Borrowed Time

by Tracy Clark

  That sounded like Teo Cantu, the Slinky artist, the ex Tim dumped unceremoniously, but I kept quiet, waiting to see what else Ayers would share. Just a moment ago he was in a hurry to be free of me, but now it seemed he had all the time in the world. “In the end, the amount was negligible. Getting Father’s boat back more than makes up for it.”

  Thank God I wasn’t an Ayers. Money couldn’t buy happiness, and it couldn’t buy heart, compassion, or empathy. Stephen Ayers was an empty suit, a hollow man, a dead man walking amongst the living. I’d asked for the blackmailer’s name, but Ayers looked as though he enjoyed stringing me along. Could it be Cantu? If so, was it the blackmail and not the settlement that led to Tim’s death? Did Cantu somehow connect to Spada and Darby? Could Spada actually be legit? If so, where did that leave Darby? And Leon?

  “Tell me who the blackmailer is,” I said.

  Ayers watched me, appraising. “Why not, right? Why not sic you on him, and see if he can wiggle out of it. He can use my money to try and keep himself out of prison, if he hasn’t squandered it all.”

  “Who?” I repeated, finding myself getting more desperate for the information with each passing moment. “Give me the name.”

  Ayers paused, smiling, enjoying the power he held over me, the control. This is what Tim Ayers had come up against his entire life, this level of manipulation, cunning, and cruelty. Ayers casually glanced at his watch. “C.D. Ganz. That’s the son of a bitch. Now go make his life a living hell, and leave me and my family alone.”

  My heart skipped a beat; my mind reeled, recalculated. “Ganz?”

  Ayers walked away from me, and I stood stunned, silent on the busy plaza, pigeons circling my feet.

  C.D. Ganz.

  * * *

  The sandwich board outside of Sophie’s Place announced that a female impersonator named Crystal was performing inside. I’d spent the better part of the afternoon doing a background check on C.D. Ganz while I waited for the club to open. That was PI work—half tech work, half legwork, waiting for something to pop. Ganz had no criminal record, and didn’t cross with either Darby or Spada, but he was up to his eyeballs in serious debt. Had he resorted to blackmail when Tim backed out of his promise to finance the bar? He’d said he had found financing elsewhere. Had he meant Stephen? Is that why he pointed the finger at Darby, maybe even fabricating the argument on the boat, to hide the fact that he’d extorted money from Tim’s family?

  It was just past five, Happy Hour, and the lively street was jammed with evening revelers out for a good time. I walked inside and checked the bar, but Mutt wasn’t there. On stage, the flame-haired Crystal vamped it up in a sequined gown and killer stilettoes. He was a real stunner. I slid onto a barstool, ordered a Coke, and watched the show and the crowd, hoping to spot Ganz milling around beneath the baby blue gel lights. The place was packed, and the lights and the close quarters made the room hot.

  “Crystal’s a real barn burner,” I said.

  The bartender, a thin black guy with a bushy moustache, worked his damp rag along the surface of the slippery bar, sopping up wet spots. “He brings them in, that’s for sure.”

  “I’m looking for C.D.,” I said. “He around?”

  He grinned. “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  He angled his head toward the stage. “On how you want him.”

  Crystal had put her finishing flourish on Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know?” and was starting on Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Were Made for Walkin’.” I turned toward the stage, really looking this time.

  “That’s C.D.?”

  The bartender grabbed a promo card out of a dispenser on the bar and handed it to me. “By day. By night . . . sparkle, sparkle.”

  Crystal, aka C.D. Ganz, stared up at me from the glossy card. His makeup was flawless and he wore a feathered gown Cher would have strangled Bob Mackie for, but it was the red hair that registered most. Good old Cap recalled seeing a good-looking redhead visiting Tim’s boat days before he died. A professional woman, he said, with a briefcase and a cute little wiggle. Dressed as Crystal, C.D. could also have passed for a hooker to a nosy perv minding someone else’s business and peeking through keyholes at naked women.

  “Holy moly,” I muttered.

  The bartender squinted. “You say something?”

  “He does this every night?”

  “Couple times a week. Why?”

  “Does he ever dress like a woman outside of the club?”

