Dead on the Island

by Bill Crider

  In front of the parking lot was that bane of the Gulf Coast, the portable sign. No one seems to care that every little wind blows the things all over town, smashing into cars, heads, and show windows. This one was lit up from the inside, a bright yellow with black letters stating that tonight's band was "AMYL NITRATE AND THE WHIPPETS."

  I could see that I was in for a real treat. I could also see that the extension cord from the sign ran right across the white gravel parking lot to an outlet on the wall of the building. I wondered how frayed the cord would get from the cars driving over it and what would happen in a good rainstorm, or if someone picked it up to move it. Oh well. It wasn't my sign.

  For a Tuesday night, the crowd wasn't bad. There were quite a few cars in the parking lot, and while there weren't any BMWs, there weren't any '62 Falcons, either. And only one '79 Subaru.

  I parked as close to the building as I could get and stepped out of the car. The walls weren't vibrating, exactly, but I swear I could feel the vibrations in the ground through the soles of my Nikes. It was only then that I thought of ear plugs, and by then it was much too late. I told myself that I was a tough P. I. on a case and that ear plugs were for wimps. I didn't convince myself, but I went on inside.

  The lighting was dim, but not too bad. I could see all I wanted to see. Amyl and the boys were on stage, flanked by amplifiers the size of the car I had just parked. There were two guitars, a bass, a drummer, and someone on keyboards. The lead singer, or screamer, was at the microphone yelling something about poison and death. He was wearing a leather vest, ripped jeans, and a survival knife strapped to his right calf. Except for his head, which was covered with very long black hair, he was hairless as a snake and just about as skinny. He had the bass. The other members of the band were just as fashionably dressed, and all of them sported tattoos--skulls, dragons, tigers--that sort of thing.

  I forced my way through the wall of sound up to the bar. The bartender looked at me, and I pointed to the Lone Star sign at his back. He went away and came back with a bottle of beer and a glass. I didn't need the glass.

  I took a swallow of beer from the bottle and turned to look around. I drink beer only when I can't get Big Red, and the taste didn't improve my outlook. The crowd was about half punkers and half headbangers. I felt momentarily disoriented, as if I'd wandered onto the set of some B-grade rip-off of the Mad Max movies. One of the punks had hair that looked like Tina Turner's might, if Tina had stuck her finger in a light socket. Another had nothing but five pink spikes running down the middle of his skull.

  I looked around a little more. It wasn't easy to see because I could almost feel my eyeballs being pushed back into their sockets by the sonic force of the music that was blasting at me from the stage. It was almost as if the bass player were strumming my right and left ventricles along with the strings of his guitar.

  The headbangers went in for spandex tank tops and heavy leather wrist bands studded with metal. They also wore fingerless gloves with even more metal studs. Many of them wore thick leather belts that seemed to be strictly decorative, since they didn't fit through any visible loops. Some of the belts held what looked like M-I cartridges, and some had dangling loops of brass. One woman had on an outfit that was made entirely of small metal spangles, most of them smaller than a dime. She was wearing black boots that came almost to her knees and had a skull blazoned on the fronts. Nearly everyone had tattoos.

  Everyone was a lot younger than I was, and I looked very much out of place in my sweatshirt and jeans, but no one seemed to mind.

  Amyl and the gang finished up in a frenzy of reverb and feedback. When the music stopped, it was several seconds before I could hear anything at all. Then the dull rumble of conversation, the click of beer bottles, and the scraping of chairs became audible, even though there was still a distant roaring in my ears.

  I didn't see anyone who looked like the owner, so I continued to survey the crowd. I was looking for the narc. I figured that in any place like this there were lots of funny-smelling cigarettes to be smoked, and maybe even a line or two of Bolivian happy dust to be inhaled. Therefore there would be an undercover cop in every now and then just in case any of the boys or gals got together enough money to make a really heavy buy.

  Of course the heavy buy would never take place because by the time he walked in from the door to a seat, everyone in the place would have the narc spotted for exactly what he was. It's a knack they have.

