Corpses Say the Darndest Things: A Nod Blake Mystery

by Doug Lamoreux

  “Baby, you got that right.”

  I would describe her to you, sisters and brothers, but it turns out I already have. I didn't remember it then but she was the same girl in the zebra-striped spandex that had been with Connie, displaying their wares to passing would-be customers, near the mouth of the alley in which I'd taken that painful and – it seemed, fateful – header on the morning I got into this mess. It was a small disgusting world.

  “Want to play Show and Tell?” I asked her.

  “Sounds yummy,” Peaches said. She dropped her voice as I reached her. “You got a place?”

  “Oh, we can start right here.” I produced Love's photograph. “You know this piece of work?”

  She took one look at the picture, even in the dim light, and glared at me. “Fidel put you on to me, didn't she, that bitch? I knew I seen you before.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I tapped the photo. “Have you seen him before? Do you know him?”

  “Yeah. He's a freak. If you're a friend of his, you must be a freak too.”

  “I'm not a friend. I've got a problem with him.”

  “Who are you, Fred Williamson? You a cop?”

  “No, obviously, and no. Now, how do you know him?”

  She stared daggers, twisted her lips, then decided not to fight city hall. “How would I know him? We did business once; once.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “You are a freak.”

  I pulled out a couple of twenties and waved them in the air in front of her. “Let's get out of the woods, angel,” I told her, then repeated, “Tell me about him.”

  Peaches considered the cash, took it, and slid it into her bra. “He talks funny. He looks funny. He wears a stupid hat. And he's whacked,” she said. “He's a hot mess. What else you want to know?”

  I lit two cigarettes and gave her one. “Whatever there is to tell.”

  She took a hit, sighed a cloud, and sagged in place. “He's a small time white boy set to country music; some sort of religious freak. He wanted me to read from the Bible while we did it. The motherfucker's nuts. And he ain't no lonely pillow biter. He's scary crazy.”

  A hearse rattled past, dodging a pot-hole, followed by a Spaceman ice cream truck. Freud might have had a field day with the symbolism but I was neither superstitious nor nostalgic. One meant the same to me as the other; noise on the street. When they were gone I returned to Peaches. “So what'd you do?”

  “Exactly what I was told.” She looked around as if she was embarrassed, though there was nobody there but the two of us, and I sincerely doubted she embarrassed that easily. Still, she lowered her voice. “He had me on my hands an' knees; made me read out loud about Sodom an' G'morrah. An' the whole time he's wearin' that damn cowboy hat.”

  Sheesh. That was going to replace the whale in my nightmares. I disappeared into my thoughts, considering the situation without making any effort to picture the scene. Peaches apparently read my silence as indifference and, annoyed, snapped, “You want more details?”

  I stirred, frowning. “No.”

  “Why? Don't you want your money's worth?”

  Now she was bugging me. I had gotten an idea and was trying to firm it up. “Where did he take you the night you went with him? Do you remember?”

  “No way to forget. A pig sty motel on the south side called the Flyin' Saucer. He was already checked in; had a key on him. We went straight to the room.”

  I pointed to the Jag. “Get in. You're going to show me.”

  “Not for free.”

  Now it was my turn to sigh heavily. “Get in.”

  Traffic remained heavy and it took the better part of an hour to get where we were going. Despite my objections, Peaches played non-stop with the radio, switching stations every few seconds the whole way. She started with Roxanne but said she wasn't listening to nothin' by no-body called The Police. She rotated the dial, found Cheap Trick's The Dream Police, and swore. Then, complaining that white radios played nothing but shit, she went to Rio with Pablo Cruise. That kept her entertained for darn near a full-grown minute. It was turning into a long evening. We eventually got there and I parked on a dark side street in view of the Flying Saucer. Without cussing, low-rent shabby was the only way to describe the motel and, for that matter, that section of town. A perfect place for Eddie Love.

  I turned to Peaches in the passenger's seat. “Which room was it?”

