by R. E. Donald
He turned off the ignition and sat there, staring at the building. The glass of the front entrance was dark, so he couldn't see inside. The doors opened, and a middle aged couple walked out, the woman in a lemon yellow dress with white shoes and purse, the man in a suit. Dressed for a wedding. They were followed by a young family, the kid with a red and blue knapsack, the mother in Birkenstocks and khaki shorts. She stopped, studying a book of some sort, then pointed in the direction Russell had just come. They set off that way, the kid skipping and the father grabbing the knapsack to hold him back at the curb.
Just a hotel, like any other. Nothing secret. Nothing scary. He wondered whether he should go inside, call her room. Maybe he could send up flowers, something from the gift shop, as an apology. Or would she resent him coming here to her hotel, intruding on her world uninvited, especially after last night? Would she give him the chance to apologize, now that he was sober? He knew he couldn't leave it like it was. Before he left Vancouver, he had to talk to her again, or at least try. He locked the car, and, smoothing his hair, crossed the street to the hotel.
When Hunter and his landlord arrived back home, there were two messages on his answering machine. One was from Jeff Feldman. Ray Nillson had just fired him, he said, and he thought Hunter would like to know. Hunter shook his head. Maybe Ray could relate better to an older lawyer, someone a little more homespun than Feldman. In any case, there was nothing Hunter could do about it today. The next message was from El, confirming that he could deliver Greg Williams' amps and synthesizer to the studio on Still Creek that afternoon. "Wife doesn't seem to be home, but there's somebody at the studio, and like you said, we'd better get them out of my Hino today."
Hunter stowed his golf clubs, washed the smell of onion rings off his hands, grabbed his car keys and headed out the door. When he rounded the corner of the house, he saw Gord standing beside a cherry red vehicle talking to the driver. Before he could make out who it was, Gord turned around and pointed at him, and the driver's hand began waving excitedly.
"Want to go for a ride, Dad?" It was his daughter, Janice. Her younger sister Lesley sat beside her.
"Pretty jazzy lookin' wheels you got there, doll," said Hunter. They grinned at each other.
"Yeah. C'mon for a ride, Dad. I'll sit in the back," said Lesley. The girls both opened their doors and stepped out of the car while Hunter continued his inspection of the little Tracker, nodding appraisingly.
"Want to drive it, Dad?'
Hunter looked at her, trying to decide whether she wanted him to say yes or no. "Yes, if it's okay with you."
They took a spin around the block, Hunter making all the appropriate noises - lot of pep, just the right size for you, must get good gas mileage - then apologized for having to cut it short. "I'm afraid I've got a delivery scheduled for this afternoon." He was going to suggest he drop by their place on his way home, but remembered last time.
As if she were reading his mind, Lesley said, "Mom hasn't invited Lance over again since her birthday."
"Oh? She's stopped seeing him?"
"No. But I think it embarrasses her for us to see them together."
"Yeah, Dad. He makes her feel embarrassed. I guess you made her take a hard look at him. He's obnoxious. I don't think he'll last."
Hunter just smiled.
When Hunter backed the Hino up to the building that housed Whistlestop Studios, it was already close to five o'clock. The lower door was unlocked, so he let himself in. Before he was halfway up the stairs, a young man wearing cut-off jeans and a mesh muscle shirt came out on the upper landing and called down to him, "You the delivery guy?" He had a purple bandana on his head.
"You betcham," said Hunter. "You with..." He pretended to look at the waybill. "... Whistlestop Studios?"
"You got it," said the young man, starting down the stairs. "Yo! Piano-man. Get your fat ass out here," he called over his shoulder to someone still inside.
"You want to carry some of these things up those stairs, you're welcome to," said Hunter, rolling up the door of the Hino and climbing into the back. He handed a rectangular case to the man, who close up turned out to be not quite as young as Hunter had first thought, maybe late twenties or early thirties. The guy pretended to drop the case as Hunter handed it to him, then groaned with the effort of picking up a mike stand. "Better your back than mine," said Hunter, as he pushed the remaining equipment and speakers to the edge of the truck's floor. Another musician, this one taller and sporting a bushy brown mustache, grabbed a synthesizer keyboard and headed upstairs as Hunter jumped down from the truck. As he maneuvered one of the heavy black speakers to get a good grip on it, Hunter noticed that half the back of it was covered by thick black tape. He poked at it, felt around it some, and then shoved the speaker as far as he could back along the floor of the truck. He hoisted himself up behind it just as the two men emerged from the doorway for a second load.
