Satan's Pony

by Robin Hathaway

  “Wait,” she called me back. “You’re a doctor. What’s a five-letter word for ‘a device that keeps arteries open’?”

  “Stent.”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  CHAPTER 20

  While in Bridgeton, I decided to look up Jack and ask him if he’d noticed anything unusual the night Sunny was killed. I knew the night clerk rented an apartment on Pearl Street in a building that was even seedier than the Oakview Motor Lodge. Until now, I had only seen it from the outside. The frame house was loaded with gingerbread and would have been a fine example of Victorian architecture except for its sagging porch and peeling paint.

  I hit the button next to Jack’s name. After a minute a sleepy, disembodied voice jarred me. “Yeah?”

  “Oh, hi, Jack. It’s Jo. I’m sorry. I forgot you work nights and sleep late. Stupid of me.” I glanced at my watch. Only 9:30.

  “No prob. I’ll buzz you in.”

  Jack’s apartment surprised me. Neat and cheerful, the walls were covered with bright posters of Star Wars and other sci-fi films. He had a TV, a VCR, and a DVD player. A bookcase housed multiple videos and DVDs. He was obviously updating his film collection. He wore jeans and a tee, but his feet were bare. He had probably thrown on his clothes quickly while I was coming up the stairs. He pulled out a chair for me. “Want some coffee? All I have is instant,” he apologized.

  “No, thanks. I’m sorry I woke you. I wanted to talk to you about last night.”

  He slumped onto his futon. “I wasn’t much help,” he muttered.

  “Neither was I,” I said.

  He was quiet, eyes cast down.

  “Did you hear, they think Sunny was poisoned?”

  He looked up.

  “And Pi is under suspicion because he skipped out.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Exactly.” I let that sink in before I went on. “What I want to know is if you saw anything suspicious last night. Like somebody fooling with Sunny’s drinks …”

  He brushed a strand of hair from his eyes. “God, everything was so crazy. I was afraid those guys were going to tear the place apart.”

  “Me, too.”

  He closed his eyes, thinking. After a moment he said, “I was sitting at the desk. Most of the action was outside. I could hear it—and see some of it through the glass door. Now and then one of them would burst in to grab a beer or pee. They were drinking stronger stuff, too. I saw at least one bottle of bourbon.”

  I nodded.

  “And there was plenty of pot floating around.”

  Again I nodded.

  “Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore and I went outside to see what was happening.”

  “I saw you.”

  He looked sheepish. “And I came right back inside.”

  “Smartest thing you could’ve done.”

  “And called nine-one-one.”

  “Good for you. I tried to, but I dropped my cell when Sunny grabbed me.”

  “That was pretty cool, what Canby did.” He grinned. “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t cool for you. I mean, what if he’d missed?”

  “Yeah, but he didn’t.” I returned his grin. “Can you remember who came into the lobby?”

  “I don’t know many of those guys. Only Pi, and Sunny and a couple of others. They all look pretty much alike.”

  “Ugly.”

  “Yeah.”

  I glanced around the room. “You have a nice place here. I don’t suppose you have any interest in science fiction?”

  He blushed. “You might call it an obsession.”

  I picked up a worn paperback from the table and looked at the title. Classic Science Fiction Stories. “I’ve never read much sci-fi. Could I borrow this?”

  “Help yourself. I …” He paused.

  “What?”

  “We science fiction buffs don’t like the term sci-fi,” he said, half apologetically. “It’s usually used by people who make fun of us.”

  “Oh? Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “That’s OK.” He hesitated, then said in a rush, “Iwritestories.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I have a drawer full of rejection slips.”

  “That’s fabulous!” So, I was wrong again. Just like with Becca. She hadn’t been running off to New York to get away from Bayfield. She’d been going to Manhattan to study the skyscrapers, in the hope of becoming an architect. And Jack wasn’t escaping into sci-fi fiction; he was honing his craft by reading good sci-fi writers. I thought everyone was running away because I was. “Someone told me once that if you don’t get rejection slips on a regular basis, you’re not a professional writer.”

