Some Die Nameless

by Wallace Stroby

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. He was on a temporary work visa from some South American banana republic. San Marcos. Not sure I know where that is.” He tasted the chowder.

  “Next to Venezuela,” she said. “Atlantic coast, I think.”

  “Dwight was on the horn with their embassy today. They were very cooperative. They faxed over what they had on Mata, which was a total of one page. Say they’ve had no contact with him at all since the visa was issued. If he’d gotten his green card, they should have a record of it. They’ve got nada.”

  He spooned chowder.

  “Who sponsored the visa?” she said.

  “A company called Corsair Shipping. Corporate address in Delaware, but they had an operation at Penn’s Landing, another at Port Elizabeth in Jersey. Both now defunct. It’s all on the drive.”

  “Ballistics?”

  “Still pending as far as any matches are concerned. Estimate is he’s been dead about a month. He took two 9-millimeter rounds behind the ear. We only recovered a single casing, though, so the shooter likely picked up the other one.”

  “Why not both?”

  “Maybe someone came along, spooked him. Could be he looked for it, couldn’t find it, then just gave up and booked.”

  “Dwight the primary?”

  “He is, for now. Working with Mendoza. He wasn’t happy to see this one go into the red. I think he was hoping to write it off as an OD.”

  He drank water, wiped his lips with the napkin.

  “I appreciate it,” she said. “But why are you telling me all this?”

  “I know what’s going on at the paper. I figured you could use a tip on something might turn out to be a good story.”

  “I could. Thanks.”

  “Chase that down and you’ll be at the New York Times in six months.”

  “The Times just had another round of layoffs,” she said. “I doubt they’re hiring.”

  “The Washington Post, then. CNN. Hell, ESPN.”

  “I wish. Does the Inky have any of this?”

  “Not from me. We never had this conversation, by the way. And if asked, I’ll deny it.”

  The jambalaya had cooled, but she finished it anyway, the taste of the spices lingering. “I owe you one.”

  He spooned up the last of the chowder. “I never thought I’d miss the business, but I do sometimes. It’s sad to see what’s happened.”

  “You got out at the right time, landed on your feet. That’s more than most people did.”

  “How long have you been at the Observer?”

  “Seven years.”

  “And how long since the new owners took over?”

  “Year and a half. Be thankful you missed that.”

  “People have been bailing right and left. But you’re sticking it out. Why?”

  She motioned for the check. She’d had this conversation too many times, with too many people, didn’t want to have it again.

  Grace set the check down, and Tracy put a twenty atop it. “I’ll get your lunch.”

  “I’ll tell you why,” he said. “Because you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you left.”

  “Please.”

  “I’m serious. What would you do, get a PR job somewhere? Write press releases for Jefferson Hospital?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re too good at what you do. It’s in your blood.”

  “Maybe I’ll get a job at City Hall.”

  “You couldn’t handle it.” He untucked his tie, slid off the stool.

  “What’s that mean?” she said.

  “It means you’ve got a fatal flaw that’ll keep you from getting anywhere in public life.”

  “What?”

  “Morals,” he said. “You want to work for this city, you need to leave them at the door. Thanks for lunch.”

  The address on Marota’s driver’s license was an apartment above an empty bodega on North Fifth Street, on the edge of the Badlands. Salsa music blasted from a clothing store across the street.

  After leaving the market, she’d driven home, not wanting to go into the office, risk getting tied up with Harris. She’d plugged the drive into her MacBook, downloaded everything for safety. On the drive were scans of the driver’s license and arrest sheet, along with the single page from the San Marcos embassy. The photos on the license and sheet were grainy, but it was the same man. She’d printed them out, then headed back into the city.

  There was plywood over the windows above the bodega, smoke damage on the stucco around them. Shielding her eyes against glare, she looked through the front window. Empty shelves, some toppled over, ceiling tiles on the wet floor. Water damage from the fire above.

  A wooden stairway ran up the side of the building to the second-floor door. She went up carefully, testing each step with her foot before committing her weight to it.

  The door hung crooked, supported only by the upper hinge. The jamb was splintered where it had been forced. The pungent smell of smoke and damp came from within.

  She pushed the door open gently, hinge creaking. Light came in around the edges of the plywood, lit up a warped floor, blackened debris. The walls were charred.

  She wouldn’t chance the floor in there. She took out her phone, snapped two pictures of the inside.

  There was a sharp whistle below. She looked down. At the base of the stairs was a boy of about twelve, on a bicycle too big for him.

  “Hola,” she said, and started down the stairs. “Habla usted inglés?”

  “Sí.”

  “Do you live around here?”

  He pointed up the street.

  “Did you know the people that were in this apartment? Señor Marota?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did anyone else live here with him?”

  “Are you the police?” His English was flat, unaccented.

  “No.” She’d left her laminate in the car. “Have the police been here?”

  “This morning. But no one will talk to them. Everyone is scared of la Migra—ICE.”

  “I’m not ICE. I’m a reporter.”

  “On TV?”

  “No,” she said. “A newspaper. The Observer. Do you ever see it?”