When they had disappeared inside again, Hunter gently peeled back the edge of the tape. A sealed padded envelope, securely bonded to the sticky side of the tape, came away with it. Once he'd ascertained that there were no wires involved, he ripped the tape with its envelope free of the speaker and tossed it into the dark recesses of the truck box. Then he jumped down and unloaded the remaining equipment onto the concrete pad that fronted the building before pulling the truck's door shut. Starting up the stairs with the bulky speaker, he met the musicians on the stairway. "The last two pieces are just outside the door," he told them, and pushed past them toward the top of the stairs.
Inside the studio door, Hunter stopped and looked around. Al was right. There appeared to be a lot of money tied up in this studio, judging by the amount of recording equipment, most of which looked relatively new. The two musicians came in, each carrying a black amp, and were followed by another young man carrying two McDonald's bags. The three of them were joking about his timing, missing out on the grunt work.
"Give us your hamburger, you goddamn shirker," said the man with the bandana. "All you bass players do is move one lousy finger, anyway. What do you even need to eat for? Say, you! Truck driver! You play lead guitar by any chance? We need a new fretboard virtuoso."
Hunter deposited the speaker he was carrying in the corner with the others, nudged it up next to its mate. "Somebody quit on you?"
"Somebody died on us, man. Hitched a ride to California in a refrigerated trailer and arrived a popsicle."
Hunter laughed as if it were a joke. "Can't help you unless you need a second violin," he said. "You serious about your friend?"
"Ah. A fretless man. What do you think, guys? Replace old Greggie with a fiddler?" When they snorted, he persisted. "I'm not kidding, you turds. Seriously, man. How well do you play?"
Hunter smiled. "Purely second fiddle, chief." He pulled the waybill out of his back pocket and looked for a place to lay it out.
"Shut up and eat, Max," said the tall one with the bushy mustache, then turned to Hunter. "Don't mind Max, but he wasn't kidding about our lead guitarist. Froze to death in a reefer."
"You know, I think I heard about that on the news," said Hunter. "How'd it happen?"
The one called Max stopped unwrapping his Quarter Pounder and gazed at Hunter with widened eyes. "It's a mystery," he said, in a deep Boris Karloff voice. "Nobody knows who put him there, but everybody in this room wanted him dead. M-m-m-wah, ha, ha, ha-a-a-a."
"Shut up and eat, Max," said the thin blond one.
Hunter spread out the waybill on a trestle table by the door. "X marks the spot," he said, pulling a pen out of his shirt pocket and indicating where to sign. Max stepped forward. "Why did you all want him dead, just so I don't repeat the mistake."
Max held his hamburger in his right hand, signed with his left. "We couldn't stand listening to his sucky voice one more minute. Right, guys?" He gestured at a drawing on the wall. "Sang like a fuckin' fairy."
Hunter looked at the drawing. It was pen and ink, done as a caricature, tiny bodies and big heads.
The band was all recognizable: Max on the drums, grinning like the Cheshire cat, the bass player looking half asleep, the keyboard player with circles around his eyes as if he were wired, and Greg Williams with the biggest head of all, out front caressing his electric guitar, looking effeminate and sporting tiny wings. One of grinning Max's drumsticks was raised above Greg's head.
"He thought that picture meant he sang like an angel," said Max, took a massive bite of his hamburger. "Fuckin' idiot," he mumbled.
"Talented artist. One of you do this?"
"Max's girlfriend," said the thin blond man, the bass player.
Max swallowed. "Ex girlfriend. Psychotic ex girlfriend." He took another bite. "Scary psychotic ex girlfriend."
"Does she do these on commission?" asked Hunter. "What's her name?"
