by Sue Grafton
Scottie moved off toward the table. In retrospect, I decided he’d probably cleaned up his appearance in deference to his father. Pete Shackelford had always been a stickler about personal tidiness. I cut left toward the rest rooms. As soon as I was out of his line of sight, I headed down the corridor toward the rear exit. I had no intention of having a drink with Shack. He knew way too much about me and, as far as I could tell, he was already prepared to rat me out.
As I passed the short corridor where Tim’s office was located, I stopped in my tracks. There was now a tarp flung across boxes stacked against the wall. Curious, I had a quick peek: ten sealed cartons with the PlasStock logo stamped on the sides. Clearly, this was a shipment unloaded from the panel truck currently idling outside. I dropped the corner into place. All four doors off that corridor were closed, but I could see a thin slit of light coming from under the third door on the left. That door was locked last I checked, and I couldn’t help but wonder if it was locked again. I glanced around casually. I was alone in the hall and it wouldn’t take but two seconds to see if it was secure. I eased to the left and placed my hand on the knob, taking care not to rattle it as I turned it in my hand. Ah. Unlocked. I wondered what was in there that required such security.
I pushed the door back, stuck my head in the h to opening. The floor area was only large enough to accommodate a set of stairs leading up and a padlocked door on the left, possibly a closet. I could see a dim light shining from the top of the narrow stairway. I stepped inside, closed the corridor door quietly behind me, and began to climb. It wasn’t my intention to be sneaky, but I noticed I was walking on the outer edges of the treads, where there was less likelihood of creaking.
At the top of the stairs there was a landing about six feet square with a ladder affixed to one wall, probably leading to the roof. The only door off the landing was ajar, light flooding out from the space beyond. I pushed the door back. The room was huge, stretching off into the shadows, easily extending the length and breadth of the four large rooms below. The floor was linoleum, trampled in places where sooty footprints had permanently altered the color. I could see numerous electrical outlets along the walls and five or six large clean patches. The space was dense with the kind of dry heat that suggests poor insulation. The walls were unfinished plywood. There was a plain wooden table, two dozen folding chairs, a big garbage can jammed with scraps. I’d imagined cases of wine and beer stacked along the walls, but there was nothing. What had I pictured? Drugs, illegal aliens, child pornography, prostitution? At the very least, broken and outdated restaurant equipment, the old jukebox, the remains of New Year’s Eve and St. Paddy’s decorations from celebrations. long past. This was boring.
I cruised the room, taking care to stay on the balls of my shoes. I didn’t want anyone downstairs wondering who was clumping around up here. Still nothing of interest. I left the lights as I’d found them and crept back down the stairs. Again, I placed my hand carefully around the doorknob and turned it in silence. The hallway appeared empty. I exited the door, using my palm to blunt the click of its closing.
“Can I help you?”
Tim was standing in the shadows to the left of the door.
I shrieked. I flung up my hands and my shoulder bag flew out of my grasp, contents tumbling out as it hit the floor. “Shit!”
Tim laughed. “Sorry. I thought you saw me. What were you doing?” He was casually dressed: leans and a V-neck knit pullover.
“Nothing. I opened that door by mistake,” I said. I dropped to my knees, trying to gather up items that seemed to be strewn everywhere. “Scottie said you wanted to see me. I was looking for your office. This door was unlocked. I tried the knob and it was open so I just went on in. I figured you might be upstairs, so I called out a big yoo-hoo.”
“Really. I didn’t hear you.”
He hunkered, setting my handbag upright. He began to toss the contents back in, while I watched in fascination. Fortunately, I wasn’t carrying a gun and he didn’t seem to register the presence of my key picks. He was saying, “I don’t know how you women do this. Look at all this stuff. What’s this?”
“Travel toothbrush. I’m a bit of a fanatic.”
He smiled. “And this?” He held up a plastic case.
“Tampons.”
