An hour or so later I was finished with Fudge and on my way to the hospital to see Blanc. I discovered he was out of intensive care, but had not yet regained consciousness.
I went up to his room on the third floor. There was a uniformed cop on guard outside the door that didn’t want to let me in. He was the typical thuggish High Town cop. I guess Blake heard the commotion and she stepped out into the hallway.
She glared at me for an instant, then told the cop I was okay. He glared at her.
“Fudge said you gave a statement about Bartram,” she said as I walked into the room. “Thanks. You may have to testify if there is a hearing or trial.”
I nodded. “I’m glad to see somebody is serious about going after him. How’s the champ doing?” I asked gesturing at Blanc.
“The doctor thinks he’ll be okay. They put a nanomesh implant suite in his brain. They say it will help him recover.”
“So he’s a wirehead now,” I said. Blake looked ready to get mad. “He’ll be a supercop when he gets back on his feet,” I said before she went for her weapon.
Blake glared at me, then smiled. “Gene said you have a real talent for pushing people’s buttons.”
As she spoke a doctor came through the door.
“It comes in handy when I want my features rearranged,” I said.
“Is that what happened? You look worse than our patient here,” the doctor said to me. His nametag read Perry Bryant, MD.
“He was with Robert when he got shot,” Blake said.
“You must be the man who shot the two assailants with a slug-thrower.” He looked at some monitors in the wall over Blanc’s head and spoke over his shoulder. “I saw them when they were brought in here. An awful weapon.”
I smiled. “Blanc, me, and my .45 are still here. The bump squad and their blasters aren’t.”
“You have a point, but so very messy, slug-throwers.”
“Fists aren’t very tidy either, doc,” I said pointing at my face.
“You have time to look him over, Doctor Bryant?” Blake asked with a sweet look on her face.
“I suppose I can,” he said with a smile. “It would be my pleasure.”
She flashed those blue eyes and the good doctor was more than happy to do her bidding. I don’t know if she did because she cared, because she didn’t believe me, or both.
“Come with me,” he said with a gesture as he headed for the door.
As I got to the door, I looked back at Blake. “You’re not coming?”
She scowled at me.
The doctor seemed to know his business. He figured out I had been punched multiple times in multiple places on my body and it did me no good at all. He ran me through a few machines, or “devices” as he called them. I am sure at least a couple of them were menders, and one was for dental repair, but they were far beyond the gear Breedlove used.
I felt better when we were through, except my face was numb and I smelled weird, or maybe I just had a strange smell stuck in my nose.
The doctor told me I still had a lot of healing to do. Like I couldn’t tell. When we stepped out of the clinic Blake was there, waiting.
“How is he, Doctor?”
“He’ll be fine if he takes it easy,” he replied.
“I think she wants to know the extent of my injuries, doc. I think she thinks I’m faking,” I said with a smile.
Bryant didn’t know what to make of that.
“It’s okay, doc. Tell her,” I said.
“Well, detective, in medical terms I’d say he had the shit kicked out of him by someone who truly knew what they were doing. Nothing fake about that.”
We thanked him and he went back in the clinic.
“You satisfied?” I asked.
“That you were actually assaulted? Yes. I am also satisfied that your face is a pretty shade of pink and you smell strange.”
I laughed. “I asked for the pink color. Going for a new look. The smell should go away in a day or two, at least that’s what the doc said. He said anyone standing near me for more than a few seconds would smell like this too.”
She humphed, then smiled. “Why don’t you go home, tough guy.”
“I will, Detective. Call me if anything happens with Blanc.”
“So you do care.”
“Sure I do. He owes me some money,” I said straight-faced.
She smiled and shook her head, then headed toward Blanc’s room.
I watched. She stopped and turned back toward me. “I forgot to mention that Gene said to call him. He said you two could play a little jazz. What does that mean?” she asked with a bewildered look.
“Jazz, the music,” I said.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You are aware there is a form of music called jazz?”
She was irritated and nodded.
“Sometimes it’s what’s between the notes,” I said.
She glared at me, still not understanding.
“Gene will tell you when you’re old enough,” I said with a smile.
She continued to glare at me, but I thought I caught a bit of a smile in her eyes. “It’s almost like you are a nine year old playing with secret codes,” she said.
“Almost?”
She shook her head and humphed before she walked away.
I left the hospital and walked to the motel where Blanc was staying. It wasn’t far. I didn’t know how far in advance he had paid on his room, so I thought I might secure his belongings before it became an issue.
Sander’s Motel was a motor court, a hollow square with vehicle parking in the middle and edged in rooms. Nothing fancy, but it was clean and affordable. The kind of place travelers who were seeking nothing more than a bed and bathroom would seek out. No swimming pool, no mints on pillows, no lounge.
The office was situated right next to the entrance. Housekeeping was making the rounds, while a maintenance man sprayed something off the pavement into the grass that divided the parking lot from the walkways. He was splattering nearby cars, but it didn’t look like he cared.
I went in the office.