  He shook his head.

  “My name’s Tracy. What’s yours?”

  Without a word, he swung the bike around and pedaled off. She watched him go, a vague feeling of unease settling over her.

  She walked out to the curb. Next to the clothing store was a jeweler’s, with lettering in the window that said CASH LOANS COMPRAMOS ORO. On the other side, an empty storefront with a FOR RENT sign on the door.

  There were other businesses on the street, apartments above them. She could knock on doors, show them the printout of Marota’s license, but she knew her two years of high school Spanish wouldn’t get her far.

  Strike one, she thought. But the game just started.

  In the lobby, she got that day’s Observer from the rack at the reception desk, brought it upstairs. The paper seemed thinner every day. No Features or Business sections at all in the daily anymore. Just the A-pages up front, an abbreviated Metro section, and Sports.

  Harris’s office was dark, the golf clubs gone. Dodged a bullet, she thought.

  She found Rick Carr, the Metro editor, out on the loading dock, smoking a cigarette.

  “You must have been jonesing,” she said. “Out here without a coat.”

  He took a pack of Luckies from his shirt pocket, held it out. She shook her head. “Don’t tempt me. Looking for something to pitch at the five o’clock?”

  “What you got?”

  “A follow on my decomp from yesterday. Turns out it’s likely a murder. On top of that, he’s some sort of shady foreign national with at least one alias.”

  “Interesting. Drugs?”

  “Maybe, but maybe something else. I need to make a couple phone calls, see what I can stir up, but then I’ll be ready to write. I should be able to get you a version for online by six.”<
br />
  “Better clear this with R.J. He’s your supervisor, not me.”

  “Which I eternally regret. Looks like he’s gone for the day, though, which I think means it’s up to you.”

  “In that case, I’ll take it.”

  Wind blew bits of trash across the lot. A sheet of newspaper skidded across the blacktop, flattened on the tire of a delivery truck.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said. “You staying or going?”

  “No comment.”

  “When’s the deadline to turn in the paperwork?”

  “May first.”

  “That’s not much time.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “And if not enough people take the buyout, we’re looking at layoffs again, right?”

  “More unpaid furloughs, at least. Word is they want a specific number of bodies this go-round. You see the letter we got from Corporate, encouraging us to take the buyout? ‘The fate of your co-workers is in your hands.’ No pressure there.”

  “You qualify, don’t you?” she said. “You’re what, fifty-five?”

  “Fifty-six.”

  “Be a good deal for you, though, wouldn’t it?” she said. “Six months’ salary and health, pension. Things aren’t going to get any better here.”

  “What would I do if I left? Nobody’s hiring middle-aged guys from dying professions.”

  “What about that Gannett rumor?”

  “That they’re buying us? It goes around every six months. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. Maybe the Inky will, just to put us out of business.”

  He took a last drag on the cigarette, dropped it on the concrete, and nudged it into a storm drain with his foot. “Might as well go back in, show our faces. Let them know we haven’t quit.”

  “Yet,” she said.

  At her desk, she sorted through her pile of reporter’s notebooks, looking for the one with the most empty pages. She got out a pen, clicked it twice, then picked up her desk phone and called a dispatcher she knew in the Philly Fire Department. Five minutes later, she was standing by the buzzing fax machine on the other side of the newsroom while the fire report she’d requested came through.

  She took it back to her desk. The call had come in at 11 p.m. on February 15, a month before. A preliminary report listed the cause as arson. Traces of accelerant had been found. No injuries, and no one home at the time. An attempt to find the listed tenant had been unsuccessful.

  No surprise there, she thought. Chances are he was already dead.

  She called up a New Story template on her computer and started to write.

  Ten

  S​even a.m., and there were already a half dozen men waiting outside the bar, one in a wheelchair. A thin man in a Phillies cap sat on the steps of the still-closed hardware store next door, reading a newspaper.

  Devlin was parked on a side street, no other cars around. Across from the bar, the entire block was taken up by a dark factory with a long line of broken windows.

  He’d gotten into Philadelphia that morning, had driven straight through, twenty-five hours, fueled by fast food and truck-stop coffee. On the way up, he’d detoured into Atlanta, checked out the address on Bell’s driver’s license. It was a midtown parking garage.

  He was feeling the miles now, the fatigue of driving, and a constant ache in his sides. He wanted to take a Percocet, go somewhere, and sleep for a week. The cold was in his bones. The months in Florida had spoiled him.

  At seven-twenty, a red Ford 150 came past him, parked in a fenced-in lot next to the bar. The man in the Phillies cap stood, folded his newspaper, and brushed off his pants. The one in the wheelchair backed up, swung around to face the door. The driver got out of the truck, locked it behind him with the key remote.

  It was Roarke, his hair longer and grayer now. A thick beard hid the scar on the left side of his jaw. He wore a blue down vest over a red flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show the thermal underneath. He limped to the front door of the bar, spoke to the men there, then took a ring of keys from the pocket of his vest, worked the locks. It all had the air of ritual, something he did every day.