As he picked up my wallet, it flipped open to my driver’s license, which he glanced at idly. The photostat of my P.I. license was in the window opposite, but if he noticed he gave no indication. He tossed the wallet into the handbag. Shack had probably already blown my cover anyway.
“Here, let me do that,” I said, happy to be in motion lest he see my hands were shaking. Once we’d retrieved everything, I rose to my feet. “Thanks.”
“You want to see what’s up there? Here, come on. I’ll show you.”
“No, really. That’s fine. I actually peeked at the space a few minutes ago. I was hoping you still had the old jukebox.”
“Unfortunately, no. I sold that shortly after we bought the place. Great space up there, isn’t it? We’re thinking about expanding. We were using it for storage until it occurred to me there were better uses for that much square footage. Now all I have to do is get past fire department regulations, among other things.”
“You’d do what, add tables?”
“Second bar and a dance floor. First, we have to argue with the city of Colgate and the county planning commission. Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. You want to step into my office? We don’t have to stand around out here talking in the dark.”
“This is fine. I told Scottie I’d stop by his table and have a drink with his dad.”
“We heard about Mickey.”
“Word travels fast. “
“Not as fast as you’d think. Shack tells us you were a cop once upon a time…
“So what?”
Tim went right on. “We’re assuming you’re conducting an investigation of your own.”
Thank you, Pete Fucking Shackelford, I thought. I tried to think how to frame my reply.
Meanwhile, Tim was saying, “We have a pal in L.A. who might be of help.”
“Really. And who’s that?”
“Musician named Wary Beason. Mickey’s neighbor in Culver City.”
Pointerlike, I could feel my ears prick up. “How do you know him?”
“Through his jazz combo. He’s played here a couple times. He’s very talented.”
“Small world.”
“Not really. Mickey told him we booked bands, so Wary got in touch and auditioned. We liked his sound.”
“I’m surprised Wary didn’t call you and tell you about the shooting.”
“Yeah, we were too. We’ve been trying to reach him, but so far no luck. We thought you’d want to talk to him if you went to L.A.”
“Maybe I’ll do that. Mind if I ask you about a couple of things while I have you?”
“Sure. No problem.”
“What’s PlasStock?”
Tim smiled. “Plastic cutlery, plates, glassware, that kind of thing. We’re doing a big buffet for the Memorial Day weekend. We’ll comp you to it if you’re interested. Anything else?”
“Did you ever pay Mickey the ten grand you owed him?”
His smile lost its luster. “How’d you hear about that? “
“I came across a reference to it in his papers. According to the note, payment was due in full on January fifteenth.”
“That’s right, but things were tight right about then so he gave me an extension. I pay him off in July. “
“If he lives,” I said. “Is that what he was doing when he came up here, negotiating the agreement?”
“Mickey’s a drinker.”
“I’m puzzled why he’d give you an extension when he’s having financial problems of his own.”
Tim seemed surprised. “Mickey has money problems? That’s news to me. Last time I saw him, he didn’t act like a guy with worries. You think the shooting had something to do with business?”
“I’m
really not sure. I was curious why he was spending so much time up here.”
Tim crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. “Don’t quote me on this, especially not to Scottie, but if you want my opinion Mickey was hot to get in Thea’s pants.”
“What about her? Was she interested in him?”
“Let’s put it this way: Not if she’s smart. Scottie’s not the kind of guy you mess with.” I saw him lift his eyes to someone in the passage behind me. “You looking for me?”
“Charlie needs your approval on an invoice. The guy wants a check before he heads back to L.A.”
“Be right there.”
I glanced back. One of the other waitresses had already turned on her heel and disappeared.
Tim patted my arm. “I better take care of this. Whatever you want, it’s on the house.”
“Thanks.”
I followed two steps behind Tim, entering the bar with another quick visual search for Duffy. Still no sign of him. Shack, at Scottie’s table, caught sight of me and waved. I guessed there wasn’t going to be a way to get. out of this. Shack must have enjoyed the opportunity to burn me. Scottie turned to see who his dad was waving at, and then he motioned me over. I felt like a mule, stubbornly resisting even while I was being propelled in that direction.
