Blood Standard_An Isaiah Coleridge Novel

by Laird Barron

  “You know Mexican prisons?”

  “One time in Tijuana,” he said in a breathless voice.

  We parked in the cramped front lot next to a retired police cruiser. Instead of a star, it said GROVE STREET ACADEMY on the door panel. Fuck da Police! had been scrawled across the trunk and only partly covered with primer.

  The lobby was dim, stale, and hot. Sixties décor and no air-conditioning. Worn-out greenish carpets and a dingy tile ceiling that felt three or four inches too low for comfort. Two dusty rubber plants and a knockoff of a Jackson Pollock dripping. “Lady” by Styx piped in over the intercom.

  “This must be the fabled Tenth Circle of Hell,” I said.

  A heavyset man in a blue jacket sat behind the counter, his face lit up by a computer monitor. The huge monitor was antiquated, like everything else so far.

  His tag said MR. BLANDISH.

  Mr. Blandish ceased clacking away on the keyboard. He asked who we needed and I said Director Maggie Speegle. Did we have an appointment? I told him no, this is kind of an emergency regarding Reba Walker, and also delicate, so chop-chop. He was accustomed to blunt officials and angry relatives and he got on the phone and had a brief conversation.

  “Ms. Speegle’s gonna see you. Sign the guest book. Security will be here in a minute.” He scribbled our names on visitor badges, then resumed entering data, or surfing porn, or whatever he’d been doing when we interrupted him.

  Another burly staffer with a utility belt and a walkie-talkie arrived on the scene. He got his marching orders from Mr. Blandish and gave us a cursory once-over with a metal-detecting wand. I was grateful we’d left our guns, knives, and garrotes in the car.

  Our escort gave the come-along gesture. We were buzzed through a metal door and into a long, eerily lighted passage. More green carpeting and more claustrophobia.

  The director’s office was small and windowless, albeit tidy, with a handsome desk and a brand spanking new computer. There was even air-conditioning. The room was an oasis.

  I’d done some Internet sleuthing and learned what there was to know about Grove Street Academy and its personnel. Established during the 1920s, it had first served as a school for wayward girls. In other words, girls who wore pants or got pregnant out of wedlock. After WWII, it was purchased by an ex–government contractor and repurposed into a detention-and-reformation facility and became at least somewhat profitable and one of the few such institutions to survive into the twenty-first century. The Grove mission statement used words like pride, professionalism, and rehabilitation. I shuddered to think how close I’d come to spending stretches of my willful youth in a similar building. Five minutes inside and I understood Reba much better.

  Maggie Speegle’s staff photo didn’t do her justice. Platinum blonde hair this week, her shiver-inducing blue eyes matched her blazer. The size of the rock on her ring finger had me speculating about her husband’s line of work. She kept her cadmium blue nails trimmed and smiled like she ate glass for fun.

  Glancing at the photos and framed certificates on the wall I was mildly surprised none were an award for “Ballbuster of the Year.” Maybe if Grove Street Academy were co-ed . . .

  “And who are you supposed to be?” she said to me by way of hello. Her enunciation was precise. That’s a Bard education for you.

  “Eli West. Reba Walker’s uncle.” I flashed my driver’s license. I’d been clever and brought one that represented me as Eli West. During my Alaska service, the Family’s top forger had created numerous documents for me under a dozen aliases. A determined and resourceful investigator might see through the ruse.

  She aimed her steely gaze at Lionel.

  He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot.

  “Uh, I’m her other uncle.”

  “What the Christ.” Ms. Speegle massaged the bridge of her nose. Her only visible emotion was the dangerous glint in her eyes.

  I gave her the news: the girl had gone missing, the family was in distress—Obi-Wan, you are our only hope—and so forth.

  She opened the desk drawer, retrieved a pack of Kools, and lit one. She smoked, dropping the ashes into a ceramic dish that contained a lonely piece of peppermint candy.

  “Ms. Walker departed this academy nearly two years ago. We have not been in communication with her since that joyous occasion. I don’t believe there’s anything I can do to help at this juncture.”

