by Dan Ames
A sane person might ask how he was able to devote so much time to his infidelity.
That was easy.
Ol’ Russ was unemployed. So when most people were at work, he was out chasing skirts as opposed to, you know, a job.
All of which put Judy in a tough spot in terms of getting spousal support. But the judge had taken the affairs into consideration and Judy had gotten most of the couple’s savings that Russ hadn’t been able to convert to cash.
“I want to thank you again for your help, John,” she said. “I couldn’t have gotten through this without you.” She put her hand on mine and for a minute I was back in high school giddy over Miss Meyer. I think my breath even got a little shallow.
I cleared my throat. “I think you’ll be fine now. Call me if you ever need anything.”
Judy nodded, maybe blushed a little and used the awkward moment to cut me a check. As I was walking her to my door, it opened and a man appeared.
It was Clarence Barre, a former client of mine.
He stepped aside as Judy left.
“Hey, John,” he said.
I shook his hand. “Clarence. Good to see you. Come in.”
We sat in a couple of chairs in my waiting area.
“I can’t believe how fast time has flown,” I said. “How have you been?”
Clarence Barre was one of those guys – the kind they don’t make any more. Big, ruggedly handsome, and with charisma to boot. He’d been a country music star for a few years back in the day, with a slew of hits. I had gotten to know him when he hired me to find out who murdered his daughter. I’d helped crack the case.
“I’m fine,” he said, his voice deep and raw. He looked the same, a fine head of silver hair, jeans, a Western shirt with a black vest. Clarence had a presence. “Good days and bad days, I suppose,” he continued. “As time passes, the good start to outnumber the bad.”
He folded his hands across his chest.
“But I’m not here for me,” he said. “It’s about a friend of mine.”
“Okay,” I said. I grabbed a notepad and a pen from my desk. “Shoot.”
“His name is Zack Hatter.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Thee Zack Hatter? Of Groovy Train?”
Clarence smiled. “The one and only.”
“Holy cow,” I said. “Does he live here? In the area?”
“No, his home base is Los Angeles. Usually.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s just it,” Clarence said. “No one knows where the hell he is.”
Chapter Four
You got to see it from a sunrise
You got to see he ain’t no prize.
-Morning Vigil (by Groovy Train)
Ah, Bangkok.
His name was Rutger and he was an American, but he could have passed for virtually any nationality. He had the kind of look that wasn’t a look. It was a style that lacked any substance, a blur in a crowd, a face instantly forgotten.
But one thing about him was obvious. He absolutely loved Bangkok.
He had a passion for its confusion. The chaos. The place where memories were instantly forgotten and no one told the truth. About themselves. About anything. Bangkok was a mystery wrapped in an enigma and then covered in a hot wet blanket applied by a nude teenager.
Rutger watched the band on stage in the little club, a group of five Asian guys who were playing Chuck Berry perfectly, note for note. The only thing they couldn’t replicate was Chuck’s voice, but even that was pretty damn good. They also couldn’t imitate Chuck’s signature moves like the duck walk and the splits. But then again, who could?
Rutger shook his glass – the last of a gin and tonic with some ice rattled around and shortly thereafter, a waitress appeared with a new glass. She put her hand on his shoulder and smiled at him. Not great teeth, but the classic slim body was ubiquitous and highly flexible. Rutger nodded back. He wasn’t sure if the waitress was a man or a woman, but frankly, it didn’t matter to him. His idea of fun wasn’t dependent on what parts were available or not.
The band on stage took a break and Rutger looked around the room, his eyes never settling on any one face. The fat Canadian was still at his table, his red face sweating, another half-empty pitcher of beer in front of him. He’d been in the club for the better part of two hours and most of the barflies had made their best pitches to him but he hadn’t made his buy.
Rutger knew what the Canadian was doing. The shopping aspect was the best part, looking at the products, rejecting most of them but keeping a few ranked in one’s mind, always hoping a new, fresh face and hot body would show up and take the number one spot. It was all part of the process, one to be relished, not rushed. The anticipation was a big part of the game.
It was how things went in Bangkok.
Rutger saw the Canadian focus his attention on a woman wearing denim shorts with fishnet underneath. She had long black hair, a t-shirt with the bottom half cut away, and black boots.
Rutger immediately knew the Canadian had made his choice. It was written all over the man’s face, and especially in his eyes. The pure, naked avarice was on full display.
Sure enough, the woman joined the man at his table and then the Canadian got to his feet, threw some money on the table and slipped his arm around the woman’s tiny waist. They made their way to the door and when they’d left, Rutger stood, put his money on the table and followed.
On the street people jostled for position as the heat and humidity fell on Rutger like a wet blanket. He loved it, actually. He rarely sweat back home, even after one of his brutal workouts. But here in Bangkok, a long walk would leave him drenched. He could only imagine how the Canadian was faring, he could probably tail him just by following the sweat trail.
Like most sex tourists in Bangkok, the Canadian had chosen a hotel just a block from the go-go bars and clubs. Rutger saw him and his “date” disappear into the front of a mid-priced chain hotel.
