by R. J. Jagger
Waverly followed, cutting through the traffic onto their side. Passing by the law firm, she stopped long enough to read the names stenciled on the door.
There was only one female name.
Gina Sophia, Esq.
She memorized the name and continued up the street. If she got the chance later, she’d break into the slutty little lawyer’s office and see what her precious notes said; either that or somehow get her out for a drink and let the liquor loosen her up.
99
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
River’s wind was giving out and his legs were getting heavy. He kept running, fighting through the pain, but his body was working against him. January was either dead or dying and he was to blame. He’d hunt Spencer’s ass down to the ends of the earth. That would be his life mission from this moment on.
Screw everything else.
From behind him, a noise cut through the silence, something in the nature of an engine. He twisted and saw a motorcycle approaching, still a ways off but coming fast.
He brought his body to a stop.
His chest heaved.
Sweat rolled down his forehead.
As the bike got closer, he got in front of it and waved his arms for it to stop. It slowed to twenty or so but then held steady. The driver was a man, a big man.
The man didn’t stop.
He gave River a look, then swung around and accelerated.
Shit!
River grabbed a rock the size of a baseball and threw it with all his might. It connected with the driver’s back near the shoulder. The front tire wobbled violently then the bike went down and raked against the road with an awful noise.
River ran over.
By the time he got there the man was on his feet, squared off with a long blade in his grip.
“I need to borrow your bike,” River said.
The man charged.
Five minutes later, River was on the bike with a serious twist on the throttle. He didn’t kill the biker. He just beat him enough to get him out of the way.
Miles up the road he came to the place where January had been dumped.
Spencer’s car wasn’t on the shoulder.
That was good.
Maybe the man had just kept going.
River turned left off the road, into the terrain. The bike bucked violently but River kept the handlebars in a python grip.
When he got to January, she wasn’t there.
She was gone.
Spencer had taken her.
River twisted the throttle, spun the rear wheel in a one-eighty and accelerated towards the road. The front end wobbled.
The tire was flat.
River kept full-speed on the gas.
That was a bad move.
The rubber shredded off and the rim dug into the dirt, jerking the bike to the left and throwing River over the handlebars.
100
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
Wilde called Secret’s hotel to be told she wasn’t answering her room phone. He mashed a butt in the ashtray, hopped in Blondie and headed over. When he rapped on the door no one answered. He paced, tapped a Camel out and lit up. Was she inside, dead? He flagged down a maid and got her to open the room. Clothes were spread out on the bed and toiletries sat on the bathroom sink.
Secret wasn’t there.
She wasn’t there dead.
She wasn’t there alive.
Wilde told the maid “Thanks,” gave her a full dollar, got a hug and ear-to-ear smile in return, then left.
Now what?
London popped into his brain.
That wasn’t exactly true because she’d never completely left. It was more accurate to say she got bigger in his brain. Either way, he headed over to her house to see if she was okay and tell her he’d taken a run at Bluetone.
He found street parking for Blondie a block away and inhaled a cigarette on the way, flicking it on the grass as he walked up the steps.
He rapped on the door.
No one answered.
He rapped again.
A turn of the knob worked, the door was unlocked. He pushed it open and stuck his head in.
“London, you home? It’s me, Wilde.”
Sounds came from the upper level.
He headed up and found London sitting on the floor of her bedroom, scrunched in the corner. A bottle of whiskey was in her hand. When she looked up, Wilde saw something he had never seen in her face before, some type of strange combination of fear and despair.
“Wilde—”
He slumped down next to her and took her in his arms. Her body trembled.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a woman, Alexa Blank,” she said. “She’s in trouble and I’m responsible.”
“Alexa Blank?”
“Right.”
“Who is she?”
“A friend.”
“From where, the law firm?”
“No, back. Way back.”
Wilde tapped a cigarette out and lit up.
“You’re not making sense,” he said. “I talked to Bluetone this morning.”
“I don’t give a shit about him any more.”
“Well you should,” Wilde said. “I gave him the map and told him to lay off you. He said Sure but he didn’t mean it. Like I told you before, he’s still going to kill you, map or no map. You need to get out of town.”
She looked over.
“You gave Bluetone the map?”
“Yeah, that’s what you wanted me to do.”
“So he has it?”
“Right.”
She brought the bottle to her mouth, took a long gulp and handed it to Wilde. He hesitated then took a hit, not a big one but enough to feel the sting in his mouth.
“You need to get it back,” she said.
“Get what back? The map?”
She nodded.
“If I don’t turn it over, Alexa’s going to die.”
“Turn it over to who?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t get it.”
