Port of Sorrow (10 page)

CHAPTER
19

Veronique inhaled deeply outside the green room. Her hands were shaking inside elbow-length, black-lace gloves, and she could feel a cold sweat beading the bodice of her red-velvet evening gown. Even her scalp seemed to tingle beneath a flowing midnight-black wig. She inhaled again before pushing open the door.

The women looked up from their makeup tables as Veronique entered. Their eyes immediately moistened and in a group they embraced her. “My God . . . it’s terrible . . . who could imagine . . . you must be heart-broken . . . if there’s anything . . . .”

Veronique tried to fight back the tears — failing. Black mascara ran down her cheeks as friends shared their warmth and comfort.

“Are you really going on stage?” asked a peroxide blonde with too-skinny legs and a mustache problem named Mona.

Veronique nodded as she moved to one of the tables to fix her makeup.

“I need to sing a song for Selene.”

“What are you going to sing?” asked a petite brunette with Bambi eyes named Jasmine.

“It Had To Be You, the original Jones and Kahn.”

The five women smiled, especially Opal, the tall, long-legged, ebony-skinned native of Chicago.

“She loved how you sang that one.”

“Yeah,” Veronique lamented. “And today she’s going to hear it in all its glory. Angels on the chorus, St. Peter on the drums, and Christ getting down on New Orleans piano.”

“Amen to that, girl,” Opal cried, breaking the ice, allowing them all to laugh.

Their smiles didn’t dissipate until Percy stuck his head in the door and yelled, “Hey, Finn. Gotta see you in the office.”

Veronique finished her mascara and blush, blew a kiss into the mirror and headed next door.

“What do you want?” Finn asked, leaning against the office doorway.

“Aren’t you even going to sit down?” Percy asked, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk.

“Everybody hates that seat, Percy. You’ve got it so low to the floor, no one can get out of it.”

Percy chuckled. “Fine, stand there, see if my feelings aren’t hurt.”

“I don’t give a shit about your feelings. Now what do you want?”

“Hey, take it easy. I just wanted to express my deepest sympathy over your loss. I know how close you and Selene were.”

“Thanks,” Finn answered, not believing a word of it.

Percy shuffled uneasily in his chair before adding, “And I wanted to know if you’ve seen Paul anywhere?”

“The cook?”

“Yeah, what other Paul do you know that I would give a fuck about?”

Finn ignored the jab and shook his head. “I saw him just before last night’s show.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard. But you haven’t seen him since?”

“No.”

Percy scratched his head.

“I don’t know what to do. I got customers coming in here to eat lunch and catch a little ass. And I got nobody to cook.”

“Why don’t you do it yourself.”

“I’m the manager, not a grease monkey.”

Finn grinned. “Maybe it’s time to learn an honest profession.”

Percy glowered as Finn turned and left.

Out of curiosity, Finn walked into the kitchen to look around. He usually found Paul hanging by the back door, smoking a joint, always willing to part with a raunchy joke. The kitchen was empty. Finn crossed to the back door and pulled it open.

There was nobody outside.

With a shrug, Finn returned to the green room. Veronique had a song to sing.

CHAPTER
20

Willy was the first to admit he was a snoop. He was born with it: unquenchable curiosity. It was one of the things that made him a good reporter. It was also what made his father’s words echo timelessly on other people’s lips: ‘You’re a nosy bastard, Willy.’

His father had first uttered the phrase when at the age of eight Willy took photos of their neighbor, Mrs. Belinda Carlson, in a compromising position with the unmarried police officer in charge of the Neighborhood Watch program. It wasn’t the photos that angered his father so much as the fact Willy got caught — embarrassingly.

How was Willy to know Mr. Carlson ran the local film processing lab?

That incident did nothing to quench Willy’s thirst; it simply made him more careful.

The Hotel Washington’s concrete basement was a hibernation den for dust monsters, dirty laundry and those raunchy smells abolished from stale rooms by cheap cover-up deodorizers. Its ugliness was enhanced by bare 60-watt light bulbs and the background groan of a giant octopus furnace.

Willy poked around the dingy space, looking behind moldy cardboard boxes filled with empty liquor bottles, and studying the thick wooden rafters. When he reached the far wall, he leaned on a row of industrial-sized washer and dryer sets to rap on the plaster with his knuckles. It was solid.

