Seaweed on the Street (24 page)

Inside the building, three plainclothes men were at a water cooler, laughing. Behind an inquiry desk a clerk with a huge beehive hairdo that almost concealed her tiny face was speaking into a telephone. When she hung up, I said “I'm a policeman from Victoria, B.C. Maybe I could talk to somebody, one of the detectives here.”

“You're a what?” She stared at me as if I were a Martian.

“I'm a cop.”

Her eyes shifted to a point behind me and she shouted. “Hey, Ben. You got a minute?”

A broad-shouldered man detached himself from his friends at the water cooler and strolled across. He gave me an appraising glance and said, “What can I do for you?” He had an easy, assured manner, not quite friendly.

“I'm a cop from Victoria. I'd appreciate it if you could spare me some of your time.”

“The only Victoria I know in these United States is in Texas, but you don't look like no Plains Indian. You from up north?”

“Right. I'm Silas Seaweed.”

“Detective-Sergeant Conklin.” He extended his paw and I shook it. “I just finished my shift, Mr. Seaweed, but I can give you a minute. Come on.”

He led me into a small, solid-walled cubicle furnished with a bare table and two chairs. A feather boa dangled from a coat hook — the only touch of colour in that white-painted space.

Conklin sighed as he eased himself into the chair behind the desk and brushed a hand across his eyelids. There were dark crescents beneath his eyes and black stubble on his chin.

I said, “Busy night, Sergeant?”

He shrugged. “Call me Ben. The night was about normal.”

“You mean it was tiring, frustrating and largely a waste of time?”

Conklin grinned. “Am I listening to the voice of experience?”

“I pounded a beat for a while.”

“Way I feel this morning, I should quit before I develop my first ulcer. Trouble is, what would I do? There's too many private dicks in this town, you can't make a dime.”

“Just so we're clear. Right now I'm on sick leave because somebody took potshots at me.”

Conklin's dark eyes narrowed but he smiled and said, “They gonna give you a medal?”

I grinned at him and said, “I'm looking for a woman called Marcia Hunt. She's a Canadian citizen, been missing a long time.”

“Does she have a record?”

“No. She was married briefly to a convicted felon named Frank Harkness, a.k.a Frank Turko.”

“What exactly do you want?”

“A big favour. I want to know whether you have sheets on these people.”

“Tell me about them.”

I told him.

Conklin examined his fingers. “Suppose I find that these people have local records. So what? How would that help?”

I shook my head. “I don't know, I'm clutching at straws. The trail is cold, dead. I haven't got a lead.”

“I won't promise anything. This is irregular, as you know.” Conklin stifled a yawn with the back of a hand. “Mostly, when outside police come here they bring introductions.”

“I have a personal stake in this thing. I'm working on my own time.”

“If I find something, where can I reach you?”

I gave him the name of my hotel and got up. “I'm standing between a man and his bed.”

“I wish you were, Silas, but you're standing between me and a shopping cart. My wife works shifts too, at a casino in Sparks. It's my turn to buy groceries and do the housecleaning.”

<

≈ ≈ ≈

I was soon grateful that I had comfortable walking shoes and a thick skin. I checked the talent agencies first, without success, and then the legwork began. I combed Reno's taverns, bars and clubs, starting at the big casinos on Sierra Street and working outward, asking polite questions of impatient people who had troubles of their own and were not particularly interested in mine. This town was full of dangerous strangers. People hid inside velvet-lined cages and lived lonely, insulated lives. I spoke to musicians and bootblacks and concierges and waitresses. I spoke to men who had been playing piano so long they could hold complex conversations while performing lounge-bar standards and never miss a note. I chased down numerous false trails and came to a dead end every time. I bought drinks for lonely people sitting on bar stools at seven in the morning, questioning them before they were too smashed to remember what day it was.

I dosed my residual aches and pains with over-the-counter Tylenol and worked my way through the Nevada Bell directory. It took a long time, but I slowly eliminated most of the Hunts, Harknesses and Turkos in the state. I checked old city directories. I went to Carson City and combed the state archives, trying to find out whether Marcia Hunt had ever bought property in Nevada, registered a child into the school system, applied for social assistance, a driver's licence, a fishing licence.

