Stories (2011) (96 page)

"What were they yelling?"

The bartender threw up his hands. "What am I, a tape
recorder? This place was crowded and noisy. Ain't nothing worse than a bunch of
noisy drunks."

"So what else happens?"

"Nothing. I go out back and empty the garbage, bottles
and stuff. Out back I see the Mexican putting the old man in the back seat of a
Lincoln. Can you believe that? The geezer's got a god-damned Lincoln! I drive a
sixty-eight Ford. Well, anyway, the old man's as drunk as Cooter Brown, I
reckon. The Mex puts him in the back, gets behind the wheel and drives
off."

"Anyone with the driver?"

"Might have been. Wasn't paying that close
attention."

"I guess you see that sort of thing every day? Often
enough not to bother with calling the police."

"You see everything here after a while."

"Customers make a habit of parking out back?"

"They park anywhere the tires will set."

"Think the Mexican could have clouted the old
guy?"

"Could have. A passed-out drunk and a punched-out one
look a whole hell of a lot alike. If you know what I mean."

"The old man talk to anyone else that night?"

"Hell, I don't remember. I mean I wasn't keeping tabs
on the guy."

"Give it some real deep thought. I mean, I could have
the cops start checking around."

"Okay, okay, don't start with the cop talk. He did talk
to Leona Blue some. She's a stripper here."

"Blue her real name?"

"No. Stage. I don't know what her real name is. What's
it matter?"

"Maybe it doesn't. She here now?"

"No. Comes on at six-thirty, has her act at
seven."

"Thanks."

The bartender didn't tell Slater he was welcome. The
detective left Happy's and went to the other two places on his list. There was
someone at both who had seen Jason, but not after Monday. It looked like
Happy's was the last spot before his vanishing act.

Slater made a phone call to Yank, and in as casual a manner
as possible, confirmed that Anibal sometimes drove his Lincoln, and that it was
quite possible that he drove it the night in question. With that information in
tow, Slater ended the conversation by telling Yank not to worry and that things
were shaping up.

At six-thirty he drove back to Happy's.

IV

Leona Blue was not a movie queen, but she certainly had sex appeal. She was
voluptuously built, and her costume, if you can call a G-string and a handful
of sequins and gauze a costume, did nothing to conceal the fact.

She had nice things to go with the body-shoulder-length
brown hair, beautiful smoky blue eyes and a quick smile that showed just the
slightest trace of wrinkles at the corners. Slater quickly deduced that she
wasn't old, but she was certainly not as young as she appeared at first glance.

After he made it clear that he wasn't a cop or one of the
local lechers, Leona agreed to talk to him. She pulled a man's shirt over her
"outfit" and sat with Slater at the table the bartender had said was
Jason's usual spot.

After taking in the view for a period that Slater felt was
just within being polite, he said, "How long have you known Jason?"

"Almost a year," she said. Her voice was soft and
musical, the sort that could whisper sweet passion in the dark.

"Last saw him when?"

Her full lips quivered slightly. She leaned forward and said
in a low voice. "He's not in some kind of trouble, is he?"

"None that I know of," Slater said. "I'm a
private detective. His employer, Yank, hired me to find him. He's a little
worried, that's all."

Leona nodded, bobbed her brown hair in a manner Slater
thought was sensual. "I know about Yank. Jason speaks highly of him."
She picked a pack of cigarettes out of her shirt pocket, shook one out. Slater
took out his lighter and lit it for her, lit one of his own.

"To tell the truth," she said, "I'm a little
worried myself."

"That right?"

"Uh-huh. He's done this sort of thing before, going off
for awhile without letting anyone know-but somehow, I'm really worried this
time. I've called his place and even went by. Nothing. Locked, and the landlady
claims she hasn't seen him. Not that she'd care to help anyway."

"I take it you and Jason are better than friends."

She rested her elbow on the table top, her head in her palm.
The cigarette drooped languidly from her fingers, soft, grey ash floated down
across the table.

"That's right," she said. "Much better than
friends. I suppose you don't approve?"

