Playtime

by Bart Hopkins Jr.

  He is not completely ignorant about computers; in fact, he is fairly knowledgeable. That is almost a necessary survival skill in this day and age. He sits down and runs a security scan, does a few other tricks he has learned, but comes up with nothing concrete. Maybe it was hacked, maybe not. But the way he is thinking, he is going to go with the maybe. That would mean this is about him, not just Renee, though he has that feeling already. Why else would somebody be that concerned to make him suffer? Though some people are just built that way. He looks at the time and date on the computer, checks his watch. Time is ticking away.

  Chapter 29

  So he goes back out, and for a while he just drives aimlessly around looking up and down streets for … anything, he guesses. Anything out of the ordinary. He can't think of what else to do. He doesn't want to calculate the odds against him seeing anything useful. But he is thinking, letting everything turn over in his mind, and the odds of seeing something useful are a lot better driving around out here than sitting in front of the computer. He drives on.

  He rolls through the old sections of town, huge Victorian houses with pillars, from the late 1800s. Kids out playing in yards. Bangers cruising by with that deep-pulsing bass beat. Houses that survived the 1900 Storm. Finally he decides to go see Renee's mom.

  She opens the door to the hotel room with that same pinched look on her face, motions him into the room. She has a pair of faded jeans on and a yellow blouse. No shoes. On the table by the window facing the gulf is a bottle of bourbon, a bottle of cola, and a glass. She asks him if he'd like a drink and he says yeah, neat is good. They sit down. The way she moves is so familiar, so Renee-like, it seems to mock him. The bottle is about a quarter empty, but she does not seem drunk at all. Her eyes are clear, her speech unslurred. He takes a sip of his drink.

  "I know," he says.

  "Know what?"

  "I know Renee is still alive."

  Her eyes well up with moisture. "I wish I knew that," she says, and takes a healthy swallow of her drink.

  "At least she's got a chance," he says.

  "Nielson told me I couldn't tell you, you know that, right?" she says. "I wanted to."

  "No, I understand," Blaine says. "I would have done the same if it were me."

  "She's all I ever held on to," Charlene says. "The crappy men came and went: her father, all the rest of them. But she and I were two against the storm. We always had each other. I can't tell you the times I was down to no food, without any money in my pocket, and something would always come through for us so I could keep her fed, keep clothes on her back." She sniffs at him. "I did whatever I had to do, you understand? Whatever."

  Blaine is looking at her, nodding, but really, he is not sure he does understand. She seems to be telling him she did some drastic things at times. He is lucky. His dad was still alive when they were growing up, and they hadn't been rich, or even that well-off, but the wolf had never been at the door like it had for Charlene and Renee. He wonders what it would be like to be a woman with no real education trying to raise a girl. He knew Charlene had worked in bars on and off during that time, whenever she had needed money and couldn't get it any other way. Renee had told him that. She had been a really attractive woman in those days, you could still see more than traces of that, and there had been those times, more than a few from what Renee had told him, when she had hooked up with men she met, times when the money was relatively plentiful and she didn't need to work. But those times never lasted.

  "Do you know anything else that I might not know?" he asks.

  "All I know is somebody's got her," she says. "He called the cops, told them to keep it quiet that she was still alive, put out the murder story to the friends, or he really would kill her." She sighs and rattles the ice in her drink, pours a touch more bourbon, then some cola on top.

  "I think it's aimed at me," Blaine says.

  She eyes him over the top of her glass. "Who? The guy in the bar?"

  "You know about him?"

  "I've seen the sketch."

  "Could it be somebody that you know?"

  "No," she says. "At least I don't think so. Why would it be?"

  "No reason," Blaine says. "Just making sure."

  "So why did Nielson let you in on this? I thought it was supposed to be kept a secret," she says. "No offense."

  "I more or less forced his hand," Blaine says. "Threatened to go over his head. I guess he thought it best to come clean."

  "Couldn't that jeopardize Renee?"