Shack was sitting on the far side of the table, and he rose to his feet, saying, “Well, would you look who’s here? We were just talking about you.”
“I don’t doubt that a bit.”
“Sit down, sit down. Grab a seat.”
The other fellow at the table rose and sank in his seat respectfully, the physical equivalent of a gent tipping his hat to a lady.
I said, “I really can’t stay long.”
“Sure you can,” Shack said. He reached over and grabbed a chair from a nearby table, pulling it up next to him. I sat down, resigned. Shack’s gaze rested on his son, his satisfaction and pride giving a lift to his normally heavy features. He was wearing a plaid wool shirt, unbuttoned to accommodate his thick neck. His companion appeared to be in his fifties, gray hair cut close, weathered complexion suggesting years of sun exposure. Like Shack, he was heavyset, bulky through the shoulders, his belly protruding as if he were six months pregnant.
Shack hooked a thumb at him and said, “This is Del. Kinsey Millhone.”
“Hello.”
Del nodded and then half rose again and shook my hand across the table. “Del Amburgey. Nice to meet you,” he said.
We went through that “how’re-you-tonight” shit while I squirmed inwardly, trying to think of something bland to say. “Are you here for a visit, or are you local?”
“I live up in Lompoc, so it’s a little bit of both. I come down here now and then to see what you big-city folks are up to.”
“Not much.”
Shack said, “Well, that’s not entirely true. This little gal was a cop back when I was in uniform. Now she’s a P.I…”
“What’s a P.I.?” Del asked.
“A private investigator,” Shack said.
I thought I was going deaf. He talked on. I watched his mouth move, but the sound was gone. I didn’t look at Scott, but I was acutely aware that he was taking in the information with something close to alarm. His expression didn’t seem to change, but his face shut down. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see his hands resting on the table, still relaxed, his fingers loose on the beer bottle, which he tilted to his lips. Aside from the casualness of the gesture, his body was completely still. I tuned in to Shack’s commentary, wondering if there were any way to contain the damage he was doing.
just about the time Magruder left the department. What was that, ‘71?”
“The spring of ‘74,” I said. He knew exactly when it was. We locked eyes briefly, and I could tell blowing my cover allowed him to enjoy a moment of revenge. Whatever I was up to, he would leave me fully exposed. Better take control, I thought, get a jump on the little shit. “That was when Mickey and I split up. I lost touch with him after that.”
“Until recently,” Shack amended.
I looked at Shack without comment.
He went blithely on. “I guess those two LAPD detectives drove up here and talked to you. They came around my place yesterday. They seemed to think you might’ve had a hand in it, but I told ‘em I didn’t see how. You showed up at my door Monday. I didn’t think you’d call attention to yourself if you’d shot him the week before. You’re not that dumb.”
“That was a ruse and you fell for it,” I said. I was smiling, but my tone of voice was snide.
“What brings you out to Colgate?”
“Mickey lent Tim ten grand. A no-interest loan with a five-year balloon. I was curious if the money was repaid when it came due.” Scottie began to tap one foot, which caused his knee to jump. He crossed his legs, trying to cover his agitation.
“When was that?” Shack asked, still enough of a cop to pursue the obvious.
“January fifteenth. just about the time Mickey started coming in,” I said. “You didn’t know about the loan?”
“You ready for a drink? I’m heading to the bar,” Scottie said. He was on his feet, his eyes pinned on me.
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
“What about you, Dad? Del?”
“I’ll go another round. My turn to buy,” he said He leaned forward, hauling his wallet from his right rear pocket.
Scottie waved him off. “I’ll take care of it. What’s your pleasure? Another of the same?”
“That’d be great.”
“Make that two,” Shack said.
Once Scottie left, Shack changed the subject, engaging me in chitchat so banal I thought I’d scream. I endured about three minutes of his asinine conversation and then took advantage of Scott’s absence to slide out of my seat.
