Rafferty's Rules: A Rafferty P.I. Mystery

by W. Glenn Duncan

  Joe whistled and flipped his hand like he was shaking water off his fingertips.

  Fran frowned. She asked, “Did Goose have a gun?”

  “If he did, I didn’t see it.”

  “Then, it wasn’t a fair fight, was it?”

  “Fair, schmair,” I said. “Why this preoccupation with a fair fight? And what does ‘fair’ mean? Should we have been so evenly matched we killed each other simultaneously? Hell, Goose knew what was happening. He wouldn’t have agreed to fight unless he thought he had an edge. For that matter, neither would I. My edge was bigger. I won. Simple.”

  Joe shook more imaginary water off his fingertips.

  Fran said, “But—”

  “But nothing,” I said. “You show me a man who always fights ‘fair’ and I’ll show you a man who loses too often. Rafferty‘s Rule Twenty-three.”

  Fran and Joe went back to eating. Fran watched her plate. Joe watched me. It was embarrassing.

  I cracked another beer and lit the pipe and thought about bikers and things.

  “Joe,” I said after five minutes or so, “my usual snitches aren’t into the motorcycle scene, but you are. How about putting out the word for me?”

  If he had been a dog, he would have wagged his tail. “Sure. You bet. What?”

  “Let it get around that I’m after the five outlaws Guts Holman met at Lake Texoma last year. If they’re hanging around Dallas, let’s smoke them out. And you can tell people I’ll pay for information.”

  “Okay,” Joe said. “And I can tell you things now. Where Goose hangs out, that sort of stuff.”

  “No, thanks. I already had Goose. You could probably put me onto Tony, too, but I don’t want him, either. And let’s keep Fran out of it. It’s not her problem. Just help me find the five who bought Vivian without having to fight every biker in town, okay?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

  I gave Joe a card. “Call me here if you get anything. How do I reach you?”

  “I don’t have a phone where I live. You can catch me at work, though.” Joe pulled the evening shift at a twenty-four-hour convenience store near Love Field. I jotted down the address and phone number.

  Fran cleared the table and started making “time to go shopping” noises, so Joe and I left. Fran followed us outside. Joe took off first, blipping his motorcycle’s throttle but riding sedately enough. I put the jack handle away, shoved the Colt into the glove compartment, and started the Mustang. Then I shut it off again and got out of the car.

  “Fran,” I said, “this is none of my business, so tell me to butt out if you want.”

  She folded her arms and looked at me with a neutral expression. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, hell, you seem like a nice person. You’ve had your problems, but you’re coming back. I can see that. You know it, too. So, why do you work in a scuzzy joint like the Dew Drop Inn?”

  Fran smiled sardonically. “Because I like to eat. Don’t forget, I have a police record. Juvenile, okay, but it’s still a record. I left school in my sophomore year. I never worked anywhere before and I ran around with a motorcycle gang for eight years. I can’t type or take dictation or spell properly. I don’t know how to use a computer terminal. At times, I forget myself and say fuck. Now just where do you think I could find a decent job?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I’ll work on it.”

  As I backed out of the driveway, she waved good-bye like a little girl.

  Chapter 11

  “The thing of it is,” I said to Hilda, “she’s trying to get back to a normal life, but she’s stuck in that crummy job, hustling drinks, and shaking her ass for a bunch of rednecks who’d rather shoot pool and argue about trucks.”

  “No,” said Hilda, “the thing of it is, you want me to find a job for one of your fallen sparrows. I don’t see what that has to do with finding outlaw bikers, but that’s what the thing of it is.”

  “Come on, honey. All you have to do is talk to your Chamber of Commerce buddies. Somebody must have a job for a nice girl who wants to get ahead.”

  Hilda tapped her fingernails on her desk. “You promise this Fran what’s-her-name doesn’t chew gum and act like a hooker?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “I bet she has big boobs.”

  “Hilda, I swear to God she has the least sexy big boobs you ever saw.”

  “I don’t intend to inspect them. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “All she needs is a break, honey.”

