Spare Parts: A Ted Mitchell Detective Novel (Ted Mitchell Detective Novels Book 4)

by Jeffrey Kinghorn

  “Call me Rain,” she said. I nodded. “I’m out on a limb talking to you.” Her pimp no doubt took her real name from her, along with everything else.

  “You going to have a problem for showing up here?” I said. We walked behind the others toward the cars parked in the shade along the road. That’s where all the trees were, most of the land having been cleared for graves.

  Rain said, “I double-timed the circuit last night and made enough to cover. Should be okay.”

  “You must have thought a lot of Allison,” I said.

  We stopped. She looked at me with steady eyes for the first time, and then spat, “Who the fuck is Allison?”

  I turned back toward the open grave down into which the casket had been lowered, and offered, “That was Allison.”

  “You mean Juice?” she said.

  I said, “Her name was Allison Thomas.”

  “Wouldn’t have figured that,” said Rain. “Nice name.”

  We resumed our walk toward the vehicles. “Why Juice?” I said.

  “Who knows,” she said. “Spider, Dust Mote, Beer Can. Names happen fast. Get the first thing that sticks to you. She ended up Juice over a glass of sweet drink, or the spark she struck when she wanted it to. Pick one.” Rain used her head to indicate several in the group ahead of us. “Pepper, up there in the black jeans,” she continued, “Flame next to her. Boy on the end is Bumper.”

  “Nobody has a last name?” I said.

  “What the fuck for?” said Rain.

  “And you all double-timed your circuits last night,” I said, “so you could come and say a prayer for Juice?”

  “Give you her nut if you needed it, and then would take a beating,” said Rain. “Everyone a these ho’s you’re looking at owed her something.”

  “She ever take a beating for you?” I said.

  “Skank is skank on the street,” said Rain. “Boy-cunt, girl-cunt, doesn’t matter. Wasn’t down like that for Juice.”

  “So,” I said, “she did take a beating for you.”

  “Stood up to the fucking Bottom Bitch,” she said.” Slapped that gnarly cunt down. Then took a line up the ass for it. Didn’t stop her. Tough girl. Knew how to fight. I like fighters.”

  I was relieved that Adrienne had not made this walk with us. I had all I could do to keep from flinching myself. It went without saying; still, I asked, “No one stands up to the Bottom Bitch?”

  “Not if you want to stay alive,” she said. “Juice was the only other one I knew could do it.”

  I said, “There was someone else?”

  “Me,” said Rain.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Rain flipped a fierce bird with her right hand to the memory of it. “Juice all but fired that bitch,” she said, “then had the balls to refuse the job herself.”

  “This Bottom Bitch,” I said, “she has status?”

  “Speaks for the pimp when the pimp is busy,” Rain said. “Even when he’s not.”

  I said, “That all?”

  “Metes out punishment,” she said. “Nothing meaner than a Bottom Bitch.”

  “Juice in the habit of making trouble?” I said.

  “No way did she belong on the street,” said Rain. “That girl was wicked-smart.”

  This was going somewhere and I had to make it pay off before I lost ground with Rain. “The Pimp have a name?” I said.

  She looked up at me again and considered her answer before making it. “What was Juice to you?” she said. “You a regular? You fall in love with her or something?”

  I said, “I’m a friend of the family.”

  Rain turned and regarded Adrienne, Mrs. Davenport, and Reed Thomas, all still standing by the grave. “That her family?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “She also had a child.”

  This landed as a surprise. “Juice?” said Rain. “A baby? How old?”

  “An infant,” I said.

  Something appeared to close for her, understanding slowly gathered behind her eyes. “I didn’t know that,” she said, and then added, “Mister.”

  I took out one of my cards. “Ted Mitchell,” I said.

  “No, the pimp’s name,” she said. “It’s Mister.”

  I nodded, but did not put the card away. “Mister had to get rid of Juice,” I said, “didn’t he?”

  “Sold her to the Russian,” said Rain.

  I did not want to pull any punches. “Why didn’t Mister just kill her?”

  “The Russian wants someone,” said Rain, “there’s money in it for Mister.”

  “This Russian must be selective,” I said.

  “First of all,” said Rain, “you’ve got to be clean. No crank. No HIV.”

  I said, “And then what?”

  “The Russian only wants what he’s already sold,” said Rain. “You sign on with him, you’ve got a way out of the life.”

  “Everyone must want on with the Russian,” I said.

  “Ticket to ride,” she said. “Get disappeared. Go back to the world.”

  We had reached shade and stood by an aged Toyota Camry that had once had a dark blue finish. The Houston sun had devoured it. The others had ceased to talk among themselves and were conspicuously focused on Rain and me. I didn’t like it for Rain. “You can call me any time,” I said, as I handed her my card.

  Rain looked at the card without taking it. Then she looked at the others. Then back down at the card. “I don’t want that on me,” she said.” None of us do.”

  “Bottom Bitch?” I said.

  “Cunt’s days are numbered,” said Rain.

  “We’ve got to go,” said Bumper.

  Flame said, “Get in the car, girl.”

