by Greg Aunapu
"Let's see," he said, his voice sounding like a bad connection full of static. He'd never be a singer, that's for sure. "I broke out of jail Christmas of Seventy-three. I holed up in Orlando until summer of Seventy-four, when I went back into the can in Texas. Bought her from a guy in Orlando."
"Who?" Sue asked. This was the first time Branch had volunteered this additional information. But the timeline still fit. "Who was it you bought her from?"
"It's been a while," Paul said. "I think it was Bracket, but I'm not sure."
"But you're sure it was Amy?" Sue asked for the thousandth time, wanting to hear the reassurance that kept her going.
"Well, you know," Paul said, "how sure is anything in life?"
"What? After all this time you're not absolutely sure?”
"We'll know Tuesday," Paul said. "Won't we? Now be ready!"
Sue changed hotels. The Sheraton wasn't cheaper, as she'd told Paul, but it was near the airport. She wanted to get Amy on a plane home as soon as possible. If she got her, they'd be on the next plane out.
Sue waited, cursing the four claustrophobic walls of the hotel room, and prayed for the phone to ring. When it didn't, she called Paul's hotel room again and again. No answer. She'd psyched herself up for Tuesday, to meet Amy no matter what her condition, and convinced herself that this time it was going to happen.
Nothing.
She called Paul's hotel on Wednesday. The female clerk told her in a slow drawl, "That man checked out, honey! Last time we saw him 'round here was yesterday sometime."
Sue had a bad feeling about this. Panic rose in her gut.
Rex told her to "stay put" when she called him to report the news.
But the next day, even the lawyer had succumbed to doubt. Sue's friend Barbara called and told her, "Rex can't bring himself to tell you this, but he doesn't want to be responsible for Paul's whereabouts anymore. He wants you to call the police and come on home."
Sue felt betrayed. "He's been such a good friend, how can he say that? I am not leaving here until I get some kind of answer."
She immediately called the police, and was visited that afternoon by Detectives Jack Powell and Ken Brown, who had already begun investigations after her interview at police headquarters.
They drank coffee in the restaurant, where the detectives accepted a few doughnuts. Sue couldn't help but smile.
Powell wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, "The good news is we showed Amy's picture around and a number of people said she looks very familiar. That's a good sign, Sue, because if these people could, they'd just blow it off. I swear there was one girl I could have sworn was Amy, but fat. It wasn't her, but she said that she definitely saw Amy at the Keg on Friday night."
Sue put a hand on her chest. Her heart was fluttering in her chest like a wounded bird. "I've had a migraine all day, and a dozen aspirin didn't help as much as that news."
Powell patted her hand. "There's some not so good news, too." He said. "We know who this Dishrag Harry is now, and he is a bad dude! Now that I've done some research, I see I've dealt with him before, when he had another ID. Anyway, two girls I spoke to swore Amy looks like the girl he has—but older and in very bad condition."
Sue nodded. "I've been told to expect that."
"They say she's very spaced out and—pardon the expression—has been passed around a lot."
"It's okay," Sue said, and sighed. "It breaks my heart to hear these things. But I'll take her in whatever condition she's in. The best news is that she's probably alive.'
"I'll give you that much," said the cop. "With all the identification, if this isn't Amy, it's a dead ringer for her, and once we find her, you'll know for sure."
The detectives were unable to further the investigation over the weekend, but they picked up Sue at noon on Sunday to facilitate a tour of the biker bars. Unfortunately, even bikers in Tulsa were forced to recognize the Sabbath, as all the bars were closed at the time. The detectives should have known this, as Tulsa had strict liquor laws and was a "dry" city.
Monday, July 12, marked Sue's one-month vigil in Tulsa. But she was no closer than when she had arrived full of hope and optimism. Paul had never checked in again, even though she now had some cash for him to pick up. Detectives Powell and Brown were on other duty.
Here 1 month! she jotted down in strong pencil in her journal. Those words reverberated in her brain.
"I'm just going to go to the bars myself," she said.
She dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a frumpy blouse, hid most of her cash under the mattress, and hailed a taxi. "The Anchor Bar," she said.
