EQMM, August 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Right."

  "Make and model on the revolver?"

  "Colt, six-shot, snubby little barrel."

  I'm no expert on firearms, but it sounded like a pretty typical Detective's Special, from a gentler time when officers didn't need seventeen rounds in a magazine plus one in the chamber. “You tell the police about this missing gun?"

  Another sturdy shake of the head. “All the states we go through, I couldn't ever get permits for every one of them. And besides, I'm a former convicted felon, which I guess would keep me from getting licensed anyway."

  His explanation made sense, in its own way. Including him not telling the police about any unregistered weapons.

  Kel Tiptree joined his large, bony hands in a clasp of prayer, his eyes glazed from the heat or his hurt. “Please find my Marcy for me."

  I put down my pen. “You have a recent photo of Ms. Pickens?"

  * * * *

  "Since the police can't help, I've hired Rory Calhoun here to look for Marcy. I want you both to tell him anything he wants to know."

  Tiptree then nodded and walked away from the RV, which was maybe two-thirds the size of a school bus, the sun bouncing off it and raising the temperature another ten degrees. The humidity had already hit the top. Or, at least, I hoped so.

  When Tiptree announced my name, though, Larry Bornstein chuckled, and Earl Washington just looked at the road manager oddly.

  I said, “I'd like to talk with each of you, but alone. Is there anything you have to do that would make it more sensible for me to start with one versus the other?"

  They exchanged glances.

  "I gotta make some calls...” Bornstein speaking first, a New York accent, as he hiked his thumb toward the RV “...find a backup for Marcy if she doesn't show soon. So how about you start with Earl, since he's going to have to do the sound check with Kel and the sidemen du jour?"

  Washington nodded in agreement before addressing me. “There's a picnic table over yonder. In the shade of that willow, though the benches might be older than the tree."

  As we walked in silence, I tried to think how I'd describe the slim young man. His facial features were “Negroid,” if that's a word you can still use. Strong brow; broad, flat nose; brown eyes set wide apart. But his hair was a shade of red I didn't think came from a bottle, and his skin just a little darker than a peach, with freckles sprinkled all over his cheeks. Tiptree had said his mother was black, so Washington's appearance wasn't exactly shocking, but I wondered how much abuse he'd had to take working in a country band performing in front of what I'd guess to be overwhelmingly white audiences.

  As we sat down on the old bench, both of us trying to avoid splinters, Washington said, “Why don't we get it out of the way?"

  Thinking he might have read my expression upon seeing him, I replied, “'It'?"

  A grunted laugh. “Come on, man. Don't make me think you're stupid. ‘What's a nice colored boy like you doing in a redneck band like this?’”

  "Something similar crossed my mind."

  "Yeah, well, it should've. Except for Charley Pride—who's near on retired now—you don't see many people of any color in country. But I think of it as just another kind of ethnic folk music, and it sure provides a fiddlin’ man a living."

  I nodded, taking out the photo of Marcy Pickens and Kel Tiptree, arms around each other's waist. “Would you say this is a pretty good likeness?"

  Washington looked down at the curvy woman with streaked blond hair worn past her shoulders. “Yeah, that's Marcy, all right, except...” he squinted at her face “...this picture doesn't show the horns growing out of her head."

  Washington looked up now, smirking.

  I said, “You think she's the devil?"

  "Probably. Or Eve with the forbidden apple, maybe? And Kel, he can't get enough of her cider."

  "Is that having any impact on the band?"

  "Impact?” Washington scratched his chin. “Well, Marcy sure sings on stage a lot more than the ones before her did."

  Before her. “How long have you been with Kel?"

  "Six years, but most people guess wrong about my age. I look twelve, but I'm actually twenty-three."

  "Still, even that means you started performing pretty young."

  "So did Stevie Wonder and Stevie Winwood, man. When the music's inside you, it has to get out. Be shared, like."

  Okay. “Does Ms. Pickens singing more than the past ones take time away from your instrument?"

  Another smirk. “Oh, I get it. No, Kel hasn't put me on the back burner. And I don't hate Marcy or resent her. Or even envy her. Kel Tiptree isn't exactly Casper the Friendly Ghost. It's hard enough sharing the RV with him, much less a bed."

