Scratch Fever

by Collins, Max Allan

  “No man ever made me come,” she said. “Do you think you can, Jon?”

  “I’ll try,” Jon managed.

  She sat on him

  4

  12

  NOLAN ALMOST missed the sign.

  It was over to the left, a barn-wood sign about four by four, with the following words painted on in faded red: “THE BARN, Turn Right.” This was lit from beneath by two small floods.

  He turned right, off the highway onto gravel. The road was narrow, its ditches deep, and to stay out of them, Nolan slowed to about thirty. He could see the structure up ahead, beyond the flattened cornfields, up to the right. It was stark in the moonlight, a barn with a tin shed growing out of it, like an outstretched arm.

  In front of the barn was a graveled parking lot, and he pulled into it. There were no other cars in the lot. He got out of the little red Datsun, which he’d gotten from Sherry, tucking the silenced 9 mm, which he’d gotten from dead Sal, into his waistband. He hadn’t taken time to change clothes—he was still wearing the corduroy jacket and turtleneck and slacks he’d worn to Iowa City today, though that seemed like a year ago—and he felt less than refreshed.

  The drive from the Quad Cities had drained him. He’d had a long day, too much of it spent behind the wheel of a car, and the rest poring over the books with Wagner and the Pier’s accountant, and drinking a little too much afterward. And then the shit had hit the fan, and he’d pulled the energy out of somewhere; the adrenalin had pumped and he’d managed to save that nice ass of Sherry’s and rid the world of that cocksucker Sal, whose body he’d dumped on a side road between the Quad Cities and Port City.

  Right now he felt every one of his fifty-odd years, after a cramped hour-and-a-half in a small car, on a rolling, narrow two-lane highway, watching for speed traps, popping No-Doz to force his alertness to an artificial edge.

  He stood and stretched and looked at the barn that was the Barn, letting the chill air have at him. Between the full moon and a number of tall posts with outdoor lights, the exterior of the structure was well lit, though its windows were dark. He didn’t bother trying the front, restaurant, entrance, but walked around to the side door.

  He could see the rustic bar, with its booths and wanted posters, through the steel-cross-hatched window of die door; there were enough beer signs lit to get a look. Not a soul. He walked around the long tin shed—it seemed a block long—and found some more empty parking lot at the rear.

  On the other side of the building, though, in still more parking lot, were several vehicles.

  There was a big four-wheel drive, a Land Rover, two-tone tan; a snow plow; and a van.

  The van was light blue with a painted logo on it that said “THE NODES.”

  Jon’s group.

  Jon’s van.

  Nolan slipped out of his shoes.

  It hurt to walk on the gravel in his goddamn socks, but it was quiet. The van had no side windows, but there were windows in back. On his toes (ouch—fuck!) he could peek in. He saw a lumpy bundle on the floor, a blanket over some stuff, he guessed. Could be a small person sleeping. He couldn’t tell.

  He looked in the front windows; the driver’s and rider’s seats were empty. He quietly tried the doors on either side. Locked.

  Now what?

  Somebody was in the Barn. There had to be, or the owners were goddamn dumb. A big place like this, stuck between a couple of cornfields, full of booze and other inventory, not to mention furniture and fixtures—hell, there had to be a sleep-in watchman. Without one, you’d go broke in a week.

  So somebody was in there—somebody who belonged to the tan Land Rover.

  Which meant Nolan could go to a door and start banging his fist till somebody inside answered. And that somebody might know something about the abandoned Nodes van. Julie couldn’t have grabbed the whole goddamn band, could she?

  He went to the nearest door, which wasn’t far from the parked Land Rover, and stopped.

  Jon’s phone call had brought him here, but Jon was, obviously, in trouble. The kind of trouble Sherry had been in, no doubt, or worse. What guarantee was there that Nolan wasn’t walking into some setup right now? Knocking, announcing himself, could be very stupid. . . .

  He went to the Land Rover and lifted the hood.

