by Fred Zackel
I asked if he had her address.
The woman without a chin stepped from the shadows and shouldered her way past the barkeep. He hadn't noticed her, and he almost jumped through his skin. "What do you want her for?" she asked. She had a voice like a cat being sandpapered.
"I want to see what she's been up to."
"You wouldn't be her boyfriend, by any chance?"
"I didn't know she had one."
"She sure does. He calls here every day about her."
"If he's got her," I asked, "what's he calling for?"
The barkeep told her she talked too much. She gave him a go-away look, and he buttoned his lip and went to wash ashtrays. It must have been an old story between them.
"Maybe you are him." She tried being sly. "Maybe she don't like you no more. How do you know her, anyway?"
"I knew her back in college."
"You knew Dani in college?"
"I think we're talking about the same girl." I pulled out my wallet and showed her the print Joey Crawford had sent me through the mails.
Her face soured like green apples. "That's her," she regretted admitting. She still couldn't believe it. "She went to college?"
"Yeah. Mills. Over in Oakland."
"That school's for rich girls."
"Her family's loaded."
"Then what was she doing here?"
I shrugged. "Maybe she needed the money."
"What makes you say that?" Her face said she trusted only money and that she'd never seen enough.
"Everybody needs money." I gave her a grin. "Maybe she was slumming." I hadn't liked her when I met her, and she hadn't improved with age over the last couple of minutes.
But she wasn't listening, dammit. She was lost in thought, digesting the news. I figured she was planning some way to get Dani's family to donate to her pension. I didn't wish her any luck.
The woman wanted to talk. "Every time she got a check from us, she made us go over the books again. Just so what we took out for Uncle Sam matched what the books said."
"So what?" I wouldn't trust this shrew, either.
"What'd'ja mean, so what?"
"Uncle Sam's got big teeth," I told her. "When he bites, you feel it. Nobody wants to give him more than a mouthful."
"It was more than that." She cleared her throat. It sounded like the bile had backed up and wanted out. "We paid them union scale, and we never did that for no other band that played here."
"They belonged to the union," I suggested.
"No, they didn't," she said.
I held up a hand. "So they got paid what they should have, and they didn't have to pay union dues. There's no right-to-work laws in California. None that I know of, anyway."
"They had a contract here for a full year."
Now that was unusual. The Bay Area had more bands per acre than places for them to play. And Dani's band had been here for a year under contract. Yet she sang average-to-lousy, and the band couldn't have been much better. It didn't make sense. "How did they get that?"
"You ever seen a b-girl wheedling drinks at the front bar for the customers?" She had picked up a set of keys somewhere, and she rattled them impatiently against the varnish. "She did that to the boss, and that's what got her that contract."
I wanted out from her green apple ways. "You got her address?"
She made up her mind. "It'll cost you five hundred bucks," she told me. "That's what she owes the lounge here. She don't show up for a full month, then comes in saying she couldn't make it because there's this guy following her. She gets her check, then bums five hundred bucks off my old man. Maybe you're the guy that's following her. Well, that's what it's gonna cost you for that address."
The keep had wandered back. He caught the last exchange. He snuffed his cigarette out in an abalone shell ashtray. "She was broke." His eyes flickered between us. "That's why she borrowed the dough."
She ignored him. "You ask me, she's a masochist. She likes men who beat her up, put bruises on her face and hands. Now, what kind of man is that?" She was staring at me.
"She fell down a flight of stairs," he told us.
"That's what you say," she said.
He looked like he was choking on cigarette smoke.
"She's a real hungry woman," she told me. "She's just about a stomach when it comes to men." She didn't like the sound of it, even. "A stomach."
"That's not true, Merle." His voice was softer than velvet. "The poor kid's close to nervous exhaustion already, without you always picking on her."
She waved a thumb his way. "My old man is a sucker for blue eyes," she sneered. "Maybe I should get contact lenses. Maybe he'd give me five hundred bucks once in a while."
