Desolation Flats

by Andrew Hunt

  “And how long, roughly, would you say you were at room seven-ten, from the time you knocked until the time the customer took the pillows and you left?”

  “Coupla minutes. The guy grabbed the pillows from me, axed me to hold on, and he come back with a tip.”

  “So you watched the argument while he was inside fetching your gratuity?”

  “Yessuh. He gimme two bits.”

  “I see. So from the spot where you were standing, you could plainly see room seven-oh-three, where the confrontation going on?”

  “Yessuh.”

  “Did the man that you delivered the pillows to that night, did he see any of this?”

  “I doubt it. The man just took them pillows, told me to hold tight. Closed the door. Come back a second later with the tip. That was that.”

  “Getting back to this argument … Are you sure the man that answered the door to seven-oh-three was Mister Nigel Underhill?”

  “Yeah. I know what Nigel Underhill looked like. I carried his luggage up to his room the day he arrived.”

  “Did he tip you?”

  Blue chuckled, rocking back and forth as he did. “Naw. Now how come you’d ax that?”

  “Just curious. Getting back to this argument…”

  “Yeah.”

  “What exactly were they arguing about? Did you happen to overhear any of it?”

  “Only part. They was far enough away. At one point, the big guy, he looks right at me, and then he starts talking softer.”

  “The part you heard…”

  “Yessuh.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “Well, see, the big guy, he wanted his money for some job he done, and he told Underhill that he’d come to collect.”

  “Uh huh. Did they argue about anything else?”

  He shook his head. “S’all I heard.”

  “What time did it happen? Approximately.”

  “I don’t know. Ain’t got no watch. No clock in the hallway, neither.”

  “But it was late.”

  “Yeah. Late. Or early. Depending on how you look at it.”

  “Maybe two? Two thirty?”

  “Possibly. Possibly three. Somewhere thereabouts.”

  “So while you were dropping off the pillows, you looked over and saw the big man knocking on the door?”

  “Yessuh.”

  “And Nigel opened the door…”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And the arguing began.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you see the whole argument?”

  “They was hollering at each other right as I was dropping off them pillows, and then Underhill, I seen him go back in the room and close the door. The big guy stood there waiting, and that’s when I went back to the elevator.”

  “Help me grasp the lay of the land right.”

  “Sure.”

  “To get back to the elevators, you had to walk past the big guy hollering at Nigel Underhill. Is that right.”

  “Well, that’s one way of getting there.”

  “There another?”

  “Yessuh. The long way. I didn’t wanna walk past this fella. He was sore, and I was fearing he’d snap and get ugly on me if’n I got close to him, you understand. So I took a longer route to get to the elevators. Rounded a lotta corners, went down all them corridors, and by and by, I got to the elevators. Taking the long way made it so I could steer clear of that big guy.”

  “But the elevators are right around the corner from room seven-oh-three. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. That’s so.”

  “OK. So you took the long way just to avoid the big man?”

  “Like I said, I ain’t looking for no trouble.”

  “Understandable. So how long did it take for you to get from room seven-one-zero all the way to the elevators, walking around the length of the hotel?”

  “The long way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mmm. It’d take a man a couple minutes. Depending on your stride.”

  “It took you a couple of minutes?”

  “Two minutes, three minutes. I wasn’t timing it or nothing.”

  “When you got to the elevator, was the argument still going on?”

  “Naw. I spied ’round the corner. The big guy wasn’t there no more.”

  “It doesn’t seem like he was there very long, was he?”

  “Nope.”

  “If you had to guess, how long would you say he was there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And you didn’t see any sign of him leaving the building?”

  “Nossuh.”

  “Do you think if you saw this man again, in a police lineup or a courtroom, you could identify him?”

  Blue shrugged his shoulders. “Like I said, I was down the hall, and it wasn’t like I was staring at the man.”

  “Do you remember seeing Clive Underhill that night?”