Rutger waited a few minutes then went inside and found the hotel bar, making sure the Canadian hadn’t stopped for a drink before going up to his room. Rutger ordered a light beer and left it untouched while he waited. He pictured the process up in the Canadian’s room. The girl would probably want to get right down to business, but her customer would try to draw out the experience a bit to get his money’s worth.
Several prostitutes approached Rutger but when he turned his cold eyes on them, they melted away. Rutger always suspected that the more primitive humans become in their quest for food and shelter, the more heightened their basic instincts become. Hookers, especially, seemed to sense that Rutger was a man to be left alone.
After about ten minutes, he paid for his still-full beer, took the elevator up to the 11th floor and walked to the door for Room 1159. A bribe of less than ten American dollars had bought him the information. The key had cost another fifty.
Rutger swiped the keycard, heard the door unlock, opened the door and stepped inside the Canadian’s hotel room.
Chapter Five
It was a long walk to that hotel room on the edge
When the woman says a dark love is sacrilege.
-Tangerine Tango (by Groovy Train)
Mary checked the rearview mirror to see if her ears were bleeding. It would take days for her mind to recover from the noise of Algae. She knew right then and there she would never look at seaweed the same way.
The prospective client who had called her during the “performance,” if you could call it that, was a woman named Connie Hapford. She had given Mary an address in Hollywood that turned out to be a neighborhood of mixed-use properties. There were apartment buildings thrown in with an odd array of shops and a few office buildings from the 1980s. The cornerstone of the area seemed to be a laundromat with a steady supply of foot traffic.
Mary parked on the street and rang the buzzer to Suite 2B, which on the office directory was listed as Groove Publishing.
The buzzer sounded and Mary stepped inside, climbed a flight of s
tairs, found 2B and opened the door. Inside, she saw a tiny waiting room with a table adorned with various music magazines. Rolling Stone. Guitar. Billboard. There was a worn love seat and a few framed gold records on the wall. She stepped closer to see the artist, but then a voice spoke to her.
“Miss Cooper?”
Mary turned and saw a woman clad in black leather from head to toe. She had a head of salt-and-pepper hair, cut short, and a knockout body. Her face was sharp around the edges and a few deep laugh lines could barely be seen. She was a beautiful woman who’d clearly lived plenty of life.
“Yes,” Mary answered. “You can call me Mary.”
“Hi, I’m Connie Hapford.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Please, come back to my office.”
Mary followed the woman to a single office at the end of the hallway with a large bank of windows looking out over Los Angeles. The floor was polished cement with a thick coat of polyurethane over it. The furniture was black leather and chrome. A few original pieces of artwork adorned the otherwise plain white walls. The air smelled faintly of perfume and coffee.
“Can I get you a coffee, water, anything?” Connie asked.
“No, thank you.”
They both sat and Connie looked at Mary. A small smile appeared on her face.
“So you’re a private investigator.”
Mary smiled. “The best in Los Angeles, if I may say so myself. And what is it you do?”
“You must have some interesting stories,” Connie said, ignoring Mary’s question.
“I do, but right now I’m much more interested in your story,” Mary said, neatly bouncing her prospective client’s deflection back across the net.
“I’m in the music business. In several capacities,” Connie said.
“Groove Publishing?” Mary asked. “That’s your company?”
“Yes, that’s my main endeavor. I own the rights to a lot of different kinds of music. I’m always on the lookout for new material, that’s a big part of the job, too.”
“Is it difficult to monitor your copyrighted material? Especially the digital stuff? I know people who rip off all kinds of stuff. Books, music, movies.”
“It’s a constant battle,” Connie admitted. “But I have a firm who specializes in that kind of thing. They’ve got all kinds of alerts set up so that if one of my songs pops up somewhere, it should trigger some software. At least, that’s the theory.”
Mary knew that wasn’t why she’d been called. It was something about a missing person. But she could already see how this was going to go. She was getting more and more involved in white collar crime and although she subcontracted a lot of that type of work, it paid well. Maybe it was more than one job.
“You’ve probably got a lot of stories to tell, too,” Mary said, sensing that maybe Connie wasn’t quite ready to get to the matter at hand.”
“Oh, a few. But they’re mostly old stories. My life these days in comparison is pretty boring.”
Mary nodded and waited. Some clients liked to get right to the point. Others liked to beat around the bush for a while, but those were usually the highly personal cases. A cheating spouse and the cuckolded party couldn’t bring themselves to broach the subject.
Mary had a pretty good idea that Connie was about to get to the point.
And she did.
“Have you heard of Zack Hatter?”
“Sure,” Mary said. “He was the lead singer for Groovy Train.”
Mary remembered the band. A somewhat legendary blues-rock group with quite a few big hits, a lot of albums, and fans from several generations. They were America’s lesser-known version of the Rolling Stones. Most critics had dismissed them at the time, but over the years their reputation had actually improved.
“Yes. He was and still is, technically. Anyway, he’s gone missing.”
