by Jack Lively
I took my eyes off her and moved. I knew that she was not happy, that she didn’t like my attitude, or my face, or the fact that I was now completely ignoring her and walking through the opening in the panel screen.
I felt the weight of the Glock 19 in my jacket pocket. I had no plan to speak of, just the feeling that Chapman was in there and I needed to get eyes on her. Dave had seen a tall blonde, but was she Amber Chapman?
I moved into the back. More spacious than I would have imagined from the empty street out front. A large room with big round tables, each big enough to seat ten comfortably. And the place was jammed. I counted forty-two people. Noisy and boisterous and in other circumstances would have looked like a really good time. But these were special circumstances and I wasn’t looking for a good time, just a blonde woman named Chapman.
But she was not among them.
By the time I’d done the full scan I was about to butt up against the back of the room when I bumped into a short and rotund woman with dark brown hair in a pony tail. It was June from the SEAS office. She didn’t recognize me immediately. I managed to pivot out of the way and June stepped back. Then she looked up. It took her a moment to get past the clean shaved face and see me.
“Keeler. You came! Who told you?”
I was lost for a second. Then I remembered that it was June’s birthday.
I said, “Tell the truth, I didn’t remember. I’m looking for a friend. But happy birthday just the same.”
“Whatever, you’re going have a drink with me right now. You look different without a beard.”
June had taken my arm and was pulling me toward one of the tables. I had scanned the room when I’d come in but missed her because she had been in the bathroom. A waiter was busy collecting dishes from a table across the room. The woman in pink cashmere had returned to face front again. June had seven or eight friends around the table. Young locals, red-faced with drink. As we moved up I could see a large collection of shot glasses gathered on a tray in the middle. When the friends saw us coming a chair materialized next to June’s. By the time my ass hit the seat there was a shot in front of me.
June turned to me, then the others, “North to the future everyone!”
It was the Alaskan state motto. The drunk friends yelled it out in unison and the shots went down. Vodka, not nearly cold enough.
June flushed and said, “You see your friends?”
“No. But they came in here.”
“They have private rooms downstairs. I was just down there in the bathroom. Definitely saw some people hanging out. What’s your friend look like?”
“Tall woman in her twenties, blonde and pale.”
“Tall blonde? Yeah I think I’ve seen her. You should go down there.”
I thanked June and wished her happy birthday again. Then I started over to where she had emerged from the bathroom, the corner of the main room. Alongside the kitchen was a narrow entrance giving onto a stairwell. One direction, down. The kitchen doors swung open and I was hit by a wave of garlic and oil. I ducked into the stairwell and everything got a lot darker and a lot quieter. Down at the first landing was a switchback to the next flight of stairs.
At the bottom the landing went three directions. Straight ahead to the bathroom, left into a broom closet, or right down a hallway to another door. There were two guys outside that door, silhouettes backlit by a brightly glowing exit sign. One of the guys had pointy ears and a shaved head, the smooth lines were perfectly recognizable. The same silhouette I had seen outside the Edna Bay apartments. A foot soldier for Mister Lawrence. He was speaking into the other one’s ear, not looking at me.
It clicked, another piece in the puzzle. They’d been watching George Abrams’ apartment. Seen me going in with Chapman and called the police. They must have thought that was a clever way to get rid of us. It had not worked out that way.
I had my right hand in my jacket pocket, resting there casually on the pistol grip. The Glock has no real safety mechanism, so if I needed to rock and roll I’d just pull the gun and squeeze the trigger. But the pointy-eared guy had not seen me. The guy he was speaking to had, but there was no recognition there.
I pushed through across the hallway to the bathroom.
Thirty-Six
The bathroom was a dark corridor with one stall on the left and another on the right. In the middle at the end was a shared sink area with a mirror. I wondered how June had been able to see into the private area down there. Then I noticed an entrance to the right of the sink. I looked in on a coat room. No counter, no service. Just a small room filled with rails and hangars and around fifteen or twenty coats. On one side of the room were spare chairs and on the other, a makeup station with a round mirror framed in light bulbs.