  “Gonna get spanked good as it is,” said another of the girls. She could have been eighteen—she could have been forty.

  “We did good by Juice,” said the other male. “Now it’s time to face the music. Do the dance.”

  The group split up between the Toyota and a vintage Pontiac LeMans. It was not in much better shape than the Camry. Rain snapped the card out of my hand as the others diverted into the vehicles. “Juice’s baby have a name?” she asked as she stood at the opened back door of the sun-ruined Camry.

  “Grace,” I said.

  Something further closed for Rain. She nearly betrayed herself with an emotional reaction. “Who’s got her?” she said.

  I thought better about saying anything further regarding Grace. “She’s going to be fine.”

  Rain said, “Then I don’t have to give her another thought, do I?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You have a baby,” she said, “and they find out about it, you never get out. Kid end’s up paying the price.”

  We stayed on each other for longer than I thought the moment would allow. “I’ll do whatever I can,” I said. I doubted the others heard. One last look at the still-open grave before Rain got in the Camry and pulled the door closed. She did not look my way again. I waited until both cars had pulled away before heading back to Allison’s family. It was not my place to withhold any of what I had just learned from Adrienne. Still, I wondered if I would.

  Three

  Allison had not yet been in the ground a full day when I charged out of my office with two overnight parcels under my arm―keys in one hand, coffee in the other―and nearly collided with Reed Thomas, who had reached for the knob on his way in. We came close to wearing the coffee. “Whoa,” I said, “Mr. Thomas.”

  “I took a chance,” he said. “Obviously now is not a good time.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Come in, please. The Post Office can wait.” I stepped back inside and held the door open for him. He hesitated before coming into the outer office which remained fully furnished right down to a pad and pen on the desk blotter, along with several dummy file folders, to give the appearance that my phantom secretary was momentarily out of pocket.

  Thomas gave the office only cursory scrutiny before a slightly lifted eyebrow indicated that he had
not bought the ruse. “No secretary to do that for you?”

  “What exactly gave me away?” I said.

  He tipped his head toward the two parcels under my arm. “Your packages are addressed by hand.”

  I was not a little impressed with his observation and analysis. “Good eyes,” I said. “You should go into private investigation.” I tapped the nearest of the two client-chairs as I went around my desk to sit down and went on, “I haven’t made any coffee this morning. I bought a cup on my way in.”

  “I hope you’ll call me Reed,” he said.

  “Reed it is,” I said.

  “I don’t need anymore coffee,” he said. “I’m on my way to the airport. I didn’t want to leave town without a word.”

  I said, “Are you alone?”

  He nodded and said, “Constance, has decided to stay on for awhile. Adrienne surprised her with an invitation.” It had grown clear that mother and daughter had found their way toward each other again after a generation of bitter estrangement. Still, Adrienne’s asking her mother to stay on seemed not in keeping, and quick. I kept that to myself. He sat down and clasped his hands in his lap. He wore a blue blazer over gray slacks. Though he was slender, his neck retained the girth and firmness of a wrestler or gymnast—lean muscle. We looked to be the same height. “A bit quick,” he said, “true. Not my place to interfere.”

  “Nor mine,” I said.

  “Right,” he said, as he adjusted himself in the chair. “I would like to retain your services.”

  “For what?” I said.

  “I have no faith,” he said, “that the police will pursue this case with any kind of vigor.” He would get no argument from me on that score. He continued, “I’m hoping you’ll pick up the slack and do what needs to be done.”

  “I’m on it,” I said. “What made you think I would need your retainer?”

  “To make it official,” he said. “I guess it would allow me the feeling, I don’t know, that I was somehow instrumental.” I waited for him to say it all. “That I would somehow be involved in finding my daughter’s killer.”

  “If I worked for you?” I said, begging agreement.

  “Yes,” he said. He went on alert, trying to sense if he had insulted me with that intention. “I’m not sure what your relationship to Allison was.”

  Our visit had just turned greasy. “I didn’t like the way she treated Adrienne,” I said. “I did my best to keep my mouth shut about it. Most of the time I succeeded.”

  He canted his head in an anemic probe. “Adrienne tells me that you are close friends,” he said, dripping with innocent curiosity. I gave him nothing. “Special friends,” he added.

  I let his question hang between us for a moment. He did not seem in the slightest embarrassed over his need to know the nature of our relationship. When I eventually spoke, I did so slowly, and pointedly, with patience, “Because I did not care for your daughter’s treatment of my friend, nor for the dereliction she displayed of her responsibility to her own child, I made myself scarce.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Adrienne didn’t come out and say so, but I sensed she was hurt by your distancing yourself.”

  “Did you now?” I said.

  “For her, anyway,” he said, “it seems you are a very special friend. I felt bad for her.”

  “Is that right?” I said. “Touching, given your history.”

  “I know what it’s like to feel abandoned,” he said.

  “Interesting,” I said, “again, given your history. Adrienne feels I’ve abandoned her?”

  He said, “No, no, bad choice of words.”

  I held up a hand, palm front, and said, “This is unseemly, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Reed, please,” he said.