The cabbie scowled and pushed up the brim of his cowboy hat to see her better in the rearview mirror. "Lady, you don't look like nobody goes to the Anchor Bar," he said. "You know what that place is?"
Sue gritted her teeth. "I know," she said. "I'm looking for someone. It shouldn't be too rowdy this time of day."
"Suit yourself," the driver said. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
There were a half-dozen well-maintained motorcycles lined up in front of the squalid bar. Cars and vans parked at the curb looked like they were one fill up short of the junkyard. Sue walked from the brash Tulsa light into a dark, hot bar. There was a sort of wooden decor and some nets that made it look "anchory," perhaps, but that attempt had been made long before it had become a biker hangout. Now, Harley-Davidson emblems and other biker memorabilia were mixed into the fray, and even that looked grungy. There was a smell of beer and vomit that would never go away. A jukebox played Hank Williams.
When Sue's eyes adjusted, she noticed all eyes were on her. Several large men with hairy arms and green tattoos splattered against their muscles sat at the bar. Frizzy hair, ponytails, leather, beards, mustaches, boots—the same getups Sue had become so accustomed to seeing. Two were playing pool at an aged, scarred billiard table. others were frozen with darts in their hand. Several women slouched at cocktail tables. Smoke was a swirling fog in the air.
Sue took it all in, heart pounding her rib cage, blood rushing through her ears, and walked up to the bar. "Is the manager in?" she asked politely.
Obviously no threat, perhaps a liquor salesman or even a lost Jehovah's Witness, the bar suddenly came back to life.
"You're looking at him," the bartender said.
Sue thought, Just like a movie! Then explained her mission to find Amy. "I'm not the heat. I just want to ask people some questions."
"Free country," the bartender said. "Your funeral."
Sue took a deep breath and scouted the bar. The nearest guy looked familiar, and she realized she had met him at the rock concert in the park a month earlier. He was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with a sizable beer belly, and he sported a ponytail. He had about a week's worth of fuzz on his face.
"Yeah, I remember you," he said with amazement. "Lady, you have some guts. What do they say? Chutzpah? You been here ever since the concert?"
"The whole time," Sue said. "It's been a long month."
"My name's Paul Kline," he volunteered. "Yeah, I remember Klete was showing your daughter's picture around."
"Klete?" Sue asked.
"Yeah, a Pagan guy. About my height, reddish hair, from Florida."
"Paul Branch!" Sue exclaimed.
Kline nodded. "Yeah, that's his name. Here they call him Klete. Says he wants to buy a bike frame from me when he gets money from Florida."
"Have you seen Paul lately?" Sue asked.
"Not in a week or so," Kline said. "I'm getting awfully thirsty here."
Sue ordered him a beer. "What about Amy's picture. Have you seen her?"
Kline shrugged. "I don't pay attention to other guys' chicks. Ask the bartender, he sees a lot of them."
Sue showed the pictures to the bartender, Gary. He squinted at the photo under a fluorescent light. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I definitely think I've seen her here."
Gary passed the picture around to the other bikers, who glanced at Sue and shook their heads. The bartender said
to leave the photo and call back later. If the girl came in, he'd compare it to her in person, and would tell Sue if there was a match.
Sue rode a taxi to some of the other bars on her list, but the bikers must have been on a run somewhere, because none of those types were around. She showed a photo of Amy to the bartenders and various patrons at the Keg. The detectives who had seemed so eager before were always out when she called, and never checked in with her. Deep into the evening she called the Anchor back. The girl finally came in at one A.M. Gary said, "She looks a lot like your photo, but this girl's from Scottsdale, Arizona, and has the accent to prove it. Definitely not her."
The price of hotel rooms and cheap restaurant food slowly maxed out each of Sue's credit cards. It was clear she would have to make an extraordinary effort in the next few days.
She complained to Detective Powell, asking him to arrange interviews with some of the people who had claimed to see Amy. "It's like you don't want me to talk to anybody," she said. He finally agreed to take her to interview a biker fringe member named "Shotgun," who might have some information.