“He’s just a voice on the phone,” she said. “He’s serious though, I can guarantee you that. He’ll kill her. He let her talk for just a second so that I knew he really had her. She was terrified.”
Wilde blew smoke.
“Back up and start from the beginning.”
The story was more serious than Wilde expected. At age fifteen, London was walking on ice at the edge of Clear Creek on a cold February day when it caved in. She got swept into the icy waters and ended up lodged under the ice against a log. Without even a split-second hesitation for her own safety, Alexa Blank pounded through with her feet and got London dislodged. Both of the girls got swept downstream but miraculously got out before they drowned or froze to death. They were already friends up until then but became inseparable from that moment on.
That was back in high school, tenth grade.
After high school, they drifted socially and in almost every other way but still stayed in touch. London already had her sights on becoming a lawyer and was focused on college. Alexa took a more relaxed path and was currently employed as a waitress at the Down Towner.
Now a strange man had Alexa.
If London didn’t give him the map tonight, Alexa would be dead by morning.
“How does he even know about the map?”
“I don’t know,” London said.
“How does he know that you and Alexa were close?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Bluetone behind this?”
“No,” London said.
“How do you know?”
“I don’t know, I just do.”
Her hand trembled.
“He’s going to call me at eleven o’clock sharp tonight,” she said. “I need to get the map back from Bluetone before then.”
“Not I, we.”
She squeezed his hand.
“You’re quite the guy, Wilde,” she said. “If I was you, I would already have kicked me to the curb ten different times. At this rate, I may have to give you your retainer back.”
He smiled.
“That’s sort of how all this started, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Now it has a life of its own.”
“It’s the map,” London said. “It’s cursed. I told you that before.”
Wilde blew smoke then pulled London to her feet.
“Come on,” he said.
“To where?”
“My office for starters,” he said. “You’re going to make a fake map just in case we can’t get the original back from Bluetone. While you’re doing that, I’m going to try to figure out who took your friend.”
“There isn’t enough time.”
Wilde opened his mouth to deny it but the words didn’t come out. “We’ll see,” he said.
101
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Night
The Flamingo Bar on Larimer Street was jammed with drunks of both sexes when Waverly walked in at a quarter to ten. The only light came from behind the bar, filtering through half-empty bottles of scotch and whiskey. Most of the place was dim to dark. It smelled like a forest fire that someone tried to put out with beer. A scratchy song from a jukebox tried to rise above the noise with little success. Waverly ordered a screwdriver and leaned against the wall near the back by the restrooms, keeping an eye on the entrance.
If Bristol’s little spankee didn’t show, that would be her problem.
All Waverly could do was try.
This was that try.
She checked her watch—9:55—then stepped into the ladies room. There was a window cracked open a couple of inches. She raised it as far as it would go and stuck her head out. The drop to the ground wasn’t far. The window was over-painted and wouldn’t go all the way up but raised enough for her to slither her body out if it came to it. She could escape this way if Bristol showed up to trap her.
Back in the bar, the spankee still hadn’t shown up.
Waverly downed what was left of the screwdriver, ordered another and receded into the back corner.
Ten o’clock.
That’s what it was now.
Game time.
The front door opened and a blond walked in, a blond in a red dress. She looked around as if expecting to meet someone. It was the spankee, alone, without Bristol. Waverly didn’t move. The woman looked at her watch, didn’t see anyone approaching, then took a seat at the only empty barstool, at the very end of the bar. As she ordered a drink, Waverly crossed the floor, stepped outside and looked up and down the street. If Bristol was hiding out there somewhere he had hidden himself well. There were a few unsavory types here and there but they looked like ordinary lowlifes, not guns for hire.
She headed back inside, stepped next to the woman and said, “I’m glad you came.”
The woman studied her.
“You’re the one who wrote the note?”
“Yes. Where’s Bristol?”
“He’s back at the hotel.”
“Did he follow you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I don’t think he did.”
“Did you check, while you were walking?”
“No—”
“How’d you get away?”
“He thinks I’m in the lobby bar having a drink.” She took a swallow of alcohol. “Tell me who you are and what’s going on. I don’t have much time.”
“Tom Bristol’s a murderer,” Waverly said. “He dangles women off the tops of buildings and then drops them. They always have a red dress, just like the one you’re wearing right now. Let me ask you something. Is that something you bought yourself or did he buy it for you?”
Suddenly the front door opened and a man’s figure appeared.
It wasn’t Bristol.
It was a man in a black T-shirt.
He was strong but not like a gorilla, more in a taut way. It was too dark to tell if he had a scar on his face. Waverly grabbed the woman’s hand and said, “I think one of us was followed. I know a way out the back. Hurry!”
