“So he’s not particularly friendly with any of them? One of the black families?”
“Never saw him hanging out with anybody around here.”
“He lives alone?”
“Yep. As long as I’ve been here.”
“Girlfriends?”
“Don’t remember seeing him with a woman, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t had his share.”
“Male friends?”
“Same answer.”
Quiet, nonaggressive, nontroublesome loner. If that was a true picture of Robert Lemoyne, what had he done to make Tamara notice him, run the check on him? And if he was responsible for her disappearance, what did he or she or both of them do to cause it?
I went back to the car, sat there with the cell phone in my hand. Call the cops-that was the right thing to do. Except that it wasn’t, not yet. No clear-cut motive and nothing but circumstantial evidence to link Lemoyne to Tamara’s disappearance-maybe enough circumstantial evidence to convince the local law to talk to Lemoyne, but not enough to convince a judge to issue a search warrant. Without any indication of foul play, the Toyota was just another car more or less legally parked in a supermarket lot. She hadn’t even been gone long enough for an official missing person’s report to be filed.
Not a damn thing the law could do, not tonight, not soon enough.
There was only one other person besides me who could do something-Jake Runyon. His number was the one I called.
21
TOMMY DOUGLASS
“Hey, Tommy,” Bix said, “hey, man, you sure about this, huh?”
“Sure about what?”
“Doin’ this one so early, man. People on the streets, cars, lights in all the houses… suppose somebody sees us?”
“We been over that already, how many times? This Butter-field’s not like the other fags. He don’t go out much and when he does he drives.”
“The one up by the park had a car.”
“So what? He stayed out late couple of nights a week, that made it easy. This one don’t go out much at night and when he does he comes home early and brings some other fag back with him. Troy told us that, didn’t he? We checked him out, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, but-”
“Yeah but, yeah but. Come on, what’s the matter with you? You turning chicken on me?”
“Chicken?” Bix glared at him from under the bill of his Giants cap. “Listen, dude, I ain’t afraid of nothin’ or nobody. You call me chicken, I’ll kick your ass. You know I can do it, too.”
Tommy sighed. Problem with Bix wasn’t that he was chicken, problem was he had two fuckin’ brain cells and one of ‘em was always out looking for the other. You had to explain everything to him fifty times before he got it, and then half the time he forgot and you had to explain it all over again. It was worse when he was high. He was high now, all that crystal meth he’d smoked out at Finn’s crib in Daly City. High and wired, the way he had to get to give these lousy queers what they deserved. Not Tommy. One pipe, that was all he’d smoked. He didn’t need speed or anything else to get his juices flowing. Just giving it to those bastards, paying ‘em back for what they did to Troy, that was enough. Better than any drug he’d ever tried.
Troy. Stupid punk kid. Ten times smarter than Bix, maybe even had a few more brains than himself, but he was still stupid. Convincing himself he was gay, of all the goddamn things, then running off to the city, the Castro, Faggotville, and letting all those queers take advantage of him, stick their dicks in him… Christ! Made his blood boil thinking about what they’d done to an innocent seventeen-year-old kid like his little brother. Made him want to fix them real good. Not just hurt them, like the first three-put their lights out permanent so they couldn’t prey on any more underage dummies. Maybe that’s what he’d do with this Butterfield or the next one. Yeah, maybe. Why not? Felt so good kicking the crap out them, think how good it’d feel taking one all the way out.
“Tommy, hey, man, what time’s it now?”
“Quit worrying about the time. He’ll be here pretty soon, comes home from his work about this time every night.”
“Unless he goes out somewhere. What if he don’t show?”
“Then we’ll come back tomorrow night. Or the next.”
“I’m ready now, man. I’m hot to trot.”
“Just take it easy. Stay cool.”
“So hot I’m cool,” Bix said and giggled. “So cool I’m hot.”
Two fuckin’ brain cells.