  There was something else there, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

  "You got any more questions, man?"

  "One. Any reason you can think of why Ms. Pickens would just ... go away?"

  "Woman likes to shake what she shares.” Earl Washington smirked a third time. “Might be Eve found herself a better Adam."

  * * * *

  Larry Bornstein's first question for me after I knocked and entered the RV was, “Calhoun, you ever have polio?"

  "Fortunately, I was born kind of late for it."

  Fiftyish, short, and paunchy, Bornstein pushed a button on his cell phone and gestured with an unlit cigar toward me. “Reason I ask, your right arm's so much bigger than the other one."

  I was enjoying the air conditioning too much not to humor him. “From playing tennis."

  Bornstein frowned as he sat behind a foldout card table that looked as though it held paperwork more often than plates. “You're a pro, like on the tour?"

  "Was. For a while."

  "Screwy name like yours from the movies, how come I never heard of you?"

  Pity the folks running the diplomatic corps let this guy slip through their fingers. “I did mostly satellite events, once in a while qualifying for bigger tournaments."

  A shrug. “So now you're a private eye."

  "So now you're managing a singer who can't get a recording contract."

  "Hah. Good one, Calhoun. We'll get along fine, you don't mind me busting your chops."

  I took a seat that pulled out of the wall like his table. Bornstein was nice enough not to fire up the cigar.

  I said, “Tell me about Marcy Pickens."

  Another shrug. “Not much to tell. She came on-board in Nashville. Trying to hit it big, you know, but starting way too late."

  I pictured the photo. “She looks only about thirty."

  "Hah. Try thirty-four. Which is ancient for a rookie in this biz."

  I thought about my own ageing out—or “injuring out"—of pro tennis. “But you took her on, anyway."

  "Kel took her on. You ask me, Kel got one look at her and he was gone. I'm not sure if he even heard Marcy sing before he's introducing her to me and Earl as our new girl."

  "Only she's stayed around?"

  "Hey, Marcy's no dog. Country's a lot blander than rock or hip-hop, but she can still shake a pretty good booty."

  Close to Washington's comment. “She stay faithful to Mr. Tiptree?"

  "Faithful? Huh, that's a good one. You know how they say every country song is either about breaking up or making up?"

  "No, but it's catchy."

  "It's the truth. Let me tell you, I got started in music with a rock band. Forget the name, just know this: Those guys were pigs. They didn't even have the dignity to go punk, just covered a lot of songs by name groups from the early seventies. And what music and lyrics they did write were pure puke. Country, now, it's different. Alcohol, yeah, but no drugs. And it's ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, ma'am,’ too."

  I could sense Bornstein warming to his spiel, but sincerely, not just as hype. He gestured again with the cigar. “The music, well, structurally, it's pretty simplistic. Just a melody to carry the lyrics. But the songs are ‘real.’ They actually say something, mean something. I'm telling you, Calhoun, it's the onl
y way in this great land of ours to get paid for writing poetry."

  "Marcy Pickens?"

  "What?"

  "Has she written any songs?"

  "No, no. I'm telling you, her musical talent is from...” Bornstein used one hand flat at his throat and the other down at his thighs. “...here to here."

  "Do you think Mr. Tiptree really loves her?"

  "Yeah. And, to be honest, I think she ‘really’ loves him, too. But don't try to convince Junior of that."

  "Junior?"

  "Earl.” Bornstein's eyes narrowed. “What, Kel and him didn't tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  Now an exasperated expression. “Earl ... is ... Kel's ... son."

  Thanks, client. “No, they didn't mention that."

  "Yeah. Not a lot of resemblance, but the kid sure inherited the talent. And, I gotta say, Kel is a real stand-up guy. I think the word the courts use is ‘acknowledge.’ Kel admitted he was the father, sent the mother money to help raise him, even went to visit the kid growing up, encouraged him on the fiddle. Then Daddy takes him into the show. I mean, if we were talking jazz here, no pro-blame-oh. But you should hear the crap they both have to put up with—a mulatto kid in a country band?"