  It took about thirty seconds for the sound of the sticking, blaring horn to get a reaction inside the building. A dog barked; some lights went on; movement within. Nolan was waiting, his back to the building, to the right of the door, 9 mm in hand, as the man looked out—a big man, tall, wearing a hunting jacket over a bare chest and shiny blue pajama bottoms. He had a shotgun.

  The man was only partway out, the door open, leaning toward the Land Rover and its blaring horn; he didn’t see Nolan, who was behind the partly open door. That was good.

  Not good was the snarling dog on the other side of that door, a big dog, from the sound of it, who may not have seen Nolan but obviously sensed him, and knew exactly where he was.

  Fortunately, the dog was unable to transfer its knowledge to his owner, who said, “Stay back, Queenie—I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  But Queenie had a mind of her own, and as the man stepped out of the doorway onto the gravel, Queenie lurched forward.

  Just as she did, Nolan shut the door on the bitch, hard, catching the snapping animal by the shoulders, lodging it there.

  “Order it back!” Nolan said, shoulder pushing against the door. The dog, which had shut up for a second, caught by surprise and pain, was barking hysterically, trying to get its big German Shepherd head around to where she could bite off Nolan’s left hand, on the door knob. Above it all, the Land Rover’s horn was going as though this was a jail break.

  The guy was standing there, his back to Nolan, but partially turned, glancing over his shoulder to see the gun in Nolan’s right hand. His own shotgun was slack in his hands.

  “Order it back, I said,” Nolan said, straining against the door.

  “Queenie,” the man said. “Get back.”

  The dog’s snapping turned into a quiet growl.

  “Get back, Queenie.”

  The dog pulled back.

  Nolan shut the door. Behind it the dog still growled. Even the blare of the Land Rover’s horn couldn’t drown it out.

  The big man in hunting jacket and pajama bottoms twitched, as if about to turn.

  Nolan said, “You can’t turn fast enough.”

  The guy kept his back to Nolan but turned his head just enough to give Nolan a “Fuck you” look.

  Nolan said, “Toss the shotgun. Toss it good.”

  The guy tossed it.

  “Go fix your horn,” Nolan said.

  The guy walked slowly toward the Land Rover. Nolan followed. The guy lifted the hood, stopped the blaring. He shut the hood, then turned and looked at Nolan and said, “I’m gonna . . .”

  “You’re going to shut up,” Nolan said.

  The guy did.

  “I’m not a thief,” Nolan said, which wasn’t exactly true, but in this case was. “I’m not here to cause you any harm.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Lean back against the four-wheel. Put your hands on the hood.”

  He did.

  “What’s your name?” Nolan asked.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Don’t be stupid. This isn’t a contest.”

  “Bob Hale.”

  “You the watchman?”

  He bristled. “I own the damn place.”

  “No offense. This van here.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s the band’s, isn’t it? The band that played here tonight, correct?”

  “Yeah. Correct.”

  “What’s it doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I’m surprised it’s still here myself.”

  Nolan was afraid of that.

  “Some of ’em loaded some equipment in a trailer and left,” Hale was saying. “They said the other guy would probably be by tomorrow for hi
s amplifiers and shit, which is still inside.”

  “The other guy.”

  “Jon. The leader. Had a chance to get laid or something and bugged out. He’ll turn up for his stuff tomorrow.”

  There was a sound behind Nolan; he turned, quick, and saw the rear doors of the Nodes van open up.

  “Get out slow,” Nolan said. He was standing with his back to the building, which he didn’t like doing, but it allowed him to keep an eye on both Hale, by the Land Rover, and whoever it was climbing out of the Nodes van.

  “Let’s see your hands,” Nolan ordered. “Over your head.”

  It was a girl. A young woman in a denim jacket and jeans. So the bundle under the blanket had been a small, sleeping person.

  “I wanted to make sure it was you,” she said. She was staying near the van. A busty little brunette with a pretty, heart-shaped face.

  “You’re Jon’s girl, aren’t you?” Nolan said.

  “Not his girl, exactly,” she said, shrugging. “But I’m who you think I am. I think.”

