This afternoon, Luis took me—in civilian clothes, ha ha—to the Schlumberger headquarters, which was located on Andrews Highway, outside of town. West Texas was sporadically dotted with towns much like Goldsmith, often with long stretches of flat road between them. It struck me as peculiar that nearly all the highways heading out of Odessa are named after the towns to which they led.
Schlumberger was larger than most oil field supply distributors, but it wasn’t the only one. These kinds of businesses were what kept towns like Odessa thriving. They all smelled of machinery and metal and oil and gas and men. At least the ones I’ve been in have, and that isn’t many. As I walked into this one, I suddenly had a vivid memory of going with my father to such a place. I must have been three or four. And, afterward, I now recall, we visited one of the oil derricks where he worked. I was terrified of it! Loud, noisy, dirty, greasy, and full of men yelling instructions to each other over the cacophony.
I found it strange to unexpectedly experience this recollection, and for some inexplicable reason it provided me with even more resolve and courage to continue my mission.
To my surprise, a woman was at the reception desk. She was middle-aged, dowdy, and had a beehive hairdo. A pushover.
“Yes, ma’am, can I help you?” she asked sweetly.
“Yes, please, I’m looking for an employee of yours, Douglas Bates.”
“And what is this in reference to?”
“He’s my uncle and I need to deliver his father’s hunting rifle to him. I lost his address.”
The woman was confused. “I’m sorry, you have his hunting rifle?”
“Yeah, his father—he lives in Andrews, oh, and so do I—borrowed it and asked me to return it to him ‘cause I was headed this way. My great uncle wrote down his address and gave me a key—he has a key to his son’s house—but I lost the piece of paper with the address on it. Uncle Douglas is gonna want it. I have the key, could you just give me—?”
“Of course, honey!” the woman gushed, happy to help. “Let me look in our files. What did you say his name was?”
“Douglas Bates.” I sure hoped that guy in Goldsmith was telling the truth and Douglas did work at Schlumberger!
The woman opened a filing cabinet drawer and thumbed through the tops of the folders. To my relief, she pulled one out. “Here it is, Douglas Bates.” She read off the address and I wrote it down on a piece of Schlumberger’s note pad there on the desk. Ripped off the sheet and stuck it in my pocket.
“Thanks a whole lot.”
“You’re welcome, dear. Anything else I can do for you?”
“That’s all, thank you.”
I practically ran out the door, triumphant. Got in the car and had Luis take me back into town so I could do a little reconnaissance in Douglas’s neighborhood. He lived in a trailer park near the new Ector County Coliseum, a gigantic building that was built since I went away. It was also on Andrews Highway, not at all far from Schlumberger. Not much housing development around there. Seemed like trailer parks were the big new thing, especially for lower-income people.
Suited me just fine.
Now it’s nine o’clock and I’m ready to go. If for some reason I don’t make it back to finish this, dear diary, I leave everything I own to my friend and mentor Freddie Barnes. See you later.
35
Roberto
THE PRESENT
The airplane trip to Chicago made me feel lousy. The goddamned heart murmur or whatever the fuckin’ thing is started actin’ up as soon as I sat in my seat. I was in a plane once before, in 1956. Flew to Las Vegas with the don. I didn’t like it. Made me feel like I wasn’t in control. I don’t like not bein’ in control. Same thing happened today. I hated the security checks at the airport. The waitin’ drove me nuts. Then there was a delay and we sat in the plane for another thirty minutes before it took off. Fuck air travel.
I was a little worried about takin’ my Colt Detective Special. The rules said you’re supposed to declare and check it, but I thought for sure they’d stop me ‘cause I’m an ex-con. In fact, even possessin’ the damned gun was a violation of my parole. So I used that FedEx service and shipped it ahead of me to the Hyatt Hotel that’s at the Chicago airport. Booked a room there and had ‘em hold the package for me. Anyway, I was glad I didn’t have a problem with that. It was the only good thing about the trip.
But I made it. Rented a car at the airport, checked into the hotel, and picked up my gun. Took me a while to get used to all the modern crap they got in cars now. Automatic this and automatic that. The wheel was so easy to turn I almost crashed into a wall. Got a car with one of them new GPS contraptions, so I wouldn’t have to depend on a paper map. It worked pretty good, but drivin’ on the fuckin’ Chicago expressways was a nightmare. Made my heart pound like it was gonna burst. Had to give the Italian salute to a couple of other drivers who pissed me off. Think I’m gonna use side streets from now on.
I got to Arlington Heights in the early afternoon. Found Judy Talbot’s house, and nearly smashed the car window with my fist when I saw the place was for sale. Vacant. Nobody home. Fuck, where was she? Did she die?
Still, I thought maybe I should take a look around. Got out of the car and went up to the front porch. Front door was locked. I gazed up and down the street to make sure no one was looking—and then I kicked it. Opened with one try.
The place was empty except for a chair or two. Smelled old and musty. I went in the kitchen, found a few tools the real estate people probably kept handy. Nothin’ in the fridge. Checked out the bedrooms—they were empty, too. I was beginnin’ to think the trip to Chicago was a bust. On my way out, I noticed the door and stairs to the basement. Not much to see, but there was a punchin’ bag hangin’ from the ceilin’. That made sense. I could see footprints in the dust at the bottom of the stairs, too. Someone had been there recently.
