“I just needed some air.” He pointed toward the right ahead. “If Clyde’s lot is full, you can park next door at the dry cleaner’s.”
Clyde’s stood by itself in the middle of its block, an unadorned green-stucco square surrounded on three sides by a parking lot jammed with souped-up pickup trucks and macho little Samurais. Kate pulled into the lot and found a space near the building’s back door. As she got out of the Jag, she could hear loud country music and the peculiar deep bass of men’s voices when there were no women’s voices to temper the sound.
Unlike other bars she had passed along the street, here there was no slopover of noisy patrons onto the sidewalk and street in front. The men she saw coming and going, most of them wearing tight Levi’s and boots of one sort or another, were a surprisingly subdued group.
Tejeda put an arm around her as they walked toward the front. “Good place to look for a guy.”
“If you are a guy.” She reached for the brass lasso that served as the door handle.
He pulled her toward him, his face washed yellow under the street lights, and started to say something, but two well-muscled men in matching Stetson hats pushed through the door past them. Anything Tejeda had intended to say was lost in the noise pouring from the open door.
The barroom inside was well-lit and heavy with smoke, sweat, cologne, and the scent of leather. Tejeda held her by the hand and opened a wedge through the crowd as he made their way toward the bar at the far side.
Kate had expected some of the decadent, flamboyant display she had seen in Berlin. But this was a group of jocks, most of them young, many with military sidewall haircuts, whose dress tended toward macho-western or weekend bike club. Nothing that would turn heads on the street. She had the sense that there was enough testosterone loose in the air to bottle.
The room was packed, the clusters of men even denser around a pair of pool tables and in front of a row of video games against the far wall. A few heads turned as Kate squeezed through a path that seemed lined with thick, naked, sweat-shiny biceps. She realized that she was more than a little put off; she had never walked through a congregation of men before and gathered no more than the occasional disinterested glance.
Tejeda found space for them at the long movie-western-style bar. She stood in a pocket of space in front of him while he waved down the rotund, balding man behind the bar. Kate watched the man with fascination as he worked his way toward them, trading iced beers for outstretched pairs of dollars, fielding jokes, and laughing in what seemed one long, continuous manic gambol.
According to the pressed-tin sign on the mirror behind the cash register, “MITCH is serving you tonight.” But the sign seemed at least a generation older than the bartender. She wondered about it because, except for a Chamber of Commerce sticker and an unframed business license, it was the only ornamentation in the place.
The bartender scrubbed at the bar in front of them with a damp rag, grinning as if he knew a secret.
“So, Lieutenant,” he said. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. Heard you was busted up pretty good.”
Tejeda pulled Kate in toward him. “How are you, Fred?”
“No complaints,” he said. Then he nodded toward Kate. “You bring a chaperon?”
“This is my partner.” Tejeda grinned. “In drag.”
“Naw. I talked to your partner couple hours ago. Told Sergeant Green everything I know about a certain deceased corporal. Maybe you should talk to him.”
“Maybe you forgot to tell him some little thing,” Tejeda said. Fred shrugged as he went to replenish a tray for his waiter to circulate among the standees.
Tejeda hadn’t said anything about it during the drive, but Kate had known that this trip had something to do with the death of Wally Morrow. Probably, she thought, he had asked her to drive him only because he couldn’t drive himself while he was on Dilantin. And since the Police Commission’s hearing, he could hardly have ridden down with Eddie Green without risking his disability status. She didn’t much care why she was here; she was just glad that she was. Not only because Cassie’s reunion with Theresa had begun to shoot some sparks and Kate didn’t want to be used as a referee, but also because she was still damn scared. And with Tejeda she felt safe.
Fred, the bartender, wended his way back toward them, mopping the bar and doling out bottles of beer as he came. He stopped to stuff a wad of damp bills into the cash register and deal some change next to a pyramid of empties. Then he turned, looked at Tejeda, and threw his hands up. “Honest, I didn’t see nothing.”