He had hoped to find the basement skirted under the strippers’ stage, concealing a secret trap door used for the killer’s entrance. It would have made one hell of a sidebar to his main story. But from the looks of it, the stage area was a newer addition that hadn’t required a basement.

His detective skills crushed, Willy started back upstairs when a loud metal clang outside made him stop. Curious, he climbed up on a rickety wooden crate to get eye level with one of the tiny windows that pocked the basement on three sides. He had to reach through rows of metal security bars and wipe the dust away with his coat sleeve before he could see out.

Two men stood beside a metal dumpster, their voices an incoherent jabber as they frantically waved arms at each other. Both were dressed in tattered clothes with thick woolen caps pulled tight over their ears. Their jabbering suddenly stopped, as if an agreement had been reached, and they each grabbed a plastic bag full of bottles and cans before taking off at a fast run.

Excited, Willy dashed up the stairs and went through the side door to the kitchen. There was nobody inside, so he darted over to the rear exit and pushed it open. The path outside was slick with grease and mud, but Willy paid it little attention as he squelched his way to the garbage container.

The metal lid was lighter than it looked and it locked open in a giant yawning mouth. Inside, Willy saw nothing more exciting than empty food cans, industrial-sized, plastic french fry bags and smelly, ketchup-splotched hamburger boxes. Swallowing his disgust, Willy began to dig down through the garbage to see what had unnerved the two ragmen.

He struck gold almost instantly. Hidden below the first layer of boxes was a ghost-white face surrounded by long greasy hair; its empty eyes stared up in bewilderment. Willy pulled away another layer of garbage to uncover the young man’s bloodstained chest. Sticking out of his ribs, directly below his heart, was a large kitchen knife.

“Who the hell are you?” Willy muttered to the corpse.

WILLY CLOSED THE
lid and walked into the hotel. Inside, he picked up the kitchen phone and dialed long-distance to Seattle.

“Newsroom. Brady here,” answered a gruff, tobacco-roughened voice.

Donald Brady was a 54-year-old assistant city editor and, like Willy, one of the last members of the old guard. Unlike Willy, however, he had kept his job by wearing a tie and kissing corporate ass rather than disappearing into the cracks. In the old days he had been one hell of a newspaper man. Nowadays, he simply prayed he wouldn’t be laid off before his pension kicked in.

“Hey, Brady, it’s Willy calling.”

“Yeah, what do you want? Hope you’re not calling in sick again.” Ever since he put on the tie and rolled down his sleeves, Brady had turned into an asshole.

“No, listen. Did you read my murder piece this morning?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, I’m in Port Sorrow right now.”

“You’re what? Who assigned you?”

“Nobody, would you listen? There’s been another murder. It’s probably tied into the stripper’s and I’ve got the exclusive.”

“How did you get that?” Brady asked, his voice finally revealing some interest.

“I discovered the body.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. I also have an interview with the stripper’s roommate and he’s supplied me with a great photo of her. Get this. The girl comes from a wealthy family in Washington, DC, and she was a virgin when she died.”

“Little princess gone bad?”

“You got it. Interested?”

“When can I have the story?”

“In a couple hours. I still have to tell the cops about the second body, then I have to find out who the fuck he is and how he ties into it all. But I’ll courier the photo to you pronto. Oh, and Brady?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure you spell my fucking name right, okay?”

Brady laughed. The son-of-a-bitch actually laughed. “It’s good to have you back, Willy.”

Willy hung up, grinning to himself, and then dialed the sheriff’s office.

Yeah, it was good to be back.

CHAPTER
21

The dull gray husk cracked between white teeth, giving up its tender meat before collapsing into a mushy blob that flew with ease to the lip of the abyss and over.

Finn listened to it fall, imagining he could hear it splat on the sidewalk, knowing he was losing his mind. Resting weary feet on top of the makeup table, he stuffed another sunflower seed in his mouth and ran fingers through damp hair. The worst part about becoming Veronique was washing her off afterwards.

The street below was still deserted. It was too early for the evening johns, and barely past wake-up call for the drunks. Nothing stirred in the cool early-evening breeze but litter and dust.