I went back upstairs and outside to look at the FOR SALE sign. The realtor’s name was Kathy Reynolds. Noted the phone number and used my new cell to call her. When she answered, I told her I was interested in the house and would like a viewin’. She seemed real excited about that and said she’d meet me in a half hour. I didn’t tell her I was already at the house and had broken in.
Maybe she knew where Judy Talbot was.
The realtor was fifteen minutes late, which didn’t improve my mood. She parked in front—my rental was in the driveway—and ran up to me apologizin’ for bein’ “tardy.” She was heavy, maybe in her mid-forties, and wore too much makeup. Dressed in a women’s business suit. Her voice was high pitched and annoyin’. I already wanted to strangle her.
“Well, Mister Johnson, this house is a real bargain !” she said as we walked to the front porch together. I’d given her a phony name over the phone. “The owner has priced it to sell. As you can see, it needs a little sprucing up, and the owner understands that.”
“Let’s see the inside,” I said. Then I did a good job of fakin’ surprise when we got to the broken door. “Hey, look at that. Someone’s broken in.”
“Oh, my Lord! I should call the police.”
“Later. Show me the house first.”
“But somebody could be in there.”
“I doubt it. Come on.” I went inside and Kathy Reynolds hesitantly followed me. I closed the door as best I could behind her. “Roomy,” I said.
“Yes. Well, if someone did break in, there was nothing whatsoever to steal. I hope they didn’t vandalize anything.”
She went into the kitchen and I trailed right behind her. “Who’s the owner?” I asked. “I like to know who I’m buyin’ from.”
“Oh, I’m not allowed to give out that kind of information unless there’s a sale. Hmm, the kitchen looks all right. My tools are still here. This is a real mystery!”
“I’ll say. This house is old, right?”
“Built in the nineteen thirties. That’s pretty typical for this area.”
“So the owner was some old person, right? A lady, right? Is
she—or he—still alive?”
This time the realtor nodded. “Yes, but it’s a sad case. The poor old woman is in a nursing home. Stricken with Alzheimer’s. Terrible thing.”
“A nursin’ home? Which one?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to say. Would you like to see the bedrooms?”
“So who’s handlin’ the sale? She have relatives?”
“Her son. Follow me, let me show you the wonderful master bedroom.”
Son, huh. That explained the Talbot name. Judy Cooper musta got married at some point. Interestin’.
I followed the ugly dame into the bedroom. I noticed she was carryin’ a notebook-style briefcase. Probably had all the information about the house’s owner. If it didn’t have the nursin’ home address, it would surely tell me how to find her son.
My hand slipped into my jacket pocket and felt the cold, hard handle of the snubby. When the lady stepped into the bedroom, I pulled the gun out of my pocket. Held it by the barrel. Raised my arm.
“You get a lot of light in the morning,” she said, indicating the windows. “I like sunshine in the mornings, don’t you, Mister John—?”
She didn’t know what hit her.
I used her jacket to wipe her blood off the butt. She was dead. I probably broke her skull. Oh well. She got on my nerves some-thin’ awful.
I took her notebook, went back to the kitchen, and opened it on the counter. Sure enough, there was all the info I wanted. The son’s name was Martin Talbot. Lived in some place called Buffalo Grove. But I didn’t need him after all. There’s a note from him to the realtor written on Woodlands North stationery. The address and phone number printed right on it. Looked like a nursin’ home to me.
I called the place and asked to make sure. Asked to speak to a Judy Talbot and they said they’d transfer me to her unit. I hung up before it rang. So she was indeed a resident. Looked at my watch and saw it was a little after five o’clock. Perfect. I got in my car and headed that way.
36
Judy’s Diary
1958
DECEMBER 19, 1958
Yes, dear diary, it’s over a week since my last entry. I’m back in New York now. I’ll try to write down what happened in Texas, although a lot of the past week is a blur.
It was about nine thirty on the night of the 13th when Luis dropped me off at the entrance to Douglas’s trailer park. I told him to drive by again in an hour—if I was ready, I’d signal him somehow. If not, he was to come around again every half hour after that.
Trailer parks are kind of spooky at night and this one was no different. There was a light that illuminated the entrance and a few here and there on the property—but mostly the place was dark. That was actually beneficial for me.
I darted through the shadows, moving from trailer to trailer, until I stopped to linger in the cold blackness behind a mobile home directly across the path from Douglas’s unit. He wasn’t there. No vehicle was parked beside it and the lights weren’t on. If he was out of town on a job or something, I was going to be mighty disappointed. Nevertheless, I skirted across one last beam of light and made it to his front door. It was locked, of course, but my lockpicks opened it easily enough.
Trailer homes are narrow and claustrophobic. Not much room to move around in. I dared to turn on a light; I wanted to see how Douglas lived. The thing was divided into three distinct sections. A tiny kitchen was at one end. Had a fridge, sink, stove, a small round café table with one chair, and a phone on the wall. A carpeted living room area was in the middle, furnished with a television and rabbit ears antennae, a comfy chair, a tiny coffee table, a magazine rack, and a love seat that needed reupholstering. Barely three or four feet between furniture to walk through. On the other end was the bedroom and bathroom.