“You leaving us?” Shack said.
“I have to meet someone. It’s been nice seeing you.”
“Don’t rush off,” he said.
I made no reply. Del and I exchanged nods. I shouldered my bag and turned, scanning the crowd as I made my escape. Still no sign of Duffy, which was just as well. I didn’t want Tim or Scottie to see me talking to him.
Chapter 21
*
The outside air was chilly. It was not even ten o’clock, and the main street of Colgate was streaming with traffic, car stereos thumping. The occupants seemed to number four and five to a car, windows rolled down, everyone looking for action of some undisclosed kind. I could hear a chorus of honks, and coming up on my right I saw a long pink stretch limo bearing a bride and groom. They were standing on the backseat, their upper torsos extending through the sliding moon-roof window. With one hand, the bride clung to her veil, which whipped out behind her like a trail of smoke. With her other hand, she held her bouquet aloft, her arm straight up in a posture that mimicked the Statue of Liberty. The groom appeared to be smaller, maybe eighteen years old, in a lavender tuxedo with a white ruffled shirt, purple bow tie, and cummerbund. His hair was cut close, his ears red-tipped with cold. Numerous cars tagged along behind the limo, all honking, most decorated with paper flowers, streamers, and clattering tin cans. Their destination seemed to be the Mexican restaurant down the block from the Tonk. Other drivers and pedestrians were honking and hooting happily in response to this moving pageant.
I found my car and got in, pulling into the line of traffic behind the last of the procession. Of necessity I drove slowly, forced to a crawl as car after car turned left into the restaurant parking lot, waiting for breaks in the traffic. Glancing over to my right, I spotted Carlin Duffy walking with his head down, his hands in his jacket pockets. I’d only seen the man twice, but his height and his yellow hair were unmistakable. Had he been at the Tonk and I’d missed seeing him? He appeared to be heading toward the nursery, a distance of perhaps a mile and a half. Like a gift, the man turned, extending his right hand, his thumb uppermost.
I pulled over, leaning across the seat to unlock the passenger door. He already seemed pu
zzled that anyone, let alone a woman, would give him a ride at that hour. I said, “I can take you as far as the 101 at Peterson. Will that do?”
“That’d be good.”
Spurs jingling, he slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door. He looked back over his shoulder with a snort of derision. “You see them beaners? What a bunch of Pacos. Groom looks like he’s thirteen. Probably knocked her up. He shoulda kept his pecker in his pocket.”
“Nice talk,” I said.
He looked at me with interest. At close range, his features seemed too pinched for good looks: narrowset light eyes and a long thin nose. He had one goofy incisor that seemed to stick straight out. The rest of his teeth were a snaggle of overlapping edges, some rimmed with gold. The yellow in his hair was the result of peroxide, the roots already turning dark. He smelled funky, like wood smoke and dirty gym socks. He said, “I seen you before.”
“Probably at the Honky-Tonk. I was just there.”
“Me too. Took a bunch of money off some niggers playin’ pool. What’s your name?”
“I’m Kinsey. And you’re Carlin Duffy. I’ve been looking for you.”
He flashed a look in my direction and then stared out the windshield, his face shutting down. “Why’s that? “
“You know Mickey Magruder.”
He seemed to assess me and then looked out the side window, his tone dropping into a range somewhere between sullen and defensive. “I didn’t have nothing to do with that business in L.A.”
“I know. I thought we’d figure out what happened, just the two of us. Your friends call you Carlin?”
“It’s Duffy. I’m not a fruit,” he said. He looked at me slyly. “You’re a lady cop, ain’t you?”
“I used to be. Now I’m a private eye, working for myself.”
“What d’you want with me?”
“I’d like to hear about Mickey. How’d the two of you connect?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“I don’t know nothin’.”
“Maybe you know more than you think.”
He considered that, and I could almost see him shift gears. Duffy was the sort who didn’t give anything away without getting something in return. “You married?