Slater shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I approve or
disapprove. What's it to you, anyway? It's your business, not mine."

She lifted her head from her palm, stretched both arms out
on the table top. "Sorry. I get to hear so many lectures about how nice,
white girls ought not to run around with the niggers, I'm a little touchy.
Bitter, too, I guess."

"You won't be hearing that from me."

"I can believe that," she said. "I'm just a
little touchy, that's all."

"I can see how you would be. GulfCity isn't exactly the
culture spot of the world, and the work you do doesn't cater to the upper
crust. No offense intended."

"Nor your work."

"Touche. Right you are, present company excluded, of
course."

They laughed, then Leona became solemn. She said, "Do
you think Jason's all right?"

"I don't know what to think," Slater said
truthfully. "From the way you talk, I take it no policemen have been
around to ask you questions."

She wrinkled up her pretty face with concern. "Police?
I thought you said he wasn't in any kind of trouble."

"I did. The police have a missing persons report on
him. Yank hired me as insurance."

"No police," she said. "I haven't talked to
any cops and the only cops I know are the two that show up here regularly for
their payoffs. They must have a racket with half the dives in this area and no
telling what else."

"Prostitution?"

"No. Drugs is my suspicion, and it's just that, a
suspicion. I think James, that's the bartender, and the owner deal a lot of
stuff from this joint. The cops are in on it. Just guessing, mind you, but when
you've been around these places enough, you get to be a pretty good guesser. As
it is, I just keep my mouth shut." She took a hard look at Slater.
"Do you think you can find him?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be looking," Slater said,
and for a rare moment his rugged face looked almost soft and vulnerable.

Leona blew smoke out with a sigh. "You know," she
began, and she didn't really seem to be talking to Slater in particular, just
addressing gentle memories, "Jason's a very special kind of guy. Tough,
but gentle. That means something to me. I don't go for the old fashioned
make-it-or-break-it kind of guy.

"You know what he likes to do?" She smiled
briefly. "He likes to have me drive him down by the gulf. He has a special
spot there. It's just an old ragged stretch with a little pier that sticks out
in some oily junk-filled water. But that's where he has me take him.

"We always take my car because Jason doesn't drive,
takes a taxi wherever he goes, one of his quirks. Anyway, he has me drive him
out there and we park and look out over that ugly stretch of water and talk. He
tells me that he used to go there as a kid to sort out his problems and he has
a lot of childhood memories about that place.

"It's almost like an honor to share it with him."
She looked out from her dreams and cigarette smoke. "Damn!" she said.
"I must be getting old and sentimental. I sound like a fool."

"Not hardly," Slater said. "Not hardly."

They sat for a moment in awkward silence, then Slater said,
"Leona, you were here the night of the argument?"

"Argument? Oh!" she said. "You mean with
Anibal? How'd you know about that?"

"Bartender. You know Anibal very well?"

"No. I've never really met him. Matter of fact, the
night of the argument was the only time I've ever seen him in the flesh. I've
seen pictures of him, but that's it. Why Jason worries about that fool kid I'll
never know. It bothers him to no end that the kid dislikes him. It's almost
like a father-son generation-gap thing."

"That might be putting it lightly from what I've heard.
Tell me about the argument."

She put her cigarette out in the ashtray. "Not much to
tell. The kid got steamed up about the way he thought Jason was pushing him,
had a few beers too many and came to tell Jason what he thought of him.

"Jason gave him hell for drinking, breaking training,
something like that, and Anibal got mad enough to jerk him up from the table.
They shouted at each other a bit, then Anibal let go and stomped out."

"No blows?"

"No. Just a lot of yelling. Jason told me after the kid
left that he was going out back for some fresh air and that he'd see me at
closing time. He didn't come back. It worried me, but not a lot. Jason was a
temperamental guy and did that sort of thing now and then, often enough that I
was used to it and didn't worry too much. Till now. Right now I'm
worried."

"The night of the argument, the bartender tells me
Jason was pretty drunk. That right?"