  “When he come in late from the Grove, yes, I surely do.”

  “Do you remember him going up to his room?”

  He hesitated, as if cooking up an answer in his head. “No. I remember seeing him in the lobby.”

  “You had to think about it.”

  “Lots of folks ride the elevator at night. That Clive, he come and go all the time, every day, and at all hours, too. So my memory needs poking.”

  “What did you think of him?”

  “Mr. Clive?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, he’s an awfully nice fella,” said Blue. “Whole lot nicer than that brother of his. Mighty generous, all the time tipping. I told him I wasn’t s’posed to accept it, but he says ‘nonsense’ in that funny way English folks say it. Always stuffing a bill in my hand, axin’ how I’m doing. You won’t find no one more decent than him.”

  I leaned back into my chair and stretched my arms. I noticed Blue loosening up, relaxing, probably relieved to be past this.

  “One more question,” I said.

  “Yessuh.”

  “Remind me…”

  “Yessuh.”

  “I can’t for the life of me remember the name of your harmonica group.”

  “Oh!” He laughed. “The King Rufus Hi-Hat Harmonica Quartet. We’ll be playing at the Old Mill Club tonight and again on Saturday night. Come on out and give us a listen.”

  We shook hands again. “Blue. It’s been a pleasure.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Detective.”

  Nineteen

  “Where are you from, Mrs. McKenna?”

  “Please, call me Estelle.”

  “Estelle.” I smiled. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  Her floral dress, with vivid splashes of spring colors, came close to matching her red hair, which I surmised had been dyed recently. Age-wise, I’d pegged her as being in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, with the first hint of wrinkles forming in her face, and sausage-like fingers flecked with light golden age spots. She possessed a hint of the aristocratic, and spoke with a melodious accent that I couldn’t quite identify. Wisconsin? Minnesota? The Canadian Prairies? In the middle of her lap she kept a shiny black handbag, and I could plainly see a familiar-looking pack of Choward’s Violet Mints jutting out the top. When she came down to answer my questions in the Lafayette Ballroom, her husband was taking a nap after a long day at his convention.

  “Not at all,” she said. “We live in Regina, Saskatchewan.”

  “I’ve never been to Saks … Sawks … Swask…”

  She laughed and spoke the name slowly and deliberately: “Saskatchewan.”

  “I’ve never been to Saskatchewan,” I said. “What’s it like?”

  “Flat.”

  “Completely flat? Like a pancake? No mountains?”

  “Not even a hill. Not for hundreds of miles.”

  “You’re from around there?”

  “I most certainly am. Born and raised.”

  “What brings you to our fair city, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all
. Claude is here for the convention.”

  I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. “The Radio Sellers’ Convention?”

  “Yes. He owns his own business, McKenna’s Radio Store. He wants to open up a chain of them. For the past month, he’s been scouting around Regina, Saskatoon, and Moose Jaw, looking at storefronts. He’s exploring the option of a bank loan. The time seems to be right. Radio is here to stay, and the market is expanding. Each new day, another station acquires a license to broadcast. You know what they say? Today, Saskatchewan; tomorrow, the world!”

  “That pleases me to hear,” I said, with a heartfelt smile. “Listen, Mrs. McK—”

  “Estelle.”

  “Estelle. I have a couple of routine questions I’d like to ask you. Shouldn’t take up much of your time, and then I’ll leave you be.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to leave me be,” she said, chortling as she dipped chin to chest. “I find you a pleasant young man.”

  I’m sure I blushed. “That’s kind of you to say. Still, business is business, and it waits for no one.”

  “Is it about the incident on Saturday night?”

  “I understand that you and your husband witnessed a quarrel between two men.”

  “I saw it, through the peephole, and I described it to my husband.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Two men arguing, yelling at one another.”

  “Where did this argument take place?”

  “At the door to the room across the hall.”

  “What’s your room number?”

  “Seven hundred and four.”

