by Deanna King
“So, you’re gone for the day?”
“Yup, headed out, gonna grab a sub at Antone’s, should make it there depending on traffic in about an hour, then a long drive home.”
“‘Right, see ya in the morning then.” Lucky was preoccupied. He lifted his hand, but not his head as he waved.
. . .
With an Antone’s sub and a drink, he headed out for the long drive. Damn, it was only a mere forty miles, but on those kinds of roads it made you feel like you’d drive forever. Turning the radio up a song came on, and he thought of Gretchen. It was a Johnny Lee song, “Looking for Love.” It was on the music track for Urban Cowboy, and he smiled. It all fit. He was an urban cowboy, and he was looking for love. Was he looking in all the wrong places as the song implied?
He took out the napkin with her phone number. He wanted to call her with no ears on the wall listening. He forgot that he needed to move their date to Thursday night.
“Y’ello.” Her voice had an energetic quality.
“Hey, it’s Jack.”
“Jack, this is a surprise, a call before the date? You aren’t canceling, are you?”
“Uh, no way, I wanted to know if we can move it up to Thursday night next week.”
“Sure we can. Why?”
“I didn’t think about it until now, but Friday night is a busy night, and I thought…” He faltered.
“Jack, believe it or not, they do let me have a life.”
“Then we can keep it on Friday. I don’t want to cause you any problems with your job.”
“It’s fine, I arranged my schedule next week to have Thursday and Friday off. So Friday is perfect, or both days are perfect.”
“Okay, see you Friday night, pick you up at seven.”
“Uh, Jack, how should I dress?” She had no idea what the plans were for the date.
Silence. He hadn’t even thought about that yet.
“Jack?”
“Gretch, I hadn’t planned anything, sorry. What would you like to do?”
“How about casual for the first date, no pomp and circumstance, I’m not a pomp kinda gal, no fancy food or high-rise place. Afterward, how about we just see what happens?”
He liked that idea, as a matter of fact, he thought it was fantastic.
. . .
Jack had reached his destination and was surprised he hadn’t driven on as many white gravel roads as he had on his drive to Waller.
A small light-colored brick house, and a two-car garage, all surrounded by a chain-link fence. It sat back from the road about three hundred yards. He drove over the gravel driveway. To his left, he saw a quarter acre garden that needed weeding. It was a shame that it looked a bit dried out and unkempt, all that work to get it going was going to waste as the sun burned the garden up, and it could use a heavy watering.
Parking in the drive, he took his coat jacket, smoothed out a few wrinkles, and put it on to hide the shoulder holster and gun. He had already made sure that his tape recorder had a full tape.
Once again, he was out in the country where dogs roamed free, but no barking dog appeared. He unlatched the gate and walked into the yard, and then he heard the howl of a basset hound. They did have a dog, and it was inside, good for them. It was too hot out for any animal today.
The front door opened before he reached the last steps up the wooden porch and a rather tall, large man opened the door.
“Settle it, Boomer.” The man used his foot to push the dog back into the house.
“Howdy, nice dog, I ‘m Detective Jack West.”
“Yep, we’re expecting you. Come in.” He unlatched the torn screen door, work of the dog from where the rips were located. Jack walked in noting that the house smelled a bit like death. Not in the way a dead body smells, but as in dying death.
The man didn’t proffer his hand to shake. Instead, he walked in ahead of Jack expecting him to follow as he spoke.
“I’m Harvey Walden, Daphne’s husband, she’s in the back room.”
Jack followed him in, taking in the disarray of the house. Dirty dishes sat all over the place. Empty beer cans sat on a sideboard in the dining room. The kitchen was a disastrous mess, and that was saying it nicely. A plethora of pill bottles lined up on the same sideboard, and he knew that Mrs. Walden was gravely ill.
His suspicions had been right when he walked into a room where a hospital bed now sat instead of a regular bed. Daphne lay in the bed, hooked up to oxygen, her face very pale and her body wasted away to what appeared to be about ninety pounds, if that. Her hair was long and stringy. Once black, it was now streaked with gray and very thin, almost transparent. He saw parts of her white skull under her thinning hair. Her eyes closed and her face was gaunt.
“Can we wake her?”
“I am not asleep, Detective West, I’m resting my eyes.” Her voice was weak.
“Harve, get him a chair, he can sit by the bed,” she said and then began coughing.
Harvey raised her bed, so she sat upright a bit more and the coughing began to subside, then he went and got Jack a chair from the kitchen.
He sat and waited for her to open her eyes.
“I know I look a fright.” She cut her eyes to look at her husband.
“Harve, go get my photo album, you know the one I mean.”
He scuttled away to do her bidding, then she turned and looked pointedly at Jack.
“You know, I called you four days ago, what took you so long to return my call? I mean, I could’ve kicked the bucket in my state, and you would’ve never been able to get my story.” Even in her frail state, she sounded miffed.
“Ma’am, I was working a fresh case. So I had to set this cold case aside, and I obviously was not aware of your state of health.”
He didn’t want to piss her off, but hell, he didn’t have a crystal ball, and if he did, he would solve all of his cases.
