“Thanks. And Izzy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m awfully sorry to hear about all this. She was a really nice girl, troubled as she was. She deserved better.”
“Yes,” he said. “She did.”
“Just don’t get yourself into any trouble, okay?”
“No trouble,” Izzy said. “Just satisfying a little curiosity is all.”
The text came through some twenty minutes later, when Izzy was on his second cup. The squat was on Rosewood, between 11th and 12th Streets—about ten blocks north of where Cynthia’s body was found in East Austin.
He typed back a quick thanks with his index finger and opened up a map on his phone. He considered Sandy’s admonition to avoid trouble, then hurried to change out of his scrubs.
Seven
The squat was situated between a tattoo parlor and a soul food restaurant on a block of decrepit houses with overgrown yards and signs denoting sale or foreclosure. Though Sandy Chen hadn’t been able to provide the exact street address, it turned out Izzy didn’t need it. The two-story split-level second to the last on the west side of the block bore a hand-painted sign on the porch that read, LOST 40 HOUSE—NOT FOR SALE.
He didn’t know what Lost 40 meant, but he was sure he’d found the place. Izzy locked his car, pocketed his keys, and navigated the waist-high weeds in front until he emerged at the front door.
The porch was littered with soda bottles and the occasional beer can. Cracked and broken flower pots were stationed at every corner, all of them overflowing with cigarette butts. A thin, scraggly cat briefly regarded Izzy from its perch on the railing, then went back to sleep. Izzy rolled his shoulders, sighed, and knocked on the door.
From inside he heard muffled voices and rapid, staccato music. Someone laughed until it turned into a coughing fit. The windows were too dirty to see through, but he wasn’t convinced anyone was coming to answer the door.
He knocked again, but didn’t wait as long. After a minute, he tried the doorknob. It was unlocked.
Izzy cautiously walked inside.
At first blush, the place looked like it might fall down around his ears at any moment. The paint on the walls was chipped and cracked, the plaster in the ceiling and moldings crumbling like feta cheese. Carpet and tiles had been ripped up exposing bare cement and decimated hardwood. The bannister running along the stairwell in what served as the foyer was leaning precariously toward the ground. He stood there motionless for several moments, taking it all in, when a toddler in diapers went scampering by his legs, startling him.
“Chase!” a girl squealed, rounding the corner after the boy. Izzy couldn’t tell if that was the child’s name, or the game they were playing.
The girl, a pale redhead with her hair in braids and a thin, overwashed tank top that barely maintained her modesty, came to a halt at sight of Izzy. She said, “Oh.”
The boy giggled in the next room.
“You better talk to Mike,” she said.
“Why Mike?” Izzy asked.
“You a cop, or from the city?”
“Neither. I’m—well, it’s hard to explain.”
“You better explain it to Mike,” she said.
Izzy shrugged and said, “Okay. Let’s go talk to Mike.”
She went past him, into the next room behind the stairs, where she scooped up the toddler into her arms. The boy babbled and the girl kissed him on the nose. She looked about sixteen to Izzy, and he presumed she was the mother.
“Most everybody’s out,” she said. “But Mike’s upstairs.”
She pointed up the steps. Izzy frowned at them, harboring doubts about their structural integrity. The girl went up first, and he followed behind.
“This will all be knocked down this time next year,” she said. “Can’t stop that. We’re just here ‘til that happens. But he’ll tell you all that.”
“Mike’s what? The leader here?”
At the top, he narrowed his eyes in the dark. The house didn’t appear to have any electricity, and the hallway on the second story had no windows—only doors, all but the one at the far end shut.
“We’re a community,” the girl said. “No leaders here.”
It sounded rehearsed to Izzy. A mantra she was accustomed to repeating without thinking about it. He let it go and followed her to the end of the hall to the open door.
