Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  The light was on in Room 202, but the curtain was closed as if to ward off evil. Listening at the door for the slightest sound of anything proved futile. I couldn’t hear a damned thing short of a siren wailing in the distance.

  With both hands clutching the gun in preparedness, I used the barrel to tap on the door. No answer. Knocked again, twice. Nothing but silence.

  My guess was no one was home. But I couldn’t discount the real possibility that the man named The Worm, if he was inside, wanted no company.

  I waited a moment longer before kicking open the door, gun pointed at anything that moved. The room was empty and in disarray, as if a cyclone had rearranged the furniture. I checked the bathroom. Empty. Someone had obviously left in a hurry. Could The Worm have been tipped off? Was he even the one occupying this room?

  Drug paraphernalia was scattered on a table, along with traces of cocaine. Was The Worm an addict as well as a dealer? It made sense. The two usually went hand in hand.

  I searched the drawers. Most were empty. There were a few clothes in the closet, some of which belonged to a woman. If Jessie Wylson had been staying here, he wasn’t alone.

  Next to the phone I saw a pad with a number sloppily scrawled on it. I dialed the number. “Portland Police Bureau—” I hung up, half embarrassed I had failed to recognize the number. Why would someone in this hellhole have called the police? Had a crime been committed? Or was the caller looking to speak to someone in particular—like a crooked cop?

  I’d known cops who dirtied their hands in drugs, kickbacks, prostitution, and other violations of the law, including murder-for-hire. It made me sick to my stomach. As far as I knew, they were still in the minority among the force. But they were by no means eradicated from the department.

  “Who the hell are you?” The voice screeched at me.

  I swiveled around quickly, ready to blast the person to kingdom come if necessary. Standing inside the door was a man in his fifties, wearing what looked to be a black-gray toupee. He looked scared to death. He should have been.

  “You nearly lost your life there, man,” I told him in no uncertain terms. With the Glock still pointed at chest level, I bellowed: “Who the hell are you?”

  He sighed in a near groan, hands up like this was a bank robbery. “I manage the place.”

  I approached him, easing his mind somewhat by lowering the gun and pulling out my I.D. “Dean Drake. I’m a private investigator.”

  He studied me warily. “So what’s a private investigator doing snooping around in one of my rooms?”

  I took out The Worm’s photo. “I’m looking for this man. His name is Jessie Wylson. He goes by the nickname The Worm. Is he—was he—staying here?”

  “I mind my own business,” the man said shiftily. “You live longer that way.”

  “Well make this your business!” I yelled. “Jessie Wylson’s wanted by the cops for drug trafficking and distribution.” I nodded at the table with the drug paraphernalia and cocaine residue. “I’ll bet they’d also be interested in knowing just what kind of establishment you’re running—”

  His face turned a dark shade of red. “Yeah, he was here,” he admitted. “I was just comin’ to tell him to leave if he didn’t pay up. He was a week overdue.”

  “Looks like The Worm beat you to the punch and left before he wore out his welcome.” I put my gun away. “What about the woman staying here?”

  He cocked a brow. “What about her?”

  “What did she look like? I’m sure you must have noticed.”

  He scratched the side of his face like a mosquito had bitten it. “Just a woman,” he shrugged.

  “Black, white, green—?” I was getting impatient.

  “Black. Dark-skinned. Had blonde-black hair.” He gave me a wary look. “And she didn’t stay here. Just visited on weekends.”

  The woman he’d described sounded a lot like Nicole—Jessie Wylson’s supposedly “ex” girlfriend.

  I took one more visual sweep of the room. “I suggest you clean this place up. I doubt The Worm’s coming back.”

  * * *

  I showed up at the house where Nicole and The Worm had previously taken up residence. Maybe he’d gotten homesick. I knocked on the door testily.

  A black woman in her forties opened it. She gave me a piercing look, and said: “What the hell do you want?”

  “Is Nicole here?”

