Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) (3 page)

“You know, I don’t even remember. Everyone just called him T. We do miss our Mr. T.”

She started sounding all gushy and nostalgic, so I figured it was time to hang up. Rule #216 in Nicolas Colt’s
Philosophy of Life:
Things twenty years ago weren’t all that goddamn great either. “Did he wear a lot of heavy gold chains around his neck?” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. Thank you very much.”

I clicked a few keys and found Tsirulnopolis’ phone number and address. My lucky day. He was the only person named Tsiulnopolis in the entire state of Florida. I called, and he picked up on the first ring. I heard a television blaring in the background.

“This is T,” he said.

I decided to be myself this time. “My name is Nicholas Colt. I’m a private investigator, and I’m trying to get some information on a man I think you worked with previously. His name is Kent Clark.”

“Is he in trouble again?” Mr. T said.

“Not that I know of. I was hired to find a fifteen-year-old runaway, and he’s her tennis coach. I was just trying to get some information before going to talk with him.”

“Can’t help you. He was never convicted. Anything I say would, in essence, be slander.”

“Never convicted of what? You can tell me the arrest charges. That’s not slander. It’s a matter of public record.”

“Actually, he had it all expunged. You won’t find it in any public records, Mr. Colt.”

“A fifteen-year-old girl is missing,” I said. “With all due respect, that’s serious shit. My client wants to avoid getting the police and the court system involved, but if I need to get a subpoena—”

“I’d like to help you, but—” He sighed. “I’m retired from the school system, Mr. Colt. The only repercussions I fear are from Kent Clark himself. He could sue me if he found out.”

“He won’t find out,” I said. “My word.”

He hesitated. “All right. Mr. Clark was terminated for inappropriate behavior with one of his female students. Criminal charges were filed, but he beat them in court. I’m sure he’ll never teach school again. He got off light if you ask me.”

Bud put his head on my lap, started nudging my elbow with his muzzle. He was telling me to get my ass off the phone and get him something to eat. I ignored him, and he finally went back to the couch.

“What was the ‘inappropriate behavior’?” I said. “Could you
turn your television down a notch?” The Beverly Hillbillies theme song was playing, and I wasn’t in the mood for a story about a man named Jed.

He ignored my request. “One of the girls claimed that he fondled her. Sexually. He denied it, but the girl had a witness so we had to believe her. It’s never easy firing a teacher, Mr. Colt, but I think we did the right thing where Kent Clark was concerned.”

“Sounds like it. Thanks for the info, Mr. T. Hope you’re enjoying retirement.”

Mr. T chuckled. “Well, my golf swing has never been better. I’ll say that.”

Too bad the same can’t be said for your hearing.

We said goodbye and hung up.

I put Kent Clark on my list of probable causes for Brittney’s running away. It was possible he had tried something with her, maybe even succeeded. I’ve seen it happen more than once. A trusted uncle, teacher, priest, whatever, molests a minor and then threatens to do them and their family harm if a word is ever said. It’s a compelling reason for a fifteen-year-old to bolt.

I opened the pantry door and got Bud a Milk-Bone. He crunched it into small pieces on the floor and gobbled the small pieces, hyperfocused on doing everything as quickly as possible. I gave him an old pair of deck shoes a while back. He knows which pair is his. He took one of them to the couch and gnawed on the heel.

I ran a quick check on Dr. Michael Spivey, Brittney’s former foster father. He graduated from the University of Florida in 1982 with a double major, music and biology, and then from the university’s school of medicine in 1985. He was active in the National Foster Parent Association and Big Brothers Big Sisters of America. He’d done a three-year tour in the military after med school. No police record, and no bankruptcies or anything.

I’m always a little suspicious of anyone who’s that clean.

A sign near the parking lot entrance, one of those yellow portable jobs on wheels, said
TONIGHT KING WATERS AND ONE GIA T LEAP.
The
N
in
GIANT
had apparently taken a leap of its own. Lyon’s Den’s board-and-batten exterior had always reminded me of
Little House on the Prairie.