"You don't want to know," said Max.
"Hellen Brooker, double L," said the bass player, dipping a french fry in ketchup.
"Thanks, chief," said Hunter, folding the waybill up and tucking it into his pocket. "Good luck with your talent search."
"Auditions are next Saturday," mumbled Max, his mouth full of french fries and hamburger. "Bring your reefer for the losers."
Hunter climbed into the Hino and slammed the door, sat there for a moment, lips pursed, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He wasn't sure what to make of what he'd just learned. According to the signature on the caricature he'd just seen, Hellen Brooker had designed the posters on the wall at Greg’s home, and was also responsible for the graffitti on the wall at Hanratty Meats.
El's truck was still parked in front of the office when Hunter parked the Hino in the Watson Transportation yard on Annacis Island.
El was at her desk, scowling over a large book with pictures. "According to this book of Wally's, Peterbilt isn't a Pomeranian," she said, as he walked behind the counter.
"Was he supposed to be?"
"That's what I paid for. The guy in the pet shop said he was a purebred, but didn't have papers. He said I could register him if I wanted to show him."
"Do you?"
"No. That's not the point. What's that?" she asked..
"Cassette tapes," said Hunter, tilting the envelope toward her so she could see inside. "Have you got any gloves?" She rummaged under her desk and pulled out a pair of heavy leather work gloves, marked with grease. Hunter looked them over, frowned. "How about a handkerchief or something? We don't want to ruin evidence by putting fingerprints or anything else on these." She handed him a Kleenex from the box on her filing cabinet. He carefully pulled one of the tapes out and examined it. It wasn’t a miniature tape like the one Al Kowalski's men had found in Greg Williams' car, just a regular cassette tape that would fit in any tape player. He held it in the light from the window, far enough away for him to focus on the writing without using his reading glasses. "Sieg Heil, it says." He pulled out a couple more and read, "Toupee + S. This one's Yo, Bro! and this one's Snakeskin Boots + R."
"What are they? Song titles?"
"Could be. You'd recognize Williams' voice, wouldn't you?"
"Yeah, I think so. I've heard his other tape. Where'd you get 'em?"
"In the truck. Must've fallen off a speaker or something." He arched one eyebrow.
"Yeah, right."
"You got a tape recorder we can play these on?"
El shook her head. "Not in here.”
“Your truck or mine?” They chose hers.
The first tape they played was Snakeskin Boots + R. The quality was poor. There were a few muffled words, and some thumping sounds, as if someone had jostled the recorder, then a female voice said, "How's it hangin', Big Dog?" The voice was breezy and cheerful, sounded slightly familiar.
A deep male voice, "Aren't you a naughty little thing tonight. You're wearin' that slippery shirt I like. You look so sexy in purple satin, Ruby, honey. Let me feel..."
"Talk about naughty! Not here, sugar. People can see."
A low laugh. "You're damn right people can see. They can see your little nipples, hard as jelly beans. Gawd, I'd love to suck on one right now."
"Hang on there, sugar. I need a drink first."
Another female voice, "Something to drink, sir?"
"Glass of your best chardonnay for the lady, another scotch for me."
El stopped the tape. "Sure doesn't sound like the Blackburn, does it?"
Hunter shrugged, motioned her to restart the tape.
A little more banter, then the woman called Ruby's voice, "Hey, sugar, I bet I can guess how old you are."
"Why'd you want to do that?"
"I'm good at it. And I'm a gambler. How 'bout you? How 'bout if I don't guess right, you can feel me up right here at the table?"
"Now you're talkin', sweet stuff. How old do you think I am?"
"We-e-e-ll, let's see. You got some laugh lines here... and here... and I can see a little gray here... and here..." Her voice was slow and seductive. "You got stamina in bed like a sixteen year old, but I know you gotta be older than that, 'cause I know that you're married and your kid's even married, 'cause you told me so... I'll guess that you're... you're forty two."
A big male laugh. "You're so far wrong, sweet stuff! You come over here and let me slip my hand..."