He bowed his head against her voice, like a man with an umbrella before the rain. "Lay off her, will you?" He rubbed his forehead. His knuckles were bulging. He looked like he wanted to erase the sight of her.
"Five hundred bucks," she hissed.
"I'll get it back," he snapped.
She hadn't forgotten me. "All those hippie chicks in Sausalito, they're all the same," she went on. "So long as they ain't pregnant, so long as their old man ain't around, they're on their backs, got their legs in the air, stepping on ceilings."
"You're ruining her reputation," he argued.
"What reputation? Only difference between her and a prostitute is prostitutes got sore feet from walking around all night. All she ever did was stand in that corner there, flashing those blue eyes at any man dumb enough to sit up close."
He was mad enough to tremble. "That's enough, Merle."
"What's enough?" she sneered. "I seen her doing it. Maybe you was too busy tending bar, but I seen her. I seen what she done."
He was disgusted. "You got a big mouth."
"They went outside," she told us. "Only they went out separately, so nobody'd notice them. Out there in the parking lot, steaming up the windshield. One of them vans painted up like a French whorehouse."
"Why don't you shut your goddam mouth?"
"Who says it was free love? You saying it, old man? What did you know about her?" Her key ring rattled loudly, violently, out of synch with her ramblings, and she had to raise her voice to overcome their clatter. "Maybe free love ain't so free. Maybe she gave nothing away for free."
His face was glowing. "I told you to be quiet!"
"Maybe she don't owe five hundred bucks," she said. "Maybe she paid it back in trade already."
He grabbed her by the forearm and shook her violently. Her keys rattled like a cable car climbing uphill.
"You lemme go, you bastard!"
He gripped her tightly and stared into her face. She tried biting him to get away, but he shook her like a hound shaking fleas. Then, without releasing her, he shoved her into the back room. The door closed behind them.
There were loud voices. Then, nothing.
The barkeep came back alone. There was more sadness than anger behind his furrowed brows. This had been another in a series of pyrrhic victories.
He saw me and went the other way and started uncrating some cases of imported beer. He looked up at the drunk. "What's wrong with the jukebox?"
The drunk focused. "Nothing's wrong with the jukebox." His eyes were quiet and lifeless. His words slithered out like an old whore from between the sheets.
"That song keeps playing and playing."
"I played it five times," the drunk moaned.
The keep asked him where he was from.
"Back East. Detroit. Murder City, USA."
The keep nodded, as all barkeeps do in the twilight hours. "I was afraid the box was broken." He counted the row of shot glasses. "It costs a lot to fix them."
"Nope. Just me. Just the way I feel."
I got up and went across from the keep.
"You need another beer?" He didn't want me around.
I asked him for the Chinese drummer's address. He wrote it down on a cocktail napkin and gave it to me. It was off Clement Street in the Sunset District of the city.
&
nbsp; "She ain't living with the Chinaman."
I turned back. "You know who she's living with?"
"The guy that plays the rhythm guitar."
"You got his address?"
"Yeah." He used another napkin.
"It's a houseboat," he told me. "Over in Sausalito."
I tucked the paper away. I think I thanked him.
"When you see her..." But his hope had fallen with his face. "Forget it. It wasn't important."
"I'll tell her you said hello."
"That's good. Tell her I said hello." He thought of something else. "You want I should say you were here?"
I said it was up to him.
I left the lounge and found the on-ramp. I was a mile down the Bayshore Freeway a couple minutes later, fighting the last round of rush hour. Traffic moved at its normal speed, but the rain made a difference. Not exactly bumper-to-bumper, but the holes were few and far between. Changing lanes was impossible. I turned the radio louder to drown out the wipers on the windshield. The radio played a song about moving to Mexico. I was trapped in the slow lane on the freeway.