I heard music. Through the coat room was another doorway, this time with an actual door. I figured this was one way of getting into the private room, the other being past the bald guy with the pointy ears. I liked this one better. I brushed aside the coats and arrived at the closed door. It wasn’t shut all the way, so I put my eye to the crack.
The room beyond was dimly lit. The crack in the door was tiny, and my field of vision confined to a slim cone extending and widening uselessly at the end of the room. On the wall opposite I could make out a neon sign. Not exactly a sign, more like the illustrative electric outline of a golden wok in orange and a pair of hot pink chopsticks stuck in it. They were going for the nightclub vibe. A woman began to sing, but I couldn’t see her. I could see the backs of four people. Two male, two female, and the shoulder of a third guy. They were oriented toward the singing, and I figured there was a stage there. I figured this was a room dedicated to karaoke. The voice was low and smooth. The singer made an abrupt movement, like a dance move. A part of her became visible for a fraction of a second. I saw no face, no fully formed figure, only a flash of blonde hair. I carefully pushed the door open another inch.
Then the phone rang in my pocket.
Hank’s phone. An old school mobile phone with real buttons. Thankfully, also a phone with a low buzz and a physical vibration instead of a high-pitched beeping ring. I stepped back through the hanging coats and pulled it out of my pocket. I pressed the green button to accept the call. Put it to my ear without saying anything.
Dave’s voice. “Keeler?”
I spoke softly. “Yes, Dave.”
“Keeler, can you hear me?”
I said, “Speak.”
The connection was bad. Dave’s voice came through like it’d been squeezed down into pure sound with none of the essential elements of conversation. No voice or meaning except for the obvious urgency of his cadence. I moved closer to the bathroom and the voice cleared up some. But, by then he was done.
I said, “Say that all again, Dave. I got nothing.”
There was a pause. Then Dave’s voice came rushing. “Keeler, they’ve just come in. Do you see them? I couldn’t call you before because they were watching me.”
“Slow down. Who’s coming in where, the restaurant?”
He said, “The Golden Lights Wok, yes, the restaurant. Four guys. I just wanted to tell you. I think they’re the same people. Another Hummer.”
Then I heard voices from the bathroom and hung up on Dave.
I knew what was going on. Whoever had just arrived was coming into the coat room. I had about ten seconds. I removed my jacket and fit it on a coat hangar. Then I got under the makeup station and hung the jacket in front of me. I stayed in an upright seated position under the table, the jacket just in front of me. It swung slightly in and out, I held my hand against it until it stopped moving. The pistol was in the jacket pocket. If it came to that, I’d have to fumble for it.
A couple of people walked into the room. I only had a view of legs. There was one big guy with a pair of steel-toed hiking boots, and a smaller guy with pair of penny loafers. Another big guy with another pair of steel-toed hiking boots came after them. All three walked through the door and into the adjacent karaoke room. When t
he door opened, the music and laughter came in loud and clear. Male laughter, female singing. The singing didn’t stop.
There were a couple of excited shouts and the growls and grumbles of conversation. I heard a man speak clearly.
He said, “Alright the cavalry’s arrived. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The door closed with a bang and the music was muffled once more. There were voices, conversation. I heard furniture shuffling. A single female laugh. I stayed there under the table and counted three minutes. By then, the song had ended. Which produced a moment of silence before the next one started. In that silence I heard voices from the karaoke room. Not many. Two people speaking in normal tones. I got up from under the table and put my jacket on. The music started back up, then a man’s voice singing. I walked to the door and pushed it open.