102
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Night
Night crept out of the east and smothered Denver in a deep darkness. River sat on top of the middle boxcar staring east into the city lights. Next to him was a knife. Next to the knife was a bottle of Old Milwaukee with only a few sips left. Next to the bottle was a three-battery flashlight. Next to the flashlight was a Colt 45, not his old one—that was still out in the field somewhere with empty chambers—but his new one, the one just like it that he purchased this afternoon.
The chambers were full.
He checked twice.
He had racked his brain all day, going over every inch of his past, trying to detect the slightest clue as to who had hired him all these years, and consequently currently had Vaughn Spencer under employment.
He’d come up empty.
In hindsight he’d been a fool to let such an arrangement creep into his life. He should have resisted the money. He should have just lived a normal life.
Spencer would come for him.
Hopefully that would be tonight.
River would be here.
Come on.
Kill me.
I’m waiting for you.
The specter of tearing through the terrain on the motorcycle towards January’s hogtied body—only to find her gone—kept ricocheting around in River’s brain. Spencer must have been pissed beyond belief to go to the trouble of fetching the woman after he already had what he’d come for.
Where’d he take her?
He took her to the same place as Alexa Blank, clearly, but where was that?
River had spent all afternoon going from one hotel to the next, big and small, luxurious and flea-bagged, knowing that Spencer would now have a more secret place but hoping against hope that he might have taken a comfortable room when he first got into town, which was most likely in the last few days. No one had a registration for Vaughn Spencer, not at any point in the last month.
No one recalled a man with a scar down his face or a tattoo on his forearm.
So where was he?
Was he down in the old abandoned warehouse district?
Did he break into a vacant house that had a For Sale sign in the front yard?
Did he kill a farmer out in the sticks?
Did the person who hired him rent a house for him?
Something flew over River’s head, swooping within feet. It was too dark for birds. It had to be a bat. He checked the skyline and saw nothing, not for some time. Then there it was, a dark silhouette darting back and forth in a rapid, jagged flight.
River found a piece of gravel the size of a marble and waited. When it came close, he tossed it up. The bat darted for it, thinking it was a bug, then diverted just before it hit and knocked itself out.
River nodded with respect.
Good reflexes.
His eyes were getting heavy. It had been a long, long day. His thoughts drifted back to January and finding her gone. Nothing in his life had been as empty as getting to where she was and then not having her there.
He needed motion.
Sitting here wasn’t getting her found.
Come on, Spencer.
Hurry up.
Get your ass over here and kill me.
He heard a noise, something moving in the shadows, barely perceptible but definitely something.
A dog?
Spencer?
He held his breath.
No sounds came.
He listened harder.
No sounds came.
He shoved the flashlight in a back pocket and tucked the gun in his belt. Then with the knife in his left hand, he silently climbed down the ladder on the pitch-black backside of the boxcar.
; 103
Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
Wilde found out something interesting from one of the waitresses at the Down Towner where Alexa Blank worked, namely that Alexa suddenly left halfway through her shift on Tuesday with a Tarzan-like man who had long black hair. Before she left she said, “If I die, he’s the one who killed me,” or words to that effect. She hadn’t been seen or heard from since.
There was only one man in town who fit that description.
He was a guy who frequented the Bokaray.
Wilde had seen him there on several occasions.
They’d never talked, not once.
They didn’t like each other.
They didn’t look at each other.
They didn’t acknowledge each other’s existence.
Each was too much of a competitor of the other, especially when it came to the ladies. They were like two lions in the same cage, that much Wilde knew. Other than that he knew nothing about the man, not his name, not where he lived, not a thing.
He hopped in Blondie and headed for the Bokaray.
The front door was locked but the back one was open.
He headed in and shouted “Anyone home?”
“Back here.”
The words were feminine and faint, from somewhere back near the restrooms. Wilde headed that way. The mysterious black door at the end of the hall was ajar. Inside, a woman sat behind a desk working on papers. Wilde knew her by sight as one of the co-owners of the place but didn’t know her name.
“You’re the drummer,” she said.
“Bryson Wilde.”
“Bryson Wilde, ladies man,” she said. “I’m Mia Lace. There, we’ve finally been formally introduced. Have a seat.”
Wilde complied, tapped out two cigarettes, lit them up and handed her one.
“Thanks,” she said.
He nodded.
“That woman you brought up on stage, she’s got quite the voice.”
“She does.”
“She could be a star.”
“I agree,” he said. “The reason I’m here though is because I need to get in touch with that guy with the long hair who hangs out here, the Tarzan guy.”