It had been one hell of a day. Julia had finished cross-examining him three hours earlier about the cook’s body; Paul had been shipped to the morgue; and the reporter, Willy something, had yapped away for an hour after that. To top it off, the afternoon, steak-and-tits crowd didn’t give a damn when Veronique poured her heart out in song.

Fuck ’em all.

The bottle of bourbon lying in the bottom drawer was whispering his name, and Finn’s ears were perking up. He fought against it, finally deciding to head for the beach. A long walk would help clear the cobwebs from his mind.

The night air was cool, the moon’s face a ghost in the indigo sky. Finn stared at the faint satellite as he walked along the pebbled beach, wondering if Selene was dancing in its eyes. It sounded silly to him now, but Selene had often talked of going there one day, her mind filled with visions from Weekly World News headlines.

“It’ll be just like going on a cruise,” Selene said. “The ships will have comfortable cabins and view screens so you can look out and see the Earth as you travel. You could probably get booked to sing in the lounge and I’d play cards with the high-rollers in the casino.”

“You don’t gamble,” Finn reminded her.

“I could learn, and if I wore a low-cut blouse I could distract the men long enough to win a few hands.”

“I’m sure you could.”

“And do you know what’s great about the moon, Finn?”

“It’s made of cheese.”

“No, don’t be silly. It has low gravity. None of the women on the moon will have to worry about sagging boobs or droopy ass. The gravity won’t pull you down. I could be young forever. All we need is a way to get there.”

And now she had wings to carry her, Finn thought.

“Your friend was brighter than she looked, no?” inquired a husky voice.

Finn turned to see the heavyset woman who had been under Abery’s care sitting on the sea wall. A heavy shawl covered her shoulders, and her legs were wrapped in tensor bandage as they swung freely below a peasant’s skirt.

“How did you know I was thinking of Selene?” Finn asked.

The woman shrugged. “What else would a man think about on a deserted beach after losing someone he loved?”

Finn nodded and crossed the gap to sit beside her.

“I guess I’m feeling sorry for myself.”

“It’s natural. We all have those days.”

“I haven’t had one in a long time,” said Finn. “Not since before I went on the road.”

“Not since your wife left, you mean?”

“How did you know I was married?”

“A handsome man like you? All the handsome men get married. But good looks don’t guarantee success, yes?”

Finn laughed. “You’re wiser than you look.”

“And more than you think.”

Before Finn could reply, the woman stood up and offered her hand. “Come with me.”

Seeing no reason not to, Finn accepted the woman’s hand and walked with her along the beach until they came to the shantytown where the beachcombers lived.

The woman led him to a shack made of tin with a flap of burlap for a door.

“This is my house,” she said proudly.

“It must be cold at night.”

“Sometimes,” she answered with a mischievous grin. “And sometimes I get lucky.”

“I hope you’re not trying to seduce me,” Finn said, a smile on his lips.

“You never know your luck.”

The woman reached inside the shack and removed a battered tea can with a handle made from a coat hanger.

“Let’s go to the fire,” she said. “We’ll brew up and I’ll tell your fortune.”

Finn soon found himself sitting around a campfire with a dozen silent women. They all looked in desperate need of a bath and a generous dose of self-worth.

“You’re a stranger,” the large woman explained. “They have been hurt by strangers; no longer trust.”

Finn nodded, understanding.

When the water was boiling, the woman stirred in some dried-up leaves from a leather pouch on her belt.

“You never told me your name,” Finn said.

“A name is a powerful thing,” she answered. “But you can call me Hoppy.”

Hoppy poured the tea into a metal cup and handed it across the fire. Finn looked at it suspiciously before taking a sip and smiling. It tasted like cinnamon and ginger.

The silent women around the fire began to chatter among themselves.

“You showed trust,” Hoppy told him. “They like that.”

Finn continued to sip his tea until all that was left in the cup was a soggy mixture of brown and red leaves.

Hoppy asked for the cup back. She studied the leaves with great care.

“What are you doing?” Finn asked.

“Your future is in the leaves,” Hoppy replied. “No cup is ever the same.”

“What do they say?”

“They show more trouble ahead, but also peace. Your life has had great happiness and also terrible sadness. You never seem to find the middle ground.”

“Does anyone?” Finn asked.

“A few.”

Finn looked up at the moon, brighter now as the sun began to set.

“She’s dancing,” Hoppy said gently. “Dancing in the eyes of the moon.”