Calypso (18 page)

    The man who owned Caribou Corner was called Bruce Fowles.

    The name Bruce-in fiction and according to Meyer's research-had only two connotations. Bruce was either a fag, or Bruce was a hairy-chested macho villain working
against
the stereotype of the pantywaist. Bruce Fowles, in real life, was a white man in his late thirties, perhaps five feet nine inches tall and weighing a hundred and sixty, with sandy-colored hair going slightly bald at the back of the head (Meyer noticed this at once). He was wearing blue jeans and a purple T-shirt imprinted with the head of a shaggy elk, or moose, or something at any rate with a great pair of antlers spreading over pectorals and clavicles and threatening to grow wild around Bruce Fowles's throat. He came out of the restaurant kitchen drying his hands on a dish towel. If Meyer were naming him, he'd have called him Jack. Bruce Fowles looked like a Jack. He extended his hand, and took Meyer's hand in a good Jack Fowles grip, never mind this Bruce crap.

    "Hello," he said, "I'm Bruce Fowles. My waitress says you're from the police. What's the violation this time?"

    "No violation that I know of," Meyer said, smiling. "I'm here to ask some questions about a girl who worked for you back in March, according to our information."

    "Would that be Clara Jean Hawkins?" Fowles asked.

    "You remember her then?"

    "Read about her in the newspaper the other day. Damn shame. She was a nice girl."

    "How long did she work here, Mr. Fowles?"

    "Look, we don't have to stand here, do we? Would you like a cup of coffee? Louise," he called, gesturing to a waitress, "bring us two coffees, will you please? Sit down," he said. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

    "Detective Meyer," Meyer said, and reached into his pocket for identification.

    "I don't have to see your badge," Fowles said. "If ever anybody looked like a cop, it's you."

    "Me?" Meyer said. "Really?" He had always thought he looked somewhat like an insurance agent, especially since he'd bought the Professor Higgins hat. The hat was on his head now, soggy and shapeless from the rain outside. Both men sat at a table near the swinging door leading to the kitchen. The time was twenty minutes to twelve, a little early for the lunch hour.

    "Cops have a distinctive cop look," Fowles said. "Restaurateurs, as it happens, also have a restaurateur look. It is my firm belief that people either choose their occupations because of the way they look, or else they evolve into what they look like
because
of the occupation they've chosen. Tell me the truth, if you saw me walking along on the street, wouldn't you know immediately that I owned a restaurant? I mean, you wouldn't arrest me for a pusher, would you?"

    "No, I wouldn't," Meyer said, and smiled.

    "Similarly, I didn't have to know you were a cop to spot you as one. Even if Louise hadn't told me there was a cop outside to see me, I'd have known what you were the minute I came through that door. Where's the coffee, by the way? Service in this place is terrible," he said, smiling, and signaling to the waitress again. When she came to the table, he said, "Louise, I know we have to send across the street for the coffee, but do you think we might have two cups before midnight?"

    "What?" she said.

    "The coffee," Fowles said with infinite patience, "the coffee I asked you to get us. Two coffees, please. Detective Meyer here just came in out of that typhoon, and he's drenched to the skin, and he would like a cup of coffee. I wouldn't particularly like one, but since I'm the alleged boss here, I think it might be nice if I were offered one just for the hell of it. What do you think, Louise?"

    "What?" Louise said.

    "Coffees, two coffees," Fowles said, and shooed her away with his hands. "Louise'll be a waitress till the day she dies," he said to Meyer. "She'll be seventy-eight and doddering around here with a bewildered expression on her face, blinking her eyes, a trifle slack-jawed, lotsa muscle but no brains," Fowles said, and tapped his temple with his forefinger.

    "How about Clara Jean Hawkins?" Meyer said.

    "A different breed of cat," Fowles said. "I knew she'd leave one day, and it didn't surprise me when she did. Waitressing is usually a stopgap job for most girls. At least, waitressing in a place like
this,
which is a combination between a cafeteria, a greasy spoon, and a local hangout. I thought of calling it The Ptomaine Ptent, with a 'P' in front of the 'tent,' decorate it like a circus tent, put things on the menu like elephant steak and tiger piss. If anybody asked for an elephant steak, we'd explain it had to be for at least a party of twelve because we'd have to kill the whole elephant-what do you think of that name, The Ptomaine Ptent?"