  “Seven-oh-four. So you were looking out the peephole at the doorway to the room across the hall? Does that mean your husband didn’t see it?”

  “We took turns looking out. He saw parts of it. I saw parts. But you could hear every word they were saying through the door.”

  “What were they arguing about? Do you know?”

  “The big man wanted money he thought was owed to him. The little man didn’t want to pay him. There was quite the brouhaha.”

  “Oveson!”

  I turned my head toward the entrance to the Lafayette Ballroom. Pace Newbold was coming toward me in a hurry, and with a furious expression on his face. Behind him, like a caboose in a three-piece suit, followed Reid Whitaker, proving he could smirk and chew gum at the same time. As Pace neared, I saw his fists clenched, as if he was preparing to duke it out with me.

  “Something wrong?” Estelle asked.

  “Hold on a second.”

  I rose to my feet and faced Pace before he could wedge himself between Mrs. McKenna and me. As I silently predicted, he shoved me, a one-handed jab to the shoulder. I knew well enough not to let him bait me, not to shove him back, which was what he wanted and, I’m sure, expected. I stepped back, drew a deep breath, and noticed Whitaker off to the side, head cocked back, grinning as though he had a front-row seat to a big vaudeville show.

  “You can’t leave it alone, can you?”

  “It’s because they’re connected, and you know it.”

  “I’ll tell you what I know, Oveson. I know damn well what you’re up to. You’re not going to get away with it.”

  “Oh yeah? What am I up to? What sinister agenda am I pushing?”

  “I’m sick of you being coy with me, playing the innocent fool.”

  He gazed down at Estelle McKenna, who was staring up at us, her mouth hanging open from the suspense of it all.

  “Mrs. McKenna…”

  “Estelle.”

  “Tell Detective Oveson what you saw through the peephole of your hotel door early Sunday morning. Remember?”

  “I was about to, right before you walked in. I didn’t have a chance to finish.”

  “Tell me what?”

  She looked at me and spoke haltingly. “I … I saw the big fellow wrap something—a wire or a cord or some twine—around Underhill’s neck and force him back into his hotel room. When they got inside, the big guy closed the door behind him.”

  Her words caught me off guard with the force of a horse’s hoof flying into my face and cracking bone. Momentarily too shocked to speak, I had difficulty formulating a coherent response.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Pace. “You look like you just found out an old friend died.”

  I ignored Pace. I asked Mrs. McKenna: “Why didn’t you call the police right away when you saw this?”

  She spoke haltingly: “I was frightened and I didn’t want to—”

  “Butt out, Oveson,” interrupted Pace. “Maybe if you spent a little less time covering up for the sorry sonofabitch Lund and a little more trying to hunt him down and bring him to justice, we might actually inch a little closer to closing this case.”

  “I’d like to talk to Mr. McKenna,” I said. “I have a few questions.…”

  “Drop it, I said!” shouted Pace, moving menacingly close to me.

  “What about Clive Underhill?” I asked Pace. “You gonna try to tell me Roscoe had something to do with his disappearance?”

  “I don’t owe you any fucking explanation. Just drag your sorry carcass out of here and quit searching for an angle to get your pal off the hook.”

  For a fraction of a second, I considered telling Pace that I found Vaughn Perry’s body in that shotgun house up Emigration Canyon. But I opted against sharing that crucial piece of information with him, mainly because at that very moment, I loathed him, and only wished to punch him in the mouth. Restraint won out, as it always seems to with me. Echoes of my dad’s voice reverberated from my boyhood to the present: Ask yourself, son: Is this really the hill you wish to die on?

  My attention returned to Estelle McKenna, staring up at me with an open mouth and expectant eyes. The last thing she needed to see, after what she witnessed on Saturday night, was a fight between two police detectives. Pace had me. I couldn’t be seen fighting too hard for Roscoe. He was a fugitive now, and he’d received significant help from me, and I knew I’d face prison time if I were ever caught. I had to exercise caution and play the hand I was dealt with care. Hotheadedness would only land me in trouble.