  He went inside, the others drifting in behind him. The man in the wheelchair rolled up to the door, waited. After a minute, Roarke came back out, got behind the chair, tilted it enough to raise the front wheels over the lip of the doorway. Then he heaved up, got the chair inside. The door closed behind them.

  A neon SCHMIDTS sign came to life in the front window. Devlin waited, giving Roarke time to get settled. Imagining him inside, turning on lights while the customers waited in the dimness, then pouring the first drinks of the day.

  At seven forty-five, he got out of the Ranchero, zipped up his jacket, crossed the street. There were flecks of rain in the air.

  Chimes rang above the door. Inside was as he’d expected. Pressed-tin ceiling, dark wooden booths on one side, an L-shaped bar top on the other. More booths and a pool table in back. Cases of empties in the shadows against a far wall.

  The skinny man was in the booth nearest the door, the newspaper spread out in front of him, a bottle of Rolling Rock and an empty shot glass at his elbow. Four men sat at the bar. The man in the wheelchair had pulled up to the short side of the L, near the service bar, where there were no stools. He had a beer bottle between his thighs, was watching the TV mounted over the bar. Local news, a weatherman in front of an animated map.

  Roarke was behind the bar. He wore reading glasses, leaned with one elbow on the counter, and turned the pages of a newspaper. He looked up at Devlin, then back at the paper, then up again. He took off the glasses, let them hang from the cord around his neck. Devlin took a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the others. They turned to look at him.

  Roarke came down to where he sat, said, “Well, good mother of Christ.”

  Devlin smiled, said “Col,” and put out his hand. Roarke caught it, squeezed. Devlin felt the power there.

  “I’m thinking fifteen years,” Roarke said.

  “More like eighteen.”

  “You’re the last person I expected to see here.”

  “In the neighborhood.”

  “Right,” Roarke said. “And you wandered in by accident.”

  “Not quite. Can you talk?”

  Roarke looked at him, then lifted his chin toward the back. “Grab a booth. Give me a couple minutes. I just put some coffee on. You look like you could use it.”

  He moved away. Devlin got off the stool, the drinkers watching him, went to one of the back booths. There were nicks in the dark surface of the tabletop, carved initials. He watched Roarke set up the men at the bar with another round. When he came back, he carried two thick ceramic mugs, a handful of creamers, and two spoons, set them down. “Sugar?”

  Devlin shook his head. Roarke sat across from him.

  “They’re curious,” Devlin said.

  “Of course they are. You’re a stranger in their bar.”

  “Who’s Dugan?”

  “Previous owner. I bought the place from his widow. The name’s got history. Why change it?”

  “Your own business. Good deal.”

  Roarke peeled open a creamer, poured the contents into his mug. “Your turn.”

  Devlin drank coffee. It was strong and hot.

  “Your name came up in a conversation, so I decided to look you up,” he said. “I found an address and phone number, figured it was worth a shot.”

  “You should have called first. Let me know you were coming.”

  “I wasn’t sure I’d find you,” Devlin said. “Or if I even had the right address.”

  “Now you know. Tell me about that conversation.”

  “I just drove up from Florida, so I might be a little foggy,” Devlin said. “I’ll try to make sense.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket, took out the playing card and Bell’s passport, set them side by side in front of Roarke.

  Roarke put on his glasses, opened the passport. A smile played over his lips, then faded. “Whe
re did you get these?”

  “He came to see me. He had a driver’s license on him too, in his real name, but with an address in Atlanta. It was bogus. The one on the passport probably is as well.”

  Roarke looked at him over the glasses.

  “And that phone number”—Devlin touched the card—“was a burner. He’d just bought it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He had these with him when he tracked me down in Florida. Showed up out of the blue.”

  “Just like you.”

  Roarke picked up the card. “The last time I saw Bell, we were depriving some Colombian gentlemen of their laboratory facilities. I don’t think you were around for that one.”

  “I heard about it.”

  “We left a few of these thereabouts. What did he want?”

  “He tried to shoot me in the face.”

  Roarke set the card down, sat back. “Why?”

  “I was hoping you could help me find out.”

  He told him about the fight, the gun. When he was done, Roarke looked at his mug, picked it up, put it back down without drinking. “Bell was a good man.”

  “He was.”

  “We did a lot of work together. Had each other’s back.”

  “We did.”

  Devlin got the notebook from his pocket. “Look at the addresses.”

  Roarke took it, turned pages.

  “He had that with him too,” Devlin said. “The addresses and phone numbers on the first page are mine. The second page is how I found you.”

  Roarke put down the notebook, took off his glasses. “He tried to kill you.”

  “Almost did. Even without the gun.”

  Devlin slid up a jacket sleeve, showed the bruises on his forearm. “My ribs look the same. He gave me this too.” He touched his cheekbone.

  Roarke folded his arms. “And you’re telling me this why?”

  “I don’t know why he came for me, or if someone sent him. He asked me if I’d heard from you recently. We’re both in that notebook, so it could be he was coming here next. For all I knew, he’d been here already.”

  “He hasn’t. I haven’t seen him in eleven, twelve years. Not since I left Acheron.”