  “Even an insignificant detail might prove critical,” I said. “Reba’s in trouble, is what we know. I don’t believe a stranger is responsible. The odds suggest a friend, an acquaintance.”

  “Mmm, yes. The sort of character she might’ve encountered here at Grove, you mean. This is an all-female institution. Unless you are speculating that a woman kidnapped her?”

  “The girls have boyfriends, brothers—”

  “Uncles.” She arched her penciled-on brow.

  “Touché,” I said. “Also. There’s staff. Did any of the screws get too chummy during her time here?”

  “That’s very thin ice, sir.”

  “I apologize for any offense. The question stands.”

  “The screening process is exhaustive. Professional oversight is diligent. Perhaps you’ve watched too many movies about corrupt penal institutions. Graft. Violence. Sex with guards. Hollywood sensationalism.”

  “Actually, all I have to do is watch the news.”

  Ms. Speegle exhaled heavily.

  “I am sorry she is in trouble. She was always in trouble. Frankly, I’m tempted to concur with the police assessment. She twice escaped this facility. Before that, she frequently ran away from home. Apparently, the pattern holds true.”

  “Some program you got here.”

  “It’s a stellar program. That’s why it’s one of only seven in the entire country. Reformatories aren’t often referred to as such these days. We’ve earned the highest marks from the National Board of Education, numerous law enforcement agencies, the AMA, and others. No program can save everyone. Least of all, those who don’t wish to be saved.”

  I regarded her with a freeze-ray gaze; gave it about five seconds to work its magic.

  “Ms. Speegle, I appreciate that you want to protect the academy’s reputation. All I’m asking for is a name. This is a real live girl we’re talking about, not a delinquent, not a statistic. She rides horses and takes art classes at SUNY New Paltz. Her family is crazy from missing her. Please help me.”

  She carefully propped her cigarette against the bowl and laced her fingers together.

  “Sad, so very sad. I washed my hands of Reba Walker long ago.” She smiled with pure, unadulterated malice. “Now, get out of my office.”

  We got out.

  * * *

  —

  MR. BLANDISH, THE RECEPTIONIST, waited outside the main entrance. He whistled as we walked past.

  “Dudes. You lookin’ for info on the Walker girl?”

  “How did you figure that out?” I said.

  “Boss called down and said not to talk with you about Reba, in case you made an end run.”

  I explained the situation and he glanced around furtively.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m on a break, so let’s make it snappy. You wanna talk to Hank Stephens. Young punk. Worked here until last year, then he split one day. Good fuckin’ riddance too. We beefed and I woulda busted his punk ass, except peeps had him covered. He mixes with a bad crowd, all I’ma say.”

  Jackpot. I peeled three twenties off a roll and slipped them into his hand.

  “He a guard?”

  “Nah, man. Asshole got a rap sheet. He did custodial here and at the pain clinic. Speegle mainly kept him around to scare the girls. Y’know, like the Scared Straight program.”

  “Send in the cons!” Lionel said.

  Mr. Blandish frowned in the way folks do when they don’t get a joke.

&
nbsp; “Reba?” I said, snapping my fingers at Mr. Blandish to break the spell.

  “The girl, I seen her around here sometimes. Last time, maybe three weeks ago. Came to meet Dr. Peyton. She always came to meet Peyton.”

  “Enlighten me, Mr. Blandish. Who is Dr. Peyton?”

  “He the top dog at Smyth and Coe. Magic man; makes the pain go away.”

  “Reba visited him.”

  “Yeah, man. That who she came to see. He does pills for Grove. Anybody needs ’em, he the hookup.”

  “He hook up anybody on the side?” Lionel said.

  “Aw, man, I don’t know ’bout that.” Mr. Blandish fidgeted. “Can’t say nothin’ ’bout that.”

  “Did Reba come alone?”

  “No, Dr. Jefferson’s daughter brought her. A sweet little brunette honey. Drives a red Porsche.”

  Lionel and I exchanged glances. I had a solid notion as to why Reba circled back here. It’s always about money, drugs, or sex. Reading crime pulps taught me that much. In this case, the first and the last didn’t add up. However, doctors, shrinks, and veterinarians provide the best dope around.