Chapter 11
There was a bedroom light onboard Dani's houseboat. I went down the gangplank. The tide was in, and the boat lolled at the end of its lines. A rubber hose extended from a porthole. A steady stream of water came from the hose into the bay. And a shadow flittered across the frosted bathroom glass.
I gripped a railing and pulled on the aft lines until the houseboat slipped near enough so that its tire fender rubbed against the slip. I slipped aboard without a sound. The craft drifted back to the end of its lines. Small waves played patty cake on the hull.
I went to the front door. The hinge screws were out, but the deadbolt had been slipped. Someone didn't want to be disturbed. Not that a burglary on New Year's Eve in an uninhabited dwelling was likely to be discovered.
I still had to get inside. Maybe through the skylight.
The roof was an easy climb. The latch to the skylight was clasped inside by a clothespin. I jiggled the skylight with my fingers, and the clothespin fell to the living room carpet. The latch lifted easily, and it was a short drop down.
The living room looked like Moving Day. The stereo system sat on the floor by the door, alongside the melon crate of albums and the portable TV. The cable spool and the hatchcover table were beside them. Most plants and ferns had been taken down from the rafters, but a few still swayed like pendulums on their macramé ropes. The paperbacks were stacked in boxes, and the rug was rolled tight as a joint. The bamboo shutters were still up. They'd be the last to leave.
The night visitor was busy in the bathroom. From his heavy breathing, he was a hard worker. He sounded like an asthmatic after a mile race.
I peeked inside the bathroom. A bulkhead had been removed, and a man had his head in the bilges. His upper torso and both arms were wedged in the gap. The man in the bilges wore brine-soaked tennis shoes.
The bathroom was a mess. The floor was soggy with bilge water and its disgusting inhabitants. The brass towel racks were gone, and even the fuck books and the Penthouse magazines sat in a small pile by the bedroom door. A rubber hose snaked from the bedroom to the porthole, and I could hear running water. I had a hunch the waterbed was being drained.
I went and stood behind Alex Symons. He suddenly grunted success. His hand snaked up from the bulkhead and dropped a discolored plastic baggie in a water puddle. The baggie was water-tightened and filled with flowers, leaves, sticks, stems and seeds.
Joey's private stash. Maybe a pound's worth. Its absence had bothered me this morning, though I hadn't known it at the time. I'd been searching for contraband when I came up with cigarette papers.
Joey had been dealing. The CHP found none on him, which meant he'd just finished selling some wares. He had to have more. At least his own stash, if not some for future customers. Even if it were only weed, it had to be hidden somewhere.
Alex began to edge his body from the hole.
I kicked a foot out from under him. He went sideways, and his other leg went off-balance. Cursing and swearing, he caught himself and tried boosting himself up. He wanted to know who the hell I was.
"I just came back from the Arroyo Grande."
I kicked his other leg out, he went the other way, and his feet churned crazily. His other reflexes worked fine. Bitching and yelling, pissing and moaning. His free hand waved the air behind him, and he tried to stand, to back out of the hole.
"You didn't say you were a musician, too."
I grabbed his heels and shoved. He went deeper into the bilges. He tried kicking me as he fell forward, but his heels swung through empty air, and he only went deeper.
"A little sneak thief, that's what you are."
I grabbed an ankle and tried stuffing him in sideways. I knew it wouldn't work, but it kept him off-balance. I think his hair touched bilge water then, for he let loose a shriek the devil wouldn't touch, and his one free arm and both legs thrashed like pinwheels.
"Does your little actress friend know you're a scavenger?"
He tried to shout, but it came out muffled.
I pulled him back by the belt. "I can't hear you."
"He's dead! He don't need it!"
"Dani might need it," I said.
"Fuck her!"
"It's not nice talking like that about a lady."
"Lemme outta here!"
"I thought you liked her."
"I hate her! Lemme up!"
I dunked and hauled him out a couple of more times, then took pity on the mired man and grabbed both ankles and pulled him out. He came free looking like hell. He dripped greenish salt water and small sea critters. His shirt, neck and shoulders were coated in green slime, and across his face were dirt marks where he had rubbed against the inside of the bilges.
