Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) (5 page)

“Who’s the pimp?” I said.

“Fat guy they call Duck. Black dude. Lives on the west side. He’s a bouncer at The Tumble Inn. You didn’t hear any of this shit from me.” Toohey glanced up at his apartment. The blonde was standing there by the open window with her breasts flattened against the panes, trying to eavesdrop.

“Close the fucking window,” Toohey shouted.

She closed the fucking window and backed away. A purple Caprice with huge tires and shiny rims inched along the hot pavement in front of Toohey’s house. It clipped by at about twenty-five miles per hour, probably looking to score some dope. Or sell some. I watched Toohey’s expression, which didn’t change.

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” I said.

“Why you need to know that?”

“Forget it. She turning tricks too?”

“Fuck you. She’s legit, man. Got a bookkeeping job at a car lot.”

“Classy.” I handed him a business card. “Thanks for your help. Call me if you hear from Brittney or see her.”

Toohey turned his head and spit in the grass. I walked across the street, started Jimmy, headed for the west side.

A man I assumed was Duck sat on a stool outside the front entrance, his shaved head shining blue under The Tumble Inn’s neon sign. He wore black jeans, a black T-shirt, black leather sneakers, everything triple extra-large.

It was nine thirty on a Wednesday night, and the line to get into the club stretched half a block down the sidewalk. Everyone in the crowd was white. Most of them wore black clothes and had shiny sharp things stuck in their faces. Vampire complexions, bootblack hair. I watched from Jimmy with a pair of binoculars.

Duck checked the customers’ IDs one by one. Some were admitted, some sent to the back of the queue. Nobody was arguing about it. They were having their own little party on the sidewalk, a cemetery residents’ circle-jerk.

After an hour or so, the ones who’d been turned away started giving up and the line disappeared. I walked to the door and handed the big man Brittney’s student ID.

“This some kind of joke?” he said.

The band inside played a weak rendition of Steppenwolf’s
Born to be Wild.
The singer’s voice was too smooth, as if Frank Sinatra had put together a heavy metal group.

“My name is Nicholas Colt,” I said. “I’m a private investigator. The girl’s a runaway. I got a tip she’s working for you.”

“Ain’t nobody working for me, bro. I’m just security, you know what I’m saying?” He handed Brittney’s ID back to me. His fingers reminded me of those hotdogs that “plump when you cook ’em.”

“You’re Duck, right?” I said.

“He off tonight.”

“Hell, everybody’s off tonight. You know where I might find him?”

“He probably at the crib, man. You know what I’m saying? I don’t keep up with the motherfucker, but he probably at the crib.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know his address, would you?”

“I don’t know shit, bro. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. I know exactly what you’re saying. If I bring some cops over, and we go inside and card everybody, we won’t find anyone under twenty-one, will we? We won’t have to shut the club down and take all the employees to jail, will we?”

“Fuck off, bro. Everybody inside got valid ID.” His Oakley shades leaned half a bubble off level, as if his ears were not quite symmetrical.

“I need to speak with the manager,” I said.

“He busy.”

“I’m busy too.”

I walked around him and opened the door to the club. Next thing I knew, I was flat on the sidewalk with a size fourteen Nike on my chest. I pulled Little Bill from his holster and wedged the barrel into Fatboy’s crotch.

“Get off me,” I shouted.

He didn’t say anything. He had the dark glasses on, so I couldn’t see what his eyes were doing. The little revolver glistened under the neon light. I clenched my teeth and hissed in a few short breaths, trying not to pass out. I couldn’t really shoot him. He would collapse and mash me like a potato. Legal aspects aside, it just wouldn’t have been practical. He was smiling, knew he had the advantage even though I had the gun.

A white guy wearing a suit came out of the club with a lit cigar in one hand. The top three buttons on his shirt were open, exposing the black fur on his chest. “What’s the problem here, Shep?” he said.

“Motherfucker trying to get by me, Mr. Clemons.”

“What do you want?” Mr. Clemons said to me.

“First of all, I want Magilla Gorilla here to get his goddamn three-hundred-pound foot off me.”

“Let him up, Shep.”

Shep twisted his foot enough to give me a burn, and then backed away. He took the Oakleys off for a second and pulled his shirt up to wipe his eyes. Bin Laden and a few close friends could have hidden out in his belly button.