“I am here to pick up the personal effects of Robert Blanc,” I said to the bored out of his skull guy behind the counter. “He’s in fourteen.”
The guy stood and flopped a databoard displaying a textbook onto the counter, then brought up some information on the computer.
“Yeah, fourteen. He’s paid up through tomorrow,” he said with a yawn.
“Then it’s a good time for me to do this.”
“They say timing’s everything. I’ll have to get the manager to approve it.”
The guy went down a short hallway to the right and knocked on a door. I heard murmuring voices, then the desk jockey returned. “He’ll be right out.”
A man waddled out a few seconds later. Short legs with a long torso and a cannonball gut are a bad combination of features on anybody. Top it off with bad hair, splotchy skin, and a nasty disposition and you have a thoroughly unpleasant man. That was the manager.
“I’m Scaggs, manager. You can’t take a person’s stuff out of a room ’less you a cop,” he said.
“Wrong,” I replied. “You have a form called a property claim surety. All hotels, motels, and hostels are required to keep them on hand. I fill it out, you confirm my identity, we inventory the property. Simple.”
Most PIs are familiar with such things, especially if they deal with marital and domestic issues. It’s a function overseen by the civil courts.
“We ain’t got none right now.”
This was a common ploy. Scumbags looking for a bribe. In Scaggs case though, I suspected he was looking to wait until the day after tomorrow and put Bob’s stuff in storage. He could charge a fee for each day it was stored, and if Blanc didn’t claim his gear within thirty days Scaggs could sell it.
“Print one out.”
“It ain’t working.”
“We got the forms, Mr. Scaggs,” the desk jockey said. “I think they’re—”
> Scaggs slapped his hand down on the counter making the desk jockey jump. “Ain’t got none.”
“Want me to call the Hotel Commission?” I asked.
“They won’t do nothing.”
He was probably right about that. “Maybe a small fee to change the situation?” I asked. Sometimes it was quicker just to give the assholes a piece.
“Hundred credits.”
“Not a fucking chance.”
“Then leave.”
I glared at the guy. “I might be back,” I said.
“We’ll be watching. Don’t think we won’t.”
“You do that,” I said as I left the office.
I went around the corner and leaned against the wall. I thought about going back to the hospital and checking to see if they had Bob’s room access card and use it to recover his stuff, but I decided to do it the hard way. Sometimes it’s easier that way.
I could see Scaggs in a reflection coming off a window on a sedan parked in the lot. He stood in the office door watching to see if I returned. His vigil lasted less than a minute before he disappeared from view.
I watched a housekeeper working her way toward Room 14. She came out of 11, closed the door and moved to 12. She used a universal access card that opened all the rooms. That was not unusual in the custodial realm. She didn’t keep the card on her person, she kept it on the cart she pushed from room to room.
I made my way to the office door and looked in. I could see no sign of Scaggs. I could see the desk jockey’s head just above the counter. He was looking down at something. Reading or sleeping was my guess. I crossed the parking lot and moved to a spot where I could see into Room 12.
The housekeeper had just finished making the bed and went into the bathroom. A few seconds later, she came out and walked to the cart sitting outside in front of the doorway. She grabbed the supplies she needed and returned to the bathroom.
I looked at the office once more and seeing nothing, I made my way to the cart and grabbed the access card as I passed on my way to Room 14. I unlocked and opened the door, bracing it open with a chair, then returned the card to the housekeeping cart and went back inside Bob’s room.
He didn’t have a lot of luggage. He had one of those modular wheeled racks that allowed you to roll the luggage in a neat stack instead of carrying a mess of bags. There was a small problem though—his luggage wouldn’t hold all the stuff in his room. Maybe he had taken a bag or two to the police station or something. I had to improvise.
I went back outside and saw that the housekeeper had moved to Room 13. I leaned in the doorway and saw her cleaning the table. She was a small pleasant-looking girl, dark-skinned and energetic.
“Excuse me. Can you do me a favor?” I asked.
She looked up and smiled. “What do you need?” she asked in an accented voice. I didn’t recognize the accent, but it was as pleasant as her appearance. Her nametag read Myra.
“I need a bag to carry some excess clothing. A trash bag or something like that would do the trick.”
“I can give you one,” she said as she made her way to the cart. “I might get in trouble with Mr. Scaggs so please don’t tell him.”
“I’d be happy if I never spoke to Mr. Scaggs again,” I said as she handed me a black plastic bag. She seemed like a genuinely nice kid.
“He is a sad man,” she said.
My opinion of him was a little less charitable. “What’s the going rate on tips for housekeepers?” I asked.
She formed a circle with her fingers. “I have never had a tip since I started working here.”
I handed her my business card. “Go over to the Cartwright Hotel,” I said pointing to the northwest where the hotel was located. The Cartwright was a first-rate high-rise place that catered to wide cross section of travelers, and was one of the few Gulf City hotels that employed a house detective. “Show that card to the house dick there, Whitey Smoak. He’ll help you out.”
“They would hire me?”