  “Rafferty, you— Oh, all right. I’ll ask around. But you have to promise me something.”

  “Tis done, fair lady. Thy boon is granted unheard.”

  “Seriously,” Hilda said. “Don’t do anything foolish about those bikers.” She shuddered. “I feel funny if I even see them on the freeway. How you expect … Anyway, be careful. Please?”

  “Absolutely. No problem. And thanks about Fran.”

  “No guarantees, big guy, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  On the way out of Hilda’s store, I returned the favor. I didn't tease Purple Shirt about his spit curls.

  The next day started all wrong. Marge Mollison phoned to tell me Vivian was missing.

  By the time I got to Highland Park, Vivian had been gone forty-five minutes.

  “We were out front,” Marge said, “watering the flowers. There was a call for me and I went inside. While I was on the phone, Consuela looked out the window and saw Vivian getting into a car.”

  Consuela was the maid with the heartbreaker smile. She had not been fast enough to stop Vivian, but she said the car was a late-model green Pontiac. And she had memorized the last three digits of the license number. There had been one man in the car, she told us, an average-looking man. Like a salesman.

  George was off somewhere at a meeting, doing whatever rich men without jobs do at such meetings.

  “Okay, Marge,” I said. “It’s too low-key to be biker trouble. Would she get into a car with a strange man if he propositioned her?”

  Marge nodded grimly. “Remember what I told you? If someone … Never mind, that’s probably what happened.”

  “For now, let’s assume so. I can make a pass through two or three of the closest motels. I might be lucky. That’s the private way. If we go public, the cops will be slower getting started, but they’ll do a more thorough job once they get rolling. Personally, I’d hedge my bet and go both ways, but it’s your decision.”

  I didn’t think many mothers could handle that sort of situation without wasting time with questions or recriminations.

  Marge Mollison wasn’t a typical mother. She chewed her lip for ten seconds, then said, “You start. If I don’t hear from you within an hour, I’ll call the police.”

  Consuela said the Pontiac had headed east, so I turned the Mustang that way and ambled along, trying to think like a horny salesman who had accidentally stumbled across the Linda Lovelace of his dreams. That, in itself, was a broad assumption—no pun intended—but I had to start somewhere.

  Such hopeful drifting took me to a smattering of cheap motels near Central Expressway. I ignored the big Hilton on Central; it didn’t seem likely my provisional salesman would pay Hilton room rates for a quickie with a casual pickup.

  There were no Pontiacs at the first motel. At the next stop, there were two. One of them was green. Unfortunately, it was being loaded with suitcases by a middle-aged couple. The plate number was wrong, to boot.

  Paydirt at motel number three. The Pontiac was parked in the middle of a string of concrete block rooms. The three doors closest to it were shut; the curtains were closed.

  I went to the office to find the manager. If he was a reasonable, understanding fellow, I might explain my delicate mission in terms remotely resembling the truth.

  He wasn’t.

  He was a stocky man with a baby-fat physique and an old-fashioned brush cut. He had forgotten everything he learned at his last Dale Carnegie course. He was sn
otty and secretive and generally uncooperative. So I dragged him up over the counter and we discussed the problem face-to-face. That cost him two shirt buttons and the key to Unit Eight.

  Halfway across the parking lot, I had a sudden thought and returned to the office. Brush Cut stopped pushing buttons at his switchboard when I opened the door.

  When I left again, I had the registration card for Unit Eight and Brush Cut’s solemn promise not to phone the police until he wanted his thumbs broken.

  The motel registration said the Pontiac driver’s name was John Brown. Sure it was.

  The chain lock on Unit Eight’s door was a useless afterthought. I only had to lean on the door a little bit before the screws ripped out of the timber frame.

  Inside Vivian Mollison was lying on one of the twin beds. John Brown was crawling on top of her, ten seconds from being in the saddle, on the job, in the nest, dipping his wick; pick your favorite euphemism. When the door frame splintered, he nearly broke his back straightening up.

  I closed the door behind me. “John Brown’s body lies a-moldering in the grave,” I said. “Prophetic song, that one.”