They drove up to the house, a single-story wooden building with peeling paint, but a decent yard littered with kid's toys.
Of course, no one was home. Sue insisted on leaving a note with her telephone number on it, and even her Florida information. She no longer believed that Detective Powell would work seriously on her case.
She went through the same drill at a couple more houses and bars. Everyone had scattered and disappeared.
Back in her hotel room, at six P.M., the phone rang. A smoky female voice asked for "Sue Billings." It amazed her how many people, even with the name written right in front of them, added an unintentional “n” and an “s” to her name.
"This is she," Sue said.
"Yes, Mrs. Billings…" the woman said, sounding stoned, mispronouncing Sue’s last name by inserting an “n.” "This is Rosie. I'm Shotgun's old lady. I got your note."
"You've spoken to Detective Powell, then?" Sue asked. "You know why I'm here?"
"Yeah, he's filled us in," the woman answered, her voice dreamy. "Yeah, we know Dishrag. He was a Pagan, but now he's a Rogue. Now they call him Rags…”
Sue wrote all this down in her notebook. "Rags? So you know him?"
There was rock music playing in the background. Rosie took a moment, and sucked a cigarette or a joint.
"Yeah, we hung with him in Peoria a while back. He has a monster Harley."
Sue described the bike that Paul said he had given to Harry Kramer for safe keeping.
"Yeah, that sounds like it could be it," Rosie said. "I didn't see your daughter myself, but people around say they know her. That's definitely his old lady. That's all I know right now. But I'll ask around." She sounded stoned. Stoned, but sweet. "You should know," Rosie continued. "Most the bikers 'round here really aren't going to talk to Powell much. Find yourself a detective named Grady McFadden. They trust him a lot more. I'll be in touch."
Sue immediately called police headquarters and left a message for McFadden. He met her in the hotel lobby that evening. The Tulsa detective was already versed in the situation. A good-looking guy, he was a bit hipper and younger than the previous detectives, with brown hair cut just over his ears. The Tulsa version of the Mod Squad.
"Yeah, I'm in good with the bikers," he said proudly. "I feel that Amy is here in Tulsa and that Rags has her. One of my contacts said she had personally seen a woman matching Amy's description riding with him. There's just too many people here who say they saw her. The problem is, we don't know where Rags is. He's lying real low. No one has seen him or his woman since Paul Branch came to town. My information is that everyone in town knows an enforcer is looking for Kramer, and he's in deep hiding. I don't know. I think there may be more than a bike and a girl in this. That guy owes Branch some drugs or money."
"It could be," Sue said. "He's awfully hot to find Dishrag, and at first he said he wasn't interested in the reward money…”
"I'm going to have to find someone who'll turn on Rags," McFadden said. "And that means I'm going to owe them some favor or another. But he's definitely joined the Rogues, and I know some of his associates—guys named Sundowner and Cowboy. Now it's time you went back to Florida, 'cause this' could still take some time. I will keep in touch with you there."
So many people had made so many promises. Sue could see that McFadden meant well, but once new cases and other pressures came up, just how long would Amy remain a priority? But she knew she had to trust him, because tonight's room rate was going to bust another credit card.
"I'll go," she conceded with effort. "But you have to promise me to stay on this."
"I will," he said.
She made arrangements to fly home the next afternoon. But she didn't trust McFadden entirely. First, she went by Shotgun's house, where she met with Rosie. She was a simple hippie-looking woman in her late twenties, who wore necklaces and whose long brown hair was parted in the middle. Her old man, Shotgun, wasn't a full biker, but an "associate." Still, they were well-connected. And they could use the reward money.
Rosie said, "We're a lot more likely to find Amy than the police. We can go anywhere, and don 't have to explain anything to anyone. Not the police, not the bikers. I've got some leads to follow. If it's Amy, she's calling herself Cheryl now. They call her Mellow Cheryl.”