“I’m not here as a cop,” Tejeda said. Kate saw the edge of a folded bill under his hand on the bar. “I’m just a citizen who doesn’t want to see Arty Silver maneuver himself another postponement or get himself walking papers on a technicality.”
Fred’s bar rag quickly swept over the bill, then dipped under the counter. “What are you drinking?”
Tejeda turned to Kate. “Beer okay?”
Kate glanced at the beefy forearm resting on the bar next to her. The blue tattoo said “USDA Prime.” She looked back at Fred. “Milk, please.”
“Yeah, sure,” Fred chuckled. He put two drippy bottles of Moosehead in front of them and flipped off the caps. Then he spent a lot of time wiping his hands on his rag.
“Arty Silver did a lot of damage to my business, you know,” he said finally, squinting up at Tejeda. “I’ve always kept my place quiet, decent. Guys can come here to relax, maybe meet a new friend. But I don’t tolerate no overt shit. For that they have to go off the premises. You could bring big Marine general what’s-his-name from Pendleton in here, and he’d never see anything could get a recruit in trouble.
“The Marines don’t want to hear about their guys going to gay bars,” Fred continued. “But they never gave any kid a hassle about coming to Clyde’s, until Arty Silver started picking up new material here and doing what he did to them. Soon as my place got in the newspapers, the brass made me off-limits.”
Tejeda looked around at the crowds. “Looks like business is pretty good.”
“Getting back up there.” Fred shrugged. “But it was me, myself, and the jukebox for more nights than I care to remember. Anything like what Silver done gets started up again, it’ll kill me.”
“Then help me,” Tejeda said. “What do you know about Corporal Wallace Morrow Jr.?”
Kate felt USDA Prime pressing into her space. When she looked up at him, he opened his mouth and slowly, obscenely ran his tongue over his lips. He pointed at her, then at himself in a question: you and me?
“Thanks just the same,” she said, and turned her back.
Tejeda seemed only to shift from one foot to the other, but he managed to put himself between Kate and the tattooed arm. He snagged one end of Fred’s rag and reeled him closer. “You have a quiet place we can talk?”
“Sorry. I got just the one waiter—the other one quit Monday.” He slid some bottles down the bar and talked to Tejeda over his shoulder. “I can’t even take a piss.”
“Go piss,” someone down the bar called out. “I’ll watch the register.”
“Yeah, Fred,” the man next to him laughed, “and I’ll go with you, hold your lizard for you while you drain it.”
“Shut up, grunt.” Fred playfully slapped the man on the side of the head. “I just told the lieutenant what a respectable place I run.”
A dozen heads craned to check out Tejeda, then there was suddenly more room at the bar around them. Kate found space to stretch and take a deep breath. When she looked around, she saw the top of USDA Prime’s close-cropped head swimming away through the crowd.
Fred leaned in close, his eyes betraying his amusement. “Don’t like brass around here.”
Kate heard a collective stifled laugh, as if the preacher had dropped an off-color remark into his sermon.
Tejeda seemed to ignore them as he squared a studio portrait of an excruciatingly young man in uniform on the bar in front of Fred. “Tell me what you know about Wally
Morrow.”
Fred signed. “He’d come in maybe once, twice a week. Usually with a couple friends, usually on weekends.”
“Hey, Fred!” An arm waved over the bar to Kate’s right. “I’m still waiting.”
“So wait some more,” Fred said, but he slid half a dozen bottles of beer down the counter in each direction, pausing only long enough to note which hands gathered them in along the way, like a ballpark peanut vendor. When he brought his attention back to Tejeda, he seemed serious, concentrated. He lit a cigarette, blew out some smoke, then slouched his bulk against the bar.
“I see a lot of young kids in here,” he said. “Join the Marines to prove they’re real men, or prove it to the folks back home. But they get out in the world a little and find out it ain’t so bad being gay. At first they don’t know what to do about it. So they come to my place, or a place like it, looking for a big brother who can show them what goes where.”
