I parked in front of the Mountain Man Saloon.
Barely. The lot was jammed with bikes, pickups, and four-wheel drives. There weren’t any Jaguars. There was only one old Olds.
I went in.
The place was loud and crowded and the band wouldn’t start for another three hours. Bikers were clumped in knots throughout the crowd. I didn’t see anyone I knew.
I pushed up to the bar. There were two bartenders. One of them was Al.
“What’ll it be?” he asked. Then he remembered me. “How ya doing?”
I told him okay. He gave me a beer on the house. We were pals. I nodded toward the other end of the bar.
“Is that your night man?”
“Right. You want to talk to him?”
“He looks pretty busy.”
“He’ll get busier. Hey, Vinnie!”
Vinnie came over. He was short and stocky, with a perpetual smile. He had a baby face, curly hair, and weight lifter’s arms. If I wanted any phone book ripped in half, he’d be the man for the job. He raised his eyebrows to ask me what I wanted.
I got out Townsend’s photo and put it on the bar.
“Recognize him?”
“Sure,” Vinnie said without hesitation. “He’s the guy that drove off the mountain.”
I frowned. Vinnie smiled.
“Al told me about you,” he said. “I been thinking about it since yesterday. The picture in the paper wasn’t so good as this.” He tapped the photo. “This is the guy.”
“He was in here the night he died?”
“Yep. Sat right there.” He raised his chin toward the end stool, currently occupied by a chunky young woman in a dirty yellow blouse.
“You’re sure it was him?”
“No question. We don’t get many suits in here. Hardly none at all. Not many wine drinkers, neither. He drank wine. White. I remember because I had to open a new jug for him. Came in after I came on. Maybe six. Sat there for four or five glasses. Then he was gone. Left a big tip. Not many big tippers in here, neither.”
“Did he leave with anybody?”
Vinnie shrugged and smiled.
“Can’t say. Didn’t see him leave.”
“How long was he here?”
“Can’t say for sure. Four or five glasses of wine. Hour or two.”
“Did he talk to anybody?”
“Can’t say.”
Vinnie looked around. Al was working his butt off. Vinnie smiled at me.
“Got to get back. Stick around, though, the band’s pretty good.”
I didn’t stick around.
CHAPTER 9
THE NEXT MORNING I got up early and put on faded red shorts, beat-up blue Brooks running shoes, and a gray T-shirt. The shirt had been a gift for contributing to a public TV station. It had a picture of a chess knight over the words “Have Gun—Will Travel.” Me and Paladin. You bet.
I went down the stairs and out the back door.
Mrs. Finch, my old landlady, was telling George exactly how to prune her rosebushes. George lived in the basement and kept the grand old house from falling apart. He was a few years older than Pike’s Peak. He saw me and waved. Mrs. Finch tugged at his sleeve and continued her harangue. She made nervous little movements like a bird. Or a bat.
I chugged out the back gate and down the alley.
Alleys are more interesting to jog through than streets. From the street you see facades. Mown lawns, swept sidewalks, neutral faces. Everyone acts like someone important is watching. But in back they don’t care. They let down their hair and litter their yards with dear junk. They hang out their laundry for all to see.
Few care to look, however. Right now it was just me and an old Vietnamese woman with a plastic trash bag full of aluminum cans. She eyed me suspiciously as I went past.
I crossed over Cherry Creek and Speer Boulevard and took Marion Parkway to the park.
It was summer and Saturday and the park was packed. People walking, running, and pedaling. Jocks played volleyball. Hippies tossed Frisbees. Bikers drank wine from sack-wrapped bottles. The truly hungry ringed the lakes and fished for carp.
I managed the two-mile obstacle course of humanity without knocking anybody over, left the park, and jogged home.
At two I went to Ship Tavern. Alex Dunne was my last lead.
Henry was at his podium scribbling with a gold-filled pen.
“Mr. Lomax,” he said.
“You have a good memory, Henry.”
