by John Lutz
The tall man was grinning lewdly, the pink tip of his tongue oozing out between his front teeth as if struggling to emerge completely from his mouth. He was wearing the same wrinkled, ill-fitting brown suit he’d had on the last time he’d aggravated Carver, and the smell of stale perspiration mingled with cheap perfumed cologne or deodorant was still with him. He stood with his fists on his hips, staring down at Carver, his suit coat shoved back so the butt of his gun was visible in its shoulder holster.
“Why don’t you ever knock?” Carver asked. “Why do you always burst in here like you expect to interrupt a Mafia conspiracy?”
“You never know,” McGregor said, “I might catch you masturbating. Arrest you for indecent exposure the way they did that other comedian a few years ago.”
“Since I’m not exposed or doing anything illegal,” Carver said, “what do you want this time?”
McGregor jutted out his long jaw, putting on his angry expression, and glared at the lowly Carver. “Despite what I told you,” he said, “the word I get is that you’re still running around trying to make something out of nothing.”
Carver pretended to be puzzled.
“The late happy couple,” McGregor reminded him. Flick went the tongue. “You know, Splat and Bang.”
“Ah, the Winships.”
“You’ve been talking to people about the Winships, Carver. Trying to establish that somebody’s been murdered, it looks to me.”
“It is a possibility.”
“You even unearthed a girlfriend of the husband, that Maggie Rourke cunt.” Flick. “Can’t say I much blame Mark Winship for going after that. But what’s it got to do with anything except a guy riding a fresh pony?”
“He wasn’t the type to have an affair,” Carver said.
McGregor threw back his head and laughed. “Take another look at the Rourke woman, asshole. Even a jerk-off like you might leave that dark meat of yours if an operation like Maggie Rourke crooked her little finger at you and said to come hither.”
Carver felt a thrust of guilt and discomfort. What McGregor said wasn’t true. He told himself it wasn’t true.
“Besides,” McGregor said, “who knows why guys step out on the wife? The Winship marriage was private, intimate, like every marriage outside the fucking royal family.”
“Even princes and princesses enjoy some privacy.”
“Maybe they fought all the time.”
“The Royals?”
“The Winships, dumb fuck. Maybe Donna Winship let herself get fat.” He pointed out the window at the two teenagers still waiting for a bus across the street. “Look at them two skinny pieces. Probably starved themselves to get that way. Fucking bulimics upchucking in public restrooms. It’s unnatural, the way women keep themselves so skinny these days. Style, sure, but it’s deliberate deception. They’re pretending to be what they’re not. Then they get married and balloon out like the pigs they really are. Big surprise for hubby, and of course he starts looking longingly at whatever’s on the other side of the fence. It’s ruined the fine institution of marriage.”
“Quite a theory,” Carver said.
“It ain’t just a theory. I seen it happen lots of times. Inside every thin woman there’s a fat woman struggling to get out. Soon as they say ‘I do’ is when it starts to happen. The honeymoon begins and they’re scarfing down milkshakes and cheeseburgers, and don’t hold the onion.”
“So you came here to make social commentary on the divorce rate and fast food. Now that you’ve done it, why don’t you leave? I’ve got paperwork to catch up on.”
“Wipe your ass with your paperwork, Carver. I’m here—”
“I know,” Carver interrupted, “to warn me again not to poke around in the Winship case.”
McGregor shook his head and looked at Carver as if he were hopeless. “Don’t jump to conclusions like the piss-poor detective you are. Here’s what’s happened. Like the blind hog stumbling upon an occasional acorn, you happened to uncover a few things that change the picture.”
“Like Maggie Rourke?”
“Some acorn. But what it all means is this: You got my permission to go ahead and keep nosing around.”
“I thought you didn’t want any unsolved murders in your jurisdiction that might mess up your chances for a promotion.”
McGregor drew back as if aghast. “What kind of crap is that? I’m an officer of the law. Just because there’d be some personal gain in it for me, you think I’d sweep a homicide under the rug?”
“With a lot of other dirt,” Carver said. He knew now where McGregor was going.
