by Ken Bruen
And I added,
“Outta Chicago.”
He lit up, said,
“You remember, but am I surprised? . . . As those British say . . . not a jot.”
He did a passable accent, like a guy who'd watched a lot of Masterpiece Theatre, then he went,
“But not an accent you're wanting to hear, am I right? Don't tell me . . . lemme see if I got it . . . Steve . . . yeah, that's it.”
I nodded and he stared at my coffee, asked,
“That . . . like . . . a coffee . . . in Vegas, in a casino?”
I put it on the tray of a cruising waitress, she was a looker and legs . . . oh, god. Bob asked,
“Wanna grab a beer, bring me up to speed?”
I remembered I liked him from the off, he had that innate decency. The thinking goes, Fat people are jolly and there's an inclination in there, like, They fucking better be and it's a crock. Some of the meanest fuckers to come down the pike were carrying weight in every sense.
Really wanted to ask,
“The Sox, baseball right?”
But went the safety route, remarked he was still here?
I didn't ask him how long that was, lest he tell me. I'd paid my bill at La Concha a few days back, and managed to block out the actual length of time of my stay; the receptionist said,
“You must like it here.”
That was confirmation enough and the security guard now went,
“Yo, Steve.”
Anytime I had the misfortune to run into him.
One evening he'd sneered,
“Got a load on there, pal.”
Being a juice head himself, I'd obviously risen in his estimation. Bob said,
“I've been back and forth, maybe three times since we met.”
Shit.
He continued,
“The cards, Steve, I do love to play poker, last night, with a pair of Kings, I cleaned out a couple of good ol’ Texas boys. What'd you say, we grab a couple of cold ones? The bar guy here, he was in the service, like you.”
I noted he'd remembered that, said,
“Sure.”
Propped at the bar, we were welcomed warmly by the tender, got some long necks, clinked bottles, Bill going,
“Gimme the good word.”
The best I had was Irish, so,
“Slainte.”
You say it like you were German with a lisp; he answered,
“Back at you.”
He near drained his in one, ordered more. The beer was good, cold, refreshing, beads of moisture creasing the label, the sound of the casino as point, I let my muscles relax. Had been a while, Bob was assessing me, said,
“You lost some weight there, buddy.”
Got that right.
He asked,
“How'd you manage that, I could shed a few pounds . . . what's the secret?”
“Marriage.”
He laughed out loud.
I didn't.
Fat people, like people with adopted kids, always tell you up front, get it out in the open and if there's a connection, it escapes me, Bill asked,
“You like Vegas?”
I didn't know, said,
“I don't know.”
He enjoyed that, then gave me a rundown on his poker hands. Interesting for all of two minutes, then my eyes began to roam the shelves, seeing brands I'd never heard of . . . what the hell was ultra dynamite . . . besides trouble? Then Bill, louder,
“You want a job?”
“No expense accounts, or lunch or discounts/or
hyping up the charts, . . . no consumer trials, or
A.O.R./in Hitsville U.K.
— THE CLASH, “HITSVILLE U.K.”
Took me a moment to register what he was asking, I echoed,
“A job?”
My amazement blazing through, he began to peel the label off the long neck, said,
“I have a chain of security agencies with a little private investigation on the side, all over the country, this climate of paranoia, business is booming.”
I asked the obvious:
“Why me?”
The bartender, unbidden, set up a fresh set of beers, with bowls of peanuts, chips, even a selection of dips; Bill attacked them with passion, said,
“Couple of reasons; first, because I like you, not that it's necessary but it helps. Two, you're smart and that definitely is a bonus. Three, you were in the service, know how to handle yourself, that's a major plus.”
I finished my beer, tried not to hear him grind the peanuts and he asked as I smiled,
“What's funny?”
I told the truth.
“A private eye, hadn't figured on that as a career choice.”
He selected a chip with great care, had to be the biggest, dipped it in the cream, offered,
“Here, they're good.”
I passed, waited, and he added,
“Here's my card, give it some consideration, pay's real fine.”
I put it in my wallet, said,
“I don't have a green card.”
He wasn't bothered, said,
“Not a problem, am I wrong, you plan on staying Stateside?”
“That's the plan.”
“So, you're going to need a job, can't see you like . . . what, working a bookstore or some nine-to-five jive.”
Tempted to tell him that was exactly what I used to do, I said,
“I've some stuff to get done, then yeah, why not?”
He called to the tender,
“Set us up something special, we're celebrating.”
I said,
“I'll stay with beer, that okay?”
He had a bourbon, rocks, asked,
“You want to catch a show, hit the tables, my dime?”
I finished the beer, said
“Love to but there's a couple of calls I should get to.”
He had his hand out, said,
“I've to be getting back to Chicago real soon, but here's to a bright future.”
I went back to my room, the beer fortifying me, time to call Siobhan, I was up, feeling good, put the call through, waited . . . then heard,
“Yeah?”
A male accent, worse, a Northern Ireland accent.
Stapleton.
Stunned, I tried to regroup, asked,
“The fuck you doing in my house?”
A laugh, then,
“Stevie, we've been worried about you, boy, thought you were never going to call.”