  Reba had met Hank during her stint as an inmate. He introduced her to the wonderful world of dealing black-market medications. She’d probably met Kari as a consequence of her professional relationship with Dr. Jefferson. Kari seemed a likely candidate for criminal hijinks. Perfectly positioned in the household of a big-shot shrink and dumb enough to consider liaising with Hank and his homies a romantic endeavor.

  “Where, oh where may I find our friend Hank?”

  “Dunno. Back in the day, he hung at a bar over on Kite Street. Like maybe ten minutes from here.”

  “A name would be nice.”

  “Don’t have a name. It’s somebody’s house or somethin’. When it’s open, there’s a cutout of Elvira in the window.”

  “I know the place,” Lionel said.

  “Thanks, pal,” I said to Mr. Blandish. “Don’t let the boss lady see you chatting with us or she’ll send you packing.”

  The big fellow shuddered.

  “Minus my balls.”

  “If you’re lucky,” Lionel said. “You don’t look very lucky.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  I doubled back and checked the phone booth in the foyer. No listing for Hank or Henry Stephens in the directory. The only other Stephens belonged to a Latisha M., who worked at a nail salon in Rhinebeck. Strikes one and two. I left a message for Detective Rourke with Hank Stephens’s name and description. It felt like progress, if only a smidgen.

  Lionel’s cell phone played the opening bars of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” as we sat in the car.

  “Calvin, my brothah.” He said “Uh-huh” a couple of times and disconnected. “That’s my man on the Jefferson stakeout. Says to meet him at the Spitfire, nine sharp.” He started the Monte Carlo. “What’s an investigation without dropping in to a titty bar?”

  “First things first. Then strippers.”

  “As you say. The nameless bar it is.”

  I recognized the nameless joint instantly, having cruised by it numerous times on my journeys to and from downtown Kingston. A tall, narrow house at a three-way intersection. Flowery drapes concealed whatever lay beyond the picture window in front. Elvira’s cutout from a beer campaign Halloween promotional presided over the entrance, her barely there slinky black dress faded blue from twenty-something years of shopwindow service.

  “Guess they’re open for biz,” Lionel said. “Good. I’m parched. That vampire lady sucked the life right out of me.”

  “Odd setup for a bar. Kind of resembles a speakeasy, doesn’t it?”

  Lionel turned his head. His shoulders trembled. I realized he was laughing.

  “Oh my God. Wait ’til these fools get a load of you.” He wiped his eyes and struggled to regain his composure. “I’d advise getting strapped for this one.”

  Ninety degrees, easy. My shirt stuck to me in uncomfortable places. I holstered the .357 under my armpit and dropped a set of brass knuckles into my coat pocket. The blue-collar bar scene was fraught with peril at the best of times. This kind of heat made mad dogs of people and sometimes the only way to settle them down was to smash in their teeth.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said once we’d sashayed inside.

  The bar was little more than a living room with all the regular furniture replaced by a counter, a couple of card tables, and a few stools. Half a dozen people would’ve constituted a crowd. At that moment, it was only the bartender, Lionel, and me.

  “Is . . . Is that AUTHENTIC Nazi memorabilia?” I tugged Lionel’s shoulder and pointed to a flag of the Third Reich, a spiked pot helmet, and a yellowed poster of Hitler addressing his adoring public.

  “Yes . . . Yes, it is.” Lionel’s lips trembled as he suppressed another bout of laughter.

  “So’s this,” the bartender said. He stabbed a fourteen-inch saw-backed bayonet into the top of the bar and left it there. Not a particularly large man, he nonetheless appeared mean enough with the scars, Aryan tats, missing teeth, and a leather vest with no shirt underneath. Considering the weather, he had to be tough to go with such an outfit.

  “Good grief,” I said, my attention focused on the bayonet.

  “We don’t serve niggers.” The bartender pointed to a sign on the wall. It confirmed the establishment’s anti-African-American policy.

  “Sir, I’m not black.”

  “The hell you ain’t, you pineapple-headed motherfucker.”

  “Gimme a Hoegaarden, stat,” Lionel said.