“If anything like murder did go down with the Winships,” McGregor said, “I better be the second to know, if you’re the first.”
“So if you can’t have a non-murder, you want a murder you can say you solved.”
McGregor’s tongue probed again as he smiled. “That’s uncharacteristically astute of you. Now and again you show signs of not being completely brain dead.”
“In a way,” Carver said, “you’re sort of making me an honorary member of your department.”
“And under my direct command,” McGregor added. “Otherwise, I’ll lean on you hard. I can do that, Carver. Fact is, it’ll tickle the hell out of me to straighten you out if you aren’t a good soldier. I live for that kinda thing.”
Carver knew it was true. McGregor wasn’t above planting evidence if it was necessary to best an enemy. And anyone who stood between him and what he wanted was an enemy.
McGregor removed his fists from his hips and wiped a dirty white cuff across his nose. He pointed a long finger at Carver. “Remember, dick-face, what you know, I better know. Within seconds, if you’re near a phone.” He moved his lanky, basketball-center’s body to the door, then turned around. “This ain’t all bad for you, Carver. You don’t fuck up, and the minute I become chief you get a medal. It’s a promise.”
Laughing, he strode from the office.
Carver watched him drive out of the lot and make a right turn on Magellan. McGregor honked the unmarked’s horn as he passed the two teenage girls. One ignored him. The other, the one wearing the shorts, made an obscene gesture. Carver thought McGregor might turn the car around and make trouble for the girls, but just then a bus arrived as if to rescue them and they boarded and were gone in a haze of shimmering exhaust fumes.
Carver sat for a few minutes staring across the sun-bright street at the unoccupied bus stop, at the lonely hot metal sign and the empty bench with a liquor ad on its back, thinking about what McGregor had said.
Then he dragged the phone over to him and called Miami.
22
THE CONNECTION WAS bad. Barney Travers sounded as if he were a thousand miles away instead of just down the coast in Miami. Maybe that was why Travers’s voice seemed old, even though he’d only been retired a few years. Carver asked him how he was doing.
“Waiting to die,” Travers said.
“You sick, Barney?”
“Not as I know of. That’s what retirement is, Carver, just waiting to die.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. But you’ll find out soon enough.”
Carver said, “While we’re waiting, can you tell me what you know about an escort service called Nightlinks?”
“Sure. Office is over on Telegraph Road. It’s a front for prostitution, like most escort services, but the women screw clients for money on their own time so it’s hard to prove. Even harder to tie in with Nightlinks if any of the women do get caught taking money for sex. By the time Nightlinks gets its percentage, the deed is done and nobody’s taking a fall for it.”
“Ever hear of a guy named Carl Gretch, A.K.A. Enrico Thomas?”
“In connection with Nightlinks?”
“In any connection. But he works as an escort for Nightlinks.”
“No, I don’t think I’ve heard of him. That doesn’t mean anything, though. Those guys change their names more often than t
heir underwear. To get his real name, you’d probably have to go back beyond Carl Gretch.”
“What about Beni Ho?”
“Hah!” Travers seemed to brighten considerably. “That one I can tell you about. He’s worked as a Nightlinks escort, but he’s something more than that. He does enforcement work for various people, and he loves it. The little fart doesn’t have a bone in his body that isn’t mean. He’s a killer, though it’s never been proved in court. Watch out for him, Carver. He might not be much bigger’n a midget, but he’s dangerous and ornery as a wolverine.”
Carver watched the traffic glisten in the sun out on Magellan. He was tired of people telling him how tough Beni Ho was. The little bastard wasn’t bionic. Carver had seen him bleed. He said, “You recall if anyone ever brought charges against Nightlinks?”
“Charges, yes. Convictions, no. They’ve got the usual shark attorneys. I don’t think they were ever in any kind of real trouble. Truth is, despite Harvey Sincliff, Nightlinks has a comparatively clean record as escort services go.”
“Harvey Sincliff?”