I tried for control, the beer not helping at all, asked,
“Where's my girl?”
He made a sound, as if smacking his lips, said,
“Good question . . . she's like, disappeared.”
I felt the room spin, tried to focus, shouted,
“If you've hurt her . . . “
“You'd do what, write to me, you need to calm down, big guy, she was here, and let me say . . . “
Pause.
“She's a hell of a fuck, man, she buckled under me like a wild cat, you know that already, of course, I'm getting hard just recalling it.”
The wet sound again.
I said,
“She's dead, isn't she?”
He gave a low laugh, then,
“You're a terrible man, always jumping to conclusions, it's that Brit in you, let me ask you something?”
I waited and he went,
“That accent them fuckers have, them Brits, if you gave them a fright really early in the morning, they'd talk normal, do you think?”
Sweat was pouring down my front, I said,
“If you've hurt her . . . “
He gave a sigh, then,
“You're off again, why would we hurt her, she's our leverage . . . for our money.”
I couldn't help it, echoed,
“Your money?”
Now he went Barry Fitzgerald mode,
“Sure and whose t'would it be?”
A fun guy.
I said,
“If Siobhan's hurt,
you'll never see a bloody cent.”
He took a moment, then,
“Am I hearing hostility?”
When I left the black hole, that is, didn't answer, he said,
“The said Siobhan wasn't inclined to chat but eventually, she sang like a blackbird, the money scam, meeting you in Tucson . . . are you still up for that?”
My mind was reeling, I tried,
“And you're planning to tag along?”
He laughed, said,
“Wouldn't miss it for the world, I don't see you returning to us, call it an intuition.”
I let my rage flow:
“Bring it on, shithead, I'll be there, waiting for you.”
A sigh, as if I disappointed him, then,
“I'm still hearing those negative waves, you need to get a handle on that, boyo.”
I crashed the phone down.
Stood, turned on the TV . . . Friends . . . I watched without a single reaction. An enclyclopedia salesman was trying to sell a volume to Joey, going,
“How is your general knowledge?”
Seeing Joey's blank face, he tried,
“Where does the Pope live?”
Not missing a beat, Joey replied,
“In the woods.”
I switched off, got on the phone, took time, but eventually, got one of Siobhan's friends. Not encouraging, Siobhan hadn't been seen for two weeks, hadn't shown up for work.
After the call, I said aloud,
“She's dead.”
But what if she wasn't? She'd no way of contacting me, if she had escaped from them, she'd try to make the Tucson rendezvous. Either way, I'd have to go . . . I wanted to meet Stapelton . . . Jesus, did I ever.
I dialled another number, Siobhan's home. A long shot but if she needed to hide, anything was possible; her father answered, sounded like he always did, gruff, belligerent, drunk. I asked,
“Is Siobhan around?”
“Who?”
“Your daughter, Siobhan, have you seen her?”
A pause and for a brief moment, my spirits lifted . . . maybe . . . then,
“I haven't clapped an eye on her these three years, with a bit of luck, it will be three more.”
Closed him down.
The room was oppressive, my mind riddled with poison, I got out of there, walked quickly back to the Sahara, Bob was still at the bar, said,
“Hey, hey, you changed your mind.”
I ordered two shots of bourbon, nudged one over to Bob, said,
“I need your help.”
He lifted his glass, touched it to mine, said,
“You got it, good buddy.”
“info freako”
— VOICE OF THE BEEHIVE
ON WEST GATES PASS ROAD, as Speedway Boulevard winds its way from the city of Tucson, you hit the International Wildlife Museum. Dade was driving, no destination set, speed cranking in his veins, Tammy on the speakers, “Funny Face,” he shouted,
“You sing it, babe.”
Times like this Tammy was speaking to him, he hit the volume.
No shit, she knew Dade was her man . . . he hit the volume again, the noise near swaying the vehicle, he was driving a pickup . . . Sherry gone to get her hair, as she said,
“Prettied up.”
Dade had bought the pickup for eight hundred bucks, from a guy out of El Paso, it was beat up, had serious milage but the sucker moved. All he needed was a hound dog, Hank Williams on the speakers, gun rack, he'd be the complete redneck, the image made him smile, Tammy was onto “I Fall To Pieces.”
Dade went,
“Bitching . . . fucking song kills me, darlin’.”
He sang along, into it, seeing him and Tammy, heads together, at the microphone, leaning in for each alternate line, high-fiving it to the massive, chanting crowd . . . could hear that crowd, howl,
“Tammy . . Dade . . . Tammy . . . Dade.”
He spotted the sign . . . International Wildlife Museum . . . thought why not? . . . jarred to a halt . . . paid seven bucks admission and was seriously pissed, returned to the admission booth, asked,
“The hell kind of scam you running here?”
The woman, bored, focused dull eyes on him, went,
“What?”
“The animals are stuffed, what's that about?”
She gaped at him and he asked,
“Why doesn't it say on the sign . . . ‘Dead Animals'? . . . huh, roadkill! I can get in my truck and drive, get all that crap on the side of the goddamn highway?”