“I remember what is important. I considered Phillip Townsend a friend. If you’re helping Mrs. Townsend, then I will help you. Please.”
He held out his arm for me to follow. The bartender straightened up when he saw us coming.
“Alex, this is Mr. Lomax. He would like to ask you some questions. Please be of assistance.”
A command, not a request. Henry nodded at me, and returned to the front. I sat on a stool. Except for one table with a group left over from lunch, the place was empty.
“You want a drink?” Alex Dunne asked.
There was wise guy in his voice. His face was red, his nose was long, and his eyes were close-set. He looked like a rat with a sunburn.
“No,” I said. “Just information. About Phillip Townsend. Henry tells me he was a regular here.”
“So?”
“So, I hear you two were pretty chummy.”
“What are you, a cop?” He aimed one eye at me.
“Private.”
He crossed his arms. “That don’t mean much.”
“If you’d rather talk to the real cops, Alex, that can be arranged.”
“Hey, wait a minute.”
“It’s an insurance matter, “I lied. “We’d like to keep the police out of it, if at all possible. Understand?”
“Sure.”
He didn’t, but he wasn’t one to admit ignorance.
“So tell me about Townsend.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What kind of guy was he?”
“I don’t know. About average.”
“Henry says he used to sit here, sometimes for hours.”
“Sometimes, I guess, yeah.”
“You two must have had some interesting conversations.”
Alex frowned at me, then looked over my shoulder. A guy walked by and went behind the bar. He was black and big, maybe two-fifty, with the height to carry it well. His shirt, pants, and shoes were white. He had a scar under his left eye and a tray full of glasses.
“Hey, Alex.”
“Hey, Boog.”
Boog set the tray behind the bar. He looked me over with sleepy-sly yellow eyes. He went back to the kitchen. Alex Dunne was standing taller. I guess he’d drawn strength from Boog’s brief visit.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What did you and Townsend talk about?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Maybe the cops can explain it to you.”
“Okay, okay. Townsend talked about a lot of things. You know, sports, politics, family. Like that.”
“What about his family?”
Alex Dunne shrugged.
“Good or bad?” I said.
“Not so good. His wife didn’t understand him, his daughter didn’t respect him. Like that. He wasn’t getting …”
“Wasn’t getting what?”
“Let’s just say maybe he told me his wife was frigid.”
“Was he seeing another woman?”
Alex Dunne set his jaw, what little of it there was.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” he said.
“Would fifty bucks help your memory?”
“There’s nothing to remember. Look, I’ve got work to do.”
He moved a few steps away and started polishing a clean ashtray. I stood.
“We’ll talk later, Alex. This is too important to drop.”
On the way out I asked Henry what time Alex Dunne got off work. Eight. I went into the hotel lobby feeling like the B
ully waiting to beat up the Wimp after school. I used a pay phone to call a friend of mine at Motor Vehicles.
“Monroe. Jake Lomax.”
“Jacob, my man. What it is.”
“I need you to run down any vehicles registered to an Alex or Alexander Dunne. Two n’s and an e. Can you do it now?”
“Already doin’ it.”
I pictured his brown fingers and shiny pink nails flying over the keys of his computer console. He had the quick, confident hands of a pickpocket. Which, in fact, he’d been. He’d favored parades, crowded singles bars, and Broncos games. He was good. And sure of himself. Right up until the Sunday he’d been caught in the South Stands. It was the fourth quarter and the Raiders were stomping the Broncos thirty-five to ten and the pickpocketee and his buddies decided to work out their frustrations on Monroe’s head. It dampened his spirits. He was like a Grand Prix driver who’d been in one too many smashups. So, like the great Sterling Moss, he’d sought another line of work. Patrick MacArthur and I had bankrolled his training and got him a job with the city. He was still there. And MacArthur was now a lieutenant. And me? A private snoop hanging out in a phone booth.
