The Zone was a good place for a suburban adventurer to get a knife in the ribs or a dose of the clap.
In recent years the pickup bars and adult-entertainment establishments had been pretty much shut down. Those who cared about such things were trying to revive the area’s old name: The Ladder District. If you looked down at it from a helicopter, you’d see Tremont and Washington streets running parallel to each other and a dozen or so short narrow one-way streets linking them like…well, like the rungs of a ladder.
Nobody I knew actually called it the Ladder District, and a new name would never change the area’s history or culture anyway. It was, and would forever be, the Combat Zone to all but the politically correct and those with a public-relations agenda. Besides, nobody was claiming that crime and vice had ceased to be a thriving enterprise in the area no matter what you called it.
I approached the women and said, “Hey, ladies. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
They turned their heads and looked at me. A blonde and two brunettes. One of the dark-haired women looked Asian. The blonde said something to the guy in the truck, and then the three of them started to walk away.
The truck pulled away from the curb and headed up the one-way street. A logo was painted on the side panel. It looked like a stylized silhouette of a couple of bears, a big one and a little one, mother and cub, maybe, with a few pine trees in the background and scrolled lettering under it that I couldn’t read. The truck had New Hampshire license plates. Live Free or Die. Some contractor or plumber or car salesman—or lawyer or pediatrician or politician, for that matter—venturing south to the Big City from Portsmouth or Nashua or Manchester at the end of a long week, hoping to buy a Friday-night hookup.
“Please,” I called to the women. “I just want to talk to you for a minute.”
Two of them crossed the street. The third one hesitated, then turned and came back to where I was standing.
Up close, I saw that she was younger than she dressed. She didn’t look much older than my dead girl.
“You wanna party, mister?” she said. She was smoking a cigarette. She had black hair and pale skin. She was wearing a red beret and a fake-ermine jacket and a narrow black skirt that stopped at mid thigh. She wore bright red lipstick and a lot of makeup around her eyes and big hoopy earrings.
“Tempting,” I said. “But no thanks. I just want to ask you a couple questions.”
“Fuck you, then.” She turned and started to walk away.
“Please talk to me,” I said. “I’ll pay you.”
She stopped. “Pay me for what?”
“For answers to some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Nothing personal,” I said. “About somebody you might know. I’m just looking for some information.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re not a cop. Are you some kind of cop?”
I shook my head.
“You don’t look like a cop.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said.
“So what are you? Truant officer? Social worker? Reporter? Preacher?”
I smiled. “None of those things. Not even close. I’m a lawyer.”
She laughed. “A horny lawyer?”
“No. Just a lawyer.” I took out one of my cards and held it out to her.
She stepped closer, took the card, looked at it, then tucked it into her jacket pocket. She looked up at me. “Fifty bucks,” she said. “We just talk.”
“How do I know you’ll tell me the truth?” I said.
She shrugged. “Why should I lie to you?”
“Why shouldn’t you?”
“Because,” she said, “whatever you want to ask me, I probably just don’t give a shit one way or the other.”
I smiled. “Let’s give it a shot.” I took out my wallet and gave her a twenty-dollar bill.
She took it, looked at it, and kept her hand extended. “I said fifty.”
“You get the rest after we talk.”
She shrugged and shoved the twenty into her jacket pocket. “Okay. What the hell. Go ahead. Ask away. I’ll give you twenty dollars worth of answers.”
I took out a picture of the dead girl and held it up for her. “Do you know her?”
She squinted at the photo, then frowned at me. “What’s the matter with her? She looks…”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh, shit,” she mumbled. “What happened?”
“Do you recognize her?”
“I don’t know. Yeah, maybe. Lemme see.” She reached for the photo. I gave it to her. She frowned at it. When she looked up at me, I saw that some of the hardness had gone out of her eyes. “She was sick,” she said.
“You do recognize her, then.”
She took a drag off her cigarette, then dropped it on the sidewalk and ground it out with the toe of her boot. “I saw her just one time,” she said. “She’s not like a regular around here or anything. It was a few days ago. I only remember her because she was throwing up. I was gonna see if there was anything I could do, but…” She shrugged.
“You didn’t?”
“I started to, I really did. I felt bad for her. But when she saw me, she walked away.”
“Where did this happen?”
She pointed down the street in the direction the panel truck had gone. “Few blocks that way. Over on Kneeland Street, down in Chinatown. It looked like she was hurting pretty bad. She was leaning against the side of a restaurant, just gagging and puking, and when she walked, she was like all hunched over, holding her belly, kind of limping, you know?”
“Was she pregnant, did you notice?”
“You think because she was sick…”
I shrugged.
She shook her head. “She was wearing a long coat. I didn’t notice her belly.” She cocked her head and looked at me. “Funny thing, though.”
“What?”
“The guy in that truck?”
“That guy you were just talking to?”
She nodded.
“What about him?”