  “That's it on the far end,” she said, pointing. “The last one; number twel'e.”

  “I'm going to take a look,” I told her, getting out. I poked my head back in the window. “Don't even think about leaving.” Peaches huffed, crossed her arms, and slid down in the seat.

  I skipped the office, heading straight for the room. I did not expect Love to be there, not that early, but I needed to be sure. I stood to the side of the door to room 12, out of the line of fire, and listened but heard nothing. I rapped sharply, got no reply and heard nothing still. I rapped again and got more of the same. Wherever Love was, he wasn't there.

  I returned to the car to squeeze Peaches (that's a figure of speech) for more information. “Where did you meet Love?” I asked her. “The time you dated him.”

  “I don't know, I…”

  “Don't give me that. You're sharp as a tack. You know all too well. Now where was it?”

  “A bar down on Broadway; the Four Aces.”

  “That where Love hangs since he got out?”

  “We hooked up for one date. I'm not his fuckin' parole officer.”

  “Knock it off,” I told her. “You think you're here because I love spending time with working girls? You ladies see and hear everything on the street. You know what's happening. If you wanted to hook up with Love again, would you go back to the Four Aces or would it be a waste of time?”

  “Yeah. If I wanted to find him, I'd go there. He drinks there; I seen him there before we dated and after. But when I see him now I disappear because who in the hell is goin' to date him a second time?”

  “You are,” I told her. I fired up the Jag and pulled away from the curb.

  With The Grateful Dead's Shakedown Street backing her up, Peaches was still arguing when we pulled up a half-block away from the fashionably decrepit Four Aces. It wasn't so much a drinking establishment as it was a fire trap with bar stools. But it had a bottle opener up front and a raincoat dispenser in the john; what more could your average alchy or wastrel ask for? “Now remember,” I barked, shutting her up. “No matter who approaches you, or what they offer, you're busy. You're waiting on a date. And you don't move. Nobody is to pick you up but Eddie Love, got it?”

  “I don't know. You askin' a lot of a poor workin' girl.”

  “What am I asking? I'm paying for your night; drinks, food, what you would have made if I hadn't come along. A whole night without having to do anything with any of these eh gentlemen.”

  “This cowboy must be worth a lot.”

  “He isn't worth a damn. It's my health and freedom I'm concerned about. They're worth everything to me and I need to talk to this Black Bart wanna-be. Now, do you understand the gig? All you've got to do is get picked up by him and let him bring you back to his room at the Flying Saucer.”

  “Oh, is that all?”

  “I'll be waiting. Just bring him to me. There's no danger to you until he gets you into the room. And you're not coming into the room. Just get him there and, when he opens the door, stand back.”

  I held out a wad of bills. She hesitated, then took and counted them. “You said three hundred. This is only a buck and a half.”

  “You'll get the other hundred and fifty when I've got Love wrapped up.”

  “I didn't agree to that.”

  “I didn't ask for your agreement. I'm buying your help and making it worth your while. That doesn't mean I'm stupid. The minute I drive away you're free to do what you like with one hundred, fifty of my dollars. That's risk enough. Help me out and you get the easiest working night of your life and the rest when it's don
e.”

  She twisted her lips then added the bills to the forty already inside her shirt. “Room twel'e. You be there,” she said, climbing out. “See ya'.” She didn't look back, just vanished into the Four Aces.

  Peter Frampton laid down the first few bars of I Can't Stand It No More. In total agreement, I turned the radio off and returned to the Flying Saucer in blissful, thoughtful silence. I parked in the shadows a block away, and made my way through the back of their lot to Love's room, according to Peaches, doing my best not to be noticed. Unlike the others, this room had a new dead bolt in the door. It could have been a problem but, on a second peek, didn't look as if it was thrown. I slipped a plastic card into the jamb and found for once I was right, the bolt was undone. I loided the standard lock below and entered.