A large man was on the stage reading lyrics from a flat screen on the wall. He was middle-aged and balding, and swaying drunkenly in front of the neon wok. In the foreground a man and a woman stood with their backs to me. The woman was blonde, slim, and wore a blue dress. The man wore a plaid flannel shirt and had a hand at the small of the woman’s back making tiny circles. He was speaking into her ear. The guy on the stage stopped singing and stared at me. I noticed another woman, a tall and thin brunette sitting on the stage and staring into a phone in her hand. She didn’t notice anything.
The two in front turned around.
Not Chapman. The woman in blue had Asian features and wore heavy eyeliner to match the dress. The blonde hair was a wig.
I said, “Sorry, wrong door.”
I turned right and took three steps through the karaoke room to the corridor. The stairwell was up ahead and to my left. The guy with the pointy ears was no longer there. I took the stairs two at a time up to the restaurant.
Thirty-Seven
The energy had gone up a couple of gears in the restaurant. Someone had changed the music. Before, it had been a generic playlist with moaning strings. Now there was rhythm. A thumping close to that of the human heart, but slightly faster. The alcohol had helped take it up a notch. June was laughing with her friends. Faces were red. Good times.
June noticed me a few seconds after I stepped into the main room. As if she had been waiting for me. Which she had, because she’d seen Chapman and couldn’t wait to tell me about it. She came scampering across the room to me, holding a long-necked bottle of Coors in one hand. The other clutched at my arm.
“I saw her. Tall blonde with pale skin. She looks like a goddamned model. Is that the one?”
“More than likely.”
June had her eyes wide. She understood the importance of this black swan event. I didn’t know if it was important to her because of Chapman’s looks, or the fact that she’d been in special company. June said, “Well, she left a couple of minutes ago with Mister Lawrence and a bunch of other guys. Did you see him?”
“I must have been in the bathroom.”
June stepped back and smiled at me. She was done with that conversation. She twirled happily. “It’s my birthday.”
I said, “Have a good one, June.” And walked out of the restaurant.
Out front of the Golden Lights Wok, it was once again Port Morris, Alaska. The street was empty, damp, and dark and getting chilly. I looked across at Dave’s Ford. It was still there, and still faded red. But I didn’t see Dave. No silhouette in the car. The driver’s side window was down. Nothing in there but empty space and hardware, like the steering wheel and the rear-view mirror. I stepped across the road. Four paces and I was looking in. Nobody in the driver’s seat. But the passenger door was open and a body was spilled onto the sidewalk.
I went around the car. It was Dave. I could tell by his endomorphic shape and by his brown leather jacket. I crouched down beside him and observed. Dave’s legs were inside the car, but the rest of him had fallen out. His face was turned to the ground. I could see him breathing, so Dave was alive. No blood pooling under his head. So far so good. I stepped away and grabbed him by the armpits. Then I tugged him away, pulling his legs out of the car. I turned him over so that he was laid out on his back. The face was the issue. Broken nose and a nasty bruise on the side of his forehead. When Dave’s nose had been busted, a jet of blood had sluiced out over his mouth and onto his shirt. I touched the blood on his lip. By now it was congealing.
I played out the scene. Someone had punched him in the face through the driver’s side window. Another guy had dragged him out from the passenger side door. Then the first guy had walloped him again on the head, knocking him out. The Mister Lawrence people had not enjoyed Dave’s amateur surveillance operation.
I slapped his cheek.
Dave mumbled something. I gave him a minute and he went back into a stupor. I slapped again, almost hard enough to break something, but not quite.
Dave’s eyes opened wide. He was in pain. “What the fuck.” The eyes focused, pinwheel pupils expanding like twin apertures on a mechanical camera. “Keeler.”
I said, “How many?” He was confused. “How many guys?”
Dave rubbed his head. “I feel terrible.”
“I bet you do. How many guys?”
Dave rolled onto his side and drew his legs up so that he was sitting on the curb, feet under the car. He said, “Two of them. They saw me. Then one of them came over and asked me to roll down the window. When I did, he just punched me in the face. I didn’t see the second guy. He came from behind me and pulled me out. Then I don’t know. Just this, now.”