The room was a master bedroom, though it had not been masterful for a long time. Inside were four bare twin mattresses arranged on the floor, which were flanked by a trio of large bean bag chairs. The curtains were drawn, the room well-lit. Three people, two girls and boy, were curled up on the mattresses all in a heap. They all looked about the same age as the red haired girl who led him there. In the middle bean bag slouched a reedy man who looked about thirty or so, his chestnut brown hair to his shoulders and beard well kempt. He was reading a library book.
The man wore a sleeveless denim jacket with no shirt underneath and black running shorts. He glanced up from the book, his expression indifferent, when the girl came into the room. Izzy hung back in the hall, peering in.
“What’s this, Mags?” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Cop?”
“He says he’s not,” she said.
“You a cop, man? Hey, come in here. It’s cool.”
“No,” Izzy said, sidling up beside the girl. “Actually, I’m a nurse.”
“No sick people here,” the man said. “Most of us are vegans. Healthy as horses.”
“Horses get sick,” Izzy said.
The man laughed. “Yeah, okay. I guess they do. What can I do for you, Mr. Nurse?”
“You’re Mike, I take it?”
He grinned and bounced up to his feet with no effort.
“I am.”
Mike extended his hand, which Izzy accepted.
“Mike,” Izzy said, “a good friend of mine passed away yesterday, and I think she may have been staying here or somewhere like it. I was hoping maybe you could help me out.”
“Sorry to hear about your friend, brother. What’s your name?”
“Izzy.”
Mike nodded appreciatively. “Cool name,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“Who was your friend?”
“A girl named Cynthia Ramos. Before she died she said she’d been staying someplace with a lot of roommates who kind of rotated a lot. I thought, you know…”
“That she was a squatter, sure.”
“Yes.”
“Could be, could be,” Mike said, stroking his beard. “Fact is, I don’t know every single person ever comes round here. Not personal like, you dig.”
“Okay.”
“I mean, shit—that chick there? Right there, with the—the thing on her neck?”
He pointed a wagging finger at the pile of people on the mattresses. Reluctantly, Izzy turned to look and noticed one of the two girls had a tattoo behind her ear. A green and black vine, snaking its way down to her shoulder.
“I have no idea who that is,” Mike said, grinning. “Because it doesn’t matter, understand? She’s welcome.”
“That’s real nice,” Izzy said.
“Not such a nice world a lot of the time,” Mike said, pontificating. “Austin’s great—I mean it’s fucking great, you know? But it’s changed a lot, too. And even here people get flushed like turds, and no one cares, man. No one.”
“Except you.”
“Well, yeah. I’m not Jesus or anything, but I’ll give you a place to crash, and you won’t owe me nothing. There’s ways to help out, stuff always needs doing. Up to you. Either way, it’s like I said. Everybody is welcome.”
“I’d sure like to know if Cynthia was.”
“If she came through here, she was welcome. Nobody here would hassle her or turn her away unless she was starting some kind of trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Depends,” Mike said. “I don’t cramp anybody’s style. I don’t want the APD coming in here in full riot gear either, though.”
“It’s not a hideout, for one thing. I wouldn’t ever narc on a guy, but if I find out some dude is hiding out and the cops are looking for him? I’ll encourage him to move on.”
“How about drugs?” Izzy asked.
Mike smiled broad, showing a white set of teeth missing a bicuspid.
“You sure you’re not a cop?” he said.
Izzy watched him, waiting.
“Look,” Mike said, “folks smoke grass, right? Somebody’s got a scrip for this or that, I’m not a fucking doctor, brother. That’s not my business. Shit happens. I figure keep it on the downlow, everything’s chill.”
“Is heroin chill, Mike?”
“Heroin? What’s that all about, Izzy? Come on, man.”
“Just a question.”
“I don’t shoot junk. I don’t know anybody here does.”
“Not a place someone might find that, might be coerced to try it for the first time? Something like that?”
“Hey, whoa,” Mike said. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Mags looked bored, having slumped into one of the bean bags. Her eyelids were sagging and the kid in her arms was fussing. “This is getting real, like, accusatory here. I already told you that’s not the scene, man. That’s not how it is. I told you I didn’t know your friend, either.”