  The guy blinked, shrugged. “No idea. I just pour the happy juice. I don’t follow him home.”

  Ganz dipped and swished and worked the room, throwing his boa around the necks of delighted patrons. He bore absolutely no resemblance to the man I’d spoken to a few days earlier: the one with the box cutter and the attitude; the one who refused to tell me how he’d found out about the status of Tim’s case. I turned back to the bar. “You wouldn’t happen to know a guy named Vincent Darby, would you?”

  The bartender looked confused. “The name doesn’t register.”

  “Have you seen a three-hundred-pound bruiser in here who looks like a walking tree? Or a short, fat guy with eyes like Satan’s?”

  He took his rag and moved farther down the bar. “This some kind of put-on?”

  I waved him off, turned back to Ganz and the vamping.

  “You gonna wait for C.D.? He’s got, like, three sets and two breaks tonight.” The bartender asked, though something in his voice told me he hoped I wouldn’t.

  I smiled, sensing a breakthrough coming. “Wild horses couldn’t drag me out of here now.”

  Chapter 31

  It was almost nine PM and I was waiting at the bar for Ganz to change out of his dazzle clothes and meet me there. I wasn’t afraid he’d duck out the back and leave me hanging. We’d made eye contact midway through his second set. He knew the jig was up. He also knew running would only postpone the inevitable. It was late; it’d been a long day; I was in no mood to monkey around with him. I’d gotten little from Spada’s double-talk or Ayers’s high-handed attempt at intimidation. I had a theory, but I had a feeling my luck was about to change big-time.

  If I believed Stephen Ayers, and I didn’t much, C.D. Ganz was a blackmailer. I had a feeling there was more to it than that. Ganz didn’t strike me as being the dodgy sort. After a time, C.D. emerged from the back, dressed in men’s clothes, a sheepish look on his freshly scubbed face. Those sitting at the tables paid him no mind at all. Ganz held on to a sparkling leash with a jumpy little ratlike dog on the business end of it. I watched the dog.

  “I knew you’d be back,” he said when he reached me, “but you’ve got the wrong idea.” He eyed the bartender, who was wiping down the bar and didn’t appear to give a fig about what else was going on. “Look, I’ve got to take care of Vivian. Do you mind taking a walk?” Vivian, a fluff of hairy orange, looked up at me with black marble eyes, her pink tongue hanging out of her mouth like it was too long to fit. The dog’s blue collar matched the blue bedazzling on the leash. It was way too much.

  I stood, gestured toward the door. “After you.”

  The doggy park was empty when we got there. Maybe folks didn’t exercise their dogs this late? The small enclosure was cordoned off by wrought iron, and the second Ganz unhooked rat-dog from the leash, Vivian lit out, tearing around like a bat out of Hades. Ganz and I sat down on the nearest bench, watching as she rolled around in wood chips.

  “She’s a Pomeranian,” Ganz said, though I hadn’t asked. “I didn’t kill Tim.”

  “You were seen at the marina days before he died, dressed as a woman. You’re deep in debt, and you blackmailed his family. Is that what paid for all the boxes I saw stacked up in the bar the other day?”

  Vivian was back, flapping her nub of a tail. Ganz tossed her a treat from a plastic bag with the dog’s name spelled out on it in fake rhinestones. Seriously, way too much. The dog caught the snack midair, chewed a couple times, swallowed, and then pranced off. I scanned the str
eet.

  “Yes. But I didn’t think of it as blackmail. What’s it going to take for you to believe me?”

  “Start talking. I’ll stop you when I’ve heard enough.”

  Ganz took a deep breath, tossed another treat. “Okay, it wasn’t just business between us. Promises were made. Things ended badly. You have to understand, I had the club hanging over my head, bills. I needed that money. Maybe I panicked. Maybe I made the wrong choice. I did. I did make the wrong choice.

  “The night of the party, afterward, I thought that if I couldn’t get the money from Tim, I might be able to get it from his family. They weren’t concerned about him being gay. I mean, it is the twenty-first century. It was the bar, his friends, our social unacceptability they didn’t want to deal with. I threatened to play it up, make things sticky. I knew they’d pay to keep me quiet. Their lawyer, Felton, is a horrible person, but I couldn’t give in to his threats. The club was literally dying right in front of me. I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest hour.”