  I didn't have the knack, though, it not being really necessary to my survival, but it still didn't take me too long at that. He was sitting at a table with a girl in electric blue spandex, the tank top scarcely concealing her generous breasts. I was afraid that if she stood up and shook, the shimmer would blind half the patrons despite the low level of light in the club.

  I made my way over to the table, carrying my half-full beer bottle. "Mind if I join you?" I said.

  The guy didn't look too happy, but he growled what I took to be an affirmative answer. I hooked an empty chair with my foot, pulled it out, and sat.

  If anyone asked me, I couldn't really explain how I knew he was a cop. The hairstyle was a little too studied, maybe, the clothes a little too carefully cared for, the eyes a little too secretive and hard.

  "Great band, huh?" I said.

  "Damn straight," the girl said. She was drinking Lone Star, too, out of a bottle. She took a pull and set it down solidly on the table to emphasize her remark. The cop didn't say anything.

  Over on the bandstand, the lead singer was announcing that it was time for the band to take a break. That was a break for me, too, since I would be able to hear what the two at the table had to tell me.

  If they told me anything at all.

  We sat there for a few seconds, looking at one another. "I was wondering if maybe you two could do me a favor," I said. If the cop had come there often, he might have seen Sharon Matthews, or Terry, and he might come closer than anyone else in the place to admitting it.

  "Maybe," he said. He sounded like he might have gravel in his throat.

  I took the picture of Sharon out of my back pocket and slipped it onto the table. It was no longer in its folder. "Ever seen this girl?"

  The girl's eyes flickered, but the cop's didn't.

  Another few seconds of silence passed. "Well?" I said.

  "Maybe," the cop said.

  I took out my billfold and, trying not to let everyone in the place see what I was doing, showed him my license.

  "She's been in here a few times," the cop said. The girl in the spandex nodded agreement.

  "She come in with anybody in particular?" I put my billfold away and slipped the photo off the table.

  "Some guy. Harry? Terry?"

  "That's the one. They have any friends?"

  "Look," the cop said. "I can't afford to say too much."

  "There's not a soul in here who doesn't know you work for the city," I said. "You aren't going to sully your reputation."

  The girl smiled and leaned back in her chair. The spandex shimmered.

  "You're probably right," the cop said. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to just give up the game for you." His eyes were as gray as oysters on the half-shell.

  "The girl's been missing for three days," I said. "I'm just trying to make a buck and find her. Her mother's worried." I decided not to mention what had happened to Terry. I didn't even like to think about it.

  "Give the guy a break, Stan," the girl said. Obviously I had charmed her.

  "All right," Stan said, but I could see he wasn't too happy about it. "The kid's been in here a few times, like I said. With this Terry. They don't seem to have too many friends, mostly sit by themselves. But every now and then they talk to Chuck. He'd sit with them sometimes.

  "Chuck?"

  "Ferguson," the girl said. "Chuck Ferguson. He owns the place."

  7

  I thanked them for the information and got up, leaving most of my beer. Then I went over to the bar and asked the bartender where
I could find Ferguson.

  "Who's looking?" he said.

  "Truman Smith," I said. "He's probably expecting me."

  "Yeah, he got a call. See that door?" He pointed to a door near the bandstand. I noticed that Amyl Nitrate and the Whippets were picking up their instruments and getting ready for another set.

  "I see it," I said.

  "Goes up to the second floor. There's a hall. Office is the first door on the right."

  "Thanks," I said. I was eager to get up there before the band got cranked up again. I wasn't sure my eardrums were up to it.

  I walked down to the door and went on through. There was a narrow wooden stairway, and I followed it up. The hall was paneled with rough plywood. No one was much interested in putting up a front here. I tapped on the first door on my right.

  "It's not locked," someone called, so I went on in.

  The room was small, about ten by ten. There was a run-down gray couch that looked even worse than mine, a wooden chair, and an old desk that was covered in layers of black varnish.