I stood up and holstered the pistol.

“Are you the manager?” I said.

“I’m the chief cook and bottle washer,” Mr. Clemons said. “I own the joint. What’s this all about?”

I took a deep breath, lit a cigarette, showed Clemons my PI license. “I just need to talk with you for a few minutes. There was no cause for any of this bullshit.”

“Talk to me about what?” He puffed on the cigar, which smelled expensive. I got a whiff of his cologne, which didn’t. His face was shiny and red, his nose bulbous and broken at least once.

“I’m looking for a runaway girl,” I said. “Fifteen.”

“Can’t help you. You know how much a liquor license is worth in this town? I don’t cater to minors.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I have reason to believe one of your employees—”

“Which one?” An ash fell from the cigar and landed on his shoe. Turquoise Capezios. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, bent down, and wiped away the grime.

“Can we talk in private?” I said. Big Shep stood a few feet behind Clemons, trying his best to look menacing.

“Come on in,” Clemons said.

I followed him through the hazy crowd of zombies. Sinatra was singing
Bad to the Bone
now. Not really fair to Frank. The singer sounded more like Bing Crosby with a cold.

The office had a full-length mirror on one wall, a desk with a phone and computer and a loose pile of receipts. Clemons offered me a cigar. I took it, put it in my shirt pocket.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he said.

“Thanks, but I’ll be leaving shortly. I’m trying to find one of your employees, guy they call Duck.”

“Is he in some sort of trouble?” His cigar was getting short. He took a painful hot puff, exhaled jets of blue smoke through his nose.

“Not from me,” I said. “I was hired to find a runaway, and rumor has it Duck’s been pimping her. I got no beef with Duck himself. I just want the girl.”

“I have no control over what my employees do in their spare time.” Clemons looked exasperated, as though he were talking about a child who’d chosen a risky hobby. Skateboarding or something.

“I understand that,” I said.

“What makes you think she’s with Donald?”

“That his real name?”

Clemons nodded. He extinguished the cigar in a congested ashtray that stood sentry beside his desk, an amber glass disk supported by a metal stand. Probably from the same era as his shirt. “Again, why do you think that girl’s with my man Duck?”

“Let’s just say I heard it through the whisper stream,” I said.

“Yeah. I really can’t give you any personal information on one of my staff members. Not without a warrant or something. You understand that, don’t you?”

“You like cops, Mr. Clemons?”

He laughed. “They tend to make me nervous.”

“Me too. We can do this the easy way, or I can send a couple uniforms in with paper. That would be a pain in the ass for all involved. You know how cops are. They make one call, they start hanging around, looking for other things. Maybe everyone here is twenty-one, maybe not. The kids are pretty sophisticated with fake IDs these days. It’s amazing what you can do with a two hundred dollar printer. Maybe none of these darling customers of yours are trading Ecstasy in the heads. Maybe nobody’s—”

“Fair enough,” Clemons said. “I’ve worked too hard building what I have here to let a two-bit punk like Donald Knight bitch it up. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s been skimming on the cover
charge. I’m going to give you what you need, long as you swear to keep quiet about where it came from.”

“Pinky promise,” I said.

He punched some keys on the computer, ripped the bottom off one of the cash register receipts, wrote down an address.

“Appreciate it,” I said. I turned to leave the office.

“Mr. Colt.”

“Yes?”

“Try not to come back here again. Shep usually isn’t as gentle as he was tonight.”

“Yeah. I’ll try. Thanks for the stogie.”

I walked toward the club’s exit. One of the ghouls—a female, I think—asked me if I’d like to dance. I kept walking.

It was almost midnight when I found Duck’s house. If Leitha had hired Brett Hershey to find her sister, or if she’d been paying me by the hour, her thousand dollars would be gone now.

I switched on my cell phone. No messages. I made a mental note to go by the Bellsouth office tomorrow and have my home phone turned back on. No telling how much business I was losing. Then again, it hadn’t been ringing much lately.