  “Then I’m a real professional.” Jack smiled.

  “Could I read one?”

  “What?”

  “One of your stories.”

  “Oh—” He was suddenly shy. “I dunno … .”

  “I’d really like to.”

  He got up and went over to a battered filing cabinet in a corner of the room. He came back with a manuscript. I read the title. “The Little Green Man.” I was already hooked. “Thanks. I’ll take good care of it.”

  He shrugged. Like any professional writer, he probably had several copies, on either paper or disk. “I’d better be going. If you think of anything else you saw last night, let me know.”

  As he let me out, he said, “That guest—the only guy there that’s not a biker?—was hanging around the lobby for a while.”

  “Stan?”

  “Yeah. He kept peeking out the door. I don’t think he’d ever seen anything like it.”

  “Who had?” I laughed.

  He joined me. “But after awhile he really got into the swing of it. Was opening bottles and handing them to the guys … .”

  As I walked to my bike I thought how little I’d learned about Sunny’s murder and how much I’d learned about Jack.

  CHAPTER 21

  When I walked in to pick up my mail, the motel was abuzz. Paul Nelson was in his office talking earnestly to Detective Peck. Maggie was counting sheets, while Theresa and Marie, the two maids, were setting off in opposite directions with piles of clean towels. A bunch of bikers, Jingles among them, were horsing around the soda machine. No one paid any attention to me until I turned to leave.

  “Dr. Banks?”

  I turned back and saw Peck coming toward me. When he reached me, he lowered his voice. “Have you heard anything from our illustrious Apostle leader?”

  I shook my head.

  He gave me a keen look. For a boondocks detective, he was no bumpkin. I had read a book once by a guy who had made a life study of facial expressions. Interviewed tribes in the back ends of Africa, Australia, and South America and discovered certain similarities among members of the human race. One was, we blink more often when we’re lying. I tried to keep from blinking while Peck stared at me. Another thing this scholar had studied was body language. According to him, liars often make furtive involuntary movements with their hands and feet. I stood rigidly still.

  “A word of warning, Doctor. Withholding evidence and aiding a suspect are serious offenses with grave consequences.”

  He was good. Almost as good as Emily Snow. I felt the sweat trickle down my back. As Peck turned away, someone called my name from across the room.

  Jingles.

  I waited, watching him slide toward me. His stringy red beard looked stringier than usual and there were pouches under his eyes. “We have a problem.” He leaned in real close, giving me the full benefit of his body odor. “They’re releasing Sunny’s body tomorrow and we’re planning a little send-off for him. Do you know a patch of ground with, say, a shade tree and maybe a few daisies?”

  I examined Jingles’s face carefully, the way the detective had examined mine. Not for signs of deceit, but for any signs of human feeling. I found none. “I’ll look into it,” I said.

  “We’re pickin’ Sunny up at eight A.M. We need to know before that. My ro
om number’s seventeen.”

  His color wasn’t good and his face showed strain. Maybe he had suffered some loss. Who was I to judge? “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He left without a word of thanks.

  I shrugged and headed for Maggie. She had stopped counting sheets and was staring into space—in another world. As I drew near, I saw a tear glisten on her cheek. She wiped it quickly away when I came up.

  “Mag?”

  She focused on me.

  “Anything wrong?”

  She smiled, a wry smile.

  “I know. Everything.”

  “Detective Peck has been grilling us all morning. Nick’s case went to the jury today. And Paul …” She swallowed hard.

  I wanted to hug her, but with all the people milling around the lobby, I hesitated. Instead, I patted her hand. Paul was sitting a few yards away, studiously reading the paper. “Is Paul going with you tomorrow?” I asked loudly.

  She shook her head.

  “Well,” I said cheerfully, “since you don’t have any problems, I have one for you.” If I could distract her from her own troubles for even a few minutes, it might help. “I need a grave site.”