  Once inside, I closed the door, turned the light on, and gave the room a once over. It looked and smelled like you'd expect for a sleazy motel that rented to crib babies by the hour. A closer inspection showed a couple of interesting modifications. Beneath the corners of the stained coverlet a short rope had been attached to each leg of the frame and left to trail on the floor under the corners of the queen-sized bed. It didn't take a genius to see that someone was meant to be tied there. Extra towels, a roll of duct tape and, I'm disturbed to report, a shiny new bedpan sat on the overhead rack in the tight closet. I looked back to the bed and amended my earlier thought. Someone, apparently, was meant to be tied there for an extended period of time. The windows, beneath the tatty curtains, under the bent metal blinds, were covered with thick black plastic and the sill nailed shut. No light, no looking in or out, no escape save the door. Most interesting of all, the new dead bolt had been installed so that it could only be locked and unlocked from the outside. It wasn't a motel room; it was a homemade prison cell.

  I turned the light off, felt my way to a chair at the small beat-up desk near the bathroom, and took a seat. Then I settled back for what I imagined was going to be a long wait.

  *

  A good long while later there was a knock at the door, which made as much sense as a pig in a beauty salon. Eddie wouldn't knock on his own door and the sick bastard couldn't have a friend in the world, let alone Chicago, to come visiting. I quickly thought up a lie to explain my presence in case it was the motel management, put on a rock hard face in case it was anyone else, and yanked the door open. There stood a startled, at first, and then dejected looking Peaches. She was alone. I jerked her inside and shut the door.

  “Where's Love?” I barked, turning the light on.

  “I don't know. I haven't seen him.”

  “Then what are you doing here? We had a deal.”

  “I been there all night. He didn't show.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I walked.”

  I looked at my watch. The glowing dial said it was just nearing two am. “The bar isn't even closed. You didn't even stay until closing?”

  “I couldn't drink no more. I'da been drunk an' not able to bring him if he did show. What was I supposed to do? Stay there an' be bored?”

  “Heavens no,” I said. “I wouldn't want you to be bored.”

  “That's what I'm sayin',” she agreed. Sarcasm, apparently, was wasted on her. She moved into the room. “How come a straight guy like you knows this creep in the first place?”

  “I sent him to jail,” I told her reluctantly. “Ten years ago.” I didn't want to go into it then.

  “You lied. You're a cop!”

  That's why I didn't want to go into it. “Take it easy. I already told you, I'm not a cop. I was once; not anymore.”

  “But you still lookin' for this guy? Well, at least you ain't crazy. At first, I thought maybe you was one of his church brothers.”

  “He wasn't into religion when I knew him. He was just an ordinary wacko. He must have…” I stopped as, suddenly, an idea occurred. “He must have… found God… in prison.”

  “Wanna get it on?”

  “What?” I asked, my concentration completely broken.

  “Wanna get it on?” I looked over to see that Peaches had found the bed, was on it on her knees, and was peeling her shirt up. She was a streetwalker, and a drug addict, but she was still a woman. Her pert breasts, a lovely dark chocolate brown with erect purple nipples, were demanding attention. She pulled the top over her head. “I'd still like to earn that other hundred an' fifty. Besides, I'm bored as hell. Wanna pass the time?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Don't lose your heads, sisters and brothers. I said her breasts were demanding attention. I didn't say I gave them any. I didn't agree to pass the time either. I had something other than peaches on my mind, like stopping a murderer, and keeping myself out of the death house while I was at it. I told her in no uncertain terms to put her top back on.

  “What about my money,” Peaches whined. “You owe me a hundred an' fifty.”

  “You didn't follow directions. You quit the game early. You blew it. It's my money and you haven't earned the loot I already gave you. Don't push your luck.”

  I heard a car pull up. It seemed an appropriate moment to swear, and I did. I hit the light switch, throwing the room into darkness. Peaches squawked and I told her to shut up. I went to the window, parted the curtains, lifted the blinds, made a small hole in the black plastic, and peered out. It was a car, but it was on the other side of the lot. Two other poor slobs making arrangements to use each other, then rip each other off. Sing it, Satchmo.

