Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 1)

by Phillip DePoy

  “You get your coffee shipped in from Seattle?”

  “Uh, yeah.” He handed me the cup. Then, like he was tired of explaining: “It’s my fave.”

  I sat in the chair and decided on another course of action. “So your dad’s pretty rich.”

  He plunked down beside me in his chair and slurped his cup. “I guess.”

  “He pay for your drugs and stuff at the GIMH?”

  “I guess.”

  “You got a file down there?”

  “Everybody’s got a file down there, Flap. Even you.”

  “I do?”

  “Account of Neena.”

  “I see.”

  “I saw it once. Augusta showed me.”

  “Augusta showed you my file at the GIMH?”

  He slurped again. “Uh-huh.”

  “Why would she do a thing like that?”

  “I asked her to. You’re a kind of hero type of person to some people. I wanted to know more about you.” Smile like a six-year-old.

  I thought about how he’d confused his marriage ceremony with mine, took another slow sip of the swell java. “What’d it say, my file?”

  Lenny smiled bigger at me. “Said you were a pretty snappy dresser for a layabout.”

  I grinned back at him. “Did not.”

  “Did so.”

  “Not — infinity.”

  “Okay, it said you were a private investigator and a part owner of the Easy.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what it said. Not much, really. It was just that anybody married to a patient, they gotta have somethin’ in the files. That’s what Augusta told me anyways.”

  I thought about it. “So they have something about you and Augusta being married?”

  He shook his head. “We were married in secret. She was afraid of getting fired. Which she got anyway. Plus, they were all hot about patients mixing with employees because of Dr. Schlag and Neena. It was a big scandal, I guess.”

  “I know.”

  He yawned. I could tell he was past his bedtime. “Yeah, I know you know, I’m just saying —”

  “So there’s no file at GIMH that says you’re married?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “You got a wedding license?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “The deal is…if I had concrete proof of the marriage it would…help the investigation.”

  He set his cup down. “Oh, I get it. Some guys gotta see the papers on everything. It’s like: Did you know they won’t even let you drive around here without taking a test?”

  I settled back. “What’s the world coming to?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you got proof?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “Could we get it?”

  “I’ll have to look in the morning.” He yawned again. “Who you gonna show it to?”

  I leaned in. “Lenny, I’m gonna tell you something.”

  “Okay.” He shifted in his chair, sitting on his legs like I was going to tell him a story. “But make it short. Coffee makes me sleepy.”

  “Keeps most people awake, Len.”

  “Did you notice yet, Flap? I’m not like most people.”

  I thought about the kinds of medication he was probably taking at the hospital and figured caffeine had a different effect on him than on me. And this was some pretty strong coffee. I was on the edge of my seat.

  “Okay, Lenny, the thing is: What if Augusta was just trying to get your money?”

  He laid his head against the side of the chair. “She could have it.”

  “Pm saying, bud, what if that’s all she was interested in?”

  “Pm saying, Flap, she could have it.”

  “Lenny…”

  He was real soft. “I don’t care why she was here, Flap. I just liked it and I want her to be here again. Whatever.” He closed his eyes.

  I set my cup down. “Okay, pal. I’ll just keep seeing what I can do.” I stood up. “You wanna go upstairs?”

  He licked his lips. “I’m okay here. You leavin’?”

  “I’ll find my way out.”

  “’Kay.”

  “’Night, Lenny Cascade.”

  In a whisper, like he was already asleep: “’Night, Flap Tucker.”

  Chapter 11: Tea

  I had to get to Dally. I had a pretty pressing question for her. But the lure of hot tea and soup, plus the “St. Flap” feeling I thought I might get for helping out the Golden Potala family — it was just too alluring. So I headed on over to see Linda and her kin.

  Now, there is a soup that is called asparagus soup, and for my money it’s the only soup to have when you’ve got to ask or answer any questions — which is pretty much anytime in my book. It’s made with a chicken broth, and it doesn’t exactly include the best parts of the asparagus, in that there are no sissy tips involved, just good hard stalks that have been boiling all day in chicken broth and secret spices. You slam that down with a pot of hot tea, and it doesn’t matter what time of year it is outside — inside your coat it’s summer.

  I swatted the door out of my way and took a table by the wall. Linda smiled from the register. The joint was all but empty.

  “Hey, Flap. Soup?”

  “You read my mind.”

  She disappeared. In no time flat her father chugged out of the kitchen on an interception course.

  Before he even sat down he started. “You back to help.”

  I nodded.

  “Dally say it’s okay?”

  “Didn’t ask yet. It’s only one of a number of questions I gotta ask our girl.”

  He didn’t know what I was talking about. Okay by me. He just sat and waited for me to ask him the right question.

  I obliged. “So tell me the story of your brother and the monster man.”

  He looked around his little place. “All this, it comes from my home — my home in Tibet.”

  “I know. It’s beautiful.”

  He looked at the floor. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a stone from the ground; it’s from home. You got no idea what it’s like to be in such a strange country. You got no idea what it’s like to know you can never go home. The home I have is gone. The Chinese burn it up like a straw dog.”

  “Straw dog?”