    "I like it only a little better than Caribou Corner."

    "Awful, right? There's something perverse in me, I know it. Maybe it's the fact that I started this place with my wife's money. Maybe I want it to fail, do you think that's a possibility?"

    "Is it failing?"

    "Hell, no, it's a roaring success." He glanced at his watch. "You're here early. If you came in at twelve-thirty, we'd have to seat you in the men's room. And dinnertime is a madhouse. Listen, I shouldn't kick," Fowles said, and rapped his knuckles on the wooden table.

    "Tell me more about Clara Jean Hawkins."

    "To begin with, smart. That attracts me in a woman, doesn't it you? Brains?"

    "Yes, it does," Meyer said.

    "Speaking of geniuses, where's Louise?" Fowles said, and turned toward the swinging door and bellowed at the top of his lungs, "Louise, if you don't bring that coffee in three seconds flat, I'm going to have you arrested for loitering!"

    The swinging door flew open at once. Louise, looking harried and flushed, came out of the kitchen carrying a tray upon which were two cups of coffee. Meyer could well imagine her trying to serve tables at the height of the lunch or dinner hour. He wondered why Fowles kept her on.

    "Thank you, Louise," Fowles said, and moved the sugar bowl closer to Meyer's side of the table. "Sugar?" he asked. "Cream? Thank you, Louise, you can go back in the kitchen and bite your nails now, go on, thank you very much." Louise pushed her way huffily through the swinging doors. "Total idiot," Fowles said. "She's my niece. My wife's brother's daughter. A
trombenik,
do you understand Yiddish? You're Jewish, aren't you?"

    "Yes," Meyer said.

    "So am I, my maiden name is Feinstein, I changed it to Fowles when I went into show biz. The Bruce is genuine, my mother's brilliant idea, she used to be in love with Bruce Cabot when he played Magua in
Last of the Mohicans.
Two hundred years before I'm born, right, but she remembers old Bruce Cabot, and she names me Bruce Feinstein, terrific, huh? I did some television work four or five years ago, never really made it, decided to open a restaurant instead. Anyway, that's when I became Bruce Fowles, when I landed the part of Dr. Andrew Malloy on
Time and the City.
You are doubtless familiar with
Time and the City?
No? You mean the police force doesn't spend its time in the day room watching soap operas on television?"

    "Swing room," Meyer said.

    "I thought it was day room. We did an episode-
some
episode, it lasted six months-where some cops were quarantined inside the station house, one of them had the plague or some damn thing, and the writers called it the day room."

    "Swing room," Meyer said. "I take your word for it. Where were we?"

    "We were talking about smart girls like Clara Jean Hawkins."

    "Right. She lasted here longer than I thought she would. Smart, young, and pretty besides. Clean for this shitty neighborhood. By which I mean no fooling around with dope. We get enough pushers in here during the lunch hour to supply the entire city of Istanbul for two weeks in August."

    "How about pimps?" Meyer asked.

    "We get our share. This is Diamondback, you know. Would that I were operating a place downtown, but I'm not."

    "Know anybody named Joey Peace?"

    "No, who is he?"

    "A pimp." Meyer hesitated. "Clara Jean Hawkins's pimp."

    "You're kidding me," Fowles said. "Is
that
how she ended up?"

    "Yes," Meyer said.

    "I can't believe it. Clara Jean? Never in a million years. Hooking? Clara Jean?"

    "Hooking," Meyer said. "Clara Jean."

    "How the hell did she ever get into that?" Fowles said, shaking his head.

    "I was hoping
you
could tell
me,"
Meyer said. "Ever see her in deep conversation with anyone who might've been discussing career opportunities?"

    "No, never. She was cheerful and friendly with everybody, but I didn't see any pimps sounding her. You know how they come on, they usually look for drifters, do you know what I mean, lost souls. Clara Jean had a look of confidence about her. I can't
believe
she ended up this way. I honestly cannot
believe
this."

    "Are you sure about the dope angle?" Meyer asked.

    "Why? Was she a user when she died?"

    "Not according to the autopsy."

