First Avenue

by Lowen Clausen

  He looked back once to see where she might have gone and saw her still at the fish stand, smiling freely for the fishmongers, a pretty customer receiving special attention.

  Chapter 21

  Saturday night had not meant anything special to Sam for a long time, but he sat on his deck and tried to read a book that was special in the sense that it had become a ritual. He had read the book the first time as a high school boy on a fall day not long after the writer had killed himself, and he had read it each fall since, when the weather turned a certain way, when it had become too good to last. Borrowed from a friend and never given back, the book was broken and worn, much like the man who had written the story.

  Usually he read the book in a day—never more than two. He liked reading about the noises on the Paris streets, the smells in the cafes, the wine and the food. He liked the cold air in the mountains and the talk of love beneath heavy covers. In the first chapters everything seemed possible—love and success and honesty. But later came the meanness and ridicule. Sam was always saddened by those chapters.

  The sun went down and the book remained in his hand. Another year he was thinking, another time through the book, but this time thinking about himself, too—himself less like the young man the book was about and more, all the time, like the older one who had written it. The older one probably had nothing to do on Saturday nights either.

  Beyond the open pages the towers in the city were red and gold in the final rays of sun. At the base of the golden towers, lights began to flicker. Kat would be there or on her way. He wondered if Saturday night meant anything to her. Farm girl and all. Were there still barn dances for light-footed farm girls? He imagined her a joyous dancer with her face flushed with the summer night, delight in her smile, and eyes dancing along with her feet.

  No dancing tonight.

  No dancing for the girl, Maria, either. She didn’t seem like the dancing type—not the way her laughter stopped before it had a chance to spread. Together with Kat, the girl was getting in his way and blocking his mind from the last lines of the book. What was Maria’s story? Had she really seen anything, or had her imagination gotten the best of her—and him? What kind of dance would McDonald and Fisher be dancing tonight?

  He closed the book and dropped it on the deck. He rose from the chair and leaned on the railing. Restlessly his mind absorbed the relentless exertion of the waves.

  Georgia was coming toward him on the beach. Her red hair was framed within the dark mat of the evening behind it. She waved to him, and he waved back from the deck. He felt better seeing her.

  “What are you smiling about?” she asked as she climbed the steps to join him.

  He was smiling.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Nothing,” she said in imitation.

  He smiled even more.

  “Have you come for the Saturday-night dance?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “It’s Saturday night.”

  “I know it’s Saturday night.”

  “I’m not used to company on Saturday nights. It’s a welcome change.”

  “Maybe I’ll just sit down and forget why I came,” Georgia said.

  Georgia didn’t sit down, however. She might have wished to, but she remained standing.

  “So what did you come for?” he asked, feeling less hospitable than before.

  “Diane thought she saw somebody outside the house—some guy named Morris. Mildred moved her to a hotel. Diane is ready to talk if you feel like talking to her.”

  “Now?” he asked.

  “I’ll drive,” Georgia said.

  Sam looked down on the deck where his book lay closed. He had only a few pages yet to read, but the ending would have to wait—probably until next year. He knew what it said anyway.

  “Okay,” he said. He didn’t even suggest calling Markowitz. He was in too far for that.

  “I’ll get the car and meet you on the street,” Georgia said. “Two minutes.”

  She walked into the house and out through the kitchen door. He would follow her in a minute—two minutes. He picked up his book and tossed it onto the coffee table as he passed it on the way into the bedroom for his gun.

  In the car she concentrated on shifting gears and didn’t talk. He had never ridden in a car with Georgia. He discovered that she was a very efficient driver, although she followed other cars too closely for his comfort. She drove down from the greenness of Magnolia Bluff to the gray streets along the water. He wondered where they were going but didn’t ask.

  She parked on the street beside the Olympic Hotel, which was a fine old stately building downtown. Sam looked out the car window and followed the rise of the gray stone building.

  “I see we’re in the low-rent district,” he said.

  “It was Mildred’s choice,” she said.

  As they passed through the lobby, he thought he was probably the only person in the building wearing blue jeans. He was wrong, however. Georgia was wearing them, too, but her jeans had a style that took them past the checkin desk barely noticed by the receptionist.

  Georgia pushed the fifth-floor button at the elevator.

  “Anybody else know she’s here?” Sam asked. They were alone in the elevator cab.

  “No. She’s registered in my name.”

  “Is Mildred here, too?”

  “She stayed in her house.”

  “That may not be such a good idea.”

  “I know.”

  When the elevator stopped, Georgia led him down a soft carpeted hallway and stopped at 512. She tapped twice on the door, then twice again. He saw the peephole darken and heard the chain coming off the door.

  Although Diane looked tense and uncomfortable, she was a different person than the one he saw the day after Ben Abbott’s death. Her face had color and a roundness that was not there before.

  “Hello, Diane. You’re looking better. Mrs. Abbott must be taking good care of you.”

  “She’s very nice. Everybody has been nice to me.”

  “Let’s sit down, shall we?” Georgia said. She gestured to a large table beside the window. There were four heavy chairs from which to choose.