  "I don't think so," Blaine says. "Not if I don't do anything stupid. I think if they don't get this guy soon, they will go public anyway."

  "Well," she says, draining the last of the drink, setting the glass back on the coaster gingerly, "Don't. Do anything stupid, please."

  "Why did they tell you?" Blaine says. "It seems to me, with you being in another city, they could have kept it completely quiet."

  "The bar manager called me, didn't want to give me the news himself, told me to call the cops," Charlene says. "I guess that they figured the best thing to do would be to bring me in on it. I told Nielson I was on my way down to find out what the hell was going on."

  "So they probably wanted to keep you quiet till they got this guy," Blaine muses, "but it just hasn't worked out yet." He runs his fingers through his hair, looks at her, stands up. "I've got some things I need to go take care of," he says. "I would offer to put you up for the night, the rest of your stay, but I've got my brother down." He pulls at his lip, considering. "Why don't you come over? I'll put you up in my room. I can take the couch. I fall asleep on it anyway, half the time."

  "Oh, no, this is fine," Charlene says. "I'm more comfortable by myself, anyhow. That's just how I am." She jumps up from her chair and gives him a hug.

  "They will get her back," he says, after they untangle.

  "I know they will," she says looking at him, eyes still clear. "She is still alive. I can feel it."

  "She is a smart, tough woman," he says. "Like her mother."

  She sniffs again. "Don't try to flatter me, Blaine. You can't shit a shitter."

  "You've got my number, right?" he says. "You call me if you need anything, no matter what it is or what time. Hell, if you want me to come back here and stay with you, I'm just a click away."

  "Yeah, I've got it," she says, "and just so you know, Blaine, I always thought you were the best thing that ever happened to Renee. I felt better about her when she lived with you, when you guys were together. When you broke up I told her how stupid I thought she was. If I had ever found a guy as decent as you," she smiles up at him, "I would have never let him go."

  He hugs her again, pats her on the back and clears his throat, "Well, I don't know about all that. Renee is something else, herself. She could have had her pick from a thousand men."

  "I realize it doesn't seem like it now," her mom says, "but I know all about that. And I am sticking with my statement."

  He gives her a quick peck on the forehead and goes to the door and gets out of there before he breaks up on her. She is holding herself together with everything she's got, and he won't be the one to mess that up.

  He hadn't really realized that she liked him that much. Oh, he knew she liked him, but he had always sensed that protectiveness about Renee in her and knew that the moment she considered he did anything against her baby she would be on him like a mama tiger. That was just how things were with your partner's parents, if they were any type of parents at all, they were 100% for their kid, and for you while you were. But only then.

  So he's out in the truck again, and some stone freak has his girl, but he can really think of no good way to proceed, so he turns the old Dodge around and heads down the beach. He is too keyed up to go back to the house and sit around on his ass doing nothing, thinking about Renee. That motherfucker has her out here somewhere, and if driving around looking gives him an additional one chance in a million, then that is one more chance than he has at the house. The beach is where he's always gon
e to think, ever since he was a kid, and he puts the window down, sucks in that briny smell only an ocean has and rolls down the boulevard among the parade of the alive and well, the fun-seekers, the casual strollers. He has the .22 Mag in his pocket and is carrying a .357 in the console of the truck, extra ammo below the seat.

  Chapter 30

  Then he looks over at the dash and sees the book of matches he had taken from Renee's place sitting there. He snatches them up as he drives, and looks down: Limbada's. Wasn't the dance spelled with an A? Right. Down on the beach. Probably means exactly zero.

  Still, what is he doing? Not exactly zero, but real close. What would it hurt to take a drive down to the east end and sit and have a beer in Limbada's.

  The place is down on the sand. It is built on wood pilings with the actual club about 12 feet up and a long ramp crisscrossing the front of the building instead of stairs. The building is lemon yellow with blue trim. He can hear the pulsing beat of the music while he is still in the truck, driving up. The front of the building faces the gulf and has a long outdoor porch where people are hanging out at tables or leaning on the railing. The gulf is only about a hundred feet south of them with nothing much between. The moon is full and flashing off the water.