  The man sitting at the desk stood up. He was at least six inches taller than I was, maybe six-six or -seven, and around fifty-five years old. He was thin, like an aging basketball player. He wore glasses, and his hair was completely white, what there was of it. It was fairly thick on the sides and back, but there were only a few stands combed across the top. He had a white beard as well. Quite a change from the crowd downstairs. He was wearing a white Western shirt with pearlized buttons and a pair of brown double-knit jeans. He would have looked more at home at Willie Nelson's new place across town than where he was.

  Below us the band was hammering out a song. The floor began to jiggle slightly.

  Ferguson stuck out his hand, and I shook it. "Truman Smith," I said.

  "Chuck Ferguson. I heard you might be by, but I was expecting you a little earlier."

  "I got tied up."

  "Doesn't matter. Have a seat." He sat back down in his desk chair. I sat on the couch and immediately sank down about a foot and a half.

  "Not much support," I said, struggling to keep myself from disappearing completely from view.

  "Chair's more comfortable, even if it doesn't look it," Ferguson said.

  I fought my way clear of the couch and sat in the chair. He was right. I took the photo of Sharon Matthews out of my pocket and passed it over to him. "Ever seen her around here?"

  He looked at the picture carefully, as if he were trying to memorize every feature of the girl's face. "Could be," he said. "I'm not really sure."

  Well, well, I thought. "She was probably with a boy," I said. "Terry Shelton."

  He held the picture between his thumb and forefinger and tapped it against his knee. "Shelton. Shelton. Can't say it rings a bell."

  "You'd notice them for sure," I said. "They don't look like your regular customers down there." I could feel the vibrations from the bass working its way though the floor, into my legs, and into my heartbeat again.

  "You can't tell by the way they look down there," Ferguson said. "Why, some of those people are probably car salesmen. Insurance peddlers. Postmen. Housewives. Most of those tattoos wash off, the hair combs out, the clothes change. You'd be surprised."

  I said that I probably would. A particularly thunderous bass line rippled up the walls from below.

  "Great little band, isn't it?" Ferguson said. "Those kids are destined for big things."

  "I can tell," I said. "You own this place?"

  "Sure do. Lock, stock, and rain barrel."

  "You should do something about that extension cord running across the parking lot," I said. I reached and took the photo from between his thumb and finger. "Sure you've never seen her before?"

  "If I did, she didn't look like that. What's your interest, anyway?"

  "She's missing. Her mother hired me to find her."

  "That was her mother who called saying you'd be around to see me?"

  "That was a friend of the family."

  He nodded. "Uh-huh."

  I stood up. "Well," I said, "thanks for your time and for taking a look. I heard she'd been in here a time or two. Just thought I'd better check it out."

  Ferguson stood, too, sticking out his hand again. Everyone in Texas likes to shake hands. I shook.

  "Sorry I couldn't help you more," he said.

  "Just one stop on a long road," I said. "I'll find her sooner or later." Unless she's like Jan, I thought. Jan. Without a trace.

  "Good luck, then," he said, easing me toward the door.

  "See you," I said as I left.

  "Sure," he said.

  The door closed behind me.

  ~ * ~

  The fact that Ferguson was lying didn't especially bother me. I'd dealt with liars before. Of course it could have been Stan the Cop who was the liar, but I didn't think so. My money was on Ferguson.

  Now wasn't the time to press him, however. He was on his home ground. Besides, I didn't know a thing about him. He may have thought my "See you" was a casual good-bye, but it wasn't. I'd find out things, learn which buttons I could press, and then for sure I'd be seeing him again. He might not tell me the truth then, either, but at least I'd have some kind of handle. I was sure Dino could help me find one.

  I went out through the downstairs, past the blasting sound of Amyl Nitrate, past the drinkers, past the few dancers. The night was chilly, and the humidity hung in the air like a wet sheet. I was almost to where I'd parked the Subaru before I noticed that it was gone.