  “I’d like to take some notes,” Sam said. “Is that okay with you?” he asked Diane.

  She looked at Georgia, who nodded her approval. Georgia found a pen and stationery in the top desk drawer and placed the writing material on the table.

  Sam sat across from Diane with Georgia between them. He tore the hotel logo off the top of the stationery and picked up the pen. For a moment it seemed difficult for the girl to begin. Georgia signaled impatiently with a nod of her head that it was time to start.

  “I used to work the streets. Okay? That’s where I met Alberta. Pierre set us up and took part of our money. He wasn’t exactly our pimp, but he knew people. You don’t want to cross him. That stuff in the paper about him helping kids was a lie. All of us knew it.

  “There was this one guy, Robert J. Morris—he always said the ‘J’ like that was some big deal. He and Pierre were friends, or at least they knew each other. This Morris guy hung around the streets a lot. It was like he got some kind of thrill out of it. There are always guys like that around, but he was really creepy. He drove a Jaguar and said he was a private detective, and he always had a gun with him. He liked to show it off.

  “He’s the one who brought Ben in. They met in the J & M Cafe. Rich kids like to go there. It has kind of an edge. One time in there I saw Ben play Russian roulette with Morris’s gun. He did scary things like that when he was high.

  “We’d party with Ben and his friends on his boat, and he’d give us drugs—pot, coke, angel dust. He had everything. We’d get high with him and his friends. This Morris guy tried to be real friendly to Ben, but he treated us like whores. He tried to make us do things.”

  The girl looked around the beautiful room with the “things” written in her face. Perhaps the room helped her realize that she was in a different place than she had
been before. Then again, maybe she was in the same place.

  “Alberta hated the streets. I think that’s why she started going with Ben. I told her she was crazy if she thought some rich boy would take care of her. When she got pregnant, she could have done something about it, you know, but she wouldn’t.

  “Ben let her go after the baby came, just like I said he would. I told her she should get some money from him anyway, but she changed when the baby came. It seemed like that baby was all she was interested in. That’s when she started working at the Donut Shop.

  “Then one day, she wasn’t there. Pierre said she went back home. Called her a bitch because he had to open up without her and told us to leave her alone if we knew what was good for us. He gets that scary look, sometimes. I didn’t believe him, but I didn’t know what to do.

  “Ben was high all the time after that. I don’t know if he missed her or what. I mean, he could have done something before. Right? He was just high all the time.

  “The night he drowned he told Shooter he wasn’t going to work with them anymore. He said he was finished. He and Shooter started yelling at each other, and they got into a fight. Ben was too high to fight. Shooter pushed Ben, and he ended up in the water. Jack and I tried to get Ben back, but the boat moved away too fast. When I tried to grab the wheel, Shooter pushed me away. I saw it happen. So did Jack. I lied about that before. I was scared to tell the truth. Shooter let him drown.

  “Shooter called Robert Morris when we got back to the dock—I won’t use that ‘J’ anymore—and him and Pierre came out to the boat. Pierre was really mad at Shooter. He didn’t care about Ben, but he was really mad. Pierre told me not to say anything about him—ever. He wasn’t there, he said, and I’ve never seen him and Ben together. I was supposed to say that Ben got high and fell off the boat, but nothing more. He told me if I didn’t keep my mouth shut there was plenty of room for me where Ben and Alberta were.”

  “Is that exactly what he said?” Sam asked.

  “As close as I can remember. He meant it, too. When he left, Morris called the cops. He said we had to because of Ben being rich and all. He told us what to say. You should have heard Morris talk to those cops, like he was some friend of theirs. The cops never even asked us for ID. I guess they thought we were rich kids, too.

  “Mrs. Abbott came down to the boat before I left. Everyone else had gone except the cops. I didn’t know where to go. I’d been staying on the boat with Ben. Morris wanted me to go with him, but I wouldn’t. I was scared of him. There wasn’t anything he could do because the cops were there. But when I saw him sneaking around Mrs. Abbott’s house, I knew he was looking for me.

  “I should have told Mrs. Abbott everything right away, but I was scared. When she asked who I was, I told her I was Ben’s girlfriend. I told her about being pregnant. Ben wouldn’t use any protection when he got high. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  Georgia’s expression told him that no one else did either. In comparison, his job was simple. Write down the facts and move on. He looked down at his paper and saw that the only fact he had written was the name, Robert J. Morris. He circled the name. He would have remembered it without the circle.

  “Who do you think burned the boat?”

  “It could have been any of them, but I’ll bet Pierre was in charge.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s in charge of everything.”

  “Why would he do it?” Sam asked.

  “I’m not sure, but Ben might have hidden something there. Pierre and Morris looked all over the boat before they called the cops.”

  “What would he hide?” Sam asked.

  “More drugs maybe. I’m not sure. I think they used Ben’s boat to get drugs. Sometimes they made me get off the boat and stay in a motel overnight. There was always money after that.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “Everything, but lately it was mostly heroin. Anyway that’s what Ben started using.”

  “Did Ben sell the drugs?”