“You think Wally Morrow was inexperienced?” Tejeda asked.
“When he first come in?” Fred said. “He was raw. Completely uncooked. I can’t say that he was a virgin, you know, but the kid looked like he needed a relief map to find his own ass.”
Kate noticed that a silent crescent of men had formed behind them, a few listening more intently than the others. Not nosy, just interested. Without being too obvious, she tried to single out those whose interest seemed most keen. Looming behind the ring of men was the bulk of USDA Prime, with his back to her.
“Tell me about Sunday,” Tejeda said. “Did you see who Wally left with?”
“Who can keep track?” Fred asked.
“Had he been with anyone in particular on Sunday, or before?”
Fred scratched under his chin, thinking. “Besides his bunkmate, he cuddled up to two, maybe three guys. But like I said, in here they just talk. Coulda made a date to meet someone later. I just wasn’t paying much attention.”
Fred walked away, seeming distracted, to take care of some customers.
“Except …” he said, stopping on his way back to light a second cigarette from the first. “Except I pegged him for a poacher, guy goes off base looking for game.”
“He liked civilians?” Tejeda asked.
“Some guys do. Think it’s safer.” Then he winked at Kate. “Till they hear about Arty Silver.”
“Had you told Wally Morrow about Arty?” she asked.
“Not me.”
Someone propped open the back door to let in fresh air, and a few men spilled out into the parking lot.
“Sunday,” Tejeda said. “What was the crowd? Mostly regulars? Convention in town? What?”
“Your partner already asked me,” Fred said with exasperation. “I don’t remember. Sunday was Sunday. Marines get weekend passes, come into town, drop off their laundry, get a beer. It’s crowded. Who has time to notice one snot-nosed grunt?”
“It was hot Sunday,” Kate said. “Remember, Roger? Beach traffic was so heavy we decided to stay in.”
“Stayed in, huh?” Fred grinned and set another beer in front her, even though she hadn’t touched the first. Then he looked over toward the open back door, the row of cars under the lights outside. “Yeah, it was nice Sunday. We had the doors open all day. Like summer.”
A kid who should have been carded stepped forward and propped himself up with a pool cue. “We opened the door because the power went out. Wasn’t that Sunday?”
There was general agreement among the crowd that it had been Sunday.
“Someone hit a pole or something down the highway. P.G. and E. repairman came.”
Tejeda handed the boy Kate’s beer. “Where was Wally Morrow?”
“He was shootin’ pool.” A tall, slender redhead took half a step forward. His hair was too long for the Marine Corps. “He took his shirt off, Fred, and you told him to put it back on, remember?”
“Yeah.” Fred shrugged. “Vaguely.”
“Who was he shooting pool with?” Tejeda asked.
“All comers.” The redhead frowned, drawing his freckles together. “He got pretty loaded.”
Fred reacted to that. “I didn’t sell him much.”
“He kept going out to the parking lot,” the redhead said. “The guy from the electric company had a cooler of beer in his car.”
“Shit.” Fred pressed his wet rag to his forehead. When he looked up again, Kate saw he was pale. “That’s how Silver used to work it. I don’t want to go through all that no more.”
Tejeda turned to the redhead. “You said he had a car. Not a San Diego P.G. and E. truck?”
“No, a car. The kind Daddy uses to drive the kiddies to Sunday school. We teased the guy about it.”
“What did he look like?”
“Didn’t see his face much—had a hat and shades on, stayed outside the whole time. But I’d recognize his rock-hard little buns if I saw them again.”
“If the power line was out down the highway,” Tejeda said, “what was the repairman doing here?”
“Yeah,” Fred said. “The power was only out five minutes. What was the guy doing all that time?”
Kate watched heads dip together, listened to a general murmuring. But no one offered an answer.
Tejeda took in a deep breath. “Did anyone actually see Wally Morrow leave?”
“I did,” the boy with the pool cue volunteered.
“With the man who said he was the electrical repairman?”