  I was thinking more about the age gaps instead. “Do you think there could be anything between Mr. Washington and Ms. Pickens?"

  "'Mr. and Ms.'? What are you, an anchorman?"

  "Just polite."

  Bornstein gave me a sour smile. “From Earl's side, who knows, kids today. I've never seen her lead him on, if that's what you mean."

  That's what I meant. “Any reason you can think of why Ms. Pickens would disappear?"

  Bornstein frowned again, then pursed his lips. “Tell me, I say something to you, does it have to get back to Kel?"

  I leaned forward. “I won't know that until I hear you out."

  "No.” Bornstein shook his head, but more deciding than disagreeing. “No, if I don't tell you, I'll kick myself from here to Music City, something happens to her."

  He stuck his free hand into his pants pocket, came out with a crumpled piece of paper he smoothed out on the table. “Last night, around eight, I see Marcy on her cell phone, over by the picnic table. She's holding this piece of paper in her other hand. Marcy's talking all nice-nice from what I could catch, but it wasn't so much her words as her tone, get me? Only thing is, she hangs up, squeezes this paper into a ball, and tosses it at the trash can. Marcy doesn't notice that it hits the rim, and she doesn't pick the paper up from where it lands on the ground. What Marcy does do is walk away. Crying."

  "Can I see the paper?"

  Bornstein spun it to my side of the table. Just a telephone number, but the area code was 954.

  Meaning Broward County, where Fort Lauderdale lies. And the exchange was one of those odd combos of numbers that suggests a cellular.

  I said, “Mr. Tiptree told me Ms. Pickens wasn't happy about coming to South Florida."

  "Yeah, well. When ‘Ms. Pickens’ first showed up, I needed her Social Security number for tax stuff. I also had a friend with a tie-in to the administration do a computer check."

  Nice friend to have. “And?"

  "And Marcy's last payments into the system came from a bar down here called Stompers, about three years ago."

  I'd never heard of the place, but I did think back to her using “hurricane season” without the article. “Ms. Pickens worked down here at least for a while, then stopped for three years, and last night calls a Broward County telephone number."

  Bornstein said, “Want to hear what I'm thinking?"

  I didn't know if my client had told Bornstein or Washington about the missing gun. “Try me."

  Larry Bornstein pointed his cigar down toward his lap. “I think there was probably a sugar daddy before Kel, and Marcy's maybe attending a little ... reunion."

  * * * *

  I got back into my Chrysler Sebring convertible and stopped at the first pay phone I saw rather than risk losing anonymity by using my own cellular. When I dialed the number on Bornstein's piece of paper, I got two rings before a click and “Bro."

  Male baritone, but raspy, as though he drank hard liquor straight.

  I made it up as I went along. “We're on vacation down here, and somebody recommended Stompers as a good club to hit. Can you tell me if you've got live music tonight?"

  A pause. “Who gave you this number?"

  An implied threat. “Directory Assistance."

  "Bro” clicked off on me.

  I waited a few minutes, and sure enough he must have pressed *69, because the pay phone started ringing.

  I picked up the receiver. “Stompers. Can I help you?"

  "Who the hell is this?"

  "Bro! How you doing, buddy?"

  "Cut the crap. Now."

  Another click.

  I walked back to my car.

  * * * *

  Next stop was the city clerk's office. The air conditioning there was subarctic, making me think of a friend with two young kids at the tennis club telling me she always bought sweaters for holiday gifts to keep her offspring from freezing to death in school.

  With the help of a very knowledgeable municipal employee, I found Stompers’ application for a liquor license. It nicely required the location of the proposed establishment and the name and home address of the applicant, too. One “Breau Shackleford."

  Pronounced “Bro,” I wagered.

  * * * *

  Over the years, friends had dragged me into a couple of country-and-western clubs, which was how I discovered the good music of Reba, etc. Stompers, however, reminded me more of a Hooters, with the same emphasis on the bartenders’ “appearance” but adding cowboy hats and boots to the women's outfits, bearskins and steer horns to the walls.