A job printer made me 1,000 cards with my phone number on them and the message:

marcia hunt, where are you?

reward offered for information.

And I managed to give most of the cards away.

Back at my hotel after every fruitless day I checked for messages. Ben Conklin did not call, nobody called. My greatest discovery was a joint where the barman had a 10-word vocabulary and the patrons were all serious drinkers. The place had a sawdust floor and no jukebox. It was a place where people could destroy themselves without interference from any earthly authority provided they paid cash and kept quiet about it. Some nights I went in for an hour or two, watching winos fall off their stools, crawl outside, throw up, then return to continue their slow suicide. These were people who had examined the game and didn't like the rules. The ante had got too high, they'd folded their cards. Sometimes I thought they were onto something.

≈ ≈ ≈

Taff's Keyboards was an old-fashioned music store located on a street near the railroad tracks. A faded, sun-cracked wooden sign over the shop door announced that pianos were for sale, trade or rent. I pushed the door and a bell chime jingled me inside. Racks of sheet music filled every space not occupied by instruments. There were pianos, organs, and electric keyboards. Somewhere out of sight, a piano was being tuned. A silver-plated bell push was screwed to the countertop. I hit the button with the palm of my hand and the tuning ceased. Thick red curtains swung apart and an elderly man shuffled in. He wore black patent-leather shoes, black pants with a silk stripe down the legs, and a white, collarless shirt. He had black sleeve protectors on, and dirty hands. “You're too danged early,” he said. “I'm not finished and when I am I'll let you know.”

I said, “I'm not who you think I am.”

The old man frowned. “You're not from the movers?”

“No, I'm a cop.”

“Goldanged movers are always buggin' me about something. They called this morning, supposed to pick up that Steinway in the back, but it isn't ready.”

“I heard you tuning it.”

“A cop, eh? Well, you're not going to buy a piano so what
do
you want?”

“I'm making inquiries about a missing woman. I hope you can help.”

“How much is this gonna cost me?”

“A few minutes of your time.”

“Good. Sumbitch came in here last week packing a gun. Asked for money, but he didn't get none.” The shopkeeper cackled at the memory.

I said, “Twenty years ago, more or less, somebody called Marcia Hunt, also known as Harkness, might have come into this store and bought a piano.”

“Smart woman if she did. I've got the best deals in town, don't let anybody tell you different.” He scratched his ear with a finger, then stared at his dirty hands. He said, “See that? Dust everywhere. Wait a minute.”

With that he turned on his heels and pushed his way through the red curtains. I heard water running. The shopkeeper returned, wiping his hands on a dirty towel. “I'm going to have a cup of coffee. Let the movers wait,” he said and busied himself with a jar of instant behind the counter. “Okay, mister,” he said. “Talk.”

The shopkeeper listened intently while I told my well-rehearsed tale, then he excused himself and went out back again, returning immediately with a kettle of boiling water. He poured the water into two mugs. “Here,” he said, “help yourself. There's only decaf. I hope you're not one of these coffee purists.”

“Thanks,” I said, looking at the murky green-grey concoction before me.

“That's me,” he said complacently, lighting a cigarette. “Rather spend my time bullshittin' and drinking coffee than taking care of business.” He inhaled deeply, then coughed until his face turned purple and veins protruded from his temples. When the coughing fit subsided he put the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. Blue tobacco smoke spiralled upward and hung over his head like an inversion as he poked around in drawers. He said, “I've got records going back to 1943. Book for piano sales, other book for rentals and repairs. The sales book is kinda skimpy. Best times I had were in the '50s. There was money around them days. Mothers still wanted their kids to learn
real
music. Sometimes I'd sell two pianos a month. Now mothers buy their kids dvd players and iPods. I'm lucky to sell six pianos a year. Kids that do take up music are into saxophones and guitars, but I won't touch 'em.”

He put on a pair of glasses and browsed his records. After less than a minute he pointed a long nicotine-stained finger. “Here it is,” he said. “Marcia Hunt, 1379 Pitchpine Road. I sold her a Heintzman upright for $600 on August 6, 1985.” He laughed. “What do you know! We hit pay dirt or not?”