“Sure they would. The pay is bound to be better and you’ll get tips, sometimes. Thanks,” I said waving the trash bag.
As I turned to leave, she looked at the card and said, “You know what?”
I could guess what was coming.
“You’re the first private detective I have ever met.”
I guessed wrong.
I put twenty-five in scrip in the housekeeping cart on the way by and finished bagging up Bob’s stuff. I figured that if Scaggs wanted a hundred for doing nothing I was still seventy-five ahead by tipping the maid for doing me a favor. I’ve never been good with money.
I hoofed it out of the motel parking lot unseen and caught a cab. I had the cabbie drop me off at Preston’s. I wanted to see if he had learned anything about the grey sedan.
Preston was in his office hunched over his desk eating some kind of drippy sandwich. Lunchtime at Preston’s. He saw me at the doorway said something through a mouthful of food and gestured at the chairs in front of his desk. I assumed he meant for me to sit there.
He noisily swallowed the mouthful after a couple of tries at choking and washed it down with something in a big white cup. He wiped his hands and mouth on a wad of napkins. “You hungry, Rick? Got another sandwich,” he said holding up a paper bag with BOLT 2 THE HEAD emblazoned on the side.
It was a sandwich outfit with “Two convenient High Town locations, near the space elevator and on Houston Street in the Red Light,” as their ads said.
“No, thanks,” I said. “You get any info on that grey sedan?”
He smiled. “Yup,” he said as he opened his desk drawer and took out a piece of paper. He leaned forward and set it in front of me.
As I unfolded the paper he said, “Same company as that car you sold me.”
“Arc Tau Security. How did you track it down?”
“That’s a trade secret, Rick.”
“Let me guess. Salvage yard.”
He feigned being crestfallen. “You take all the mystique out of it, Rick. Yeah, salvage yard. The car had been parted out, but lots of parts carry numbers that will lead to the ID number.”
“Thanks, Preston. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” he said holding up his hand. “That sedan you sold me was low mileage and in great shape, except for some blood stains that we had to clean out thanks to you. Moved it fast and at a good price.”
Another reminder I was in the wrong line of work.
“If I’d had my way I would have retained all of my bodily fluids. Thanks again.”
I left Preston to his sandwich and walked back to my office, trash bag over my shoulder and rolling luggage trailing behind. As I got near the steps to my building, I saw a familiar pair of legs with running shoes on the bottoms of them sticking out onto the side walk.
I leaned around the wall at the side of the steps. I wasn’t mistaken, it was Lacey Danns. “Am I missing something?” I said.
“Lunch,” she replied holding up a pair of white bags.
“My office?”
“Yes.”
We walked up to my office.
“Are you moving?” she asked gesturing at Bob’s stuff.
“No, I’m diversifying. Stealing luggage from motels.” I’d have to explain it later.
I unlocked my office door and followed Lacey inside We sat on the sofa.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said.
I looked at her questioningly.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re apologizing.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I was supposed to be the one apologizing.”
“You’ll get your turn.”
“I like the sane and rational side of you,” I said.
She gave me that friendly glare.
“Rick, I get it. You’re a tough guy. I knew that, but it felt like you were holding me at arm’s length. I thought about it after you left and I think you were shielding me, not shutting me out. That’s okay, but you have to let me in someti
mes.”
“So you don’t want me to be the strong silent type. You want me to lament about my day. ‘Those bastards called me names. Hold me, doll face.’ Something like that?”
She laughed. “Somewhere between the two will work. You think you can manage that?”
“I guess,” I said with mock reluctance. “I have a reputation to maintain you know.”
“R.R. Johnson, human punching bag. That is not something you want to be known for.”
“Well, when you put it like that...”
My life got complicated again.
I walked Lacey to her club and then headed back to my office. When I got near my building, I saw a man step from a sedan parked on the other side of the street and move my way.
“Mr. Johnson,” the man yelled as he jaywalked across the street. He was few years younger than I was with white blond hair and blue eyes. It had to be Sam Houston the fake cop. “I need to speak with you.”
“Let’s go to my office,” I said.
Once we were inside the man said, “I’m Gabe Fell, Security Forces Intelligence Service.” He flipped open a case showing a Security Forces ID and an intelligence service badge inside. I took the case from him, then gave the card and badge a look. If they were fake, they were good fakes.
“Not long ago you were Samuel Houston, GCPD detective,” I said.
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “I was undercover. You’re quick, Johnson. That’s why I would like to have your help.”
“SecFor intel needs my help. Sorry, but color me skeptical.” I looked at his ID card once again and asked, “What’s your ID number?”
He rattled it off like it was something he did often. I threw his middle initial at him and what it stood for and he got that one too. It didn’t prove anything really, except that he knew a few things that were printed on a card. Maybe he was on the up and up, but it didn’t change the fact that I had a built-in dislike for spooks. I would check the guy out, but it could wait.
I passed his ID case back to him. “What is it you think I can do for you?”
“For starters you can keep doing what you have been doing.”
The Lowdown in High Town: An R.R. Johnson Novel Page 14