  It was only going on two P.M., and the place wasn't crowded. The few patrons had long-neck Coors or Miller bottles in front of them and their heads on swivel mode, appreciating the bartenders prancing around. Spotting three empty stools at a corner of the bar itself, I took the middle one, hoping for a little privacy.

  A bouncy twenty-something with curly brown hair and an aura of fun clogged over to me from a cash register inside the bar enclosure. “What can I getcha?"

  Her nametag had branding-iron calligraphy that spelled “AMBER.” I stood up on the stool rung, looked down at her feet. “How do you make it through a shift wearing those things?"

  "The boots?” A shrug with the hint of a smile. “Better than what I wore—but didn't get to keep on much—at my last job."

  I liked that, Amber not afraid of getting it out there while showing she could hold her own in the bantering department. I hoped my using her wouldn't end up hurting her.

  I said, “Worked here long?"

  "Near a year."

  Which meant the photo of Marcy Pickens would mean nothing to her. “Breau around?"

  "Uh-unh. Haven't seen him today. Or Coley, for that matter."

  "Don't think I've met Coley."

  Amber seemed surprised. “You know Breau but not ... Coley?"

  "Describe him."

  "Don't have to. You saw Coley, you'd know him.” Amber leaned across the bar and lowered her voice. “Some wild cowboy-wannabe can't contain himself in here, Coley puts the ‘stomp’ in Stompers."

  Great: the bouncer. “Any idea when Breau and Coley might come in?"

  "No. I got off at eight last night, but didn't see them before then, either."

  "Breau still live in that place on Northeast Sixteenth Avenue?"

  Amber showed me just a hint of tongue between her lips. “Uh-huh."

  "Well,” I laid a five on the bar. “For your time, if not your trouble."

  A little more tongue. “Speaking of time and trouble ... I get off tonight at eight, too."

  Liking Amber even better, I said, “Hope to see you then,” meaning it in terms of both sex and survival.

  * * * *

  The three-story “Italianate villa” that ma
tched the home address on the liquor-license application backed onto a canal, privacy hedges separating the closely bunched neighbors. There were two vehicles in the semicircular drive, that small convertible Cadillac makes and a Dodge Ram pickup. I pegged the yellow stucco exterior and roof of orange tiles as the ugly spawn of a teardown, since the predominant housing stock around it consisted of ranch-style homes that fit the setting better. Five years from now, there'll be two ranches left and twenty more monstrosities, shoe-horned into the footprints of the original structures. South Florida's idea of architectural manifest destiny. Unfortunate, but something you can make use of in my business.

  I left the Sebring in the shade of a magnolia tree across the street from Shackleford's villa, stopping to alligator-clip a laminated ID card onto my polo shirt's open V. The card has my portrait (courtesy of the state's Department of Motor Vehicles) and a fictitious “real-estate appraisal” company name embossed below it. Taking out a clipboard with some appraisal forms, I walked up to the driveway, sweating already and beginning to take notes on the house itself.

  I figured Breau Shackleford might have motion detectors covering his grounds—not to mention Coley the Bouncer guarding his back—so I moved up to the front door and rang the bell, establishing my cover story of appraising a ranch down the street for its own teardown. After a minute, no answer.

  I tried the bell two more times. Still nothing.

  Deciding I'd done my best to reinforce the cover, I began walking around the corner of the house toward the canal, still jotting notes. When I got to the back, I saw the obligatory swimming pool, too short for swimming laps but essential against the heat of summer. A twenty-foot runabout lazed at the dock on davits to keep the hull from banging against the pilings. An open-cockpit kayak and paddle, with the blades flat, not feathered, rounded out the toys of Shackleford that I could see.

  I turned to the house. There seemed to be a playroom on the first floor to my right, a billiards table partially visible, a couple of cue sticks and balls lying motionless on the green felt. The kitchen was in front of me, and down the hall I could just see the foot of the staircase to the second floor.

  And a woman with long, streaked-blond hair, naked except for a pair of torn panties, slide down the bottom step as if her rump was a toboggan before being grabbed by the upper arms. Two huge hands hauled her back upward, kicking and thrashing but beyond my line of sight.