanging away on the asphalt behind us.

“Goddamn it, Stan.” I leaned hard to the left and turned the bike around. A few rotations of the pedals later I stopped to pick up an empty Bud can and put it in the saddle bag under my seat.

‘Ya’ll need somethin’ tonight?” From across a manicured lawn, a skeletal figure clad in a drooping plaid cowboy shirt and a grimy Nashville Predators cap emerged from underneath the railroad trestle and approached us with an uneven gait.

“Wally!” Stan hopped out of the his trailer and loped over to the man. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? Puts a spring in your step, as I can see. Yes, indeed,” he licked his chops and looked around. “And not a park ranger in site. So...”

“White or green, son?” asked Wally.

“White, please, white as my mistress the moon...”

I crept up behind Stan and clasped the leash onto his collar.

“Motherfucker,” he said, and sat down on his haunches, deflated.

“Wally,” I said, “great to see you, as always. Sorry, but Stan’s had a long day.”

“Hell, don’t I know it,” laughed Wally, stuffing a tiny vial back into his jeans pocket. “I dun seen ‘em down at Stanky’s three days runnin’.” He crouched down and extended his hand toward Stan. “You been hittin’ it a little hard, son?”

“Away from me, cretin,” said Stan, recoiling.

“Gettin’ grumpy!” said Wally, standing back up, with a little difficulty. “All of ‘em do.” He smiled at me, revealing a lovely set of gums. “How ‘bout them fahrs? They go’n burn all them damn statues down for the damn day’s over.”

“There’s been another one?”

“Hell yeah, don cha’ll watch the tay-vay?”

“Only Law and Order,” sneered Stan.

“They dun burn ‘attun up ahr,” he shook a hand in the direction of Capitol Hill, eyes closed in thought, then snapped his finger and pointed at me. “Andrew Jackson, that’s eet. Jackson’s on fahr!”

We all three turned to look up the incline behind us, at the top of which an impressive orange glow could be seen flickering against the sky.

“Andrew Jackson,” Stan opined. “7th President of the United States. Also a racist slave owner. Sexist, too.”

“Damn sexy,” agreed Wally.

“Nathan Beford Forrest,” I pondered aloud.

“What ah lak ta know is how they settin’ a damn iron statue on fahr. Cain’t burn no metal.”

“Military grade acetone,” I informed him.

“Huh?”

“Jackson thought the world was flat,” said Stan.

“Huh? Ya’ll talkin’ ‘bout that global warmin’ bullsheet? Hell.” Wally hunched over and lit a Benson and Hedges 100.

“We gotta get going, Wally,” I countered. “Take care of yourself.”

“Dave, Stan. Go with God.” He waved and walked back towards the shadows from which he had emerged.


We rode figures-of-eight around the Court of Three Stars, a stone pavilion near the 7th Avenue entrance to the park. A thin layer of fog had settled on the mall, the cooler night air merging with the day’s heat still rising from the grass. The smoky nip of barbecue drifted down from a restaurant in Germantown, just North of us. On the granite, I watched our shadow stretch and collapse, stretch and collapse as we passed through different shades of shadow and light, the tiny rhythm of the bearings in the bicycle crankcase soothing us. In the distance, Andrew Jackson continued to burn, a tiny dot on top of the mountain like a sun about to rise.

“It’s nice to be working again, right?” I knew Stan was still sore about the leash incident. “It feels like a long time. Are you ready to start?”

Silence from behind me.

“You know,” I continued, “we don’t exactly have all night. So far, we’re nowhere on finding Heusenstamm and no one seems to have any idea why she slapped Deaderick. We have to get a gig for One on One by Friday for the plan to work. I don’t know about you, but the last gig I booked was an autograph signing for Trace Adkins at an ice rink ten years ago.”

From a passing car on 7th Avenue someone yelled ‘faggot.’

“I don’t know.” I watched the car peel out onto Jefferson St. “Do we have anything, really?”

“The scent,” said Stan.

“Right,” I agreed. “So why wasn’t it on Liz Workman? She’s Heusenstamm’s roommate. They probably swap clothes.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Stan admonished. “We’re smack in the middle of a goddamn conundrum and I’m about to come down with some serious DT’s.”

I squeezed the brakes and turned to examine him. He looked gray and tired in the wash of the street light.

“Allright, Buddy, just help me to the next step. Then we’ll go home,” I said.

Stan yawned and shivered. I walked back to the trailer, pulled the small blanket around him and zipped the mesh front panel shut. We needed to get home, and sooner than later.

“The next step is Tashian,” Stan croaked. “And his damn dog.”

“Come on, the dog seemed nice,” I said, remounting the bike and starting to pedal. “Energetic, but nice.” I clicked the derailleur up to third gear with my thumb.

“Mark my words,” Stan called, raising his voice to combat the rising volume of the passing air, “that dog is one crazy bitch.”

“And what fun would life be,” I replied, ringing my hand bell a couple of times as I turned left onto 8th Avenue, “without a few crazy bitches to spice things up?”