“Just now. He was looking for a girl. That’s all.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re just hanging on the street, you know? Me and Zooey and Kayla? So this guy, he pulls up beside us, rolls down his window, gives us a wave, tells us to come over. We ask him if he’s looking to have some fun. He looks us over and shakes his head. Not with you, he says. We go, Come on, mister. What’s wrong with us? I mean, Zooey’s Asian. Most guys go ga-ga over her. But this guy, he goes, You are not what I’m seeking. Talked like that, very educated, or maybe a phony, you know what I’m saying? It sounded pretty weird, this guy in a truck trying to hook up, talking like he’s some creepy college professor or something. I mean, seeking?”
“As if he was looking for a specific girl?”
“Well, yeah,” she said. “Maybe. It kinda sounded that way.”
“This girl, do you think?” I pointed at the photo she was holding.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I didn’t get the idea he was interested in some dead girl. He said he was seeking somebody younger than us. Blond, he said. She had to be blond. Young and blond. Some guys, they know exactly what they want. They gotta have a girl reminds them of their daughter or their niece or something.” She tapped the photo she was holding. “This chick was young and blond, right?”
“How old would you say she was?” I said. “The girl you saw throwing up.”
“I don’t know. Fifteen or sixteen. Just a kid.”
“How old are you?”
She looked sideways at me. “Nineteen.”
I smiled. “Really?”
“Sure. Old enough to know better, right?”
“You’d think so,” I said. “So this guy in the truck, did it seem like he was looking for some particular girl, or just any blond girl who was young? Did it seem as if he knew the girl he was looking for?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I told you what he
said. Kayla’s a blonde these days, but I guess she’s too old for him. She’s a year older than me. You think he was looking for that girl in your picture?”
“The idea occurs to me.” I hesitated. “What about that panel truck. Ever see it before?”
“I don’t think I ever saw that truck before. I think I’d remember it.” She narrowed her eyes. “The guy, though, he looked kind of familiar. I think he’s been around before, talking to the girls, hooking up.”
“But not with you.”
“Not me or Zooey or Kayla, no.”
“Just now, when you talked with him, did he mention his name?”
“Of course not.” She smiled. “If he had, it wouldn’t’ve been the right one anyway.”
“What did he look like?”
She shrugged. “Kind of geeky looking. Not handsome, not repulsive. No beard or anything. Round glasses, the kind with wire rims. Short hair. He was wearing a necktie.”
“Old? Young?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “About your age, I guess. I’m sorry. I didn’t exactly study his face.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Did this guy say anything else about the girl he was looking for?”
She shook her head. “No, that was it. Kayla, she started giving him a bunch of shit, and that’s when you came along. The guy rolled up his window and drove away.”
“His truck,” I said. “There was some writing on it. Under the logo. A company name, maybe. Did you catch it?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t notice.”
I pointed at the photo again. “And you never saw this girl before the other night, right?”
She shook her head.
“Which night was it?”
She frowned for a minute. “Today’s Friday? It must’ve been Monday. Yeah. Monday night.”
Monday night was when the girl came into my yard. I’d found her Tuesday morning. “About what time?”
“I don’t know. Not late. Nine, maybe?”
“Did you notice where she went?”
She pointed off in the direction of Beacon Hill, where I lived. “You know,” she said, “you want an awful lot of answers for fifty dollars.”
“Easy money,” I said. “What else can you tell me about the girl?”
She shrugged. “That’s all I know. I just saw her that one time, puking on the sidewalk.”
I pulled out my wallet, slid out two twenties, and gave them to the girl.
She glanced at them. “We said fifty. I don’t have any change.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
She shrugged and jammed the bills into her jacket pocket. Then she held up the photo. “You want me to keep this, ask around, see if anybody else saw her?”
“No,” I said. “I need it.”
“I’ll show it to Kayla and Zooey, some other people, if you want.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
She shrugged and gave me the photo.
“You’ve got my card,” I said.
“You want that back, too?”
“No,” I said. “Keep it. Call me if you think of anything you forgot to tell me. Or if you hear anything about that girl. Whatever. Even if you’re not sure it’s relevant, just give me a call.”
“You’ll make it worth my while?”
“Absolutely. And if you see that truck again, try to get the license numbers and give me a call, okay?”
“Sure,” she said. “Why not.”
“What’s your name?” I said.
“My name?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
She cocked her head. “Misty. What yours?”
“Brady,” I said. “So where are you from, Misty?”
“I’m—” She shook her head. “Fuck you. You’re gonna tell me to go home to Mommy and Daddy, right?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Not if you knew my daddy, you wouldn’t.” She lifted her hand. “See ya.” She turned and started to cross the street.
“Wait,” I said.
She stopped and looked back at me.
“I’d like to talk to your two friends for a minute.”
“You gonna give them money?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
She shrugged. “Hang on.”
I watched her head to the other side of the street. She had the walk. You couldn’t miss the message in that walk.