  She looked startled.

  I told her about Jingles’s request. It worked. She wrinkled her brow, giving the problem her full attention. “I don’t know any farmer who would give up part of his precious field,” she said slowly, “but I do know a patch of woods …” She laid the pile of sheets aside and went into the office. I watched her pick up the phone and dial. (They still had a rotary phone.) While she talked, Paul continued to read his paper. When she came back she looked pleased. “I found something. Ed Potter has a clearing in a patch of woods behind his house. He and his boys—”

  “Ah, the Potter boys. They’re the ones who found the first scarecrow.”

  “That’s right.” A cloud crossed her face as she was reminded of the crimes her son was accused of. One of which was doping immigrant workers and hanging them in fields disguised as scarecrows—until they died of exposure.

  I bit my tongue. “Is Mr. Potter willing?” I asked hastily.

  She nodded. “He’s a reverent man. He said, ‘Even outlaws, like those bikers, deserve a decent burial.’”

  “That’s very kind—”

  “Now, what about a preacher? I can ask mine. Reverend Dunbar. Do you know what kind of service—?”

  “I’ll check,” I interrupted. “But I don’t think a preacher will be necessary. Bikers have their own traditions.”

  “You mean like the Quakers?”

  Pi’s description of Crazy Freddy’s funeral came back to me and I remembered that the Quakers specialized in silent meditation. “Not exactly,” I said. “Thanks, Mag. You’ve been a big help.” I took off in search of Jingles.

  I found him in the parking lot, mounting his bike. I gave him Maggie’s information and told him where the patch of woods was located. “I know your funerals are pretty wild,” I said. “I hope you’ll try to keep this one low-key.”

  “Sure, Doc.” His smile bordered on a sneer. “I’ll see that it’s real dignified.” He revved his motor. “Think I’ll take a look-see at that grave site right now. Make sure it’s up to par.”

  A sudden thought came to me. “Does Sunny have any family?”

  An odd look crossed his face. “None that would claim him.”

  “But shouldn’t they be notified?”

  “I took care of that.” He disappeared in a cloud of exhaust.

  Jingles seemed to be in charge now, taking over Pi’s place. I wondered how the other bikers liked that.

  CHAPTER 22

  I checked my watch. Only 11:30. Plenty of time before office hours to poke around and ask a few questions. I decided to tackle Marie. Motel staff often heard and saw things that other people missed, primarily because the guests often treated them as if they were furniture. While I was searching for her, my cell phone rang. Tom’s lawyer friend wanted to meet with us in his office at 4:30. Since my office hours weren’t over until 4:00, this would be cutting it close. I told him I might be a few minutes late.

  “Hi, Doc.” Marie rattled by trundling her supply cart at breakneck speed.

  “Hey, wait!” I caught up with her. “Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure.” Marie was always happy to stop working.

  I looked up and down the hall and lowered my voice. “I’m trying to find out if anyone saw anything suspicious the day Sunny died.”

  “You working on that biker’s murder?”

  Marie knew I’d helped break the immigrant scam. “Sort of. Unofficially.”

  “Be careful, Doc. Those bikers are tough.”

  I nodded impatiently

  “I did hear one funny thing today,” she said. “That guy with the red beard—”

  “Jingles.”

  “Was talking to the bruiser with the tattoos—”

  “They all have tattoos.”

  “This one has more!”

  “Hammerhead.”

  “I was running the vacuum, and when I stopped I overheard Red Beard say something about a poison pie.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He said, ‘I think pie poisoned him.’ Do you think he got a bad slice at the diner?” She looked quizzical.

  Not pie but Pi? I translated. “Maybe,” I said. “Anything else?”

  “No. As soon as they noticed the vacuum was off, they shut up and beat it.”

  “Thanks, Marie. Any luck getting in there?” I nodded at the door of the odd couple’s room next to mine.

  She shook her head in disgust.

  “Don’t they ever come out?”