  Inside the music is so pulsing loud it is like a force. People are moving, writhing all over the wooden floor. Quite a crowd. Strobe light effects are pulsing also. The place is one huge heartbeat. It feels jungle primal to Blaine. He is not sure he can stand this for long. It doesn't look like an easy place to get a drink either, so he muscles his way up through the crowd at the bar in the middle of the room till he finally gets the attention of one of the guys in the center of the ellipse and hollers for a beer over the noise. He grabs it and heads for the farthest corner from the sounds of the band, but it is still very loud. They have those tiny, square tables all over the place and a couple is getting up from one in the very corner, taking their stuff with them, so he grabs that and scans the room. Armed cop over in one corner, uniform on. Most of the bigger places did something like that in the summertime. Just too much activity, too many drunks. Always something going on down here on the beach.

  Most of the bars were up on the seawall, only a few down on the sand itself. Blaine used to come down here when he was a teenager. Hunting for women, mostly. Seemed like there was always something wild and magical happening. In those days the possibilities seemed endless. He remembers one night at a club farther down on the sand, some promotional gig where you got in free if you wore a costume, he had hooked up with a girl dressed as a cat, wearing a black costume and mask. The costume ended at her thighs and shoulders. Black heels. They had been so drunk they had wandered down here to the edge of the gulf and shed their clothes in sight of some other people, though they were quite a long distance away, and made love in the gentle water lapping up to shore. A wonder they hadn't been arrested. She had kept the mask on the whole time. Naked but for the mask. She had a beautiful body he could still envision. Some things sear an image into your memory. After they made love, they had a few more beers then had gotten separated in the large crowd. He had never seen her again. Hadn't gotten her name. Never saw her face without the mask. Woke up the next morning, for a second thought the whole thing was a dream. Time of your life, eh, kid?

  He doesn't see anybody familiar from here but he can't see half the room, so after a bit he gets up and heads that way. It is against the law in Texas to carry a weapon into any establishment that gets more than 50% of its revenue from booze, even if you have a concealed carry license, so he had left both guns in the car. He would never fire a weapon in a crowd like this anyway. No telling who or what you would hit.

  He beats his way through the pulsing mass. Gets to the other side of the room, pauses and takes a swallow of beer. Thinking he will go ahead and go: get out of this mess. At least he'd tried. Knew it was a super-long shot. When he looks over into the far corner on that side and sees the back of a guy's head that could be his guy. He stares for a second in disbelief, but it still resembles him from this distance. Back of a guy's head could be anybody, though. He works his way through the mess, getting closer, and it still looks like the guy from this angle. He wishes he would turn his head. But he doesn't. He is hunched over the table with a drink in his hand. Blaine moves closer and sideways, trying to get a look at his profile.

  He is about 15 feet out when the guy turns from the girl sharing the table with him, a good-looking woman, and Blaine gets his first clear look at him.

  It is the guy from the bar. He's dressed in jeans and dress shirt tonight, no suit, but it's definitely him.

  The odds of finding him had been so long in Blaine's mind that he had never really worked out a plan for what to do if he did find him. Confrontation had been the idea, but he suddenly realizes that would be stupid. If this guy has anything to do with Renee's disappearance, confrontation is the last thing he should be thinking.

  He spins around, puts his back to him and heads the other way. What had he been thinking? Walk up to him and demand to know where he had Renee? Kick his ass and force it out of him? That sounds attractive, but unrealistic, and he beats a retreat to the front door.

  Get out of here without the guy seeing him. Get out to the truck and park it somewhere he has a good view of the front door. Thank God there is only one way in and out of this place, which is that long, wide ramp. Two, no, three doors, but they all exit out to that ramp.

  He makes it to the truck, which is parked off to the side, out of sight of the doors, and moves it over where he can keep an eye on it. Then he checks both guns, puts the .22 Mag back in his front jean pocket. He keeps the .357 in the console for the time being.