The other two girls—Kayla and Zooey—were standing there on the corner, apparently waiting for Misty. When she got to them, they lit cigarettes and huddled. I could hear them talking and giggling. They sounded like a bunch of high-school girls gossiping about some cute boy, and they kept looking at me.
After a minute, the three of them crossed the street and came over to where I was waiting. Up close, I saw that the other two girls were about the same age as Misty, who I guessed was younger than the nineteen she claimed.
“This is Kayla,” said Misty, putting her hand on the blonde’s arm, “and this is sexy Zooey.”
I held my hand to each of them. “I’m Brady.”
They both shook my hand. Kayla might have been a high-school cheerleader. She had a shy smile and blue eyes and dimples in her cheeks. Zooey, who was Asian, didn’t smile. She just looked at me without expression. She wore her hair in a long braid. Her eyes looked black.
“You want to tell them what you want?” said Misty to me.
I held out the picture of my dead girl. “Does either of you recognize her?”
Kayla took it from my hand. She squinted at it, then looked at Misty. “Isn’t this the girl?…”
“She’s the one that was sick the other night,” said Misty. “He wants to know if you ever saw her before that.”
Kayla shook her head and handed the photo to Zooey, who looked at it and shrugged.
I said, “Misty thought maybe that man you were just talking to in the truck was looking for this girl.”
“He said he was looking for a blonde,” said Kayla. “But not me. I was too old.” She looked at me and laughed. “Me? Too old? Not pretty enough is more like it.”
“You’re wicked pretty, Kay,” said Zooey. “The guy was just a perv. He wanted a child, not a woman.”
“Does either of you remember seeing that man or his truck before?”
“I saw the truck once, I think,” said Kayla. “Maybe in the fall?” She looked at Zooey.
Zooey shrugged. “I never saw the guy or his stupid truck before.” She turned to Misty. “Look, we gotta…”
“Kayla,” I said, “you think you might’ve seen it?”
“I remember noticing the cute bears on the side, that’s all.”
“Was it around here?”
She nodded. “It was just that once. A long time ago. I wouldn’t even have remembered it if I didn’t see it tonight.” She spread out her hands. “That’s all I got for you. We really have to get going.”
“I told them you’d give them money,” said Misty.
I shrugged. “I would think you’d all want to help. This girl died. If she was…” I waved my hand.
“If she was hooking,” said Kayla. “That what you were gonna say?”
I nodded. “I guess I was.” I opened my wallet. “I’ll pay you.” I took out two twenties.
Kayla put her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry about it, Mister. We didn’t do anything to earn it. Unless you want to party?”
I smiled. “No, thank you.” I held a bill out to Zooey, who looked at it, then waved it away with the back of her hand.
“If you think of anything else,” I said, “I’d appreciate it if you called me. Misty has my card. I’ll pay you for anything useful, I promise.”
They smiled and nodded and waved good-bye, then linked arms and strolled across the street. When they got to the other side, they stopped and lit cigarettes. They looked back to where I was standing, and all three of them waved again. Then they started down the sidewalk, heading in the direction of Chinatown,
three pretty girls who could have been on the high-school swim team, heading off to work.
Nine
I walked into Skeeter’s at five minutes of six. I hung my coat on a hook beside the door and looked around. The bar was two-deep with men and women in business attire. I looked them over and failed to spot a college-aged kid with long purple hair and multiple face piercings.
Ethan Duffy might’ve cut his hair and let it grow natural since the last time I’d seen him. I’d recognize him anyway.
Skeeter was hustling around behind the bar. I tried to catch his eye, but he shouldered his way through the swinging door and lugged a rack of glasses into the kitchen.
Busy Friday night, understaffed. I’d catch up with Skeeter later, when things quieted down.
The bar was mobbed, but only a couple of the booths were occupied. Ethan Duffy wasn’t sitting in a booth, either.
I slid into an empty booth where I could keep an eye on the door. I realized the odds were good that Ethan hadn’t gotten my message, or that he had something else going on and wouldn’t be able to meet me. I hadn’t left him a number to call, and I hadn’t asked him to return my call.
He’d be here or not. Either way, I’d have a beer and a burger and some coffee, talk to Skeeter, and then go home.
Tonight Mary-Kate was the waitress. Mary-Kate O’Leary was a bulky fortyish divorcée from Southie with a deadbeat husband somewhere in Canada and three teenagers at home. She came over to my booth, swiped at it with her rag, then pulled her notebook from her apron pocket, plucked her pencil from behind her ear, and said, “So what do you want, Mr. Coyne? You gonna have something to eat tonight, or you planning to wear me out bringing you beers, leave a crappy tip?”
I smiled. “Cheeseburger, fries, bottle of Hibernator. Big tip. How’re the kids?”
“Nothing but trouble. Better off in jail. Medium-rare on the burger?”
“Please. And extra Bermuda onion.”
“Salad or something?”
I shook my head. “Did anybody come in earlier looking for me?”
“Some broad, you mean?”
I shook my head. “No. Young guy, early twenties.”
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