  “Toni, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. She seemed surprised that he remembered her name. And a little pleased. “Can I put my hands down?”

  “Yes, and come over here.”

  She went to Hale.

  “Bob,” she said, putting a hand on his arm, which was still leaning back so he could keep his hands on the Land Rover’s hood, per Nolan’s instructions, “this is a friend of Jon’s. I didn’t want to worry you before, Bob . . . but something’s happened to Jon.”

  He looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Somebody’s kidnapped him, I think,” Toni said.

  “Did you call the cops?” Hale asked.

  “Can’t,” Toni said.

  “Better be quiet,” Nolan told her.

  “Why can’t you?” Hale asked.

  Nolan raised his gun.

  “Just asking,” Hale said.

  Nolan looked at Toni. She nodded. He looked at Hale. He said, “Jon and I are involved with some people who wouldn’t like the police involved. You don’t want to know any more than that.”

  “You’re right,” Hale said.

  “I’ll put my gun away if you’ll take us inside and keep your dog off.”

  “Okay.” Hale shrugged.

  “Go get his shotgun,” Nolan told Toni.

  She did.

  Nolan broke it open, handed the shells to Hale, then handed him the empty gun as well.

  He turned to Toni. “Get my shoes, would you?”

  “You’re in your stocking feet!”

  “That’s why I want my shoes.” He pointed to them.

  She got them for him. He put them on.

  Then Hale led them into the Barn, commanding his surly dog to heel, which it did, reluctantly.

  Hale took them out into the bar, where he turned on some lights. The dog headed for a nearby pinball machine and curled up beneath it and slept; even in repose, it looked like a killer. Nolan asked Hale if he had some coffee. Hale asked if instant was okay and Nolan said fine.

  While Hale got the coffee, Nolan got the story of what had happened here, from Toni’s point of view.

  “When Jon never got back,” she said, “I went out and found the van was still here. I couldn’t think of anything to do but hope you got Jon’s message, and wait for you to show up.”

  “So you waited in the van.”

  “Yeah, but I fell asleep and didn’t hear you get here. Didn’t hear you prowling around, either. You say you tried the doors on the van?”

  “The ones up front, yes.”

  “And I slept right through it. I’m not very good at this, am I?”

  “Well, you’re new at it. And I’m quiet.”

  “Yeah, you sneak around in your socks. I didn’t wake up till that horn started in. Scared the shit out of me, too.”

  “So Julie runs a gambling joint,” Nolan said. “That explains the Chicago connection.”

  “What?”

  Nolan shushed her, as Hale joined them in the booth with the coffee. The big man seemed almost friendly now. He had even taken the time to put some money in the jukebox; Charlie Daniels was singing something mournful at the moment. But it did serve to give a social flavor to this forced meeting.

  And Hale clearly liked Toni; he looked at her with an obvious, though somehow childish, lust.

  “Why’d you stay out in that van?” Hale asked her. “If I’d known you was in trouble, you could’ve come stayed in my pad.”

  “I never thought of that,” she said with a straight face.

  “Toni says this woman—this Julie,” Nolan said, as if he didn’t know who Julie was, “asked about Jon.”

  “Yeah. She was interested in booking ’em over at her club.”

  “His band, you mean.”

  “Yeah. She has quite the place, over there by Gulf Port.”

  “Tell me about it—the Paddlewheel.”

  “I suppose I could. I could also call Julie, after you leave, and tell her you was asking about her, you know.”

  Toni touched Hale’s arm again. “Please don’t.”

  “You don’t want in this any deeper than you already are,” Nolan told him. It wasn’t exactly a threat.

  Hale thought about that.

  Then he said, “Okay, you convinced me. Ask me what you want and get out of here. I want to get back to bed. Listening to that dog is making me sleepy.”

  Over under the pinball machine, his dog was snoring.

  “You know,” Hale said, “you could just as easy killed that bitch of mine out there. But you didn’t. Maybe that says something about you.”

  “Maybe it does,” Nolan said.