Total expenses for the Tulsa trip: $798.65. She would have spent a hundred times that amount if she'd had it, and if she thought it would bring Amy back. As the plane banked above Tulsa, Sue looked down on the city. Somewhere, she felt, Amy was there, in one of the apartments or houses, and leaving seemed like abandoning her, giving up, and Sue had never given up on anything in her life. There was a wrenching feeling in her gut as the plane banked the other way and all she saw was sky.
It was great to sleep next to Ned again, cook Josh dinner, and to feel enveloped in the love of her loyal friends. Jasmine and honeysuckle perfumed the air, parrots flew over the yard, and the local peacocks strutted through the neighborhood, fanning out their colorful feathers. This was why Sue and Ned had moved here so long ago. But her mind and heart remained in Tulsa, a town she would never have visited in any other situation.
Two weeks later, on August 1, Rosie called. Sue's heart skipped the moment she heard that soft, stoned Oklahoma drawl.
"You're never gonna believe this," Rosie said. "Me and Shotgun got busted in Seminole, and they confiscated our van. I think the Rogues dropped a dime on us because we were following leads that Rags was there. Something real heavy's going down 'cause I never seen the Rogues like this before. They were real angry we were asking questions. But I spoke to a number of girls over there, said I was looking for my sister. They knew Mellow Cheryl and said she fit my description. She's from Miami! But how could she be my sister, because she had a different accent than me? I told them I had been living in Oklahoma for ten years now, that's why."
"Did you show them the pictures?" Sue asked, feeling her pulse race. She'd been depressed for weeks, and suddenly felt the veil lifting.
"They said it's her, and she's Rags' girl. He's somewhere else and put her in Seminole for safe keeping. Don't worry, Rogues are different than some of the other bikers. They don't sell or beat their women, so Amy's probably all right. Our lawyer says we'll get our van back because it was an illegal search, but we're really gonna need that reward money. I think we can find her and lure her into the van. I'll call you in a couple weeks, after the trial and we get the van back, okay?"
Sue wasn't about to sit back now, however. She had meetings every day. The Dade County State Attorney, Richard Gerstein, set up a meeting with one of his top prosecutors, Janet Reno, who promised to help. Detective Gonzales was keeping in touch with the Tulsa police. Sue met with the FBI in Miami, who agreed that this girl had to be Amy or "a dead ringer" for her, and informed the FBI office in Tulsa of the situation, which put a full-time agent on the case. Wheels were turning, but were they moving t
he investigative cart, or just spinning in place?
Tulsa police weren't completely somnambulant. When they arrested a girl even close to Amy's description, they would wire the photograph. None was the right girl.
Paul Branch had dropped off the face of the earth. After all this, he was gone. No sightings by police, no calls to Rex looking for money. And Branch was still their best hope. Of everyone, only the enforcer could apply the pressure to find Dishrag Harry.
Rosie called again. "Rags is back in Florida," she said, "but Cheryl is still in Seminole, a town a couple hours south of here. The Rogues have taken possession of her. I've shown her picture around and everyone agrees it's her, but she's gained weight. But I've got a situation here. My ex-husband stole my kid, and I need $500 for a writ against him."
Of course, Sue thought. Everyone thought she was the golden goose. "The reward money is in a trust account," she said, "and I can't touch it. If I had any money left, I'd be in Tulsa right now!"
Rosie's voice deflated. "I understand. Don't worry, I'll keep on it. We'll find Amy for you."
Everyone was so sure. Everyone was so hopeful.
Sue called Rex, gave him the latest, and asked if he had heard from Paul.
"Still AWOL," he told her. "I just can't understand it."
"He's still our best hope, don't you think?" she asked.
"I certainly would have said so before he disappeared."
"I just can't believe he would walk out on me like that," Sue said, trying not to whine. "It just doesn't seem right!"
Soon after, Sue received a phone call from Tulsa's Grady McFadden. "We just arrested a bunch of Rogues, and I was pumping some for information regarding your case. There's a good reason Branch hasn't called you," he said. "Rogues say they killed him.”
-11-
P aul Branch dead? It must have taken a large gang of Rogues to take on the canny biker. Sue fell into a depression and could barely eat dinner, just picking at her food at their round glass dining table.