“He owns and runs Nightlinks. A real slimeball, is Harvey. Nightlinks is set up so it looks clean on police computers, but with Harvey in charge I can tell you the girls are spreading for money and he’s getting plenty himself.”
“Plenty of money?” Carver asked.
“Only that. Harvey’s a disciplined businessman, in his sleazy fashion. There’s not much chance he’s diddling any of his employees. He comes across as a lightweight who oughta be selling used cars with their speedometers turned back, but don’t underestimate him. He’s got brains and balls, and no scruples whatsoever. If he thinks you should be out of the game, he’ll pay Beni Ho to remove you from the board.” Travers paused for a moment. Violent coughing came over the line. “S’cuse me,” he said. “I been doing that more and more. One of these times I’m gonna cough up all them years I smoked cigars, then roll over and die.” He cleared his throat, coughed again briefly. “You know, I kinda miss Del Moray. How’s Lieutenant McGregor doing these days?”
“Up for promotion, and he’s got his eye on becoming chief of police.”
“That’d be a fucking tragedy.”
“Any message for him, now that you’re safely retired?”
“I don’t waste my time these days thinking about pricks like McGregor. What life I’ve got left is too short for hateful reminiscing.” More coughing. “On second thought, tell him I hope he eats ground glass and dies puking.”
“I’ll tell him verbatim. Thanks for your help, Barney. You take care of yourself.”
“Speaking of taking care, be extra careful of that little weasel Beni Ho. He enjoys seeing other folks in pain, and that’s the only reason he needs to start breaking small bones. There’s talk about him having killed some people in imaginative ways.”
Carver said, “I shot him in the leg a few days ago.”
“Really? That’s not very imaginative.”
“Effective, though.”
“Not effective enough, unless infection sets in. Shoulda been his fucking heart. But anyway, just knowing that has made my day, Carver, and it’s not even time for lunch. Call me again sometime, when you feel like chatting about dentures or prostate operations. Hey, wait a minute! Don’t forget to tell McGregor what I said about him. I mean that, now.”
“Not to worry,” Carver said, but Travers had hung up.
Lunch, Carver thought. Despite his earlier conversation with McGregor about fast food and the death of true love, he decided to grab a cheeseburger and vanilla milkshake at a drive-through McDonald’s, then drop by Nightlinks and try to talk with Harvey Sincliff.
He smiled. McGregor. Harvey Sincliff. It was amazing, the people you met in this business. Not at all like, say, if you worked in a shoe store or sold nursing home insurance. Maybe.
As he started to stand up, the phone jangled. He sat back down and was going to let the answering machine handle it, but it was Beth so he lifted the receiver.
“I’m calling from the drugstore down the street from Gretch’s apartment,” she said. “He’s back. He’s in the building now.”
“I’ll be there soon as I can,” Carver said. “If he leaves, follow him.”
Beth said, “I don’t think he’s going to leave, Fred. He’s carrying up armloads of clothes and boxes out of his car. Like he’s moving back in.”
23
CARVER WAS IN ORLANDO in a little over an hour. He left Beth parked in her car outside the apartment on Belt so she could follow Gretch if for some reason he broke and ran again. Then he limped along the hot sidewalk toward the building entrance, wishing he’d had time to stop for lunch. His stomach was growling. People like Gretch caused problems large and small. The large problems kept Carver in business, but they spun off smaller ones. Such as hunger.
Gretch apparently had finished carting up boxes; his car was parked at the curb in front of the building, doors and trunk closed. A length of twine dangled from beneath the closed trunk lid, barely touching the ground.
As Carver turned to negotiate cracked concrete and enter the building, Hodgkins emerged. He was wearing overalls today over a white tee shirt, and carrying a hammer. A long screwdriver with a yellow plastic handle smeared with white paint was tucked through one of the overalls’ many tool loops. He didn’t look happy.
When he saw Carver, he stopped and said, “I was gonna call you. He’s back.”
“I know,” Carver said. “How did that come to pass?”