  “I don’t think so, but Pierre did. So did Jack and Shooter.”

  “How about Alberta?”

  “She didn’t sell it, but she took it to Portland sometimes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because Pierre would make me stay with the baby when Alberta was gone. They had somebody down there who bought it from them. I did lots of things, but I never used that heroin. And I didn’t sell it, either.”

  Diane looked down at the table. Her face seemed to lose its fullness and became gaunt like the first time he had seen her. Unlike then, there was no place to escape this time.

  “Something big is supposed to happen soon,” Diane said abruptly.

  “What do you mean by something big?” Sam asked.

  “Jack just kind of hinted about it with Ben. He said they were going to leave Seattle soon.”

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Jack and Shooter, I think, but maybe Morris and Pierre, too.”

  “Do you know where they’re going?”

  “No.”

  “Why would they leave?”

  “I think it’s getting too hot for them here. I heard Jack talking about one more deal.”

  “When is this supposed to happen?”

  “I don’t know. I only know what I heard Jack tell Ben. I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Do you know Jack’s full name?”

  “No, that’s all they call him.”

  “How about Shooter?”

  The girl shook her head. “I told you the truth about that.”

  “Is there anything special about Shooter, the way he looks or dresses or something like that?”

  “He’s always wearing this ratty old cap.”

  “Is it orange?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. Have you seen it?”

  “Yes. Do you know where they live? Shooter or Morris or Jack?”

  Again the girl shook her head. She looked as though she were failing a test.

  “How about Pierre?” Sam asked softly, expecting the same answer.

  “Where he lives?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right above the Donut Shop. In that hotel. Don’t you know that?”

  Sam felt as if he were failing the same test.

  “No. I never knew where he lived. That’s very helpful, Diane.”

  For a moment the girl’s face looked pleased. How had he never gotten that information before? He looked at the torn hotel stationery where he had written one name and wondered what else he didn’t know, what else he had overlooked or not asked, or heard, or seen. He looked at Georgia.

  “I imagine you want to meet with Detective Markowitz now,” Georgia said, reading his mind.

  “Yes, and I want Diane to talk to Detective Markowitz, too,” Sam said. “Tomorrow.”

  Diane looked at Georgia as though she had all the answers.

  “We need to do that,” Georgia said.

  “Okay,” Diane said.

  Sam stood and was about to walk toward the door, but then the girl stood, too. As she stood with her hands clasped in front of her, she looked like a volunteer who had stepped forward, anticipating that all the others in line would do the same. Instead she found herself alone. He realized how quickly he had meant to pass her by, and he walked around the table and extended his hand.

  “Thanks for all your help, Diane. It took a lot of courage.”

  “I’m still scared,” she said.

  She held but did not shake the hand he offered.

  “I don’t blame you. We’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”

  “That’s what Georgia said, too. You should be careful around those men,” she said, looking him straight in the eyes for the first time. “They know you.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “I know what you think about me.”

  “Don’t be so sure what I think,” he said, looking straight back into hers.

  Chapter 22

  It was unusually qu
iet for a Saturday night. Even Mike had little to say as he drove endless circles through their district. Katherine settled back deep into her seat and watched the street pass like a panoramic view from a movie camera.

  It was too early for the dancing girls to dance with enthusiasm and too late for the Donut Shop. Mike should have suggested coffee by then, but he continued to drive slowly within the half-dozen blocks within their boundary.

  Although the sun had withdrawn, it remained warm enough to have the car windows down. The music was warming up in the Wild West Tavern. As they slowly passed it on First Avenue, she heard false notes ring out through the open door. It was early. The musicians still had time to find their rhythm.

  When Radio called their car number, Katherine reluctantly lifted the clipboard. Mike answered in a sour voice.

  “Have Murphy call the officer at Main 2-2344,” Radio said.

  Mike looked at her to see if she had copied the number.

  “Got it,” she said. “That’s a department number. I’ll call from the station.”

  Mike acknowledged the message to Radio and logged them out to the station. Then he looked at her again.

  “So who is this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  They were only a few blocks from the station, but it was far enough for Mike to lose his interest in the caller’s identity. “I’ll wait for you in the coffee room,” he said as he parked. “No hurry.”

  She had not lost interest as she walked into the write-up room and dialed the number. There was only one ring before the answer.

  “This is Wright.”

  “Sam?”

  “Hey, Kat. That didn’t take long.”

  “We were just a few blocks from the station.”

  “Are you in the station now?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Where’s Hennessey?”

  “He’s in the coffee room,” Katherine said.

  “Why don’t you come up to Homicide. Markowitz and I are here. We have some stuff we want to show you.”

  “What stuff?”

  “You’ll see. Come up alone, will you?”

  Sam was waiting in the hallway of the fifth floor. The floor was deserted except for a few people behind the counter of the Records Section. He smiled at her, and she felt better seeing his smile. It eased the uneasy feeling she had from his strange telephone call, the secrecy, and Mike waiting downstairs. She followed Sam through the doorway into Homicide. Markowitz pulled a third chair over from a neighboring desk.