The place reeked of cigarette smoke and booze. As I took it all in, my intuition went haywire—my nerves started tingling the way they do when there’s danger. Looking back, I think it was because of Douglas’s mere presence in the home. Just the fact that he lived and slept there set off my “alarms.” I sensed him, all around me. It was an unnerving sensation.
The second thing that struck me was there were no family photographs. No pictures of my mom—his deceased wife —or any of us kids with whom he lived for several years. Of course, he left Mom on her deathbed, but still you’d think the guy would have a memento or two.
In the bedroom I found a few empty booze bottles, ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts and ashes, and a few magazines that had pictures of naked women in them. That was shocking. I’d seen Fiorello’s copies of Playboy, of course, but that was a classy publication. These were simply filthy, not something you’d buy at the drugstore or newsstand. It figured that Douglas would look at trash like that.
Once I was done snooping, I turned off the lights and sat in the comfy chair in the living room.
And I waited.
He got home around ten fifteen. I saw his car’s headlights through the trailer windows as it pulled into the small drive on the side of his home. I went into the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Heard the car door open and slam shut. Footsteps on the gravel outside, then on the two wooden steps at the front door. Key in the lock. I held my breath.
Douglas Bates came in and turned on the light. He’d aged considerably in the last six years. He had a beer gut drooping over his belt and his hair had turned gray. He was still a big man, though. I was a tall girl at age thirteen and he seemed huge then. I hadn’t realized until now how large he really was.
He threw his keys on the little coffee table, went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and removed a long-neck bottle of beer. I ducked into the bedroom so he wouldn’t see me when he turned around. I heard him switch on the TV, and then he plopped into the comfy chair. The set warmed up and came on after a few seconds—it was tuned to the news.
As soon as I knew he was settled, I made my appearance.
“Hello, Douglas.”
He jumped and dropped the beer bottle. Said a curse word. Started to get up, but I drew the stiletto and pointed it at him. “Don’t get up!” His eyes darted around the room as if he was looking for a weapon or an escape route. I moved between him and the front door.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m the Black Stiletto.”
“What’s that?”
“You haven’t heard of me?”
“No.”
“You don’t read the papers, much? Follow the national news?”
“No.”
“You’re watchin’ the news on TV.”
“I was waitin’ for the sports.”
At first I thought of turning off the set, but then I decided to leave it on. In fact, I went over and turned up the volume. Wouldn’t want his neighbors to hear him scream. I sheathed my knife.
“What do you want?” he asked. “Why are you here? How did you get in?”
“You ask a lotta questions.”
“If it’s money you want, I don’t have much. I’ll give you my damn wallet. I think there’s six dollars in there.”
“I don’t want your money,” I said. “Say, how come there ain’t a picture of Betty Cooper in here? You know, your wife? Didn’t you love her? Oh, I forgot, you left her to die in the hospital.”
That raised his ire. “Who are you? What do you want ?”
“Let’s see—what do I want? I’ll tell you, Douglas. I want to hear you apologize for killin’ Betty Cooper and rapin’ her daughter, Judy.”
His eyes flared. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t kill Betty! She died of cancer!”
“But you left her on her own to deal with it, didn’t you?”
“I—well, I—no—what business is it of yours?”
“That’s irrelevant. Is that too big a word for you? It means it doesn’t matter why I’m interested in all this. What’s important is how much you’re willin’ to atone for your many sins.”
“Fuck you, lady. Get o
ut of my house. Right now. I’ll call the cops.”
“You will?” I nodded at the phone in the kitchen. “Go for it. Go ahead. See how far you get.”
Suddenly my protective instincts went crazy. I sensed terrible peril from this man, but I couldn’t understand why. I had him under control, I knew I could best him physically, and he was sitting in a chair. I was missing something, but I didn’t know what it was.
I watched him carefully as he slowly started to stand, as if he was actually going to accept my challenge. Then he looked at the dropped beer bottle and the spreading stain on his carpet. “Now see what you made me do,” he said, “and I just had the carpet cleaned last week.” He reached for the bottle—and again I felt the tingling of jeopardy.
“Leave it!” I snapped, but it was too late. Instead of grabbing the beer bottle, he reached under the comfy chair and pulled out a handgun. It was there the entire time and in a place where he could quick draw it. And he was fast. The only thing I could do was leap sideways toward the kitchen just as he pulled the trigger. The discharge was terribly loud and I felt a horrendous, burning thump in my left shoulder as I sailed in midair. The pain messed up my trajectory and I crashed into the café table. I fell hard on the kitchen floor and cried out in anguish.
I’d been shot.
In hindsight, I should’ve remembered Douglas and his guns. The constant target practice out in the field. His obsession with cowboys and gunslingers. I was dumb and I paid for it.
Before I had a chance to take stock of the damage, Douglas was standing over me, the gun barrel pointed at me.
“Take off that mask,” he ordered.
The Black Stiletto Page 22