  “Who are you?” he said weakly, trying to muster up a shred of dignity. It didn’t work. He was a sallow, pot-bellied little guy with oily hair. I couldn’t imagine him being very dignified under any circumstances.

  “In one minute,” I said, “this door will close behind you. In the meantime, you will hand me some identification, get dressed, apologize to the young lady and”—I stopped a feeble outburst with an upraised hand—“and you will not utter a single sentence without the word ‘sir’ in it. The minute starts now.”

  He wasted ten seconds opening and closing his mouth, then he said, “Yes, sir,” and ripped the pocket of his trousers getting his wallet out. He handed me the wallet and pawed at the jumbled pile of clothing on the empty bed like a burrowing animal.

  I removed his driver’s license and tossed his wallet back to him. He dropped it and tried three times to pick it up. In fairness, it should be noted he was hopping around the room with his pants half on at the time.

  “John L. Bartlett,” I read. “Do you spend most of your spare time dragging young ladies off to motels, John?”

  “No!” he said. “Uh, no, sir. I only asked for directions … And she said … I didn’t force her, I swear I didn’t. Sir!”

  “Twenty seconds to go, John.”

  “Yes, sir!” He decided to do without tied shoes, socks, and tie. “I’m ready now, sir. Please.”

  “Piss off, then.”

  He stopped in front of me, looked longingly at his driver’s license, then tried to open the door.

  He couldn’t do it; his hand shook too much. I had to open it for him. He ran out with a jerky, lopsided gait and stumbled over the doorsill.

  I closed the door behind him, leaned against it, and listened to John L. Bartlett, would-be stud, leave thirty dollars worth of rubber on the parking lot.

  Vivian hadn’t moved. Her legs were spread, her knees high, and her eyes empty. “He didn’t apologize,” she said in a bored tone.

  “No, he didn’t, did he? What do you say we forget it this time?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Who cares?”

  Vivian was underweight, even for her lanky build. Her hipbones were too prominent and her ribs showed. She had an ugly bruise on her right thigh; it looked too yellow to be fresh, but I asked anyway.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. He was okay.” She giggled suddenly, stupidly.

  “All right, then, let’s go home, Vivian. Get up now. Get dressed.”

  “Don’t you want to fuck me?”

  “No. Thanks, anyway.”

  Vivian shrugged and slowly got off the bed. She rummaged through her clothes, found a pair of white panties, and stuck her feet through the leg holes. She stopped with the panties at knee level, though, and shuffled into the bathroom, bent over, clutching the waistband with both hands. Her scrawny backside stuck out awkwardly.

  I remembered seeing my kid sister do the same thing when she was about three years old.

  I found the room phone and dialed Marge Mollison. She answered before the second ring. “I found her,“ I said. “She’s okay. We’ll be back soon.”

  “Thank you,” Marge said, and hung up.

  Vivian came out of the bathroom and sluggishly continued dressing. She put on a pair of white shorts, then bogged down trying to fasten her bra. I had to help her. While I fumbled with the stupid little hooks, she fidgeted and complained.

  “She makes me wear this thing,” she said. “It’s dumb. Nobody wears stupid old bras these days.”

  In the end, Vivian didn’t wear her stupid old bra either, because I couldn’t get it fastened and she refused to try anymore.

  She struggled into an ’84 Olympic Gold’ T-shirt, wormed her feet into rope sandals, and we left. I stuffed her discarded bra into my pocket.

  Ah, the romance and intrigue of private investigation work.

  Back in Highland Park, Marge was dry-eyed and efficient. She hustled Vivian off into the bowels of the big house and threw me an over-the-shoulder “I’ll be right back” look. I waited.

  Consuela padded into the kitchen and dribbled my heart like a basketball. Her weepy smile had even more horsepower than her dry dazzler. She also handed me the world’s most lovingly poured beer. I took a big chance and nodded my thanks, even though my head was far too big to stay on my shoulders.

  Halfway through the beer, Marge returned, checkbook in hand.