  “Sacrifice in Shinto. It’s a little dog made out of straw to sacrifice for good luck. Used to use real dogs.”

  “Nice.”

  He shrugged. “The god you got in this country, they nail him up on a big stick. I seen it in churches. Terrible image.” He actually shivered.

  “If it makes any difference to you, the guy you’re talking about got better. In fact, he came back from the dead and rose up into heaven.”

  “Why don’t they show that? Much better picture.”

  I shrugged. “Are we getting off the point?”

  He nodded. “My family in Tibet, they send me what they can to preserve our religion. But the Chinese, they take it. They steal it or burn it up or rub it in the ground. It’s not good.”

  “Agreed.”

  He lowered his voice and leaned into me. “They even got into the Lamasaries, into the holy vaults at Lasa.”

  I was hip. “Where the Dalai Lama used to live.”

  He nodded hard. “Yes. Even there. They steal everything.”

  “But your family over there, they try to send some of it to you?”

  He got me in eye lock. “Some work in the temples, some are monks or nuns. My country, a very religious country. Not like America. We can’t do bad things in my religion. We have religion every day.” He was very insistent on this particular point.

  “Okay.”

  “So my brother here in Atlanta, he is the one they send to because he is invisible.”

  I blinked. “Invisible.”

  “No passport, no social security, no record of any kind. I own a business. I got papers. He cannot be traced.”

  I wanted to ask how that had come about, but Linda brought the soup and the tea, and
suddenly soup seemed more important. It was so hot I had to hold the spoon halfway to my mouth for a good while, just waiting for the first taste.

  He looked down again. “I live in Atlanta over twenty years, it’s still not home. Everyone is a stranger here. Nothing is familiar. I will die here, far away from my home.”

  Linda saved me. “Nice dinner conversation, Pop.”

  He looked up. He actually smiled at me. “Taste your soup.”

  I did. It was swell.

  Linda nudged him. “Just tell the man your problem.”

  He nodded. “My brother, he’s got trouble now.”

  Linda couldn’t wait for the old guy to get on with it. “Uncle Tegu, he’s got hooked up with a guy who’s pumping some money into him or scaring him bad or something —”

  The father interrupted. “He has pictures.”

  Linda nodded. “Right. Uncle said he saw some kind of a videotape that scared the peanuts out of him.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Videotape?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know about it…but he’s scared. And he’s pushing the family for more of these sacred artifacts. Very dangerous. And then this man takes them and sells them, we think.”

  Her father was suddenly strong. “We don’t want to sell.”

  Linda went on. “But this guy that Uncle’s got mixed up with is a real nut case. He snarls like an animal. He told Uncle he’s from…what’d he say, Pop?”

  “He’s from the shadow place. He threatens my brother’s invisibility.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Right. And apparently he’s something of a schizo. One day funny, one day mean — you never know how he’s gonna be. Uncle’s terrified of the guy and wants out. But the guy won’t budge.”

  The old man tapped the table with his hand. “That’s where you come in. You get this man away from us.”

  I blew on another spoonful of soup and took a sip. “How’m I supposed to do that?”

  Linda’s father was very agitated now. “You the tough guy. You chase him off.”

  I set my spoon down. “Tough guy?”

  Linda explained it to me slow. “Any American in a suit is a tough guy to my family. We aren’t that big on muscle in my native land.”

  “So your dad was telling me. You got a thing called religion over there.”

  She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  I gave up the spoon; the asparagus was gone. I picked up the bowl and drank. Set the bowl down. “Great soup.”

  He patted the table harder. “You help my brother.”

  Linda was calmer, but I could see this was a big deal to both of them. “All they really want you to do is go to the next meeting they’re supposed to have with the guy and see can you scare him off. Could be if he thinks there’s a…non-Asian involved, that’ll automatically give him pause.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Or he’ll give me a pop in the nose.”

  She smiled. “Like it’d be the first time.”

  “What’s this guy look like?”

  The old guy squinted. “Fat little man, flashy dresser, big blond hair, talks mean.”

  I looked at Linda. “Flashy dresser?”

  She almost laughed. “Like, sans-a-belt golf slacks, loud ties — that sort.”

  “Ah.” I shoved the bowl away from me and finished off my tea. ‘‘What kinda tea is this? It’s different from what I usually get.”

  Linda looked at her father, then back at me. “It’s a black tea. Also got ginseng in it. It’s a kind of herbal tea, I guess.”

  Her father smiled at her. “It can feed the heart; it give you courage.” He smiled at me. “You can help my family.”

  I nodded. “I can. I gotta talk to Dally, but tell me when’s the next meeting with this nut boy.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know.”

  I looked at Linda. “Call me. You got the number?”

  She patted my shoulder. “On the wall, right by the emergency hospital number.”

  I stood. “Good. We may need that number too.”

  Linda and her father both shook my hand, and I guess it made some sort of pact. I waved at them going out the door, they waved back. But something was sticking in my mind. Something was adding to the confusion. Something made me think I might not have two cases after all.

  Chapter 12: Easy Listening

  The club was fairly quiet by the time I got there. The sign said NO BAND TONIGHT. I shoved myself onto a stool at the bar, and Hal slung me some vino.

