The Summer of Last Resort (8 page)

“Look, mister, you never told us what exactly you want.”

“What I want?” Jake replied. “Look, we’ve got three people we’re trying to track down. Two of them are missing. We know were Shane Johnson is. We’re looking for three other friends of his – Maria Rodriguez, Kim and Keith. “

“What did they do?”

“It’s not what they did, it’s what might happen to them if we don’t find them. There was a mob killing, and if they were witnesses, then there’s a price on their heads.” Jake was of course putting the spin on this big time; those kids could also have been accomplices, or drug mules, or who knows what.

“Shit.”

“Right. We want to find them before anyone else does.”

“So… what does that have to do with us?”

“Your journals….”

“Oh… if you had their journals, then you’d know where they are? Maybe, but it doesn’t always work that way. People write pretty intimate details but often disguise the most mundane things like places and names. Or we use fake names.”

“I still need them.” Jake didn’t mention that they already had Maria and Shane’s.

The girl motioned Jake for the pictures. She held them carefully, like a hand in a poker game, and re-shuffled them before handing them back. “This kid,” she said, handing him Keith’s card, “He wasn’t in the class.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Him? Oh, I’m pretty sure I’d remember.”

“This kid Shane, he was in the class. He was pretty enthusiastic. This girl,” she said, handing him Maria’s card, “I’m not too sure about. I think she was there. Now this other girl,” she said, holding on to Kim’s card, “She was there.”

“You’re sure,” Jake asked insistently, and she nodded.

“Who teaches this class?”

“Uh… a guy named Bert – Bert Lieberson, I think.”

“Burt Lieberson?”

“Yeah, I think that’s right. Look, It’s over on, um, 19th and Jefferson, I think.”

“Did you turn in your journals?”

“No, but he did look at them.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think he liked the girls better. He’s a bit of a perv.”

“Yeah, I guess that doesn’t surprise me.”

“Look, I’ve told you what I know. Now go off and do your cop stuff!” And with that, she turned and quickly walked away.

That evening Jake found himself driving down into the city, to club Maximo, the nightclub that Sandy wanted him to steer clear of. He would just check it out, he thought to himself; nothing special. But somehow he had stopped in at JC Penny’s and bought a polyester shirt and some cheap patent leather shoes.

The club didn’t open until ten, but as he drove by he could see in the light rain that they were still expecting quite a line-up. He circled the building casually by taking a shortcut through the back alley, then crossing the opposite street and going around the other side of the block. When he had finished, he had noted all the exits and security cameras were, and then he waited across the street until the club filled up.

It wasn’t until just before midnight that the bouncers were busy enough that Jake felt he could get in. Still, he wasn’t quite their normal clientele, and stood nervously in line. A young lady and her friends behind him joked about his age, saying that maybe the new management was turning the club into an old-folks home. Jake turned around and quipped, “Yeah, and next I’ll teach you kids how to do the Lindy.”

Inside it was noisy. Jake didn’t like disco, he was much more of a rock fan, even a metalhead, and he felt like a giant walking hypocrite. But back at the bar he settled onto a thickly padded red barstool and looked around. Things were a little quieter back here, there as even a pool table. He watched the female bartender carefully as she busily filled drink orders from the scantily-clad waitress and then eventually took his. Jake was already a little light headed, but even so he ordered a whiskey on the rocks.

So, how’s the new management?” Jake asked casually.

“What business of yours is that?” replied the bartender crossly.

“Sorry. Just making conversation.” The bartender went off to filling more orders, and Jake absent-mindedly wandered over to the pool table and started shooting a ball around, when a stunning young woman in a fishnet body suit walked over and grabbed a pool cue and started sliding it back and forth between her fingers. “Do you want to shoot some with me,” she said, putting her hand on his shoulder. Jake dropped some coins into the slot, pulled out the balls, and racked them up.

“You break, honey,” the fishnet clad beauty said.

“Is this what you always wear to the clubs?” Jake asked.

“You don’t get out much, hon.” She replied. “Didn’t you see me up in that cage on the left?” Jake shook his head and shot, scattering the balls over across the felt.