I made it there a few minutes before noon. The nightclub is located just north of the Hallows Cove pier, and many of the tables in the restaurant upstairs have a spectacular view of the St. John’s River. Every December, Juliet and I make it a point to go up there and watch the Christmas parade of boats. Hundreds of mariners deck their vessels with yuletide decorations and twinkling lights, and sail down to St. Augustine. Jules and I talk about getting our own boat someday. Guess I could always weld some pontoons onto the Airstream.

Inside, Neil Young moaned “Harvest Moon” from invisible speakers. An L-shaped mahogany bar stood in front of a large mirrored wall, and beyond a row of bistro tables were the dance floor and a raised stage. The entire area was about the size of a basketball court. Antique signs, rusted farm tools, and other pieces of old junk were tacked to the walls and ceiling Cracker Barrel style.

I sat on a stool. Sonya Shafer slid the wine glass she had been polishing into an overhead rack and slapped a cocktail napkin on the bar in front of me. I’ve known Sonya since she was a little girl. Her daddy and I fish together sometimes. She wore tight black pants and a white tuxedo shirt, and her blonde hair was long and frizzed out like a rock star’s.

“Old Fitz on the rocks?” she said.

“Make it a Carta Blanca this time. And, what the hell, a shot of Quervo Gold. Can you cash this?” I showed her the check from Leitha.

“Not this early,” she said.

“Put it on my tab, then. Lunch too.”

“You meeting Juliet?”

“Yeah.”

“You got it, babe.” She brought my drinks, then walked off to serve another customer. I sipped on the beer and read a greasy menu I knew by heart.

Juliet came in a few minutes later wearing jeans and a T-shirt one of her friends from the bank had given her. It said
Severe Penalty for Early Withdrawal.
I loved it when she wore that. My lucky shirt. She sat beside me, picked up my shot of tequila, and sucked it dry.

“Hey. That was mine,” I said.

“No liquor for you today. It deadens the senses.”

“My senses just might need some deadening,” I said. I was about to go crazy just looking at her. Juliet had gotten all the right genes from her American father and Filipino mother. She was 5′3″, long black hair, olive complexion, smile like a search light, brown eyes warm as apple pie. She leaned over and kissed me.

“You taste like tequila,” I said.

“After lunch, you will come to my house and give me great pleasure.”

“Well, okay. If I have to,” I said. “I have to get up early in the morning, though, so I’ll need to be asleep by midnight.”

“You have a job?” she said.

“I do.” I told her about the runaway named Brittney Ryan and about the research I had done earlier.

“That gives us less than twelve hours then.”

“We could always skip lunch,” I said.

She kissed me again. “We will starve. But we will die happy.”

“I thought we were going to Abby’s. For me to meet your mom.”

“They went out shopping. Probably be gone all day. We’ll have to make it another time.”

“Shucks,” I said. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I had a thousand dollar check in my pocket, I was going to get laid, and I didn’t have to meet any mothers. The day kept getting better and better.

I followed Juliet to her house. Three hours later, I went out and brought back some Chinese take-out. Fried rice, chicken and broccoli, egg rolls. We ate the food and drank a bottle of cheap champagne and went back to bed.

Someone outside was riding around on a dirt bike. The noise from the whiney little engine gave me a headache.

“Mind if I shoot your neighbor?”

“Do you love me?” Juliet said.

“Very much,” I said. “I’ll love you even more if you give me permission to kill that inconsiderate—”

“Will you marry me?” She was lying on her stomach, her hands laced together supporting her head. She looked me directly in the eyes.

“You sure know how to kill a beautiful moment,” I joked. “Sure. I’ll marry you. Someday.”

“Why not today? Tomorrow? I want to have a baby with you. Take me out right now and buy me a diamond ring. You should at least come and live with me here. There’s no reason for you to stay in that crummy old camper.”

“I like having my own space. It’s not
that
crummy. As for the baby thing, I think you know where I stand on that.”

“You were a daddy before. Why not again?”

“Let’s not get into it, Jules.”

“Never say never,” she said.

“I am saying never. Trust me, I’m never going to be a father again. Never in a million years.”

She left it alone. “Well, I still think you should move out of that camper. Couldn’t you at least rent a decent apartment somewhere?”

“Are you ashamed of where I live?” I said.