A smirk couldn’t help put itself on Mary’s face. “From what I’ve heard,” Mary said, “Mr. Hatter has a propensity for disappearing from time to time.” She was referring to the many tabloid stories about Zack Hatter’s love of booze, drugs and women. That passion was often coupled with an open disdain for authority.
The expression on Connie’s face told Mary she was right. “Yes, that’s true. He’s battled every kind of substance abuse known to human beings, and that journey has caused him to take extended absences from the public eye.”
Connie’s shoulders had slumped and some of the life had gone from her face. Mary knew worry when she saw it. And this was personal.
“I take it this one isn’t just a public disappearance, but a private one, too?” Mary guessed. “Hence the need to call a private investigator.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Connie said.
“What’s different about this one?” Mary said. She pulled a small notebook and pen from her purse.
Connie sighed and looked out the windows. A haze hung over the horizon and Mary saw the woman’s reflection in the glass.
“This time, he didn’t just disappear,” she said. “He was kidnapped.”
Chapter Six
Borrowed a Rolls from a guy down the street
Came with champagne and the sound of running feet.
-No Bitch (by Groovy Train)
I parked the car in my driveway and was about to open the door when my cell phone rang. I glanced down and saw it was a call from Las Vegas. I don’t get many calls from Vegas. In fact, it might have been the very first one I’d ever received in my life.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Is this John Rockne? The detective?” It was an older man with a grizzled voice.
“This is John Rockne, the private investigator,” I answered. “Who is this?”
“This is Wayne DeGraw,” the man said. “My buddy, Clarence Barre said he was going to talk to you about our missing friend.”
After Clarence Barre had told me about Zack Hatter and how he’d gone missing, he’d told me that the actual guy who wanted to hire me would be calling. I’d been slightly disappointed in that I liked and respected Clarence Barre and had been hoping I would be working for him. But in my business, you can’t always choose who’s going to hire you.
“Yes, that’s right, Mr. DeGraw,” I said. “Clarence just filled me in on what few details he had.”
“Hey, man, call me Wayne.” He sounded like a refugee from the sixties, which might not have been a bad guess.
“Okay, Wayne,” I said. “Yes, I talked to Clarence and he said you were going to give me a call. You’re the one who discovered Zack Hatter was missing, right?”
I got out my notepad and pen. In the living room window, I saw one of my daughters peek out at me. I did a finger wave.
“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Wayne said. “I don’t really know if he’s missing or not. I’m sure Clarence told you all about Zack, right?”
“More or less. He’s still living the lifestyle of a rock star, right?”
“Yeah, that crazy ass just never stopped. So there have been times when he’s been hard to reach, man. Real hard. But usually you just go down to the local bars and ask where the loose women are and eventually you find him. But none of that has worked and it’s been at least a month since anyone’s seen him. That’s a pretty long time, even for Zack.”
I saw the back door of my house open and my wife leaned over the railing and looked at me. I pointed at the phone in my hand and she gave me the ok sign.
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” I asked. “How did you know Zack?”
“I was a roadie for Groovy Train for almost twenty years. I was the only one around who could keep up with him. In terms of booze and…the other stuff, you know what I mean, man?” I heard Wayne take a deep breath and then a slow exhale, and could picture him smoking a cigarette on the other end of the line.
“Got it.”
“Anyway, we’ve kept in touch over the years and when his family can’t find him, they usually hire me to go drag him out of who-knows-where
and sometimes into rehab. That sort of used to be my job back in the day.”
“I see.”
“So this time I traced him to Mexico, but after that, nothing. And like I told the family, and Clarence, this time it really feels like something bad happened.”
“You say, Zack’s family. Who are you talking about?”
“His ex-wife and their two kids. A son and a daughter. They still live in LA.”
Los Angeles. Mexico. This was really starting to feel like something outside of my capabilities. I had agreed to at least talk to Wayne as a favor for my old client Clarence. But now I felt the need to be blunt.
“Look, Mr. DeGraw.”
“I told you to call me Wayne, man. I think you’re lookin’ for my old man when you say Mr. DeGraw. And good luck finding that crotchedy old bastard!”
What followed was a racking cough that sounded like a punctured antique accordion.
“Okay, Wayne. Look, if you or the family think there is foul play involved you really ought to call the police. And if they can’t help you and you really feel the need to hire a private investigator, there are dozens of firms in Los Angeles, or Las Vegas, who can help you. I’m in Grosse Pointe, a suburb of Detroit. I’m not sure how I can help you.”
“You come highly recommended by Clarence. You caught the guy who killed his daughter, right?”
“I think that’s simplifying it a bit,” I said. “But generally, yes, that’s accurate.”
“Look, we already talked to the fuzz in LA and they can’t help us.”
The fuzz?
“And since he disappeared in Mexico, no one else wants to help, either. Plus, Zack’s reputation precedes itself, you know what I mean? An old rock star with a taste for booze, drugs and loose women, lost in Mexico? It ain’t like Johnny Law is gonna put a team of detectives on it. In fact, they told the family to hire a private investigator. But they didn’t know who to call so they asked me, and I remembered Clarence had said you came through in the clutch, man.”