by Nancy Bush
“Five dollars,” the bouncer manning the door said on a bored yawn. He was broad, shiny bald and wore all black.
“Five dollars? Really.”
“Five dollars.” He gazed at me hard, his left hand knotted into a fist that he lightly pounded atop a narrow podium.
“The cover’s for…music?”
He just stared at me. Normally this kind of thing totally intimidates me, but I hate parting with money, especially when I can’t see any discernible value to a potential purchase.
“I’m meeting Sean Hatchmere here? He’s a musician?”
He mouthed, “Five dollars.” The way he did it sent a shiver down my spine. I forked over a Lincoln and he stood aside. I could feel my heart beating inside my rib cage like it was trying to escape. Sheesh. Sometimes it feels like the whole world’s in a really bad mood.
I was too early for the bands, even though they were already charging a cover, so I headed around a corner—I swear the wall was simply a sheaf of black cardboard—and turned into a room with a circular bar in the center. It was all corrugated metal and chain link and spotlights that sent silver cones of illumination down upon a motley assortment of patrons.
I saw Megan immediately, her short, spiky blond hair taking on a bluish tint. She wore a tight T-shirt in some gray tone, if the lighting could be trusted, and a pair of darker cargo pants. She was rattling up drinks in a silver shaker, straining a dark red liquid into two martini glasses that looked to be made of molten silver. Everything had that urban, hard, cold feel to it, which I guess was the point. I could think of a million different names more suitable than The Crocodile, but no one asked for my opinion.
A barmaid in black pants and a gray top studded with rivets swooped down on me as I pulled out a metal stool and settled myself at the bar. I ordered a Mercury, and hoped I wouldn’t be poisoned.
I watched as Megan assembled my drink. Something cool and grape-colored disappeared into the shaker with some sugar solution and premium vodka. I sweated the cost. Sometimes they’ll charge you damn near ten dollars for a martini. I’d been so intent on slipping inside without Megan seeing me that I hadn’t registered the price. Or maybe I just didn’t want another fight like with the bouncer. I am kind of a chicken.
I worried that I’d obsess over the cost. Then I worried that I would worry about obsessing over the cost.
Life’s hellish when you’re cheap.
The silver martini glass was pushed toward the barmaid, who in turn carefully put it on her tray, and carefully brought it to me. “Three dollars,” she said, much to my grateful surprise. To my look, she said quickly, “You paid the cover, right?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Then you’re okay till midnight. Price goes up then.”
“Really.”
“We get a lot of good musicians here. A lot of ’em. Nothing gets going till late, though.”
I sipped away. The drink tasted more pomegranate than grape and it was good. I slurped it down so fast I pretended to keep drinking long after the last drop was absorbed. Thank God for opaque glasses. But then I remembered I could probably put this on an expense account, so I ordered another, and this time Megan herself brought it to me as my barmaid was busy elsewhere.
We locked eyes. I could tell she registered that she knew me from somewhere, but she was having a hard time placing it. I said, “Hello, Megan. I’m Jane Kelly. You brought me the pug this summer. Your aunt Eugenie’s?”
“Oh, Binky!” Her eyes widened. “Is everything all right with the dog? Can’t you keep her any longer?”
“Oh no, she’s fine. I’m…well, I’ve grown attached to her. Honestly, I’d have a hard time giving her back now.”
“Oh, good. I’m just struggling with my apartment, y’know? Good roommates are like hen’s teeth.” She smiled. “One of Aunt Eugenie’s favorite sayings.”
“Good old Aunt Eugenie.”
“I’ve got a guy living with me now who tried to tell me he doesn’t spank the monkey. This after he ate a bag of Cheetos. Your Honor, I saw evidence to the contrary.”
In my mind’s eye, I witnessed what she’d seen in all its orange glory.
“I don’t care what he does. Masturbation’s supposed to be healthy. It’s the lying I can’t stand. You know what I mean?”
I nodded. I hate being lied to. Lying to others, however, is what I live for. An unfair dichotomy that rarely bothers me.
“Gotta get him out and someone else in.” She eyed me some more. “You looking to move? It’s a nice place. Not far off Hawthorne.”
Her words had the power to almost pierce me. It was like the whole world knew I was being kicked out. “I’m pretty happy where I am.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she said a bit ruefully. “That’s a nice cottage. I was just hoping.”
Aren’t we all?
“So, what brings you down to the Crock?”
“I’m meeting Sean Hatchmere here.”
“Who?”
I half twisted in my chair. “I think he’s with a band…maybe?”
“Oh. Yeah, the musicians. They’re all stoned or worse. That’s a stereotype and a fact. I’ve smoked some weed, but that other stuff’ll kill ya.”
Megan, I remembered, smoked Players as well. Sometimes I like the scent of a freshly lit cigarette, but the environs of the Crock were saturated with that stale, musty scent of old cigarettes, dust and, drifting from the kitchen, overused grease. I imagined boiling oil somewhere beyond that turned out jalapeño poppers, clam strips, chicken fingers and assorted deep-fried appetizers at an alarming rate.