  “Sorry,” I said, at last. “I guess I overstepped my bounds.”

  “I’d say that’s putting it mildly,” jeered Pace.

  “Go easy on him,” said Estelle. “He’s a sweet fellow. He’s only doing his job.”

  “Lady, with all due respect, you don’t know this guy like I know him,” said Pace.

  I went over and shook hands with Estelle McKenna. “Thank you for your time, ma’am. You don’t happen to know when your husband will be…”

  Pace appeared at my side. “Get out of here, Oveson, before I personally arrest your sorry ass.”

  The thought of giving her one of my business cards crossed my mind. Briefly. With Pace standing behind me, almost literally breathing down my collar, I thought better of it. I instead offered a nod of gratitude and a tug of my hat brim. Then I crossed the ballroom, moving out into a flood of men in suits the corridor, streaming out of the ballroom next door. I walked out the rear doors of the Hotel Utah, and the late afternoon sunlight momentarily blinded me.

  * * *

  I tossed the dice. They stopped at the board’s edge, next to one of Sarah Jane’s green houses.

  “Six and four makes ten!” I picked up the little metal Scottie dog and began moving him around the board. “I just passed Go, so if you please, Mr. Banker…”

  My son Hi handed me two one-hundred-dollar bills. I put them on my stack and continued up the board. “… six, seven, eight, nine…”

  “You got Vermont,” said Hi.

  “Spectacular!” I said. “Things have taken a distinct turn for the better.”

  Earlier in the evening, we’d set up the Monopoly board on the coffee table in the middle of the living room. Once again, Clara wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed early. The radio softly played a medley of big band music courtesy of Kay Kyser’s Kollege of Musical Knowledge. I sat perched on the edge
of the love seat next to Emily. Hi rocked cross-legged on the floor opposite me. Sarah Jane was reading one of her books, putting it down when it was her turn. She gazed down at the board at my triumphant landing on Vermont.

  “Are you going to buy it?” she asked.

  “Of course!” I said. “Given that I already own Oriental and Connecticut, I’d be a nitwit not to! What’s the damage, Mr. Banker?”

  “Hundred bucks,” said Hi.

  I passed him back one of the pretend hundreds he’d just given me. “Wait till I get some hotels up on these three babies! I’ll wipe out all my competitors!”

  “Don’t be such a wise guy, Dad,” said Hi. “Sarah Jane already owns Boardwalk and Park Place.”

  “And it won’t be long before I put up hotels on both,” she said. “Along with Marvin Gardens, Ventnor, and Atlantic. He’s right, Dad. It’s a little too soon to start being a hotdogger.”

  “Yeah, Dad!” said Emily, arms folded, with her fiercest four-year-old pouty face. “Don’t be a hotdog!”

  The telephone rang.

  Sarah Jane noticed my posture straighten, and she shot me a look of concern.

  “Let it ring,” she said.

  “I’d better pick it up,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried into the kitchen and answered the telephone. “Hello.”

  “Arthur?”

  The voice on the other end belonged to Dot Bliss. I glanced behind me. The coast was clear. I moved close to the wall and talked softly.

  “Speaking?”

  “This is Dot Bliss calling.”

  “Hello, Miss Bliss,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering if we could talk,” she said.

  “What about?”

  “Some concerns I’m having.”

  “Can we discuss it over the telephone?” I asked.

  “I’d rather talk in person,” she said.

  “I’ve got a family. And it’s getting late.” I checked my watch. “It’s already quarter to nine.”

  “I don’t trust these telephone lines. Is there somewhere we can meet?” she asked. “After they’ve gone to bed, of course.”

  “What time did you have in mind?” I asked.

  “How does eleven o’clock sound?”

  “I’ll make it work. Meet me at the Airport Café. It’s brandnew and open all night. You remember where the airport is, don’t you?”