Monroe said, “I got a Alexander Rudolph Dunne own a ’eighty yellow Mustang.” He gave me the license number. “And a Alexander and Sarah Kathleen Dunne own a blue ’eighty-four Toy-yo-ta and a brown ’seventy-nine Plymouth. Must all be whities, ’cause ain’t none of ’em got no class.”
“Thanks, buddy. I owe you.”
“Sheet,” he said and hung up.
CHAPTER 10
THE ENTRANCE FOR UNDERGROUND parking had a sign: “Attendant Parking Only.”
I showed the guy my fake badge. It looked real to him. He let me go through.
I drove down the ramps and aisles and read the names stenciled on concrete at the head of each parking space. Maybe I was wasting my time. Maybe Alex Dunne took the bus today. Or car-pooled. Or didn’t even own a car.
After twenty minutes I found a row of spaces marked SHIP TAVERN. The car in the second space from the left was a yellow Mustang. The plate matched the number Monroe had given me.
Alex Dunne didn’t get off until eight, and it was only three-ten. I didn’t feel like sitting there for five hours. On the other hand, if I left and came back, the attendant might take a closer look at my tin badge.
I parked in a stall eighty feet from the Mustang. It was a good spot, between the elevators and Dunne’s car.
The elevator took me up to the sauna that some people still thought of as the street.
I walked up and down the Sixteenth Street Mall until the heat drove me inside. I bought a Big Mac and a chocolate shake and sat in the shade on a wire bench and watched people go by. Shoppers and workers and tourists and bums. After a while I walked some more, then bought a paper and read the sports and worked the crossword. By six, most of the shoppers and workers and tourists were gone. It was just me and the bums. I went into a B. Dalton’s and bought a paperback. Barbara Tuchman’s The March of Folly. Back in underground parking, I sat in my car and read. Six-thirty. Tuchman was telling me something I already knew. People do stupid things. Of course, it was the way she said it.
At eight-fifteen Alex Dunne got off the elevator.
He was with Boog.
They walked past the Olds. Dunne looked between cars and glanced over his shoulder. Maybe he was expecting trouble. Maybe he knew that I’d asked about his quitting time. Whatever, I figured I might as well get to it. Bodyguard or no.
I got out and slammed the door. Boog and Dunne stopped and turned around.
“I need to talk to you, Alex.”
My voice echoed. I walked toward them.
Alex Dunne moved a step behind Boog.
Boog stood with his feet apart and his hands away from his sides. He still had on his whites. When I got close I noticed he had bad breath. He also had a tattoo on his right forearm. It was blue and faint against his deep black skin. A panther fighting a snake. It was a big tattoo, but there was plenty of room for it.
“You got a problem, chuck meat?” Boog’s eyes were yellow and hooded. Panther eyes. They were an inch or so above mine.
“This doesn’t concern you. I just want to talk to your pal.”
“Oh, it concern me all right, chuck.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Alex Dunne tossed in. He remained behind Boog. “I got nothing to say to you.”
I figured I had two options. One, leave now and deal with Dunne later and try to avoid messing with Boog. Or two, mess with Boog. If I left, my professional pride would surely be damaged. If I stayed, my body could get damaged.
Boog smiled. He wanted me to stay.
“You heard the man. Get the fuck outta here.”
He emphasized the last word with his left palm, a jab-push at my chest. Now or never.
I went with the push, turning to my right, and hit him a quick stiff left to the face that crunched nose gristle and sprayed blood and moved him back a step. Before he got his balance I went in with another left to the face and a left-right-left to the midsection that felt like I was thumping the heavy bag. He hammered back at me with overhand rights and roundhouse lefts. I ducked most, but caught a few on my arms and shoulders. It was like getting hit with bricks. Then Boog charged, trying to grab me. I backpedaled and popped him a few times, but he got hold of my jacket and started running me backward toward the nearest stationary object, which happened to be a Ford LTD. I planted my heel and managed to turn us just as we slammed into the passenger door hard enough to rock the car and numb my body. Boog hardly noticed. He let go of my jacket and clubbed the side of my head, ringing my ears and blurring my vision. I ducked the next punch and the side window spiderwebbed under his fist. He clamped a hand on my throat. I hit him in the balls and he snorted like a buffalo and let go. I moved to the side and punched him as hard as I could just under the sternum. Out went his air. I grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt for support and brought my knee up hard between his legs. He curled up and fell back against the LTD and I bounced his head off the door handle as he slid past. His butt hit the concrete like a sack of wet sand.