  “I think they do, but they’re too lazy to take the Do Not Disturb sign off the door.”

  “Have you tried knocking?”

  Her eyes widened. “Once I did, and they were inside. The wife cursed me out something terrible!”

  I smiled. “Better let it go. Besides, what do you care if they want to live like pigs?”

  “Because when they leave, I have to clean their pigsty,” she said sulkily.

  I patted her arm.

  So Jingles was spreading the rumor that Pi had done Sunny in. Bastard. I let myself into my room. A glance in the mirror told me I looked just as bad as I felt—as if I hadn’t eaten or slept for two days! I wonder why. I kicked off my shoes and, at the risk of wrinkling my one professional pantsuit, stretched out full-length on the futon and closed my eyes. Who should I talk to next?

  The bikers. My lids snapped open. Of course. Why am I so dense? I didn’t believe that any of them had done Sunny in, but they might have seen or heard something useful. I dragged myself off the futon, shoved my feet back in my shoes, and set out again.

  As I opened my door, Honey and Hammerhead sauntered by, talking earnestly.

  “Have a minute?” I stopped them.

  “Sure, Doc. What’s up?” Honey stepped back a few paces.

  “Do either of you know anyone who might have had it in for Sunny?”

  Hammerhead rolled his eyes.

  “No disrespect to the dead,” Honey reproved him.

  “Seriously.”

  They exchanged glances. Were they remembering the scene when Pi threw Sunny unceremoniously out of the lobby? But neither spoke. First one, then the other, shrugged.

  “Just thought I’d ask.” I watched them continue down the hall, with their bowlegged gait. All those hours spent on a bike were like riding horseback, I guess. That’s why they called them ponies. Duh.

  I went in search of more bikers. I had a feeling of urgency now. I’d heard nothing more about Peck’s “other leads” and I wasn’t sure how much longer Pi would be willing to put up with his modest living quarters.

  CHAPTER 23

  My first patient was a surprise. Detective Peck stood up as I entered the waiting room.

  “Not sick, I hope,” I said.

  “Not at the moment. I’m here on another matter.”

  “Come on in.” I ge
stured for him to follow me into my consulting room—an area two square feet smaller than the waiting room, which was the size of a closet. I sat down behind my desk and waited uneasily for him to say what was on his mind.

  “You’ve been doing some sleuthing, I understand.”

  I tried to maintain a poker face, but my facial muscles were worn out from a morning’s lying. “A little,” I admitted, “if you call asking a few questions, ‘sleuthing.’”

  “I don’t want you meddling.” His expression was stern. “Just because you got lucky with that immigrant case doesn’t make you Sherlock Holmes.”

  I would hardly call myself “lucky” to have been tortured and almost killed, but I kept silent. “But I might be able to learn things you can’t,” I said reasonably, “since I’m living on the premises.”

  “What things?”

  “Who was where, when, what they said, did … I don’t know … .” I shrugged. “I’m a pretty good eavesdropper.”

  He grunted. “Eavesdropping is one thing; directly interrogating people is another.” He studied his shoes thoughtfully. When he looked up, he said, “What have you heard so far?”

  “Red Beard, alias Jingles, is stirring things up, casting suspicion on people—”

  “What people?”

  “Oh, various bikers …” I wasn’t about to bring Pi into the picture.

  “Are you going to the funeral?” Peck asked.

  I blinked. Actually, I hadn’t thought about it until now. “I wasn’t planning on …”

  “Why don’t you?” he said abruptly. “Your eavesdropping techniques might prove useful—and you won’t stand out the way I or a trooper would.”

  “Having a change of heart, Mr. Peck?”

  “As long as you share your findings with me … all your findings … I don’t see any harm in your going.”

  The bell on the front door tinkled. A real patient.

  “I won’t keep you any longer.” Peck rose. “Just remember, everything you learn is shared with me immediately.” He handed me a card bearing his office, home and cell numbers. “Call me anytime. Day or night.”