  “Don’t serve nigger lovers neither.” The bartender folded his arms.

  “I think he’s talking to you, Lionel,” I said, sotto voce.

  Lionel put his hands on his hips. Maybe the bartender glimpsed the butt of the Beretta, maybe not.

  “One. Hoegaarden. Please.”

  “Fine. Keep your shirt on.”

  We took seats at a tiny table. Plastic toy swastikas were arranged on a shelf by the window. Pieces from a board game.

  The bartender pulled a stein of white ale, sliced the foam with a knife, and came over and set it before Lionel. The hate in the man’s eyes was magnificent to behold. I hoped he didn’t have a machine gun stashed nearby.

  “Danke, Herr Goebbels,” Lionel said. He tasted the brew.

  “Friend, do you happen to know Hank Stephens?” I said.

  “Hank? No. Piss off.” The bartender went directly behind the counter and picked up the phone.

  “Good beer?” I said to Lionel.

  “Pretty good.”

  “It’s the spit that gives it a robust flavor.”

  Lionel lifted his sleeve to check his watch.

  “Is this going to be a thing with you?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Well, a squad of storm troopers will be here any minute. Last time we were in a tavern, some guys almost got their heads blown off—”

  “Friends of yours.”

  “Then there’s the incident at the Mafia lounge.”

  “Business.”

  “We’ve got three or four more places to be later. I’m just asking if, before it’s over, the yakuza will spray us in a drive-by.”

  “We’ll get to them after we deal with the Waffen-SS.”

  “Least you got a sense of humor.”

  “A Samoan and a hillbilly walk into a bar . . .” I said.

  “You aren’t Samoan.”

  “No, I am not. Thank you for paying attention.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I mean it. No one’s ever done that before.”

  “Are you gonna get emotional?”

  “No. Maybe. I want a hug. Let’s hug it out.”

  “This guy is barely keeping his shit together,” Lionel said with a meaningful
glance at the bartender. “We start weeping and hugging, he’s liable to come up with a Molotov cocktail and firebomb us where we sit.”

  “Ixnay on the hugging. But, seriously, thank you for noticing.”

  “Fuck off, Coleridge.”

  “Where do you suppose those stairs lead to?” I pointed.

  “The basement. A model of the Führer’s bunker.”

  I walked over to the stairs and peered into the shadows. “Hold the fort.”

  “Hey, that’s members only!” the bartender said. He must have made a suspicious move because Lionel’s chair fell over with a clatter. The bartender swore. “Whoa, easy, mister. How about another beer?”

  I passed through a curtain at the bottom of the stairs. The basement was also cramped. Exposed pipes and cruddy plaster. There were more card tables and a shabby stage with a stripper pole. Wall-to-wall posters and action-shot photos celebrating the Aryan movement and the glories of white pride. These glories featured hunky dudes in leather jacking the Nazi salute and brawling with cops. Disappointing. I’d half expected to find crates of surplus military weaponry, a dungeon, Hitler’s mummified corpse, or something.

  When I returned, Lionel had propped his feet on the table. He’d gathered a handful of the plastic swastikas and was flicking them between thumb and middle finger, the way a kid shoots peas. The bartender appeared apoplectic.

  Out in the street, tires screeched and an engine revved. A van with a four-color comic Valkyrie in a chain-mail bikini splashed on the door panel jumped the sidewalk and halted. That Valkyrie appeared lifelike enough to explode out of her top or kick the front door in. The panel slid sideways and a squad of angry white men began to unload instead. Skinheads in T-shirts with heavy-metal slogans, greasy jeans, and combat boots. They’d come to play—everyone carried a baseball bat or a steel pipe.

  I counted eight. That wasn’t so bad.

  “At least we all like metal,” Lionel said, admiring the van’s paint job.

  “Speak for yourself, whitey. I prefer Stevie Wonder.”

  The leader was a stout fellow, older than the others by a decade or so. A full head of blond hair, pug nose, crooked teeth. His prison tattoos were minimalist and confined to his beefy forearms. Which meant he could cover them up for the day job, whatever that might be.