Duck lived on the second floor of a two-story brick apartment building, a cube with a roof. I tooled around the block a couple of times, checking out the neighborhood and searching for a place to park. Most of the homes had been built back in the fifties, before every family had two or three cars, so the shallow and narrow driveways naturally spilled out to the street. Parking places were scarce. I drove in circles until someone finally pulled out, half a block away. I hadn’t parallel parked in years, and it took me three tries to finally wedge into the space. I couldn’t see Duck’s building from there so I got out and took a casual midnight stroll.

The neighborhood was quiet, very few lights still on. An ambulance siren wailed in the distance. I walked the perimeter of the apartment building, looking for obstacles that might hang me up if I found Brittney and got her away from there.

A wooden privacy fence surrounded the back lot. I opened the gate enough to slide through. A jaundiced naked bulb cast a gloomy haze over a swing set with no swings and a jungle gym and a basketball goal with
BITCH
spraypainted on the backboard. Playland at the McDonald’s in hell.

Two metal ladders, bolted to the brick siding on back of the building, led up to two different second-floor windows. I figured the apartment had four units, two on bottom, two on top. A light was on in one of the downstairs flats, filtered through a bed sheet with pictures of
Sesame Street
characters on it.

I walked back to the front of the complex. There was a bus stop across the street, with a steel bench and plywood shelter, and I went over there and had a seat, waited and watched with Little Bill at my side. At 12:37 my cell phone rang.

“Hi, sweetie,” Juliet said.

“Hi yourself. What are you doing? Thought you had to work tonight.”

“I’m on my lunch break. What are you doing?”

It always struck me as funny for someone to be eating lunch in the middle of the night.

“I’m working, too,” I said.

“That runaway you told me about?”

“Yeah. I’m hoping to wrap it up tonight. Right now I’m sitting at a bus stop watching the apartment building where I think she’ll show up.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It is. How’s it going at the hospital tonight?”

“Lots of sick people. If it wasn’t for the patients, we might be able to get some work done.”

She tells me that every time I ask her about work. “Yeah,” I said. “I can see how all those pesky sick folks might hold up production. What are you having for lunch?”

She started talking, but my attention turned to the Cadillac Escalade pulling into the apartment building’s driveway.

“I need to go,” I said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“For sure.”

I’d thought Shep was big, but Duck was a monster. I guessed him to be six four, three hundred fifty pounds. He wore a dark running suit with white stripes on the sides and a white ball cap turned
backward. He was fat, but solid. His arms and shoulders looked as though they might have been carved from railroad ties. Three girls filed out from the back of the Escalade and followed him to the front door. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought one of them was Brittney Ryan.

I walked back to Jimmy, entered Brittney’s cell number as a speed dial on my phone, reached into the glove box and pulled out a package of nylon cable ties. I drove to the building, parked perpendicular behind the Escalade, walked inside and up the stairs to Duck’s door, phone in my left hand and shotgun with no name in my right. The apartment was quiet. I knocked. Duck answered, smiling as though he’d been expecting someone. I pressed the barrel of the shotgun against his double chin.

“On the floor,” I said. “Hands behind your head.”

“Whoa. Go easy now, bro.” He looked annoyed. The three girls were sitting on the floor with a Monopoly board and a bong. I’d interrupted their playtime. I pressed the shotgun closer against his neck. He got down on his knees and then went facedown with his hands laced behind his head. He knew the drill.

“What you want, motherfucker? Money? You a cop?”

I looked at the girl I’d thought was Brittney. I hit the speed dial on my phone and immediately heard the theme song from
Sanford and Son.
She got up and ran toward the back of the apartment.

“Call her back,” I said to Duck.

“You think you can just waltz in here and take one of my girls? I run a legitimate escort service, motherfucker. Got a business license and everything.”

“You got a license to sell fifteen-year-old girls?”

“Bitch got ID say she eighteen.”

“She’s not. Call her, or the next number I dial is the cops.”

“Trixie,” Duck shouted. “Get your ass back in here.”

A door slammed. I took two cable ties from my pocket, secured them around Duck’s wrists and ankles. The two other girls hadn’t moved or said anything. One of them was crying. I tied them up anyway. I ran through the living room, into the kitchen, climbed
through the window to the fire escape. At the bottom of the steel ladder, I set the shotgun down, ran and caught up with Brittney. She had one leg over the wooden privacy fence. I grabbed her foot, and she screamed.