    "Not according to me, either. One hundred percent clean."

    "Any of the dealers make noises around her?"

    "When don't they? If a nun came in here saying her beads, they'd sound her about a free fix. That's their business, isn't it? Without addicts, there are no dealers. Sure, they came on about junk joy…"

    "Junk…?"

    "Joy," Fowles supplied. "Shit City-but she wasn't buying, she saw clear through them. Look, Mr. Meyer, she was born and raised in this sewer called Diamondback. If a girl gets to be nineteen and she isn't pregnant, or hooking, or supporting a habit-or sometimes all three-it's a fuckin miracle. Okay. Clara Jean was her own person, not quite free, how the fuck
can
you be in Diamondback? not quite twenty-one, and
never
going to be white-but with a good head on her shoulders and a hell of a lot going for her. So how does she end up a hooker bleeding out her life on a sidewalk at four o'clock in the morning? Isn't that what the newspaper said? Four a.m.?"

    "That's what it said."

    "I should've realized right then. I mean, what kind of woman is out on the street alone at four in the morning?"

    "Maybe she wasn't alone," Meyer said. "Maybe whoever killed her was a client. Or even her pimp."

    "Joey Peace, is that what you said his name was?"

    "Joey Peace."

    "Changed from what? Joseph Pincus?"

    "That's possible," Meyer said. "Lots of pimps…"

    "I went to school with a kid named Joseph Pincus," Fowles said idly. "Joey Peace, huh?" He shook his head. "It just doesn't ring a bell. I know most of the customers who come in here, and that name just isn't familiar to me."

    "Okay, let's get off that for a minute. Maybe you'll remember something later on. You said Clara Jean didn't have much to do with your seamier customers…"

    "Just a smile and a nice word or two, right."

    "Ever get a man named George Chadderton in here?"

    "Chadderton, Chadderton. No, I don't think so. White or black?"

    "Black."

    "Chadderton. The name sounds familiar, but…"

    "He was a calypso singer."

    
"Was?"

    "Was. He got killed Friday night, about four hours before Clara Jean bought it with the same pistol."

    "Maybe I read about it," Fowles said. "I don't think I know the name from the restaurant here."

    "He was supposed to meet Clara Jean here at twelve last Saturday. That would've been the sixteenth."

    "No, I can't help you there."

    "Okay, how about while she was working here? Did she have any boyfriends? Anybody ever pick her up after work? Anybody call her on the phone?"

    "No, not that I know of."

    "Have you got any waiters here?"

    "Just waitresses."

    "Busboys?"

    "Four."

    "How about the kitchen? Any male help?"

    "Yeah, my cooks and my dishwashers."

    "Was she friendly with any of them?"

    "Yes, she was a friendly person by nature."

    "Was she
dating
any of them, is what I mean."

    "I don't think so. I'd have noticed something like that, I'm in the place day in and day out, either in the kitchen or at the cash register. I'd have noticed something like that, don't you think?"

    "Anybody named Joey work here?" Meyer asked suddenly.

    "Joey? No. I've got a Johnny washing dishes, and I once had a busboy named Jose-well, I suppose that's a Joey, huh?"

    "When was this?"

    "Jose worked here… let me see… in the spring sometime."

    "March, would it have been?"

    "March, April, something like that."

    "When Clara Jean worked here?"

    "Well… yeah, come to think of it."

    "When did he quit the job?"

    "Well… about the same time she did, as a matter of fact."

    "Uh-huh," Meyer said. "Jose
what?"

    
"
La Paz," Fowles said.

    

    

    Some ten blocks from where Meyer Meyer was discovering that "Peace" was the English equivalent of the Spanish word
Paz,
Steve Carella was discovering that Ambrose Harding was a very frightened man. He had come there only to ask Chadderton's business manager whether or not he knew anything about an album the singer might have discussed with Clara Jean Hawkins. Instead, Harding immediately showed Carella a corsage that had arrived not ten minutes earlier. There had been a knock on the door, and when Harding opened it-he did not take off the night chain-there was the box sitting outside in the hall. It was not the sort of box a corsage normally came in. Not a white, rectangular box with green paper inside it and a florist's name imprinted on the top surface. Not that kind of a box at all.