“Yes.”
“Describe the car.”
“Light gray, maybe beige,” the boy said. “Olds Cutlass.”
12
Kate seemed all crisp and businesslike walking on the sand beside him, the way Tejeda remembered her from the first time they had met, listening to him politely, showing interest. The gap of night sky between them was small enough to be friendly, but too big for anything else, the way it would be dancing with a stranger for the first time. He understood what was happening; it wasn’t the first time she had slipped behind a barrier of awfully good manners to keep him at a distance. Everyone needed space now and then, but tonight it rankled him because he was afraid her formality was cover for things she needed to say but wouldn’t. If his hands hadn’t been loaded with firewood and the picnic basket Trinh had packed, he would have tossed her to the sand and tickled her, just to loosen her up.
“Trinh found that blanket in the laundry-room closet,” he said. “I hope sand won’t hurt it.”
“I’m sure it won’t,” she said, smoothing a fold in the plaid wool draped over her arm. Her voice hardly carried over the rush of breaking surf.
There was no moon, and the only light came from the phosphorescence of the waves in front and the muted neon glow of Oceanside behind them. When Tejeda glanced down at Kate, her hair was so dark against the black sky that her face seemed luminous. But her eyes, sometimes so pale in daylight they were almost colorless, caught no light and he couldn’t see them, couldn’t read them. She shivered a little but didn’t say anything.
When they reached the first concrete fire ring, he put down the bundle of firewood. She dropped to her knees beside it and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders.
“I thought Clyde’s would be more exotic,” she said.
“Berlin was better, huh?”
“More theatrical, more absurd.”
There were a few fires scattered at a distance along the beach, disappearing toward the horizon like a spill of red beads. Tejeda wondered what brought other people out in the night chill. Unless they were lovers.
“Now what?” she asked.
“I make like a Boy Scout and light the fire.”
“I meant, what are you going to do about the investigation?”
“Tell Spud what we found out.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know.” He busied himself laying the fire: wadded newspapers, kindling, split fir logs. “Richie’s tuition for the spring quarter is due next month. I can’t pay it until my next disability check comes.”
&nb
sp; He had to light three matches before he managed to shield one from the wind long enough to catch the edge of a newspaper. The sudden flare of fire washed Kate’s face in sharp contrasts of hot red and deep, cold shadow. He couldn’t take his eyes from her; she was so beautiful at that moment as to seem almost unreal.
The kindling raged fiercely, briefly, shooting sparks into the dark; then the fire settled into a low, crackling burn. He opened the basket and took out a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
“Roger,” she said, raising the ends of the blanket and holding it open for him. “Let’s get away.”
“If you want.” He moved into her arms, shivering as her warmth inside the blanket enveloped him. “We could borrow Reece’s boat, sail to Catalina for the weekend. If the weather holds.”
“No. I meant we should get way away.” She unbuttoned the top of his shirt and slid her smooth hand inside over his chest. “There’s a little Romanesque village in the south of France, Conque, not far from Limoges but up in the mountains, very isolated.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Right, might be cold this time of year. How about the southern hemisphere? It’s spring in Australia, almost summer.”
“Slow down a minute,” he said, covering her hand to hold it still. “Richie’s talking about graduate school in the fall. After Theresa graduates next year, I’ll be paying two college tuitions.”
“Assuming you don’t lose your disability before you’re healthy enough to go back to work.”
“I’m okay.”
“Remember who scraped you off the dining-room floor this afternoon? Don’t try to play tough guy with me, Roger.”
“Tough guy, huh?” he said. “What’s your point?”
“What do you really want to do?”
He started to undo her shirt. “What I really want to do is strip naked and make love in the sand.”
“I know that,” she laughed. She pulled open her shirt and bared her breast to the firelight. Watching his face, smiling but calculating, she made a slow circle around the taut nipple with her finger. “Answer my question, and this is yours.”
Half a Mind (The Kate Teague Mysteries) Page 11