As his feet touched ground, he tried spinning on me. I stepped aside and kicked a leg out from under him. He fell flat on his face in a puddle. When he tried getting to his knees, I planted a foot on his butt and pushed. He lurched forward, smacking his head against the bathtub. I pressed my foot on the back of his neck. He resisted, so I pressed harder.
"You hated her?"
"Yes! Yes! I swear it!"
"Yet you shared your boat with her. That makes you out a liar."
"I'm not lying! I hate her!"
"Yeah. Sure. And cops are allergic to coffee."
His hand snaked around and tried to pull my other leg. I shoved down at him, then took my foot from his neck and stomped on his hand. He shrieked until the devil wouldn't have him. My foot was already back on his neck.
"She's been staying with you, hasn't she?"
"Oh God no!"
"Her mail wasn't at the houseboat."
"Hnnn." He gasped for air. "So what?"
"Somebody had to be saving it for her, or collecting it, or forwarding it to her. If it had been Joey, he would've known where to find her. So it figures she was getting it from the mailbox, sometime between the time the postman came and Joey went out for it."
"Maybe she came by herself..."
"Maybe. But it had to be checked every day, and how would she know she'd be in the neighborhood every day, unless she were living here on the houseboats. Right under Joey's nose."
"That doesn't mean she's been living with me."
"It points a finger in your direction."
"She could be living with anybody out here."
"But she knew you. You saved her life, remember? And how could a girl like that forget a guy like you?"
"Where do you figure in all this?"
"The first time you met her, you were screwing her."
"That's a lie!"
I pressed harder on his neck. I heard a small bone crack like a knuckle. He moaned. I eased up the pressure. "In my book, you're the liar," I said.
"I didn't fuck her until the party!"
I had him. "When you saved her life. Sure."
"I did, man, I did."
"Sure, you did." I lifted
my foot a few inches, then slammed it down again. His head jerked like a puppet called to task. His teeth jarred the linoleum. "Where is she now?" I demanded.
"I dunno! I swear it!"
"Okay. How long was she here?"
"A month. She left Christmas Day."
"Where did she go?"
"I don't know. I swear I don't."
"You haven't seen her since?"
"I'll kill her if I see her."
Interesting. "All right. You can get up now."
I removed my foot and stepped back. He lay for a moment without moving. Then, gingerly, he pressed his fingertips against the floor and started to do a push-up. He managed to get to one knee, then the muscles in his back tightened.
He was going to try me again.
As he started to make his move, I kicked his butt, and once again he flew into the bathtub. His head made a bell-like sound against the porcelain. His lungs collapsed with the impact, and he whooshed out air like a bellows.
"Move slower," I said. "I get nervous easily."
His back to me, he slowly got to his feet. I sensed, rather than saw, his shoulder blade tensing again. He wanted to about-face me.
I slammed him hard while he was still off-balance. He clutched at the shower curtain as he fell against the rim of the tub. His feet flew out and he flew forward, tearing the curtains from their rings. They fell with him into the bathtub.
I picked up the plunger and held it like a club. "I told you to be cool." Then I dropped the toilet lid and sat on it. "This time you stay down. And no more lies, right?"
He fingered his lips. They weren't bleeding. That seemed to surprise him. He looked up, nodded his assent. There'd be no more lies. At least not tonight.
"When was the first time you met Dani?"
"Right when they moved in. I bought her a drink. I told you about that. But I didn't score. She's a pricktease. She'll sweet talk you, then tell you she's got an old man."
"She wanted to stay with Joey?"
"Yeah. And she gave me a rain check."
"A rain check? For what?"
"There's no such thing as forever, is there? People are always leaving their lovers. Maybe she'd leave Joey, and then maybe I could use my rain check."
"And you fell for that?"
"Yeah. I fell for that."