  “Who was it?” she asked.

  I handed her Bartlett’s driver’s license. “Horny aluminum siding salesman. Apparently, he stopped for directions. I don’t know who came on to whom, though I suppose it doesn’t matter much.”

  “No. Where did you find them?”

  “A no-tell motel the other side of Central. There won’t be any trouble. Nobody knows who she is and Bartlett won’t be back.”

  Marge waved the license. “Do you want this?”

  “Nope.”

  She dropped it into a plastic garbage bin in the corner. The yellow lid flopped twice, then stopped. Good-bye John L. Bartlett.

  “Before you got there,” Marge said, “had they …”

  “No. Nick-of-time Rafferty, at your service.”

  She nodded. “Good. Thank you again. I don’t think I could handle it if she got pregnant.”

  “You don’t look too upset to me.”

  “You should see it from this side. Right!” she said crisply and started scribbling in the checkbook. “Will a thousand do? For the special service?”

  “Forget it. It was only a little ten-minute job.”

  She looked to see if I was serious, then voided the half-written check. “I seem to keep saying thank you. ”

  “De nada,” I said. “Shouldn’t you let George know she’s back? Or did you already call him?”

  “I didn’t tell him she was missing.”

  It was none of my business. I sipped the beer and didn’t say a word. She answered me anyway.

  “Why call him out of his meeting? All he could do was worry and he does enough of that anyway. I decided to wait until I heard from you or had to call the police.”

  “Sure,” I said, and drained the beer. “See you around, then. And, Marge, for God’s sake, keep a better eye on her from now on.”

  When a thin-faced woman like Marge looked grim, she added new depth to the word. “Don’t worry about that!” She fired up a Virginia Slim and huffed smoke at the ceiling. “This may sound ungrateful after what you just did, but do you have any progress to report?”

  “No. I’m working on the problem. Hell, I may even be getting somewhere, but there’s nothing to report yet.”

  “Isn’t that unusual? The other firm George hired used to phone every day.”

  “You must have paid them by the day, then. Me, I’m on piecework, remember?”

  “Very well,” she said. “May I offer you anything? Another
drink? Lunch?”

  “No, thanks.” I wanted to go home and take a shower. I felt vaguely dirty.

  Halfway home, while fishing for my lighter, I found Vivian’s bra in my pocket. I started to toss it on the backseat with the other junk, then changed my mind and stopped to drop it into a street corner litter bin.

  An old lady walking a scruffy fox terrier gave me a helluva dirty look.

  Chapter 12

  Remember the old cliché about a lull before the storm?

  The next three days were like that. It was one of those periods where you drift along, going through the motions, wondering idly if you’re making progress without being concerned one way or the other.

  Later on, when the storm breaks, you wonder if there were signs you missed. At least, I did.

  It wasn’t that nothing happened during those three days; merely that nothing bad happened. Vivian Mollison didn’t disappear again. The bikers didn’t firebomb my home, office, or car. My rent didn’t go up. There were no unexpected bills lurking in the junk mail. It was peaceful as hell.

  And it wasn’t only me. Somehow the entire state of Texas scraped through without a political scandal, airliner crash, or nursing home fire. And apparently those clowns in Washington took a break, too. They managed to avoid giving themselves a pay raise or starting a war anywhere. I think they caught a politician with his hand in someone’s pocket, but what else is new?

  Like I said, it was a quiet time.

  Still, quiet doesn’t mean stopped.

  Rafferty’s Rule Nine: Dull won’t balance the checkbook.

  So I did my feeble best to keep the pot boiling.

  So far, I had tied the bikers who bought Vivian to only two firm locations. Lake Texoma in Grayson County, where they got her from Guts Holman, and Daingerfield in Morris County, where they dumped her.

  The name Conover—from Mollison’s files—might be a name or it might refer to a little town in Dalton County, east of Daingerfield. That was a third, very iffy, possibility. And there was an indirect connection to Dallas, through the DeathStars. But I had that end covered, what with Goose limping and Joe Zifretti rumor-mongering.