  One reason that I drove a '79 Subaru was that it was cheap and it got me where I wanted to go. But another reason was that while Houston and Dallas probably average something like one stolen car a minute, no one would ever want to steal an old Subaru with dead paint and a dented back bumper. The thieves go in for things like Camaros and Suburbans, never faded little Japanese jobs that look about ready for the scrap heap.

  There was a black Ford parked where my car had been. I looked at it and then looked around the parking lot. Sure enough, there was the Subaru, pushed off to one side, about twenty yards away. I never bothered to lock the doors. There was nothing inside worth stealing.

  I thought for a second about going back inside, rousting the owner of the Ford, and telling him what I thought of him. If he'd wanted a close parking spot, he could have waited for one. He didn't have to roll my car away.

  But the confrontation wouldn't be worth the effort. It might make me feel better, but then again it might not. The owner might be bigger than me and decide that he'd like to hit me with his bicycle chain. I wasn't up to it.

  I headed on over to the car. I was reaching for the door handle when three guys came around from the darkness on the other side.

  I have no idea how the three of them managed to hide there. I wouldn't have thought the car was big enough to conceal them. They looked like the down linemen for the Chicago Bears.

  One thing I have to give them credit for: they didn't mess around. No fancy words of warning, no shilly-shallying.

  The one in the lead popped me in the stomach with a short right. He didn't have on a boxing glove, but his fist felt about the size of one.

  I sort of folded up, and the other two each grabbed an arm, which was more than just a considerate gesture to make sure I didn't fall down.

  The first guy hit me again, in the solar plexus this time.

  I was sucking for air when he hit me the third time, in the stomach again. There was no way I could tighten up. I just took it. The two guys on either side of me held me upright.

  That was their first mistake. Another mistake was in not doing me in right at the beginning. They should have cold-cocked me. I'm just crazy enough to fight back as long as I'm conscious.

  So I kicked the guy in front of me in the balls.

  He was surprised as hell. His eyes bugged out of his head and suddenly he was the one sucking wind. I guess he thought more of his punching than I did. Maybe he thought he had cold-cocked me.

  He doubled over,
clutching at himself and gagging. I jerked both arms, hard, trying to get free from the other two tough boys.

  It didn't work. Kicking their buddy had been my mistake. I'd made them mad. Their hands were like iron bands on my arms and wrists.

  They gave me a little swing forward; then suddenly the one on the right let go and chopped down at my right knee with his fist. It probably wasn't exceeding the speed of sound when it hit.

  He hit just the right spot. It was like someone had poked a hot iron rod into my knee, right under the kneecap. I gave a strangled, screaming shout. Anyone inside hearing it would think I was auditioning for Amyl Nitrate and the Whippets.

  The guy on my left held me up until the one on my right could grab my arm again. The one on the left then grabbed the nape of my neck, forced my head down, and then they ran me--or dragged me--right into the side of my own car with all the force they had.

  They had plenty.

  This time they both let me go, and I sort of slid down the side of the car to the hard-packed dirt and gravel of the parking lot. They left me there and went to their buddy, who was only a step or two away.

  I reached a hand up, trying to find something to hang onto and pull myself off the ground. One of them came over and clubbed me in the side of the neck. I went back down, and this time I didn't even think about trying to get up.

  All three of them were standing over me. One of them was still having a little trouble breathing, which was a small comfort to me. A very small comfort. One of the others took any pleasure I had in the small comfort away by kicking me three or four times in the ribs. He was wearing boots, and the pointed toes struck me sharply, like a blunt knife blade.

  Then they patted me down. I thought they were looking for my billfold, but I was wrong. They stopped with the picture of Sharon Matthews. They looked at it, and then one of them tore in into tiny pieces. I wouldn't have thought he could tear it so many times. It was pretty thick at the end. But then he was pretty strong. He dropped all the pieces and they sifted down on my chest. It was like watching them fall in a slow-motion movie.