They were parked behind a Dumpster across the street from Butterfield’s house off Twenty-fourth Street. Nice old shingled house, big, yard in front, garage built on to one side. Rich faggot, worked for some computer company, big executive or something. Screwed businesspeople during the day, screwed underage kids at night. Bastard. Lousy queer boy-fucking bastard. Well, he’d get his pretty soon, pretty soon. Wouldn’t be screwing anybody for a long time after tonight. Might never screw anybody ever again after tonight.
Cars came up the street, went down the street. None of them turned into the driveway over there, but Tommy had a feeling it wouldn’t be long now. Another five minutes, ten at the most. The Little League bat was on the seat between him and Bix; he pulled it over onto his lap, ran his fingers over the dented aluminum.
Bix had one of those little rubber balls that he kept squeezing in one hand or the other. He flipped it from his left to his right, made a fist and crushed it hard. Then he giggled again. Not because anything was funny, he always giggled when he was high. The more he smoked, the more he giggled. Damn irritating habit. Sounded like a girl. Sometimes he even sounded like a faggot.
Another set of headlights crawled up the street. Tommy sat up straight. His head felt funny all of a sudden, like it’d just been pumped full of air. His ears started ringing. His pecker stirred as if a girl had just stroked it.
“That’s him,” he said.
“Hey, man, how can you tell that from-”
“That’s him, goddamnit, get ready to move.”
Tommy took a tight grip on the handle of the bat, shoved the door handle down on his side. It was Butterfield, all right-the car slowed, lights swept off into the driveway, garage door started to slide up. Tommy was out and halfway across the street by the time the door was all the way up and the car started slotting inside, Bix a couple of steps behind him. Nobody in sight, one other set of headlights but they were a block and a half away uphill. No problem.
Click, whir, and the garage door started down again just as Tommy hit the sidewalk running. Bix was right behind him as he ducked inside. The fag was half in and half out of the car-a Beamer, wouldn’t you know it-and when he saw them he tried to crawl in and slam the door, lock himself in. But Tommy got there first, yanked it out of his hand, and jammed it open with his hip. Butterfield’s face twisted up at him, more pissed than scared, and quick he jammed his thumb against the remote hanging from the visor. The garage door stopped halfway down. Hell with that. Wasn’t gonna do him any good, he wasn’t going anywhere except down for the count.
“What the hell’s the idea? Get out of my garage!”
Tough-talking fruit. Bigger than the others, over six feet, all decked out in an expensive suit and tie, ugly bearded face… how the hell could Troy let an ugly bastard like that screw him? Tommy felt himself swelling up with heat and rage and excitement, until he felt ten feet tall. He could’ve taken on the biggest queer ever lived tonight, one on one. Didn’t need Bix, didn’t need anybody but Tommy Douglass and his little Louisville Slugger.
“You’re the one getting out,” he said. “Or we’ll pile in there and drag you out.”
“I know you. Gay bashers, breeder trash.”
Bix giggled. “That’s right, sweet thing. Ass-kickers R us.”
“Bastards!”
Butterfield came out sudden, kicking and swinging. But they were ready for him. He slammed a foot into the car door, but Tommy danced out of the way and as soon as the faggot came up on his feet Bix had him around the ne
ck. Jerked his head back, legs spread so the bugger couldn’t back-kick his shins. Tommy shoved the greasy rag in his mouth, jabbed the head of the bat into his gut hard enough to put a hole right through him. Air went out of him in a gagging hiss. He doubled over in Bix’s grasp.
“Let go of him, man, he’s all mine.”
Bix let go and Tommy jabbed him again, same place, then belted him in the kneecap. Line-drive single! Butterfield went down on the other knee on the concrete floor. Tommy swung again. Crack! Two-bagger down the line! Again, on the side of the head this time. Crack! Triple up the gap!
“Hey, Tommy, hey, man, not so hard, you gonna kill him-”
“Shut up!”
The faggot was all the way down now, moaning and writhing, blood all over his ugly bearded face. Tommy took his stance, home-run stance, Barry Bonds getting ready to break McGwire’s record, and lifted the bat for the big blast All of a sudden he didn’t have it anymore.