  The woman eyed me distrustfully. “Ain’t no Nicole livin’ here.”

  “She was a couple of days ago.”

  She flattened her hands on heavy hips. “You got the wrong house, mister.”

  “I don’t think so.” I glared at her. “Late thirties. Dark skin. Short, dark hair with blonde highlights—”

  Just when I thought she was playing a dangerous game with me, the woman said, as if her memory had suddenly been jarred: “Oh, you talkin’ about Terri—”

  Why the hell not. “Right. Where is Terri?”

  “Ain’t here. Moved out yesterday.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Do you know where?”

  “Didn’t say. And I didn’t ask.”

  “What about the Rest Rooms motel with Jessie Wylson?”

  Her dark eyes widened. “Hey, honey, I wouldn’t know. I don’t have nothin’ to do with that.”

  “With what?”

  “With whatever it is the two of ‘em is into.”

  But she obviously knew they were into something illegal. “Where did they go?” I pressed.

  She gritted her teeth. “I told you I don’t know.”

  Or won’t say.

  The Worm, with the help of his girlfriend, Terri/Nicole, seemed to stay one step ahead of me. I gave the woman my card and belatedly identified myself, then said: “If you hear from them, it would be in your best interest if you let me know.”

  Something told me hell would freeze over before she ever used that card. But I was one who happened to still believe in miracles.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I ended up at Jasmine’s in time to catch the last half of the Mariners game against the Tigers. Gus had invested in a big screen TV back in January. It was the perfect complement to the sounds of jazz that exploded from the stage.

  Unfortunately, the Mariners were losing again. However, the Seahawks had begun exhibition play two days ago and were looking good.

  I was on my second beer when Gus joined me.

  “What’s up, D.J.?”

  “Everything,” I muttered. “The rent, my phone bill. Even my subscription to Sports Illustrated has gone up. Seems like I can’t win for losing—”

  “You and half the damned human race,” groaned Gus. “That’s life, man, like it or not.”

  He had that right. There were some things you simply couldn’t control, no matter how hard you tried. It was called fate. And I seemed to be constantly testing it. I tasted my beer.

  Gus put a mug to his bearded face. “Heard I missed a hot one the other night.”

  “The singer?” I played dumb.

  He wiped froth from his mouth and smiled lasciviously. “The blonde babe with the big tits. Or so that was the description I was given.”

  “Her breasts weren’t that big,” I clarified.

  Gus turned a soft grin into a wide smile. “Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”

  “Probably.” I found myself blushing. We often shared our war stories—that is the war and romance between the sexes.

  “Well, was she worth it?” Gus asked on a breath, panting for details.

  I thought about it. “Yeah,” I had to admit, “she was definitely worth it.”

  He laughed like Jolly Old St. Nick. “More power to you,” he said enviously. “Obviously you’re doing something that works.” He shook his head. “I only wish I knew what the hell it was.”

  Sometimes so did I, especially when it got me into trouble. I drank more beer.

  We both turned our heads as a brawl broke out in the game and both benches emptied.

 
; “These overpaid assholes today don’t know what it means to fight,” complained Gus, unmoved. “In ‘Nam when we fought, we kicked ass. It was kill or be killed.”

  “Times have changed, Gus,” I told him, glancing at the screen. “Most of them weren’t even in diapers back then. Today the fight is not about war, but respect and higher salaries. Unless you happen to be a private eye. Then you fight sometimes just to stay in business.” I finished off my drink and rose. “I’m outta here. See you later, Gus.”

  “Yeah.” He lifted his massive body. “Drake?” he called out.

  “Yo?”

  “Have you given any more thought to comin’ to work for me? We’d make a dynamite team, and all the drinks would be on the house.”