“Maybe somebody else here did.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Who might?”
Mike sighed, and turned to the girl.
“Mags?” he said. “You know—what’s the name?”
“Cynthia Ramos,” Izzy said.
Mike repeated it, and Mags shook her head.
“Nope,” Mike said. Izzy frowned.
“How many people stay here at a time?” he asked.
“Anywhere ‘tween ten and thirty. About fifteen, twenty now. Changes all the time, man.”
“Well, listen,” Izzy said, digging out his wallet. “If anybody knew her, could you please give me a call? I’m just trying to do right by a friend, that’s all.”
He extracted a dog-eared hospital business card and passed it to Mike, who inspected it suspiciously.
“Not a lot of male nurses,” he said, “are there?”
“Haven’t counted lately. Call, day or night. My cell’s on there.”
“Sure, man,” Mike said, “Sure.” He waved the card and turned to crawl back into his perch on the floor. Mags had fallen asleep, despite the toddler’s squirming. Mike kissed the kid on the head. Izzy walked out of the room.
In the hall he could hear people talking, having sex, rustling about. The music still thumped along, though he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. All the doors were still closed. He went back down the steps, thinking about the little boy in an environment like this. About not being able to save everybody, and feeling like he couldn’t save anybody. Downstairs, he reached the foyer as a bald guy with bullring in his nose emerged from the kitchen. The guy smiled, said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Izzy said.
“You new? I’m Deacon.”
“Just dropping by, Deacon,” Izzy said, opening the door. He paused in the doorway, then looked back and said, “I don’t suppose you know Cynthia Ramos, do you, Deacon?”
“Sure,” he said. “She coming back?”
The soul food place was small and homey, more like a private kitchen than a restaurant. The woman who ran it made everything from scratch and said “God bless you” as often as she could fit it into conversation. The walls were ornamented with biblical quotations, crosses, and portraits of Jesus.
Izzy ordered the pork chop and, after convincing Deacon he didn’t mind buying him lunch, Deacon ordered a shrimp po’ boy. The proprietress said, “God bless you” and got to work.
“Mike’s a bit eccentric,” Deacon said by way of apology. “Harmless, just kinda full of himself.”
“What about all those mattresses on the floor?” Izzy wanted to know. “Mike got himself a little harem?”
Deacon nervously laughed.
“Yeah, well,” he demurred. “I guess it’s kind of a free love atmosphere in there.”
“Manson had that approach, too.”
“I haven’t heard anybody talk about starting a killing spree yet. If I did, I’d be long gone, I can tell you that.”
“What about Cynthia?”
“Haven’t seen her in a couple days,” Deacon said, his tone mildly sad, disappointed. “Like her a lot. I mean, not like—well, like a little sister, or whatever. She’s a good chick. I’ll miss her if she doesn’t come back.”
Izzy said, “She’s not coming back, Deacon.”
Deacon raised his eyebrows, waiting. Izzy drew in a deep breath.
“She’s dead,” he said. “Police found her about ten blocks south of here yesterday morning.”
“Oh my god. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“She was my friend, and I work with the Forensic Nurse Death Investigator for the county. I found out when they brought her into the morgue.”
“Oh, no,” Deacon said, and his face seized up as tears ran down his cheeks. Izzy yanked a napkin from the metal dispenser on the table and gave it to him. Deacon turned away and blew his nose, bending over and shaking his head.
Izzy’s eyes moistened in sympathy, but he focused on maintaining his rigidity for the time being.
“Deacon,” he said evenly, “I work with law enforcement, but I’m not police or anything like that. I’m a registered nurse, and that’s all. I just want to know what happened to Cynthia, how she got in this position. Do you understand that?”
Deacon nodded, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and his nose ring on the napkin.
“Would you tell me if you guys were into drugs at all? Any kind, whatever.”