“Didn’t you say you used to tend bar?” she asked.
“In Southern California. A place called Sting Ray’s.”
“If you ever want to moonlight, we’re always looking for someone to fill in.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said as Megan went back to fill another barmaid’s order.
I tried to put myself in the picture as an employee of the Crock. I liked the dress code. Pants, as opposed to shorts or short skirts. Easier to work in. But the hours, and the lingering smells, and the drunks…
Not that process serving, one of the offshoots of my business, doesn’t have its perils and pitfalls. While Violet’s case was on stall, I’d delivered a few notices with varying risks to my person. Three days ago I’d damn near gotten run down by a guy I’d served with divorce papers. The asshole got in his car while I was heading toward mine, suddenly shifted in reverse and stamped on the accelerator, roaring backward straight for me. I’m always a little more on my toes when I deliver people bad news, so I nimbly leapt out of his Porsche’s path. He reversed right into the street and broadsided a passing sedan, luckily catching it at the back wheel well, so no one was seriously hurt. Everyone started screaming and shrieking and a man the size of Greenland unfolded himself from the sedan’s driver’s seat and glared down at the prick in the Porsche. I gave Greenland my phone number, told him I’d seen the whole thing, then climbed into my Volvo and calmly drove around them. I’d really wanted to flip the Porsche driver off. He’d tried to kill me, after all. But it looked to me like justice would be served, so I just rolled down my window and whistled the theme from Rocky at him as I cruised past.
Maturity may not be my long suit. Doesn’t mean it didn’t feel good.
I finished my drink but held on to my silver glass as I strolled away from the bar and toward the back of the room where scruffy men in dark T-shirts and wrinkled pants checked the sound and lights. I watched a guy unroll a wad of thick electrical cable, his movements so deliberate I wondered if he was in a zone. A drug zone, possibly, although I’ve known other people who moved at the speed of sloth.
There was a grouping of two-person café tables in front of the stage and I snagged a chair. The lighting was dim, which was probably a blessing as I tend to get anxious when I see the accumulation of dirt and crud that seems to go hand in hand with small nightclubs. I can live with a certain amount of dog hair clinging to my
clothes. But true dirt? Inside, not outside? Uh-uh.
My eyes narrowed on the dusty footprints layered upon each other atop the dark stage. Get a broom, somebody.
“Sean, get up the catwalk and check that spot.”
The speaker was an older guy with a frizzy, gray ponytail. He was pointing to a track light attached to a crossbeam above the far end of the stage. Sean was the guy slowly wrapping up the cable.
Could there be two Seans? I wondered hopefully. This one was slight with shaggy hair to his shoulders and a dopey expression on his thin face. Either he was under sedation or there was one very long neuron between sensory input and brain processing. He was, however, about the right age. Twenty-five, maybe?
Sean slowly balanced a tall ladder against the aforementioned catwalk. I held my breath as he climbed upward, his movements at a steady pace of .002 miles per hour. He trudged across the walk to the light, which he fiddled with and fiddled with while Frizzy Ponytail barked orders. Eventually they were both satisfied and Sean crept back down the rungs and returned to coiling cable. He’d sounded a lot more energetic on the phone.
I checked my watch. Eleven-thirty. Maybe I could get this interview over early and skedaddle before the witching hour. The thought of my bed was an invitation I wanted to accept sooner rather than later.
“Sean Hatchmere?” I asked, as he walked across the stage in front of me, his sneakers and pant legs passing by at eye level.
He stopped, shading his eyes against the lights to look down at me. “Yeah?”
“Jane Kelly.”
It took a moment. “Oh. Yeah. Ya wanna come on back?” He veered toward the rear of the stage and after a brief second of hesitation, I hauled myself onto the dusty apron and followed, brushing off my palms.
Behind the enormous speakers and false walls was a rabbit warren of alleyways fashioned from more enormous false walls and black set boxes. I could see the bright green of an EXIT sign through a slit between black curtains. Sean stopped ahead of me and motioned me into a room with a haphazard selection of folding chairs. The greenroom, apparently, where the performers waited before going onstage.
Sean took a folding chair and I pulled up one beside him. The light was dim enough that I couldn’t tell if his eyes were unfocused or not. “You wanted to talk about Dad,” he said. His voice was a near monotone, but I thought that might be just his natural way of speaking rather than a passive-aggressive kind of compliance, the kind I might have used in the principal’s office once upon a time.
“Violet didn’t kill your father, either purposely or by accident,” I said, forcing myself to sound positive. “She wants to find who did, and I’m trying to make that happen. I’m just gathering information. You’re the first person interested in talking to me.”
“You’re a private eye?”