I chewed my lip. Marcia was no ghost. Twenty years ago she had been here, in this room. She had walked through the same door. To judge by the age of his stock, she might have gazed at the same pianos. I thanked him and said, “Did Marcia pay cash or use a credit card?”

“Cheque. I've got a copy of the invoice.” He handed it across for me to look at and asked, “What difference does it make whether she paid cash or not?”

“I think she only used her real name when she had no other option. It's made her hard to trace.”

The invoice was as the dealer had said — Marcia had paid by cheque. There, in a neat signature written with a fountain pen, she had acknow-ledged that the piano had been delivered to her residence in good condition. This was the same hand and the same pen that had written a thank-you note to Dr. Cunliffe. The reason she continued to use the name Hunt, instead of Harkness, remained a mystery.

≈ ≈ ≈

Pitchpine Road was a rutted desert trail branching off Highway 395, 10 miles south of town. The road had been built to service a long-abandoned silver mine. What remained of an ancient prospector's dream was a collection of vandalized corrugated-iron sheds and rusty narrow-gauge rail spurs. Beyond the mine, the road had been fenced in places where optimists had tried to develop hobby ranches. Side roads snaked off toward a range of humpbacked hills. Hovels with sagging porches and cracked windows baked in the heat. Scrawny chickens scratched among weeds. House dogs, snoozing in the shade, came to life and barked as I drove past in my Chevrolet.

Real-estate signs advertised lots for sale, but the signs were ancient. Some lay flat on the sun-baked earth, overgrown by cactus and creosote shrubs. I kept going past tumbledown barns and sun-drunk horses till a fingerpost marked 1379 pointed me toward yet another side trail.

This trail, washboarded and barely wide enough for a single vehicle, wound down an ancient water-carved draw between wind-eroded sandstone cliffs. Brown hawks rode on thermals high above. More hawks perched motionless on fence posts and utility poles. I bridged a rise and stopped the car. Stretched before me was a dun-coloured valley, locked in on every side by low hills. Beyond, shimmering in the heat haze, the Sierras rose beneath a blue cloudless sky.

According to Reno's city directory, 1379 Pitchpine Road was rented to Mrs. Joan Alfred. A grove of trees surrounded a tall, wind-driven water pump. Nearby was a neat red-painted house and a large barn, enclosed by white picket fence. I got back in the Chev, drove on and parked near the barn.

The house was a square, box-like bungalow with a pyramid roof pierced by a brick chimney. It was surrounded by a wide, screened veranda. Three steps led up to the veranda. I climbed the steps, crossed the veranda and knocked on the door.

A painter's easel with an unfinished canvas was set up in the veranda's shade. Nobody answered the door so I looked at the canvas. It showed a wrinkled, grey-haired ranch hand holding a chestnut horse by its bridle. The horse was unfinished, as was some background detail. The work, expertly done, was signed “
Allie
.”

I knocked again, waited a minute and went back down the steps. Standing with my back to the house, I noticed somebody lying in a hammock suspended between two lemon trees near the water tank. I went across. The man depicted in the unfinished oil painting was asleep in the shade. He had on an open-necked cotton plaid shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots. An empty glass and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels sat on a table within reach of his hand.

I cleared my throat noisily and said, “Sorry to disturb you, sir.”

The sleeper did not answer. Except for the slight movement of his chest when he inhaled, he might have been dead. He was either drunk or pretending to be. I left him to it.

Two German shepherds appeared along the valley, followed by a rider on horseback. When the dogs noticed my Chevrolet they began to bark and pelted toward it until a call from the rider brought them back. The rider was a black-haired woman mounted on a chestnut mare. I strolled across the yard and opened the gate for her. The woman raised a hand to shade her eyes, looking at me without expression as she rode through the gate and into the barn, followed by her dogs.

The woman permitted the chestnut a small drink from a water trough. She then removed her heavy western saddle and threw it across a trestle with practised ease. She glanced at me once or twice, with little apparent curiosity, as she tended her mount. The dogs, lying quietly with their bushy tails brushing the ground like twin brooms, watched her lead the chestnut into a stall.