“Billy seen his chance to collect back rent and get the apartment occupied right away, is how. That’s a landlord for you when he don’t live on the premises and have to cope with the trash that’s there. If I was him, I wouldn’t have let the little prick move back in. Not after the way he skipped out on the rent the first time. What’s to prevent him from doin’ it again?”
Carver didn’t have an answer. “Did Billy consult you?”
“Sort of. I told him what I just told you. Told him Gretch was scum and his money was contaminated. He said money was money and didn’t know nor care where it came from, so it made no difference if Gretch was scum. I don’t believe that. A man with character wouldn’t say it. Billy’s got no character, only property.”
“It happens that way a lot,” Carver said. “Is Gretch up there now?”
“Yeah. He carried up some boxes and a ton of clothes on hangers, and now he’s in there playin’ the TV too loud.”
“I’m going up and talk to him,” Carver said. “I’ll tell him to turn down the volume.”
“You be careful of him, Carver. He’s liable to do anything if you get him mad.”
Carver said, “I’m liable to do anything right back.”
That kind of talk seemed to excite Hodgkins. He waved the hammer in the air as if yearning for something to strike. “Know what gripes me, Carver? I cleaned up that apartment so I could show it to prospective tenants, even scrubbed and polished the kitchen and bathroom. Made everything shine. And it turns out I was only doin’ that little punk’s housework.”
“Cheer up,” Carver said. “Maybe the disinfectant will kill him.”
Hodgkins shuffled away mumbling, a malcontent on a mission of repair.
Carver began sweating more heavily as he climbed the stairs to the much warmer second-floor hall. He wasn’t in a good mood when he knocked on Gretch’s door.
He stood for what seemed a long time, listening to what sounded like people having sex on the other side of the door. “Oh, yes, yes, yes!” a woman shouted, as music reached a crescendo. The woman yelled something unintelligible. Then the door opened. “Oh, yes!” the woman said again.
Gretch looked out at Carver and said, “Oh, no! I figured you’d show up here again.”
Behind him on the TV screen a man and woman were lying nude on a round bed and lighting cigarettes, smiling dreamily at each other. Gretch started to close the door, but Carver placed the tip of his cane against his chest and shoved him back, then push
ed inside. The apartment wasn’t any cooler than out in the hall.
“Okay, okay,” Gretch said, “so you’re insistent.” He glanced at the TV, then walked over and turned off the adult video he had playing. “I saw this scene before.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Next they take a shower together, get all excited with the shampoo and soap and all, then go at it again.”
“No kidding?” Carver said.
Gretch was still dirty from moving in the boxes that were stacked against a wall in the living room. His blue shirt and khaki pants were smudged and his hands and arms were streaked with perspiration and dirt. A half-empty bottle of Corona beer sat on the floor near the sofa that faced the television.
Gretch sat down on the sofa, leaned forward, and picked up the beer. He took a sip, grinning at Carver. “I figure maybe we owe each other an apology. I mean, you followed me around when you had no right, and I guess I shouldn’t have pulled a knife on you.” He said it as if apologizing for taking Carver’s parking space. He drank some more beer, dribbling some down his chin, and said, “I guess you want whatever it was you wanted before.”
Carver moved closer to Gretch, watching his hands, prepared to lash out with the cane if Gretch tried to pull the knife again. He stood silently for a moment, letting Gretch get nervous. Watching him make a show of taking another sip of beer. But the bottle was empty now. Gretch pretended it wasn’t, licking his lips as he put it back down on the floor.
“So whaddya want?” he finally blurted out.
Carver said, “Talk to me about Donna Winship.”
“Sure. Donna.” He took a deep breath, then said, “Whew!,” as if emotion had almost derailed him before he’d gotten it under control. “Donna’s the reason I had to get away for a while. Try’n make some sense outa what happened. I loved her.” He bowed his head. “Whether or not you believe it, I loved her. When I heard about it, the accident, I got a little crazy. I just had to go off by myself, spend some time alone and get used to the idea of Donna being gone. I still ain’t sure I’ve gotten used to it. I mean, I feel like if I picked up the phone and called, she’d still answer and we could meet someplace.”