“Something like that.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s a work in progress.” I explained about the steps it took to be licensed, and Sean listened with apparent interest.
“That’s cool.” He bobbed his head. “You can’t, like, bust some-one for something, though, huh? Like drugs, or…stuff…”
“I’m not the police.”
“I dunno what I can tell ya. Dad was a control freak. Really wanted me to be a doctor, like he was. But y’know how that turned out.” He peered at me through hanks of hair.
“He got his medical license revoked,” I said.
“He was a lot more fun before that.” His tone was wistful. “All of a sudden he’s, like, climbing down my throat, turning my room upside down, sniffing around like a drug dog, y’know? Found a little stash of weed and thinks I’m a crackhead. Sends me to this rehab place with, like, these old people. Everybody’s got a prescription drug problem. I mean, really. Like housewives and businessmen and lawyers and shit. They are really messed up. If these people had had a little weed, y’know? They’d be a lot better off.”
“Did you tell your father that?”
“You bet. I told him lots of stuff. All that hypocritical shit. I kinda laughed at him, if you want the truth,” Sean said sheepishly. “He just, like, blew a blood vessel. Really, really out of control.”
I decided Sean might be stoned. His emotions seemed detached from his narrative. “So, were you and your dad having a problem when he died?”
“We were always having a problem. I was his problem. Well, and Gigi, too. I always kinda thought he wanted other kids, y’know? Smarter kids. Better athletes. More motivated.” He shrugged. “Some parents are just like that. My friend Dillon? His dad’s a total fuck wad. Told Dillon that if he didn’t get a job, he wasn’t invited to Thanksgiving. That’s cold, man.”
“How old is Dillon?”
“Twenty-four.”
Sometimes I worry about the state of America’s youth, but then I remember what I was like at his age, which although different—I wasn’t a drug user—was kind of the same. I hate to use the word slacker. It’s just got too many bad connotations. I prefer motivation-challenged. I didn’t know what the hell to do with my life, and I spent my time stumbling through some college courses that still have the power to cause me moments of intense puzzlement. I remember one class titled Strategic Achievement in Common Socioeconomic and Cultural Workplace Situations in Conjunction with, or without, Today’s Technological Advances. I dropped out after a week of obscure lectures. The only thing I remember is great bandying about of the term utopic model. My strategic achievement was getting the hell out.
“So, you’re working for Violet, huh?” He sounded more curious than appalled. “Wow. I hear she inherited a ton a’ money. Maybe that’s what killed Dad.” He barked out a laugh. “He hated not being in control.”
“He controlled with money?”
“Oh, shit yeah. Totally. I don’t mean to, like, talk bad about him. I’m sorry he’s gone. He was…my dad.” Sean stopped short. It took him a couple of tries to get started again. Clearing his throat, he finally said, “But he really got upset when we didn’t follow the plan. ‘The blueprint,’ he called it. Y’know?”
“The blueprint.” I was getting a bigger picture of Roland Hatchmere beyond Violet’s description of him as a good father and an excellent plastic surgeon. “Sean, have you thought about who might have killed him?”
“Besides Violet…?” He looked away, staring into space for long moments. “Those robbers, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“Nobody hated him, if that’s where you’re going. He didn’t make enemies. No botched surgeries, when he was practicing. And he didn’t screw anybody over in his business dealings. I mean, I don’t think he did. Y’know Gigi and I had our problems. Like all kids, right? But everybody else thought he was great. Just ask ’em.”
“Can you give me some names?”
“Like of his friends? Sure.”
Quickly I pulled a small tablet and pen from my purse. Sean scribbled down a list of people. “Is there anyone else? Other relatives? Businesspeople?” I tried to jog his memory.
“Oh yeah.” He added a few more scratch marks to the list.
When he handed it back I felt jubilant. With Sean’s tacit endorsement, these people might actually talk to me. “Thanks.”
“Who do you think did it?” he asked.
“I’d have to get a lot more background before I could venture a guess.”
“You don’t think Violet did it.”
I shook my head.
He grinned. “You don’t like her, do ya? What happened? She screw you over, too?”
“Did she screw you over?”
“Oh, sure. Tried to get Dad to change his will, leave it all to her. He balked and they fought, and he lost his license and she was gone. But then she was back. You should talk to Melinda.” He gestured at the list. “Dad’s wife. You know she had to be really crazy, thinking about Violet returning to Portland, probably worming her way back in. Violet’s like that. She just doesn’t give up.”
“Mm.”
“You should talk to my mom, too,” he added. “I put her name on the list.”
I glanced down, pretending I didn’t know whom he meant, though I’d practically memorized the names of the main players. “Renee?”
“Yeah. She doesn’t live around here. She came up for the wedding, but, well, you know how that turned out.”
Actually, I didn’t. Violet had mentioned a minor brouhaha at the rehearsal dinner between Roland and his first wife, but she hadn’t been there and I hadn’t been able to gather any more information.