"He'd been drinking, but he wasn't drunk. I've never
seen him drunk. James would tell you that though. He thinks I should stick with
young white men, like him. James isn't my type by a long shot. He loves to
think Jason is a no-good drunk. It builds his ego."

"A little thing. James tells me that Anibal went out
the front way. What about that?"

"Uh-huh. And Jason went out the back. They didn't leave
five seconds apart of each other."

"Okay. Another thing. James says Jason passes out a lot
of bucks. That true?"

"Yeah. He's a heavy tipper. I've told him that sort of
thing could get him in trouble. I hope..."

The lights went suddenly dim. A redheaded woman with a movie
starlet's build, if not a starlet's face, came out on the little stage wrapped
in a Chinese-style robe and yelled, "Five minutes, Leona." The
redhead's voice was as sharp as a knife.

Leona waved a hand at her, turned back to Slater. "Head
honcho. I've got to get a move on."

"One more thing, and I'll make it quick."

"Shoot."

"This spot where the two of you go-the pier. Could you
tell me where it is?"

She had stood up from the table to go, now she sat back
down, clasped her hands together, said, "May I ask why?"

"No particular reason. Just following a few hunches.
Nothing really."

Leona stared at Slater's trained impassiveness for a long
moment. "Got a pen?" she finally said.

Slater picked an old ballpoint from his coat pocket, gave it
to her.

"It's easy to find," she said, and she pulled a
napkin from the holder and started drawing. When she was almost finished, the redhead
came out and screamed at her again. The knife-edged voice was sharper than
before. Over his shoulder Leona said, "Coming, coming."

She handed Slater the map and pen. The shadows clung to her
face like spiders. She said, "Listen, I love Jason, very much. I know it
sounds silly but I'm telling you this because when you find him, even if it's
bad, I want to know. My phone number is there on the napkin."

Slater looked at it, folded it away in his pocket.

"Promise me you'll let me know," she said.
"Promise me that."

"I promise," Slater said.

"Good." She wiped at her eyes. "Contacts. I
never have gotten used to them. Find him, please."

Slater nodded.

Leona turned and walked away quickly. Slater watched her go
up the stage steps, across to the once dark-blue curtains and disappear behind
them. He got up and made his way through the gathering crowd and out to the
car, drove away feeling strangely small and very, very alone.

It was about a five-block drive to the place on Leona's map.
More than a rock's throw, but no real trek. Slater eased his Chevy down an
embankment made by recent bull-dozing, and parked near a rickety weather-chewed
stretch of pier. He took a flashlight from the glove box and got out.

The salt spray blew cold against his cheek and stung his nostrils.
The timber pilings of the pier creaked with the rolling motion of the water.
Paper and other debris discarded by beach lovers blew up around his ankles and
crunched underfoot.

He went down to the pier and walked out on it. It creaked
ominously. There was an odor of decaying fish closer to the water, and when
Slater played the beam on the shadowed sea, it looked dead, dirty and
forgotten. Across the way, the lights of some factory's night shift showed
their smoke rising into the blackness of the night, fading the moon. Down on
the water the lights cast murky shadows. Behind him, over the rise, he could
hear the hurry of traffic.

He flashed the light all around, turned, walked off the pier and went up and
down the beach with the same lack of results.

Then he had a hunch. He didn't know what else to call
it-just a thought, a strong thought. He went back to the pier and walked out on
the lip, got down on his stomach, hung his upper body over and worked the flash
around.

It was a good hunch.

It floated in the shallow brine halfway between the
embankment and the shabby creosote piling that held up the left rear of the
pier. Only half of it was showing. The torso bloated. The shirt that covered it
was black from water and stuffed as tight as a German sausage. The head was
grey, shapeless, with a lot of flesh missing. The arms were the same. Most
likely crabs had been feeding. The body seemed to be held in place by the
debris collected beneath the pier-a bobbing cork once human.

Slater flicked off the flash and vomited in the water.

V

It was hard to tell positively at such quick notice, as no identification was
on the body, but the GulfCity cops agreed with Slater that it was most likely
what was left of Jason Krim. As to the cause of death-too early to tell. But
neither the police nor Slater thought it an accidental drowning.