  What he needs to do is follow this guy, find out where he is keeping her, if he's got her. Of course that is exactly what Nielson had told him not to do. He thinks about it. The guy is out in public now. If he had Renee at his house or something, then if the cops took him now she would be safe. If she was somewhere that was connected to this guy. What if he had her somewhere else? Somewhere they couldn't find easily. Someplace with no obvious connection to him. Blaine remembers some movie he'd seen where the kidnappers had this kid in a box in a hole in the ground. If it was a deal like that, Renee could die while this guy denied any involvement. They could take him, and that might sign her death warrant. If she wasn't dead already.

  He pushes that thought away. Flips out his cell and goes to his contacts, to Nielson's number. Pushes. Hears it ring and ring and then, finally, a hoarse hello from Nielson. Woke him up.

  "I found the guy in the sketch," he says.

  Nielson comes awake in a hurry. "I thought I told you to leave this to us," he says. "Did he see you? Does he know you've found him?"

  "I don't think so," Blaine says and fills him in on the situation, including where he's parked, and the fact he is watching the door.

  "Back off," Nielson says. "I'm only 15 minutes away. Don't let him see you, just stay where you are. I'll be right there. No confrontation, hear me?"

  "OK," Blaine says. "Hurry up. He could leave anytime."

  "On my way," Nielson says, and the connection ends. Blaine is thinking that he can take better care of himself than Nielson gives him credit for. Nielson doubtless knows that he's got the concealed carry license. Maybe that's what he's worried about.

  Chapter 31

  About 5 minutes later, the guy in the sketch comes out the club door and down the ramp. He has lost the girl he was sitting with, is by himself now. Blaine is parked far enough away he doesn't think the guy can make him out, but scrunches down in the seat anyway. He flips out his phone and realizes he will not have time to make a call right now. His guy is climbing into some type of small red sports car, maybe a Miata. He hates those little cars. They strike him as vehicles for women. He is off and gunning it away on the sand before Blaine can make a move. He curses and starts the Dodge and goes after him. Lucky for Blaine, it is still early enough for lots of traffic to be out. The Dodge is no
t the most inconspicuous Crayola in the box.

  He gives him quite a bit of room, falls in behind him. It looks like he is headed for the ramp up onto the seawall, and a moment later that is confirmed as he goes up. Blaine glances at the phone still lit on the seat, then back at the Miata. He should call Nielson, let him know the guy is on the move, but he is afraid he will lose him screwing around with the phone. He drives on.

  Suddenly Sketch jams the Miata up to about 50. He is going 10 over the speed limit. Blaine thinks he has made him somehow. He tries to hold back, remain inconspicuous, but he can see he is going to lose him at this rate. He speeds up. Between a rock and a hard place, right? If he loses him now he may never find him again. Now they are both doing 50 down the seawall, and Blaine checks his mirror, looking for cops. With his luck, they will stop him instead of Sketch, and that will be the end of this.

  Then the Miata slows and swerves over to the parking lane. Blaine is caught completely by surprise and roars by. As soon as he is past, the Miata pops a U and is gone, headed the other way down the seawall. Blaine pops a U himself, truck tires squealing, somebody blowing a horn at him as he cuts past oncoming traffic. All chance of surprise gone now. He fumbles for the phone again, gets it in his hand, and almost clips the Minivan to the right of him as he roars by. Curses and throws the phone back down, refocusing on the road.

  He puts the pedal to the metal, closes on the Miata, and Sketch swerves to the side of the road again. This time when he stops, Blaine has time to get the truck over in front of him, blocking him, and when Sketch sees who it is, he quits trying to back up and brings the little sports car to a screeching halt. He screams and hops out.

  Blaine hops out too, not sure what he's doing.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you," Sketch says as he draws up to him.

  "Renee," Blaine yells, and then the first doubts start running through him like electric currents because Sketch shows no reaction at all.