  I checked my watch and frowned. “It's after 2:00,” I told Peaches. “He must have found a different rock to crawl under for the night. Go ahead. Go home.”

  Amazingly, she seemed disappointed. “You don't need me to set the little prick up? I thought you needed me to set the little prick up?”

  “I'm changing my plans.”

  “But I wanna earn…”

  “You've earned my appreciation. Take a lesson in the true value of things.”

  “My ass. I can't buy shit with your 'preciation.”

  Against my better judgment, I pushed a couple more twenties into her hand. “There's forty more that you did not earn; a down payment on the next time I need your help. And you're not going to forget it.” I took her by the elbow and lifted her from the bed. “Now, while the coast is clear and the getting is good; get. Go home.”

  “You goin' too?”

  “No. I'm waiting for Love.”

  “You waitin' for love but you throwin' pussy out the door?”

  Everybody was a comedian. I opened the door to shove Peaches out.

  “Can you give me a ride?”

  “No.”

  She grumbled but she went. I watched her disappear into the darkness beyond the streetlight at the corner of the motel parking lot.

  No sooner did I shut the door and lock it when another car pulled into the lot. The light was still out, so I was good to go. I moved to the window to take a peek – but never got there. The engine was turned off very near by, two doors opened and closed almost on top of me, and a gravelly male voice, slurred with drink and a western drawl, growled just outside the door. “Home, sweet home, dahrlin'.” The closet wouldn't hide me and I had no time to get to the bathroom. I flattened myself against the wall in the corner so the door would conceal me. A key turned in the lower lock. The door came open.

  Amber fingers of light reached in from the lot throwing the shadows of two figures across the floor. It was no surprise to me that the tallest of the two was wearing a Stetson. It had been years, but when Love said, “Step on into my pahr-ler, honey,” I recognized the same gutter twang that had threatened me in court as if his sentencing hearing were only yesterday. The girl giggled as he pushed her in. I was trapped, so I took the only jump on him I was going to get. I slammed the door behind them, snapped the switch, and said, “Eddie, long time no see.”

  The good news was I'd surprised the living hell out of him. Love and his rented street meat were caught like roaches; completely off-guard. The bad news was I wa
s as momentarily blinded by the light as he was. The hooker screamed.

  I ignored it, squinting as my eyes adjusted for a look. She kept screaming. My pupils caught up and I took the pair in. Love was absolutely everything I'd expected, no more and no less, from the hat down to the boots. But the girl; you could have knocked me down with a feather. It was Connie. Not Charisma, not Fidel, or any other name out of a borrowed library book. Just plain ol' Connie, twenty-six going on sixty, unhinged, shaking like a freezing Chihuahua and Jonesing like a fiend for a fix. Excuse my horrendous language but my only thought was, What the fuck was she doing with this murdering piece of shit?

  I forgot myself for a second. No more than that, just a second. But with Love in the room it was a second too long. He shoved Connie hard at me. I caught her and, stumbling, went over backwards with her on top of me. Lucky me, I hit my head on the wall. Worse, in the time it took us to fall, Eddie opened the door and bolted.

  Connie was still screaming as I fought my way to my feet. “Shut up!” I yelled. I don't know when I've ever been so angry. I started out the door, turned back and, from just outside, shouted, “Get out of here, Connie.”

  She was still in a ball on the floor, crying, “Help me, Blake!”

  In over two years of trying I'd made no dent in fixing any of Connie's problems. For all I knew, I'd made them worse by telling myself I was feeding her while all the time knowing I was just feeding her habit. I sure as hell didn't have time to do anything about any of it then. All I could do was repeat the frantic order. “Get out of here, Connie. Get the hell out of here.” With my square head once more throbbing, I ran into the lot, then into the dark, after Eddie Love.