She said,
“You want live Mister, you need to get down to the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.”
She looked at her watch, cautioned,
“Don't go today.”
“What, they closed?”
“It's nearly noon, the animals have their siesta.”
She refused him a refund and he had a moment, climb in the booth, stuff her, line her up with the other stiffs. Stormed outa there, to see a bum sitting on the kerb, who asked,
“Got any change, buddy?”
Dade kicked him in the side, said,
“Get a fucking job.”
Back in the truck, the music died, he seriously lost it, thrashed the panel till his hands hurt, then his cell buzzed, startling him, he got it to his ear, rasped,
“Better be good.”
“It's Fer.”
Dade hadn't expected him for another week, needed to get Sherry in gear if they were going to take the dude down. Apart from ripping off the guns, the cash, the dope.
Dade just wanted to waste an angel.
Like a country song:
“Wasting the Angel.”
He vaguely remembered Sarah McLachlan, she did some tune along those lines, got famous ‘cause Clinton gave Monica Lewinsky the album or was it the other way round. His brain was so fried, he couldn't remember, thought
“What . . . the . . . fuck . . . ever.”
Bodily fluids had been exchanged, sort of, that's what counted.
Fer grunted,
“You there?”
Dade's head bounced back, he said,
“You betcha.”
Mean chuckle from the biker and,
“Y'all been messing with that there mescal?”
Pronounced it mess-cal, a biker's humour, added,
“You all fucked up on that wetback hooch, that it, partner?”
Dade was going to enjoy slamming the Walther in this hog's mouth, said,
“I'm cool, bro, got my shit together, just waiting on da man, waiting on you, amigo.”
Fer was talking to someone in the background, sounded heated. Dade flashed on the biker chick, the suburban wannabe outlaw, then Fer said,
“We're ready to roll, you got the cash dollars?”
Ready and waiting.”
More background debate, then,
“We figure to haul into Tucson tomorrow evening, how's that?”
Dade figured, yeah, get it done, said,
“Cool.”
Then Fer said,
“Slight change of venue.”
Dade's antennae was up, cautiously he asked,
“Why's that, bro?”
Belly laugh, with,
“Lest you figuring to bushwhack me, try to take me off.”
Dade put some hurt in his voice, let a little whine leak over the words, asked,
“You don't trust me?”
The laugh out loud and,
“Man, I don't trust my mom and she's like dead, ten freaking years.”
Mom?
They set up the meet at a flophouse off Congress Street. Dade knew of a club nearby, specialised in indie music, suggested that as alternative.
No bite.
Fer wanted the flop joint, and Dade conceded.
When he caught up with Sherry a few hours later, he almost didn't recognise her, her hair was short, coloured brunette, she asked,
“So, you like it?”
He hated it. Before, she'd looked a little like Tammy, now she looked like
an accident; he waited a beat too long and she snapped,
“The fuck you know.”
He moved to touch her, got his hand slapped away, felt the familiar rage coast, tuned out . . . A moment, refocused, heard,
“Anyway, it's not like it's permanent, just till we get this Irish prick buried.”
Dade wondered . . . who?
He asked,
“Who?”
She glared at him, used her down-home voice, the trailer trash out to play:
“Dun tol’ you the whole fang, who whacked my ol’ man, the prick, he sees me now, he don't know me, he saw a blonde but now . . . “
Back to her own voice:
“I coldcock the sucker.”
Dade had forgotten the whole thing, so caught up in partying, it seemed like Sherry had been round forever; he asked,
“What makes you so sure this cat is going to like . . . you know . . . come to town?”
A smile now, a smile of pure maliciousness, her anger replaced by a lethal certainty, she tapped a smoke, got it in her mouth, lit, exhaled, said,
“He's coming. A young guy who works at the Lazy 8, I slipped him a couple of bucks, keep his eye on the register, new guests, like that.”
Dade figured, from that smile, she'd slipped him more than a few bucks, something further as a sweetener and realised with horror, as an icicle slid along his spine . . . he was like . . . jealous? The fuck did that happen, and seeing her eyes, knowing she knew. His carefully constructed persona, the composite he used to cruise, was flaking away. He needed more dope, felt a pain in his gut, needed violence, managed to ask,
“What makes you so sure he'll show?”
She was stubbing at the cigarette, in the way that women do.
Halfheartedly.
Dab it, maybe twice in the ashtray, short stabbing gestures, attention focused elsewhere, leaving the goddamned thing to smoulder, like it no longer had any connection to her. When Dade had done his jolt, the years behind bars, he'd read some psychology book, found it in the yard, first fifty pages shredded, for a spliff or toilet paper more likely, took it back to his cell, began to read it, trying to get a fix on his own self. All sorts of interesting shit, like a man, strikes a match, he strikes in inwards, living recklessly, the flame not a problem. But a chick, always strikes outwards, protective, away.
Dade was fascinated by that detail, somehow realised that in that data was the massive chasm between the sexes. Excited, worked up, he'd shared the info with his cellmate, a supremacist outta the hills of Kentucky. The guy, picking his nose, with intense concentration, said,