“You’re alright. Just a broken nose.” I cocked my head and examined his nose. It was crooked, turning to the left at the tip. I figured I’d save him getting gouged by private hospital expenses. “Hold still a second.” I reached over and grasped his nose in my fist. Like holding onto a doorknob. Then I pulled it quickly out and straight. The cartilage cracked.
Dave howled loudly.
I said, “Relax, it’s over. I just saved you a couple of grand. You should be thanking me.” I looked up and over the other side of the street. No more Humvee. They were gone. “Did you see the girl?”
Dave had his hand up to his nose. Feeling it tenderly. He nodded. “Four girls in, then two came out. Blonde girl, like you said in the beginning. Tall and looks like a model.” He looked ashamed of himself. “I didn’t get to see which Hummer she went in.”
I said, “It probably won’t matter. You think you can drive?”
Dave looked around, then back into the car. The keys were still in the ignition. He nodded. “Yeah. Guess I’ll go home now if that’s alright with you.”
I stood up straight and extended a hand. Dave reached his to mine and I jerked him to his feet, pretty much taking all the weight. I put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “You did good, Dave. You got jumped by guys with more training and experience than you. Next time you’ll watch your six a fraction better. That’s what experience does, long as you survive it.”
He smiled gratefully through the cracked and dried blood that had formed rivulets on his face. “Thanks, Keeler.”
“Don’t mention it.” I held onto his shoulder. Dave looked at me weakly, as if he was now uncertain. The weight of my hand weighing on his fragility. I said, “You sure you want to go home now, Dave?”
He was very confused. “Is there something else?”
“Be good if you could go back to the dock and just kind of hang around there. See if anyone else comes or goes out of the Emerald Allure.”
Dave touched his nose. “But what about the face? I mean, I think I might have been knocked out, Keeler.”
I took his head in my large, callused hands, turned it this way and that way, examining him carefully. Then I locked my eyes on his, pinning him like a plucked butterfly. “I think you’ll live, buddy. Get your ass down to the boat and call me if anything interesting happens. There’s plenty of time to lie in bed after this is all over. Once we’re done here, the winter will be very cozy.”
Dave nodded and I took my hand off his s
houlder. He was grateful.
“Okay. I’ll do that.”
Dave walked around to the driver’s side. I closed the passenger door. He fired up the car and pulled away. I stood watching until he was out of sight, wondering where Willets had gone with all that Chinese take-out. I was willing to bet the farm it was going to be back to the house. I strolled the few blocks to where I’d parked the Toyota.
Guilfoyle’s rifle case was resting along the back seat. Time to pay another visit to Deckart and Willets.
Thirty-Eight
It didn’t take much more than five minutes to drive up to where the streets were sparse, and the residential housing gave way once more to the Alaskan rainforest. I spotted the gravel driveway leading up to the house where I had first met Deckart and Willets. But this time I wasn’t going to come in the same way. I drove around slowly until I found a parallel street that was higher up the hill. I parked the Land Cruiser in a secluded spot.
I stood outside the truck and leaned into the back seat. The long gun case unzipped and I was able to look at it in the weak yellow ceiling light. The 700 is a famous gun, like some kind of gold standard for a rifle. It comes in all kinds of flavors, but Guilfoyle had chosen a classic model in glossy wood, with an olive canvas strap. He hadn’t skimped on the scope. I pulled a handful of rounds from the cardboard box, let them fall into my left jacket pocket. They didn’t quite balance out the reassuring weight of the Glock in my right pocket.
I slipped into the woods with the Remington over my shoulder. It took maybe ten minutes to get to a good spot above the house, about four hundred yards off. Even so, I had to climb into the lower branches of a big spruce tree. Because of the incline, the perch gave me a good view of the house at a three-quarter angle. Two sides of the building presented themselves to me. Once I was nestled up there and relatively comfortable, I raised the gun and uncapped the scope.