  13

  THE DOUBLE bed, covered by a garish green and red floral spread, came out of the wall at right; a TV and dresser with mirror were against the wall at left. There was just enough room between for Infante to pace.

  It was a dingy little room, with smudged-looking yellow plaster walls and a green shag carpet speckled with dirt; over the bed was a picture of two horses running. Tacky, Infante thought. Just the sort of depressing room he didn’t need right now. But he had no choice but to be here; this was where that guy Harold said to come. Besides which, there wasn’t any other motel in Gulf Port.

  Infante had rolled in just after three and had driven around a little bit, checking it out, and found Gulf Port wasn’t a town at all, not really—just a collection of trailers and shacks, no business section or anything. If there hadn’t been a full moon, he wouldn’t have been able to see the town, hardly, which would have been okay with him.

  Scattered along the outskirts of Gulf Port, though, were eight or ten bars, all thriving, and that explained it: Gulf Port wasn’t a town, it was a watering hole, a place to go when the bars across the river closed up at two.

  The motel was down the road from a place called Upper’s, a big one-story brown brick country rock joint with a hundred cars in the lot. The neon sign in front of the motel said “EEZER INN” in pulsing orange. Cute, Infante thought. The woman at the check-in desk was chubby and about fifty-five, with a lot of makeup and perfume and a frilly white blouse unbuttoned enough to show the start of big, withering boobs. Sickening. Ex-whore, he supposed. She was reading a Harlequin paperback. She’d tried giving him a sexy smile as she handed his room key over to him, and it all but made him barf.

  There were ten units in front and another ten in back, and about half of them were full up. He’d asked for one in back, and now he was pacing around inside the dreary little cubicle, feeling as unappealing as the desk clerk and as dirty as the room itself.

  He hadn’t had time to grab any of his things before leaving. He was still in the black outfit he had worn with Sally when they went in after Nolan’s bitch. He felt dirty. He needed a shave. He considered taking a shower, but then he’d just have to get back in these sweaty clothes, and he couldn’t stand the thought of that.

  He’d shower after his employers,
the man Harold and the woman Julie, had come and gone. He had called them as soon as he got in the room, which was five minutes ago; they should be here any time now.

  He stopped pacing. He sat on the double bed, with his back to the running horses. The silenced 9 mm in his waistband nudged him, and he took it out and put it beside him, on the bed. Then he sat leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, forehead against the palms of his hands. He felt very alone. He missed Sally.

  “I’m going to kill that fucker,” he said. To himself. Through his teeth.

  He sat up. He could see himself in the dresser mirror. He looked bad—scroungy. But he looked at himself, pointed a finger at himself, and said, “Understand? Kill the fucker!”

  There was a knock at the door.

  He got up, took the gun with him just in case, cracked the door (there was no night latch), and it was a sandy-haired man in dark-rimmed glasses, big—not tall, but big—and good-looking, in a rough way. He was wearing a yellow sports shirt and tan slacks. Smelled of Brut.

  “You’re Infante,” the man said.

  “You’re Harold.”

  “Right.” The big man turned and motioned to somebody in the car pulled in next to Infante’s jet-black Mazda. The car was a cream-color Porsche. Which said class. Which also said money. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad crowd to be in with after all, Infante thought.

  A woman got out. She was wearing black slacks and a silky blouse, tits flopping. Handsome enough woman, he supposed. Nice clothes, anyway.

  The. guy went to her; he had a fluid walk, like an athlete. Put an arm around her. He was a muscular sort—big shoulders. Works with weights. Infante bet.

  The two of them came in.

  Infante closed and locked the door and stuck the gun back in his waistband and said, “This place is a dump, in case you missed it.”

  The woman, Julie, turned to him and smiled. It was an attractive smile, not that he gave a damn. “I’m sorry we couldn’t do better for you,” she said. “Gulf Port isn’t exactly Las Vegas, you know.”

  “That’s not the way I heard it,” Infante said.

  “If you mean the Paddlewheel, it’s not in Gulf Port proper. It’s a few miles from here, on the river.”