Somebody jerked it out of his hands at the top of his swing.
At first he thought it was Bix, but then he heard Bix yell and then yowl with pain, and when he came around he saw there was somebody else in the garage, big son of a bitch he’d never laid eyes on before. Bix was sprawled over the back end of the BMW, holding his arm and trying to dodge another blow from the bat. The big son of a bitch swatted Bix across the kidneys and sent him spinning off the car onto the floor. Tommy unfroze and charged the guy, some goddamn faggot neighbor, fix him like he fixed Butterfield. Head ducked, arms reaching Something happened, he didn’t know what, but all of a sudden bright pain burst through his head and neck and his vision went cockeyed and he was stumbling off balance, then banging into something solid with his shoulder and the back of his head. Flashes of light went off behind his eyes. He blinked and pawed at his face and the light faded and he could see the big son of a bitch standing there in front of him, practically in his face.
“Had enough, Douglass?”
Knew him, knew his name!
“Who the… hell’re you?”
“Your worst nightmare, kid.”
“Bix!”
“He can’t help you. He just crawled out of here on his hands and knees.”
Tommy said, “Dirty bastard,” and didn’t know if he meant Bix or the big stranger. He pushed off the wall, blinking, trying to see straight, and took a swing at the face in front of him, but it was as if he did it in slow motion, as if his arm had lead weights tied to it — and there was another burst of pain in his neck and shoulder — and he was sitting on the floor and his head was full of more hurt and confusion and he couldn’t see anything this time, not even flashes of light. Blind. Oh God, he was blind…
All the fight went out of him. And all the anger and hatred and excitement and hunger for revenge, until there wasn’t anything left.
“Give it up, Douglass, you’re all finished.”
Finished. Yeah.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t have moved if he’d tried. Even when the darkness went away and he could see again, there just wasn’t anything left.
22
JAKE RUNYON
He backed away from where the Douglass kid sat dazed against the rear wall and went to check on Jerry Butterfield. Not as badly hurt as it’d first looked when he came in. Butterfield was up on one knee now, spitting out the residue of whatever they’d shoved in his mouth, holding the side of his head. Blood leaked through his fingers, made a glistening snake’s trail through his dark brown beard, but when he looked up his eyes were clear enough.
“Thanks,” he said. “Don’t know who you are or where you came from, but… thanks. I thought… Jesus, I thought they were going to kill me.”
They might have at that. The way Douglass had had that aluminum bat cocked-if he’d swung with all his strength, he’d have bashed Butterfield’s head in. Pure luck that Runyon had got here when he did, just as the two of them were ducking into the lighted garage. He hadn’t even had enough time to drag his. 357 Magnum out of the glove box. More luck there-that he hadn’t needed the weapon.
He said, “Better not talk, Mr. Butterfield. Just take it easy.”
“No, I’m all right. Not disoriented, just bruised and… cut. Bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“Head wounds always bleed like that.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Long story. Time for that later.”
“What’s yours, your name?”
“Runyon. Jake Runyon.”
“Help me up, will you, Mr. Runyon?”
“You sure you can stand?”
“Long enough to sit down.”
Runyon gave him a hand up, guided him through the open car door and onto the front seat. Butterfield had the presence of mind to sit leaning forward, so that the dripping blood spattered on the concrete floor instead of the leather upholstery. He fumbled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, pressed it to the gash in his temple.
“I just bought this suit,” he said. He was staring at the crimson streaks on his jacket and trousers. “Sixteen hundred dollars at Wilkes Bashford. Ruined now. You can’t get blood out of fabric like this.”
Runyon said nothing.
“Ruined,” Butterfield said again. He raised his head, squinting. “You sorry excuse for a human being,” he said to Tommy Douglass. “Tried to kill me and ruined my new suit.”
“Fuck you, faggot.”
They stared at each other across the empty space.