  “How’d you get the money?”

  “I picked it up from his boat. The brother delivered it to Tim. I came to get it . . . in a briefcase . . . as Crystal.”

  “The same day,” I said, recalling Cap’s account.

  Ganz nodded. “I apologized to Tim. I really was sorry. Surprisingly, he accepted it. He was dying, he said. He didn’t have time to hold on to grudges or hate me. He said he should have given me the money outright, since he’d promised it. It was just one of those things.” Ganz turned to face me, bewildered. “That’s what he said, ‘one of those things.’ In hindsight, I don’t think him reneging was about meanness or spite. I think he was just . . . cavalier . . . obtuse, wrapped up in himself. I had no reason to kill him. I’d gotten what I needed, though I’m not at all proud about how I got it.”

  I leaned back on the bench, tracking the dog as she raced around the borders of the fence like she was running laps at the Olympics and had her eye on the gold medal. “Blackmail,” I muttered.

  Ganz hung his head, turned away from me. “I tried convincing myself it wasn’t, but, yeah, blackmail. It was dirty and it was low. He was dying and I shook him down for cash. God, I hate myself.”

  “Who told you Tim’s case was closed?”

  Ganz slid me a look. “Robert Felton, the only guy I hate more than myself right now. He called after I’d gotten the money, after Tim . . . died. He said, and I believed him, that if the family heard from me again, he’d make sure I lost everything. He gave me gooseflesh.”

  I stared at him. “I’ve only your word that the transaction went smoothly. Tim’s not here to corroborate.”

  “And my word is no good, for obvious reasons.”

  “I don’t fly on faith.”

  Ganz fiddled with the bag of doggy treats. “I have proof. I was in St. Michael’s Hospital having a cyst removed from a most undignified place the night Tim died. I have my discharge papers, if you need to see them.”

  “I do.”

  “I told you about the argument at Tim’s party, with Darby. That’s the truth. But there was someone else. I saw him hanging around the marina after Tim died. I don’t really know why I felt I needed to be there, but I was, post-op pain and all. Unfinished business, I guess. One night, I saw him there, watching, so I watched him for a while, trying to figure out what he was up to. He climbed aboard Tim’s boat and stayed a while. When he came out, he had something with him, something big. I couldn’t tell what. He could be the one you’re looking for.”

  “You didn’t call the police?”

  Ganz shrugged. “My hands weren’t exactly clean. I didn’t want to draw attention. Besides, the police are never my first call for anything.”

  “Describe who you saw.”

  “It was the weird guy I told you about, Tim’s friend, the one from the party.”

  I swallowed hard. Jung.

  “I stopped watching when I saw someone else taking an interest,” Ganz added. “No one I recognized. At that point, I gave it up. Tim was dead. I’d done what I’d done. I had to make peace with it. I didn’t see the second guy’s face, just his outline. He was tall, not fat. It could have been anybody. He got into a black SUV.”

  I stood. The black SUV. Was Vince Darby following Jung? Why? And now I couldn’t find Jung anywhere? That wasn’t good.

  Ganz watched me closely. “Are you all right?”

  I shook my head, thinking. “Don’t think so.”

  “But at least you don’t think I’m a murderer?”

  I ignored the question. What was Jung up to? How had he gotten himself on Darby’s radar, and what was Darby willing to do about it? “I’ll need to see those discharge papers.”

  Chapter 32

  The next morning I went to rent reliable wheels and ended up with a white Chevy Cruze that had a strange vibe and smelled like other people, but I had no choice but to push on with it. I tossed my pipe in the trunk, along with a few other PI essentials—a camera, binoculars, a clipboard, emergency rations—and headed out again to look for Jung. He took something from Tim’s boat, and Vince Darby watched him do it. Now Jung was in the wind. I had a bad feeling that wasn’t a coincidence, but first I had a stop to make.

  I was leaning on the Cruze, my arms folded, when Weber strolled out of the area, saw me, and grinned. He was dressed in a jacket and tie, and his trench billowed behind him as he strolled over, cool as anything. He made quite the picture, and I was beginning to take a proprietary interest.

  “Tiller’s Gun Shop,” I said when he reached me.