  He really was serious. I had to wrap my head around that. “Still thinking about it, Gus,” I sort of promised. “I’ll let you know—”

  * * *

  It was a cool night as I left Jasmine’s and began the walk home. No sooner had I gotten into a groove when I heard footsteps coming up behind me so rapidly that I failed to react to them. Until it was too late. I was sandwiched by two large men. It didn’t take me long to realize they were Ben Vincente’s thugs.

  “You don’t listen too well, Drake.” Clarence had me in a neck lock. “You were supposed to forget you ever heard of The Worm.” He was stronger than I expected. I felt as if I was having the life squeezed out of me.

  Yet I foolishly remained defiant. “Kiss my ass, cocksucker.”

  “This is gonna be fun,” hummed Dirk elatedly.

  He pounded his fists liberally into my sides, stomach, and kidneys. Then used my face as a punching bag. All I could do was watch, bleed, and wince from the pain.

  As I sank to the ground, semi-conscious, Clarence finished me off with a hard kick to the groin. Before I passed out, I heard Dirk say: “If the asshole doesn’t get the message this time, next time we’ll make sure he never walks again!”

  I wasn’t sure if I would ever even breathe again at that point.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I woke up in Gus’s back room, lying on a not so comfortable couch with an ice pack on my forehead. I was still seeing stars, but managed to hone in on Gus’s concerned face.

  “You had me real worried, D.J.,” he said hovering over me like a bear to its cub. “A customer found you sprawled out on the ground as if you’d been struck by a land mine.”

  “I feel like I was.” My head pounded like it was ready to explode into a thousand pieces. The rest of me wasn’t feeling so hot either.

  “What the hell happened?” Gus demanded.

  “Two tons of rotten beef decided I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.”

  Gus’s face contorted with anger. “Sons of bitches! Tell me what I can do to help.”

  “This isn’t your fight, Gus,” I told him, though I imagined if anyone could get physical with the likes of Clarence and Dirk, it was Gus. “I’ll deal with them in my own way.”

  He looked at me skeptically. “Are you sure you’ll live long enough to deal with anybody?”

  That was a very good question. And I had no sure fire comeback. I rose and my body collapsed back onto the couch like a man too long without sleep. Or, perhaps, too much time out like a light.

  “Don’t try to get up, man,” said Gus. “An ambulance is on the way.”

  “Forget the ambulance,” I hissed. I hated hospitals about as much as I hated pain. “I’ll be okay,” I insisted. “Just need a few minutes to catch my breath.”

  Gus tried valiantly to talk what he called some God given sense into me. But I wasn’t about to let this setback keep me down and out.

  I managed to mask the pain and get to my feet. “Thanks for being a buddy,” I told Gus, appreciating it more than I could say. “But I can handle it from here.”

  Somehow I made it home without falling on my face once.

  It took me a couple of days to get back on my feet. I was bent on revenge, but more determined than ever to find the man who was at the root of my aches and pains. But first I thought it was time to pay Frank Sherman a visit.

  * * *

  Considering the fact that as a cop I had often been at odds with the D.A.’s office, it was a strange feeling to occasionally be working on their side. Since this was my first time dealing with Frank Sherman as Deputy D.A., I hadn’t really had a chance to feel him out. Things were happening that he hadn’t bothered to enlighten me on. And I wanted to know why.

  “You look like hell, Drake!” Sherman stated without subtlety while seated at the desk in his posh office.

  I didn’t doubt it. My face was still swollen and bruised after being worked over. “You would, too, if you’d run into two Mack truck bastards at full force.”

  “You’re breaking my heart.” He sat there smugly. “I never said there might not be a few bumps and bruises along the way. Look, if finding Jessie Wylson is more than you can handle, just say the word and I’ll pay you for your time and suffering.”

  “I can handle it,” I said as my voice rose an octave. “All I want is for you to be straight with me. We both know that you’ve got enough manpower at your disposal to go after a hundred Jessie Wylsons. Why the hell aren’t you using it?”

  “He’s only one scum of the earth out of countless offenders we have to deal with on a daily basis,” Sherman snorted, playing with a pencil like it was a baton. “That’s why I hired you.”