"Chardonnay for the lady, and a scotch for the gentleman." The sound of drinks being set on the table. "Have you had a chance to look at the menu? No hurry. I'll come back in a while." A few seconds passed.
"How do I know you're not forty two?"
"Well, I'm tellin' you I ain't forty two."
"Prove it. Let me see your driver's license or something." A hesitation. A light moan and the woman's voice again, "Yep. You're right. Hard as a jelly bean."
"Okay, okay. Here's my driver's license. Look."
"Chester Culligan, 1385 Fulton Avenue, Fort Worth. Chester. That's a very dignified name, Cowboy. Uh, where's the date? Oh, here. You were born February 7th, 1942. Wow! I can't believe it. You don't look nearly that old."
"Heh, heh, heh... pay up. You lost the bet, you little hussy. You bring your little jelly beans over here where I can reach 'em without everybody seein' it."
"Just for a minute, okay? We don't want them throwin' us outa here before we eat, right?"
Rustling sounds and a giggle, followed by a low laugh. "M-m-m-m. What I wouldn't give to put that little jelly bean in my mouth right now." More giggling and rustling.
"Speaking of candy, did you buy the stuff? You got a little nose candy to make us randy, Cowboy?"
"I don't need nothin' but you to make me randy, sweetheart."
"Did you?"
"Yeah, I got it. I always get it."
The tape continued for several minutes longer, then ended abruptly in mid-sentence, as if the tape had run out, but after a few seconds of silence, a male voice announced the date, and gave the location as a hotel restaurant in downtown Vancouver.
"Sounds like Williams' voice. What do you make of that?" asked El.
"Blackmail," said Hunter. "The woman named Ruby was setting the man up, and I'll bet Williams was doing the dirty work."
They let it run until they were sure there was nothing else on the tape, then rewound it and put on another tape. This one was labeled, Sieg Heil + S. It started much the same, with a few unintelligible words and background noise, rustling and thumping.
A man's voice with a thick European accent said, "Give me a hug, Blondie. How's my girl tonight?" That was followed by the sound of a lip smacking kiss.
"Do I ever love your sweater, Mike. You always have such nice things." It was a woman's voice, not Ruby's. "Ooooh. Is it cashmere? It's so soft, I could just crawl right inside it with you."
The man laughed. "Not right here, Blondie. I let you wear it later, right next to your skin, eh?"
"M-m-m-m. That'll be so nice. It's a beautiful sweater. Did your wife buy it for you? She has such good taste. In clothes and in husbands, right?"
A laugh. "She picked a good husband to provide for her, so she can buy nice t
hings. I think sometimes she likes the things better than the husband."
"That's hard to believe, Mike. She must be crazy. Or maybe you just wore her out, you're such a stallion!"
"Men don't get old so fast as women. It's a fact. I'm fifty eight, and I'm still as strong as a young man. Feel this! Blondie, feel this!"
The woman made appropriate remarks, then said, "I don't believe you're really fifty eight. I think you're just saying that to impress me. You're probably... oh... I'd guess you're really only forty five. Am I right?"
"No, I'm telling you. I'm fifty eight."
"No, you can't be. I know, let me see your driver's license. You're being carded. Show me your driver's license so I know you're old enough to drive."
"To drive?"
"Yeah, to drive me." A giggle. "Vroom, vroom. Uh-oh. Maybe you should check my oil." Another giggle. "C'mon let's see your driver's license."
"I don't know..."
A sudden change in tone. "You don't trust me? I thought we were truly friends, Mike. I really thought you liked me."
"Don't look so sad, Blondie. We are truly friends. Here, look. Here's my driver's license. See?"
"My goodness! How do you pronounce your last name? Van der... Van der Vieler..."
"Just Mike," he said. "You see the date?"
"Yes, you're right. August 5th, 1937. You really are 58. I can't believe what good shape you're in for someone your age. You're like a young man, a young stud." Her voice lowered. "Did you bring me a present, Mike? Like usual?"
"Of course, Blondie. I think you shouldn't do it so much, but I buy it from your friend like usual. Your white powder is safe in my pocket. Here, next to my little soldier."