Juliet frowned. “Sometimes people at work ask me, ‘What part of town does your boyfriend stay at?’ I don’t know what to tell—”

“Tell them I’m on waterfront property in Clay County. That should shut their nosy asses up. Listen, if you’re ashamed of me—”

“I’m not. That’s not what I’m saying. I just wish you had a better house.”

“I’ll get something better when I can afford it. In the meantime, it’s not all that bad. I have enough room to eat and sleep and run my business, and I can go fishing anytime I feel like it. I stopped worrying about keeping up with the Joneses a long time ago. I’d rather live life on my own terms. Make sense?”

“I guess. When you
do
meet my mother—”

“Is that what this is all about? Shit. I should have known. You’re going to be embarrassed for your mom to find out how I live. Is that it? You’re afraid your mother will think you’re dating a loser? I think I need to go now.” I got up and put my shirt on, started buttoning it.

“Please don’t go, Nicholas. I’m sorry. It’s just that my mother, well, she’s very conservative and—you know how mothers are. They want the best for their little girls. I think you
are
the best, but I just don’t want to hear a bunch of crap from her.”

“Maybe it’s best that I never meet her. What do you want me to do, lie to her about where I live?”

“Would that be so bad? She’s only going to be here for a few weeks, until Abby gets settled in with her new baby. Then she’ll be going back to the Philippines.”

I looked out the window. A gray rabbit, looking very content, was munching on one of Juliet’s tomato plants. The dirt bike was still doing donuts in my skull.

“Sorry, Jules. I’m not going to lie to anybody about where I live, what I think, or anything else. If you can’t accept me as I am—”

“Please come back to bed. I love you today.”

It was something we said to each other often,
I love you today,
knowing that relationships have to be taken one day at a time. We both knew that
forever
was a myth. As long as we loved each other today, tomorrow would take care of itself.

I took my shirt off and climbed back in bed with her. I stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, absently fingering the smooth and hairless scar tissue on my lower right abdomen, debating whether or not to make the compromise, to let Juliet’s mother think I had more than I really did.

“Jules,” I said.

“Yes?”

“I would do anything for you. I’d die for you. But like the sailor said, ‘I yam what I yam.’ I’m not going to pretend to be anything else.”

“I can respect that,” she said.

She kissed my chest, made a trail with her tongue down to my belly and rested her head there. What she did next made me think hard about going out and buying that ring she wanted.

Leitha Ryan lived in a Craftsman-style bungalow painted yellow with white trim. The yard had recently been mowed, and the St. Augustine grass was thick, lush, and deep green. Baptized in the morning dew, it
smelled
green. I’m always impressed with anyone who can make grass grow in this part of the country. I was never very good at it myself.

She had wicker furniture on the porch and some hanging plants and a copper mailbox. I rang the bell and she let me in.

“Nice,” I said. “How many bedrooms?”

“Just two.” Leitha’s hospital scrubs swallowed her tiny frame, and the circles under her eyes announced the hangdog look of someone who’d either missed way too much sleep or had a serious illness. I remembered working the night shift at a warehouse before I got my PI license. Your body never gets used to that schedule.

The house reminded me of a place I lived when I was a kid. Hardwood floors, built-in bookcases, wainscoting you won’t find at Home Depot. It was the kind of house you used to be able to buy cheap, but since Springfield had been designated a historic district a few years ago prices had swollen. I figured it set her back two-fifty, maybe more. A mortgage is something I’ll never have again. Been there, done that, bought the whole rack of chips. They tell you it’s a good investment, but when you’re in your forties and take on a big heavy debt like that your options are suddenly limited. You have to keep working at a job you hate until you’re practically dead, and then you get to sit around and watch TV with an oxygen canister beside
you in the house you worked half your life to pay for until you’re really dead. Then the lawyers and the government take their fat share and your family is left to fight over the rest and take all your measly shit to Goodwill. Some investment. Errol Flynn got it right. Any man who dies with more than ten thousand dollars in the bank is a failure.

The living room was furnished with modern junk, buy-now-pay-later garbage that ends up costing ten times more than what it’s worth. A red denim sofa and matching love seat with chrome legs invaded the bulk of the space, along with some chrome and glass tables, and a pair of stainless steel lamps. The only thing halfway genuine was a stained-glass window in an oak frame serving as a mantle decoration. A big yellow rose bloomed from its center, each petal a separate cut.