  “’Bout out, Flap.”

  “I think I got four or five more bottles.”

  “Here?”

  “At home. Safe. Hidden.”

  He made a face. “This stuff really taste all that much better?”

  “Than American wine? Are you kidding? If it’s not red and French, it’s just a beverage made with grapes. It ought not even be called wine legally.”

  He turned away. “And people say the Frogs got attitude about it.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  But Dally appeared and the connoisseurs’ convention came to a close.

  I nodded, saluted her with my glass. “Ms. Oglethorpe.”

  She sat beside me. “Mr. Tucker.”

  “Quiet night.”

  She squinted and looked around. “Too quiet.”

  “Think they might be gettin’ ready to attack?”

  “We’ll know when the drums stop.”

  I smiled. “No band tonight?”

  “Kelly’s recording tonight. I didn’t feel like listening to anybody else.”

  “She is easy on the ear.”

  “Not to mention: a looker.”

  “I told you not to mention that.” I took a sip. “Guess what I found out?”

  “Oswald acted alone?”

  “Almost as unbelievable: I own part of this club.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Who told you a thing like that?”

  “Lenny saw it in my file at the GIMH.”

  “Your file?”

  “Yeah, how ’bout that? And guess what else I found out?”

  “Maybe you better come into the office.”

  I stood up. “At least.”

  We stepped our way through the mostly empty tables, past the rest rooms, and into Dally’s messy little office.

  I took a seat on the beat-up old sofa by the door and she sat next to me like a dancer: perfect posture, edge of the seat. She was only doing it to irritate me.

  With her hands folded, not looking at me, she sighed indulgently. “Okay. What have you found out?”

  “Before I say, can you tell me what’s the deal? Do I own part of this dump?”

  “Your name’s on a lot of the papers.”

  “How come?”

  “Because I’m currently leaving everything to you in my will — including the club.”

  “Your will?”

  “Everybody’s gotta die sometime.”

  “Maybe, but don’t you think I’m gonna go long before you?”

  “Probably.”

  “So leave it to…somebody else.”

  “Like?”

  I took another sip and shrugged.

  She nodded. “That’s what I thought too.”

  I looked at her profile in the dim light. “So…how come you an’ me aren’t married, tell me again?”

  “’Cause you don’t have enough sense to ask me, and I got too much sense to say yes.”

  “Oh.” I nodded, wisely. “Right. Now I remember.” I sipped. “Thanks for thinking of me in your will though.”

  “Don’t mention it. So whata ya know?”

  “In order?” I set my glass down on the table in front of us and sat up, numbering off the news on my fingers. “Teeth’s a great guy that the cops’ll arrest — incorrectly. The girls were in the trunk maybe as much as a couple of weeks before they were found — and they were lovers. Perennials are your best bet for color all season long. Lenny’s wife is real, although not, maybe, his wife exactly. A medical staff can be worse than a dayt
ime soap opera. Lenny lives less than five blocks away in a house big enough for fifty. And most of the known world seems to be engaged, in one way or another, in some sort of tantric sex.”

  Droll as a troll, she lowered her lids half-mast. “So where’s Augusta?”

  “I’m saying she skipped the country. She found out Lenny was rich, fleeced him within an inch of his life, and split.”

  “She took him for a lot?”

  “Lenny would have given her anything. And still would.”

  “So…this kind of looks to be a sad story, as it turns out.”

  “So far, yeah.”

  She was quiet a minute. “So, you do your…thing yet?”

  I picked up my glass and settled back in. “Nope.”

  She was referring to my trick. My one trick. I’d been avoiding it all day, but sooner or later I’d have to go home and do it. I can’t describe it in words, exactly — something like pouring out a bucket and then setting it out in the rain to be filled up again. I empty my head, and something else fills it up. If I think about it, the thing vanishes and I have to start all over. If I talk about it, I think about it too much. How can I say I become the lathe of heaven — without sounding like my file at GIMH ought to be lots bigger? I sit. And if I’m quiet enough and still enough and empty enough, the angel comes and kisses me, and I know where to find the thing that’s lost. Once was lost but now it’s found. Grace…of a sort. That’s the way I do it. And I’m always right. Started when I was a kid and Dally lost a ring her dead mother gave her. She wouldn’t stop crying, and I was out of my mind to help her. I burned myself up hour after hour, night after night, trying to picture where it was. Then, about a week into it, I got stung by a bee and it distracted me for a second. All of a sudden there it was: I pictured the ring under the back left floor mat of their old Chevy. But there was more: I saw the big picture, like a jigsaw puzzle. All the pieces — Dally’s vacant finger, the days preceding the loss, the moment she realized it was gone, the frantic searches — all flew up in the air and I saw the whole pattern in a single shot. And the piece with the place where the missing ring lay was all in red, a cinch to see. It all just fell into place. Easy as pie.

  “So who killed the girls? Who got Ruby? What’s the connection? Where’s Augusta? How come the cops are coming after Teeth? Does Old Mr. Cascade up in Boston figure in? You got a lot more work to do, you know.”