“Uh,” Deacon said, shooting a quick glance at Izzy.
Izzy said, “Could be important.”
“We smoked pot. Did X at a party once. That’s it.”
“What kind of party?”
“Sort of this trance thing,” Deacon said. “Not really my scene, but it was all right, you know? DJ and all the lights and shit. It was kinda fun.”
“When was that?”
“I dunno. Six, seven months ago?”
“Were you at the party with her night before last?”
“What party? I was at the house last few nights. Haven’t gone nowhere.”
“This was Friday night,” Izzy reminded him.
“I know,” Deacon said. “I was at the house. I didn’t know where Cynthia went. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen her since Thursday morning.”
Right before Izzy had lunch with her. Now he was having a different lunch, talking about her death with a kid who looked like an extra in a Mad Max movie. He ground his molars.
“Was she working?” he asked.
“Dunno,” Deacon said. “I don’t think so. Folks like us aren’t all that employable, you know?”
The kitchen door squealed open then and the lady came marching out with steaming plates in each hand.
“Grub’s on,” she announced, “and praise be to Jesus.”
Izzy smiled and thanked her. She and Deacon exchanged guarded looks, and she went back into her kitchen.
Poking at the chop with his fork, Izzy considered how much he should say and what he should keep up his sleeve. For all he knew, he was dining with Cynthia’s murderer, or someone who contributed to her death in some way. He wondered what Alana Forbes would do in his place. Not fuck this up, was the answer he gave himself.
“I really ‘preciate this,” Deacon said with a mouthful of his sandwich. “I don’t really eat all that regular.”
Izzy smiled, and he looked down at Deacon’s arms. His sleeves were almost to his wrists, covering the usual areas a junkie would shoot. There was an infinity symbol tattooed on his right wrist.
“What’s the tattoo mean?”
“Oh, that? Well, there’s a girl somewhere out there with one just like it on her left wrist, p
roving it wrong.”
“I see,” Izzy said. “Love can be a brutal son of a bitch, huh?”
“You can say that again. I just try to focus on my own shit now, you know what I mean?”
“So no interest in Cynthia that way.”
“No,” Deacon said, blushing a little. “I mean, she’s a—well. She was a really pretty girl, and I liked her a lot.”
“So what’s wrong with that?”
“Another guy, for one thing.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
Deacon took another bite, this time taking his time chewing while he regarded Izzy, who could tell the guy was trying to determine how much to say, himself.
“Y’know,” Deacon said at some length, “I don’t think she ever told me his name.”
“That right.”
“I mean, she wasn’t all gaga over the dude or whatever. Just somebody she was seeing. So I backed off that.”
“Gallant.”
“Hey, we lived in the same house, me and her. I don’t shit where I eat.”
“What about all that free love?
“Not my thing.”
“Her thing?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Deacon said.
“All right,” Izzy said, dropping it. He started in on his lunch in earnest, and let the conversation drift for a bit. Deacon told him about the neo-punk band he was drumming for, and Izzy feigned interest. Finally, when they both finished and the proprietress brought them the check, he paid up and said to Deacon, “Any other ink beside the thing on your wrist?”
“Oh, sure,” Deacon said, grinning. He whipped his shirt off, revealing a white tank top underneath and copious tattooing up both arms to the shoulders. There were flames and skulls, a crucified Jesus and an ace of hearts. But there were no track marks on either arm.
“Very nice,” Izzy said.
“Place just up the street from us,” Deacon said. “They do real good work.”
They walked together back to the squat, the sun high and hot, where Izzy shook his hand and thanked him for his time.
“One other thing,” Izzy said. “What’s it mean—lost forty?”
He pointed at the sign on the porch.
“At one point Mike says he had forty people squatting in here,” Deacon said. “Kids, mostly. Runaways, or thrown out by their folks. All kinds of reasons. Nowhere to go but here. Lost, right?”
The Irish Goodbye (Izzy Bishop Book 1) Page 4