  I said, “Let’s keep it Mr. Thomas.”

  He took a breath and cut his eyes toward the floor. I took a bet with myself on what was coming. “Are you lovers?” he asked in the tentative tone of one who knows he has gone too far.

  I had seen inside this man. “This just keeps getting better,” I said. “What did Adrienne say when you put that question to her?”

  He came back to me on a forced grin that was more rictus than smile. “I have not asked Adrienne,” he said. “I think you realize that.”

  “I do now,” I said, “but if you couldn’t bring yourself to ask her, what made you think it would be okay to ask me?”

  His face flushed red. The way he shook it off conveyed the extent to which he had demeaned himself. “God help me,” he said. “She’s an exciting woman. After everything. All this time”

  Not only had I seen inside this man, I recognized what I saw. “We are not lovers,” I said, even as I imagined making love to Adrienne. The image was thrilling. I went on, “The possibility has never presented itself.”

  “I’m not proud of needing to know,” he said, “but it’s a relief to hear.”

  “That’s apparent,” I said. “Feel better?”

  “Her thing for women,” he said. “I don’t know—”

  “Now that really is a disservice,” I said.

  “I always hoped it was not permanent,” he said.

  “Adrienne does not have a thing for women,” I said. “It’s more who she is than a thing she has.”

  “I misspoke,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, “you did. Again.”

  He said, “I wonder if you can understand.”

  “As it happens,” I said, “I believe I do.”

  He went reflective and spoke quietly, “I was so hurt at the time.” I said to myself, here we go. “I thought,” he confessed, “I had stopped loving her.”

  I said, “Where’s this going, Mr. Thomas?”

  “I remarried very quickly,” he said. “Perhaps too quickly. Had the family I’d always wanted to have had with Adrienne.” This gave him pause, and, it seemed, some pain.

  “Me and bartenders,” I said, “people often make the same mistake. We are not professional counselors.”

  He either didn’t hear me, or it made no difference. “The woman I’m married to now,” he said, “I do love her.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  He continued, “But not in the same way.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Not with the same passion,” he added.

  “Along with our not being counselors,” I said, “neither are we Priests.”

  He was unstoppable. “I respect her,” he said. I nodded “I’m sure she knows,” he said.

  “Would be hard not to,” I said.

  “We tried to rescue each other,” said Thomas. “She had just fled her own first marriage.”

  “Desperate behavior,” I said, “in service to the fiction that we are not alone.”

  “I leapt at the chance,” he said, “to break her fall.”

  I said, “As well as your own.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  I swatted the desk-top and said, “Where are you parked, Reed?”

  My return to calling him Reed surprised him, which was not unintended. “Block down,” he said. “One over.”

  I said, “How about a lift to the Post Office? I won’t mind walking back.”

  Embarrassed, he got to his feet and said, “Why don’t I just be on my way?”

  “Relax,” I said. “Have you had breakfast?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Hungry?” I asked.

  He said, “Yes, actually.”

  “I know a great little taqueria,” I said, “makes killer huevos rancheros. Set you up for the whole day”

  “May I call you Ted?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not.”

  He said, “I’d like that, Ted.”

  “You do understand that I am already committed to this case and have no intention of working for you, or anyone else?

  “I do now,” he said.

  I said, “Let’s go.”

  I half expected Reed Thomas to be gone by the time I got back outside at the Post Off
ice. He had waited in the car, a rented Lexus, with the engine running and the air conditioning set on what might have been labeled arctic blast. He said, “I thought you might have given me the slip.”

  “Abandonment issues,” I said. “Haven’t we covered that?”

  He said, “Hardly.” The way he had said it got me thinking more about the status of his current marriage, as we headed east and detoured around the Metrorail extension project which took us by the coffee plant on Harrisburg. The aroma was rich enough to cover the scent of petrochemicals that can be distinctive during long dry spells.

  The huevos rancheros did not disappoint, which I think continued the morning’s surprises for Reed Thomas, after noting, guardedly, that most of the other diners did not speak English. “How did you discover this place?” he asked.

  “Followed my nose,” I said.

  Thomas welcomed a coffee refill. This, from the guy who earlier, in my office, had claimed to have had enough of the stuff. He stared at it. A hunch I’d had earlier blossomed again in my mind. I went with it and asked, “When did your wife leave you?”

  This brought him up off the chipped mug like a dashboard character with a spring-loaded head. “How did you know?” he said.

  “I didn’t,” I said, “but I do now.”

  “Something I did?” he said.

  “Sitting here staring at that mug,” I said, “isn’t getting you to the airport.”

  He retracted a bit, not unlike a turtle, and admitted, “A month ago.”

  “Have you seen your children?” I said.

  “Twice,” he said.

  “Did they want to see you?” I said.

  He shook his head slightly and said, “I don’t think so.”

  We let that inflate between us for several moments. The Spanish spoken at the other tables sounded faster than English. I couldn’t identify the space between words. I said, “Is it a done deal?”

  “She’s retained a lawyer,” he said.

  “Tough,” I said. These Thomas’s, I thought, are kind of retainer-happy.