“Mrs. Walden,” Jack began, but she raised a finger of the hand that lay on top of the white sheet.
“Please call me D or Daphne. I’d prefer to drop the formalities if you would.”
“Okay, Daphne it is then. I’m sorry to find you ill.”
He wasn’t just being nice, he was sad to see anyone in this shape. Furthermore, it would be impolite to burst out with, “What are you dying from?”
“Lung cancer.” She had read his mind, it was not hard to do. “Stage four. I don’t have much longer.”
He had no words to give her, encouragement would be an insult to her, and silence was his best option.
“Now, let’s get to why I wanted to talk to you. As you can see, my situation is dire, that’s why I wanted to talk to you face-to-face. Harve, put the photo album right here.” She lightly tapped the sheet next to her hand.
“Ma’am,”—he pulled out his tape recorder—“I’m going to tape our interview as long as you are okay with it. It’s easier than taking notes.”
“I like that idea. I tire easily, and repeating stuff doesn’t help with my breathing. Go ahead, fire that tape thingamajig up and we can begin.”
He turned the tape recorder on. “This is Detective Jack West of the Houston Police Department.” He recorded the date, time, and his badge number. “I’m speaking with Mrs. Daphne Walden.” He recorded her address and date of birth. “We’re here to go over information Mrs. Walden has on the cold case for Celeste Mason, file number 081286. Okay, Daphne, it’s all yours.”
“Detective West…” She gasped for air.
“How about you call me Jack, it’s shorter and easier for you, ma’am.”
“Jack,
open this album up please, and turn it three or four pages over.”
He did as she asked and found himself staring at a full eight-by-ten headshot of a gorgeous woman. Her face fresh, no heavy makeup, her long jet-black hair was nicely coiffed on top of her head with tendrils falling about. Her smile dazzling, showing off nice straight white teeth between full red lips. Sexy amber-colored eyes that had a come-hither look. The picture on the opposite side showed the same woman dressed in a stunning red dress, which sparkled off the page, low V-cut neckline showing a very voluptuous figure, the dress hitting all the right curves and hugging her slender hips.
Daphne smiled when she saw Jack’s eyes and the admiration these pictures garnished.
“I did tell you on the phone that I had been stunning, didn’t I?”
“Yes, ma’am, you sure did, and you sure were,” he responded as he stared at the picture.
“I was working at the Blue Marble, as a dancer at first. I didn’t have skills for a real job, mind you, but that didn’t mean I had no skills. I had that body and that face going for me back then. I knew it was a skin show when I applied, but hey, I needed work. The money wasn’t much, not at first. I could’ve just waitressed, but I jumped right into dancing.”
She stared at her own picture, and she smiled recalling those days when she was vibrant and healthy. She cleared her phlegmy throat and continued.
“Once the money got a bit better, one of the girls told me that if I was to get nastier and get more naked the money would pour in. I wanted more money like everyone else, but I was timid about showing off all my goods, so one of the girls there took me under her wing. She’d been doing it for a few years, she told me how much she was making, and I couldn’t believe it. She told me she’d help me overcome my inhibitions about being…well, nastier, and more naked.” She stopped to inhale oxygen, and Jack sat silent.
“I began using Quaaludes, and you can say fortunate or unfortunate for me, I began a very lucrative career. Before you begin to think that I became a drug user per se, I stopped using the Quaaludes a few months later, they made me feel funny. Even without them, I was able to perform quite nicely. I was very good, just me in my stilettos. I even did naked lap dances, got fists full of money, I even had cash stuffed into my high heels, and it was amazing.”
She stopped talking again and tried to inhale as her breathing was shallow, and Jack waited. Harvey leaned over her and turned up the oxygen to give her more air.
She closed her eyes briefly letting the oxygen take its course through her nose, and she exhaled in relief. Her eyes fluttered open.
“Now, where was I? I was in high demand, and one day, about a year and a half later, a girl came to me and asked if I wanted to make even more money. I was pulling in about forty grand or more. That was big bucks back then. Shit, more money sounded great because I liked the high life and back then, well, damn it to hell, we all did. I curse too.”
“I do too, more than I should, I’m sure. What kind of deal were you offered?” He thought he knew exactly what she was about to tell him.
“A deal that had me back on Quaaludes, for a little while. The owner of the clubs, three of them—the Blue Marble, the Crystal Barrel, and the Silver Moon—were running what I prefer to call an escort service. Hell, I knew what it was, out-and-out prostitution, but in that day and age, I hadn’t finished high school and I had no schooling to get me up that ladder of success. I did know that I began pulling in over sixty grand a year, more money than a college graduate did. It wasn’t an honorable job, but I didn’t care, I had money and I was happy. The girl that had started me, Jenna, she—”
Jack interrupted her. “Would that be Jenna Berrie by any chance?”
“Yes. Now, back to what I was telling you.” There was a bit more feistiness in her voice. He decided interrupting her was not good. He’d hold his questions until she was finished…before she was realistically finished.