  He shot me a confused look, cocked his head.

  “You wanted to know where I buy my ammo? Tiller’s.” I searched his face, saw amusement creep into it, and realized instantly that I’d been played. I smiled, shook my head. “And you don’t care where.”

  He got closer, stood facing me, hands in his pockets. “I knew me asking about you would tick you off, and that you’d come around to tell me just how much.”

  “Smart,” I said. “Sneaky, but smart.”

  “How’d you know where I’d be?” he asked.

  I shot him a sly smile. I’d asked around. Cops talk. “You forget what I do for a living?”

  We stood there for a time, staring at each other, pretty much there and then deciding without uttering a word between us that we’d passed GO. Weber broke off first, eyeing the rental.

  “Where’s your car?”

  I pulled myself off the Cruze. “Out of commission.”

  “For how long?”

  “I’m thinking indefinitely. Fatal flaw. I’ll need to replace it.”

  “Not so fast. What’s wrong with it? I know a great mechanic. He’ll give you the policeman’s discount and everything. Is it the transmission?”

  Yes, it was the transmission. It was also the tires, the engine, the seats, the mats, the steering wheel. There was no reason to lie to the man. “Cocktail.”

  Weber’s brows knit together. “‘Cocktail’?”

  “Molotov. My car went up like a Roman candle.”

  His eyes widened. “Say what?”

  I walked around to the driver’s side, slipped the bulky rental key into the lock. “It’s water under the bridge now . . . easily handled. And in case you’re thinking this was me making my move, it wasn’t. It was also not a date.” I smiled, my eyes narrowed. “But we’re making good progress.”

  I drove away and left Weber standing there.

  * * *

  I buzzed Jung’s bell, but got no answer, so I jimmied the vestibule door, headed up to his apartment, and jimmied that lock, too. If I found Jung asleep in his bed, I was going to kill him. If I found Jung dead in his bed, I was going to kill him again.

  I stepped gingerly into his apartment into a sea of disorder, nearly bowled over by the stink of dirty socks and hippie dude. For a moment, I thought the room had been tossed, but on closer inspection, it became clear that Jung was just a piggish man-baby who needed to settle down and get his life together. There wer
e dirty plates and glasses stacked everywhere, clothes flung over every piece of prefab furniture, shoes, sandals, empty pizza boxes strewn around the floor. But no Jung. I padded back to the bedroom, peeked inside. No bed. It figured. Jung had anchored a hemplike hammock to the wall, and it hung diagonally across the small room. No furniture, just books stacked high everywhere, and more clothes on the floor. I looked up to find strings of Christmas lights crisscrossing the ceiling. Curious, I flicked the light switch and the bulbs came to life. Some of the bulbs were multicolored; the others were white and blinked on and off. What the hell?

  I backed out of the room and shut the door behind me. When I turned back for the front room, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of something. I turned to find a painting propped up against a wall in a niche right off the kitchen. I padded back, picked it up. A lighthouse. It’s Tim’s. Was this the missing seventh painting? Is this what Jung was seen taking from the Safe Passage? If so, what was he doing with it? Was Marta right? Had Jung trashed Tim’s boat for this?

  I left everything as I’d found it and walked out, a sinking feeling in my gut. What if my client was a murderer? What better cover than to hire someone to look into a murder you yourself had committed? Him sending me off headed in the wrong direction to beat the wrong bushes would have given him plenty of time to get out of town, or out of the country, before I or anyone else even thought to look for him.

  I sat in the car and thought it through, getting angrier by the minute. My phone signaled. I had an e-mail, a summary of the deep-dive report I’d requested on Spada. He’d come back just as clean as he had on my first run-through. He was, apparently, a man without blemish. After spending more than enough time with him in a close elevator, I knew that had to be a crock. Who the hell was he?

  My phone rang in my hand. It was Turk, the janitor in my office building. Turk, a tatted-up biker partial to white T’s and motorcycle boots, had somehow landed a job in building maintenance. On the surface, it didn’t seem like a natural fit, but he proved to have an almost encyclopedic brain for fixing everything from a busted toilet to a wonky carburetor. He held the broken-in building together with little more than a pipe wrench, duct tape, and a confounding unflappability.