I turned toward Alex Dunne. He stood gawking, a bystander at a traffic accident.
I started toward him, then heard movement behind me.
Boog was getting to his feet. He had a knife. It was a good one, a folding Buck with a six-inch blade, the kind outdoor types like to wear in a snap-top sheath with their pre-faded jeans and L. L. Bean shirts. I hadn’t seen a sheath on Boog. I guess he wasn’t outdoorsy.
He clicked open the knife.
I kicked him under the chin.
He sat back against the LTD and grabbed his neck and made gurgling sounds. I picked up the knife, depressed the back lever, and closed the blade.
Alex Dunne ran for his car.
I got there before he could open the door. He pressed flat against the Mustang. He looked ready to faint from fright. I guess I couldn’t blame him, considering my appearance—flushed face, ripped shirt, and Boog’s noseblood splattered here and there for effect.
“Please.” He held up his hand.
“Talk.” My voice was hoarse and my throat hurt. “Phillip Townsend,” I said. Much better. I was up to two words in a row. “What went on between you?”
“Nothing, I swear, there was—”
I grabbed his shirtfront and twisted and raised my fist. Barely. My arm was numb and my hands hurt and my body was starting to shake from adrenaline overdose. Alex Dunne probably could have taken me right then, if he’d had the guts to try, which he didn’t.
“Please, no.” He turned his head. “There was a girl. That’s all.”
“A girl.” I lowered my fist. I kept hold of his shirt, more for support than intimidation.
“A hooker, I mean a call girl, real classy, like a model or something. Cassandra O’Day she called herself, but it probably wasn’t her real name, like a stage name, you know? Sometimes they do that, like they’re in show business and …”
“All right, Alex, slow down. What did Townsend tell you about Cassandra O’Day?”
“Nothing,” he said.
I tightened my grip on his shirt.
“No, I mean he didn’t tell me, I told him. I knew her first.”
“You?”
“That’s right,” he said with pride. “See, I turned forty about a year ago and I wanted to do something special so I asked around and got set up with Cassandra. Cost me a thousand bucks for one night, but I’ll tell you what, it was worth it.”
“I’ll bet. So then you fixed her up with Townsend.”
“More or less, yeah. Cassandra was interested in where I worked. A lot of guys with big bucks come in there. She wanted to meet a few. We kept in touch. We both knew something would turn up. I mean, Ship Tavern ain’t exactly a dive, but guys are guys, you know? And as a bartender you hear things and pretty soon you find out who’s interested and you drop a hint.”
“And pick up a few dollars in the process.”
“So what?” he snapped. Then, contritely, “I mean, so what, some of those guys are loaded.”
Boog was getting to his feet. Slowly. I let go of Dunne.
“Why didn’t you tell me this in the first place?”
“I guess I was scared. I didn’t want to lose my job. I got it good there, you know?”
“What can you tell me about Townsend’s death?”
“What’s to tell? He drove off a cliff.”
“That’s all you know about it?”
“That’s all, I swear.”
“When did Townsend first meet Cassandra O’Day?”
“December, I think. Maybe January.”
“How often did he see her after that?”
“Fairly often, I guess. He didn’t talk details.”
“Where can I find her?”
“All I have is a number.”
He fished through his pockets for a pen and a book of matches.
“It’s an answering service. Like I said, she’s got class.”
I wasn’t taking bets on Dunne’s idea of class.
“Did you ever fix Townsend up with anyone besides O’Day?”
Death on the Rocks (The Jacob Lomax Mysteries Book 1) Page 5