“Jenna had been doing it for a while, and she was making plenty of money. She was the one that recruited me. At first, it was a bit like pandering, you know, the bartenders would ‘arrange’ the meet and greets, and the girls would hand in receipts and cash nightly. The customers were bar patrons, we didn’t venture out of the club, ever. Of course, word of mouth created more and more business for the girls and the clubs were beginning to get packed. Some of the girls got greedy and decided they would work outside the protection of the bar. You’d be right if you guessed that didn’t go well. Some of the gals were pinched and booked for solicitation.”
She stopped for a minute to take a deep breath, filling her diseased lungs with fresh oxygen, and then she continued.
“Now, several years later the owner of the bar died of a heart attack, and a new person was running the show. We all thought it was that sleazebag attorney, but it wasn’t Roger. If it had been, he would’ve been a bigger asshole. We all knew it wasn’t the dead owner’s son either, because the place would have imploded, he was an idiot. All he did was work at the Crystal Barrel. Every so often he drove the girls to where the johns wanted to go, and then he would wait for us.” Stopping again, she took several deep breaths. Jack was patient.
“At first we didn’t know who was calling the shots, but we were happier. Some of the girls had to deal with the a-hole attorney. He had to bail them out of jail occasionally. It was bad for the girls who went to jail because the a-hole was charging a fee and extorting sex. I never got busted, I kept it in the clubs, and I had the protection of the cops on the payroll.”
She stopped again, closing her eyes, and it looked like she was going to sleep. Jack cleared his throat. She opened her eyes and looked at him, and he saw her determination. She was going to get this out no matter what.
“Sorry, Jack, this is very draining, if you understand, not just physically, but emotionally too.”
“Look, Daphne, there’s no need to apologize.”
She closed her eyes, and Jack saw a small amount of sweat forming on her brow. Harvey saw it too.
“You need to rest for a minute, and I hafta get your pills. Take a break for a while, please, Daphne.” Harvey looked over at Jack and gave him a please-help-me look.
“Sounds like a terrific idea. I’ll step out, stretch my legs, and write a few notes.”
“As long as you aren’t leaving and I get to finish my story, Jack. I’ve waited over thirty years to tell this story to the proper person, and I mean to do it before I die.”
Jack was staying, you couldn’t pry him away. This woman was telling a tale, and it sounded like a made-for-TV movie.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jack paced inside the chain-link fence. Harvey had let Boomer out for a short walk around the yard. The poor dog was overweight and had short legs and ears that dragged the ground. He bent over and scratched him behind the ears, and then the old dog left to find a place to pee. He was going over his notes when he heard the screen door squeak and open. Harvey let the dog in and called out.
“She’s ready to go again, Detective.” His demeanor seemed more hospitable, although Jack felt the undertones of I wish you’d get the hell off my property, seeping out.
“Uh, Mr. Walden,” Jack began, he was going to apologize that this was taking strength from his wife, but Harvey Walden cut him off.
“Call me Harvey. You know, I wasn’t for all this ‘tell it all’ business. I mean, the past is the past, and you can’t change it. Daphne was determined to talk to you, and I promised her. It was her one last request, and I felt I should oblige. I know the story because she’s told it to me. I felt she should let sleeping dogs lie, but it’s her life story, not mine.”
That one sentence made Jack wonder if Harvey Walden had a story. Why would he want to let sleeping dogs lie, was he hiding som
ething? Jack’s gut churned a bit at that thought. If he were, he would have delayed this visit; his poor wife is at the threshold of death’s door. Jack dismissed the thought.
“I understand, Mr. Walden, uh, Harvey.”
“I’m not going to explain our past, Detective West, and I’m not going to apologize for our life either.”
Jack looked at the man, not understanding what he meant exactly, but he saw the man was hurting at the thought of his wife’s looming death, and he was right about one thing: Jack was there to get her story, not his.
“Harve, you can call me Jack.”
“Okay, Jack, let’s get back in there.”
Back in the makeshift hospital room, Jack took his chair again and noted that Harvey had changed out the top sheet for a fresh one and had moved her oxygen tank to the other side so he would not have to reach over her to regulate it. He had a bottle of water for Jack.
“You ready to continue, Daphne?” He took a drink of the cold water and then set it on the floor under his chair.
Her chest heaved and she began. “Jack, it wasn’t just the pandering, other things were going on in the clubs. Gaming and gambling in the back rooms, and I knew it was illegal to do that in a place that sold alcohol. This money was big business, chiefly the bookie business and gaming. Jack, these people weren’t in the back pitching pennies, we’re talking some major betting going on. I didn’t realize you could bet on practically everything, I mean, you could even bet on your bet. They were running a numbers game too, you know, how the Mafia did it.”
“Numbers running is bad business, people don’t just get legs broke, they get worse. I’m not a gambling man myself, but I’ve heard of people making bets on the strangest things.”
“Jack, this brought in some mean people and thugs. Whoever was in charge had a deep pocket of people on the payroll—cops, lawyers, TABC agents, and judges to name some of the more prominent types. I was a nobody, but I heard things. I needed my job, and I minded my own business.”