  “Cut me some slack, Sherman.” My eyes fixed his sternly. “Why is the D.A.’s office really after Wylson?” My instincts told me there was much more to it than he had let on.

  He continued to play hardball. “I told you—the man’s a drug dealer.” After a short breath, he said patronizingly: “That’s all you need to know.”

  All I need to know? “I don’t think so!” I leapt to my feet like I’d sat on a porcupine. “I’m getting tired of this BS, man. You either give me some answers or find some other asshole to do your dirty work.”

  Sherman’s face turned blood red. He looked as if he hadn’t counted on my smarts, anger, and ultimatum. “Sit down,” he requested in a taut voice.

  I did, but only after I gave him a moment or two more to sweat.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “For starters, tell me about Ben Vincente.”

  Sherman’s hairy brows rose. “Another asshole on the streets who should be locked up for life. He’s been in and out of the slammer for everything from pimping to extortion to drug dealing.”

  “What’s his connection to The Worm?” I had rejected the notion that the two were really cousins.

  “They did time together. Why?”

  “Vincente knew you hired me to find Wylson.” I leaned forward. “How do you suppose that leaked out?”

  If Sherman was uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. “Think about it,” he said evenly. “We’ve got snitches in and out of here, arrestees trying to bargain their way out of trouble, investigators who may open their mouths too much. There are a million ways that information could have reached Vinny.”

  Vinny? My suspicions were growing. “Since when does the Deputy D.A. of Multnomah County refer to this ‘asshole who should be locked up for life’ as Vinny?”

  I got the strong impression from Vincente that his nickname was used primarily by people he was acquainted with on friendly, or at least semi-friendly, terms. What exactly was the nature of his relationship to Sherman?

  He tried his best to dismiss any suggestion of a personal connection to Vincente. “Everyone knows that Vinny is short for Vincent or Vincente,” Sherman said with a straight face. “My cousin’s name is Vinny, but that doesn’t mean I’m in cahoots with the likes of a slimeball such as Ben Vincente—”

  I wondered if he was trying to convince himself or me. “Just curious,” I said in a way to make it seem as if I really was. In reality, I wasn’t convinced that he was being totally honest with me. I moved on, for now. “Is there anything else you can tell me about Jessie Wylson
that might help me to find him?”

  Sherman stared carefully at the question, but responded as if the answer was obvious. “Like what? It’s all there in the dossier. The man’s a career criminal hiding in a hole, hoping his troubles will somehow disappear.” He sighed heavily. “Not a chance in hell! The Worm’s going down, one way or the other—”

  One way or the other? I couldn’t help but wonder exactly what Sherman meant by that. Was he somehow suggesting that Jessie Wylson might be better off dead than in police custody? I sensed that I had worn out my welcome and stood, still left with more questions than answers.

  At the door, I turned to Sherman and said thoughtfully: “Someone from Jessie Wylson’s last known address—a motel called Rest Rooms—phoned the police department. You don’t suppose The Worm has any friends among our city’s finest, do you?”

  Sherman gave me a disbelieving look. “Are you implying someone in the department is crooked?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “There’s nothing to indicate The Worm is connected to anyone in the police department!” he roared. “If a cop is going to go bad, it sure as hell isn’t going to be for a nobody like Jessie Wylson.”

  A nobody that Sherman wanted badly, as if The Worm in his own way was a somebody. “If you say so,” I said snidely.

  “Ask anything you want, Drake,” Sherman tried to say as if he meant it. “But ask something that makes sense.” He sucked in air like it contained the secret to success. “Anything else?”

  “I’m sure I’ll think of something.” I left the proverbial door open, figuring I might need to enter it at any time.

  “Keep me posted,” advised Sherman. “And, remember, we’re on the same side—”

  I chose to keep my opinion to myself on that statement.

  CHAPTER NINE