Douglass still sat in the same position, legs splayed out, like something discarded against the wall. He hadn’t moved the entire time. And the words he’d said to Butterfield had been a by-rote response, passionless, mindless. Runyon had seen dozens like him over the years, young and old, all races and colors. Big men when they had weapons in their hands and they were in control, capable of just about any act of violence. Shriveled little cowards when the tables were turned and they were on the receiving end, capable of nothing except feeling sorry for themselves. The one who’d scrambled out on his hands and knees, Bix Sullivan, was another cut from the same cheap cloth. Long gone now in that pickup of his. But he wouldn’t get far, probably wouldn’t even try. Just go on home and wait the way his buddy was waiting, riddled with self-pity and banked hatred and not understanding for a minute why he deserved to be punished for what he’d done.
The hell with him. The hell with Tommy Douglass. Runyon opened his cell phone and called 911.
The SFPD’s response time was nineteen minutes, not bad for a week night in a city with a fairly high crime rate and a department in a state of flux. The paramedics took a little longer to get there-more emergency medical calls than felony crime reports tonight. Runyon showed his state ID to the two uniformed officers; that didn’t impress them, but they showed some respect when he mentioned his time on the Seattle PD. He gave them a full accounting of the situation, and when Jerry Butterfield added his version and said damn right he wanted to press home invasion and assault charges, the uniforms Mirandized Tommy Douglass, handcuffed him, and stuffed him into the back of their patrol car. The kid didn’t have much to say and offered no resistance; he was all through making trouble for anybody tonight. While the paramedics were ministering to Butterfield, one of the cops radioed in a request for a pickup order on Bix Sullivan.
Butterfield insisted he wasn’t badly hurt, but the paramedics kept talking to him about the unpredictability of head wounds and convinced him to take a ride to SF General for a doctor’s exam. He closed up the garage and went with them in the ambulance. One of the uniforms told Runyon to stop by the Hall of Justice within the next twenty-four hours and talk to a Robbery and Assault inspector and sign a statement; he said he would, and they took Douglass away and left him with the usual crowd of neighbors and rubberneckers. The crowd was still milling around, reluctant to let go of their little thrill, when Runyon climbed into his car and drove off.
The whole thing hadn’t taken much more than an hour. Violence erupts, blood gets spilled, the cleanup crews move in, the
crowds finally disperse, and it’s as if none of it ever happened. Life in the city. Confirmed all over again just how pointless human behavior, human action, human existence was. People live, people die; life goes on and then it doesn’t. Everything matters for a while, and then nothing matters.
Colleen had lived, Colleen had died; his life had gone on, and then someday it wouldn’t. Everything had mattered for twenty years. And now it didn’t.
The apartment Joshua shared with Kenneth Hitchcock was only a few blocks from here. He was on his way there, to tell Joshua the news, see if it would make a difference in their relationship, make something matter again for a little while, when the call from Bill came through.
Bill’s car was parked in tree shadow just down the block from Robert Lemoyne’s house-the same place Tamara had been parked during her two-night surveillance, he’d said on the phone. Nearly ten-thirty now. Two-thirds of the houses along here were dark or just showing night-lights; Lemoyne’s was one of the dark ones. Runyon made a U-turn, pulled up behind Bill’s car, and went to slide in on the passenger side.
“You made good time, Jake.”
“Not much traffic. Still no sign of him?”
“No.” Bill’s voice had a thick tension in it. Finding Tamara’s car had wired him up tight. “I took a turn around the property a while ago. Doors, windows… everything locked up tight.”
“Gone since last night?”
“Or early this morning.”
As much as twenty-four hours. And the first twenty-four hours in a case like this were critical. If a snatch victim survived them, the odds jumped in favor of continued survival. Problem was, the percentage of victims who didn’t survive them was a hell of a lot larger.
“So how do you want to handle it?” Runyon asked.
“Keep on waiting. For now.”
“Brace him if he shows?”
“Push him hard if we have to. You carrying?”
The. 357 Magnum was in his belt now. He said, “Yeah. But I hope it doesn’t come down to that.”
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