“So... how do you like it working here,” Jake asked, seemingly making small talk while she lined up the cue ball. “Seven ball in the left pocket,” she said, and deftly dropped it with a thunk.

“Oh, it’s all right. A girl’s gotta make a living, you know.” The game continued, with Jake making embarrassingly few good shots.

“Have the new owners talked about making changes?” Jake asked. The fishnet girl didn’t break concentration at all. “Not new owners, I don’t think. Tell the truth, I’ve got no idea who owns this joint.”

“Who runs it?”

“It gets run,” she said, slowly chalking the tip of her cue.

Jake turned to her and, gesturing at the cube, said, “I could use some of that.” She reached over and grabbed his stick, and then gently placed the chalk cube over the end and twisted it rhythmically back and forth. “I love it when a girl twists the tip of my stick,” Jake joked, and she smiled and leaned her head towards his. “Look, I don’t know what you’re after, but the guys that replaced Johnny, well, they’re ten times worse.” Jake nodded, and took his shot, unfortunately dropping the cue ball. But when she went to place it, Jake took Shane’s picture out and laid it on the table.

“Do you know this kid?” he asked, but she shook her head, and took the shot. Jake took the picture and replaced it with Maria’s. “Her?” he asked. No. Then he showed Keith’s picture, and, for a second, a smile flitted across her face, and then he showed her Kim’s picture, and she nodded in agreement. Jake carefully pulled the pictures back into his pocket, noticing the bartender scowling at them, and pulled he fishnet girl aside. “This girl - her name is Kim. Do you know her?”

She didn’t say anything, but Jake saw her eyes widen just for a moment.

“What about this guy, Keith?”

“He was Johnny’s friend.”

“Did you know him?”

She leaned closer to him and whispered, “Oh, I knew him all right.”

“Was there anything special about him? Any distinguishing characteristics?”

She laughed and looked back at him. “You could say that.”

“Do you know where they might be now?”

She shook her head, and grabbed her stick, but just as she drew her arm back to shoot, a big man in a dark jacket came in and grabbed it. “You need to be back on the floor,” he said, roughly grabbing her arm and shoving her away.

“And you, sir, I think you need to come with me,” the big man said, and Jake instinctively took a step back, but hound himself bumping into another large man. They grabbed Jake and hustled him back through a door in the back of the bar, and back to the back of the club, where there was a large trash compactor machine. “Give me your wallet,” the first man demanded, and Jake shook his head. The second man switched on the compactor and then grabbed Jake’s arms behind him while the first man let go with a brutal punch to the belly that left Jake doubled over on the metal waffle plate floor next to the machine. His groans were muffled by the whine of the machine squeezing trash. “Get up!” the first man demanded. The first man frisked Jake, who of course didn’t bring a weapon, but did pull out his wallet. It had a driver’s license, a Diner’s Club card, a Chevron gas card, and a teacher’s union card – all courtesy of Jake Iverson, lately deceased, of Ponca City, Oklahoma. “You took my daughter, you bastards!” Jake grunted, and lunged at him while the second man tried to restrain Jake.

The second man tightened his grip on Jake’s arms while the first man grabbed Jake’s hair and roughly banged his head down onto the hard yellow painted steel of the machine’s console. “Just look at that beauty,” the first man said as they watched the giant steel ram pressing sacks of trash and boxes until they burst apart. “It makes me all warm all over to see that. Just think what would happen to you if you accidentally fell in.” Jake could feel a trickle of blood drip from his nose and lip where the metal had cut his face. “Now, get the hell out of here,” the first man said, and, gestured to the second man who hustled Jake down off the machine and roughly shoved him down into the alley, then tossed his wallet back at him. “And don’t come back – ever!”

Jake picked himself up and collected his wallet with the fake ID – but the money in it was real – and so was the damage to his nose, which was tender to the touch, but probably not broken, Jake thought. A lot more blood comes out of a busted nose. A quick check of his watch showed that he had a couple hours more until the club closed up. Jake did the best he could to clean himself up and staunch the bleeding from his nose, then walked slowly away, making sure that the two men saw him leave the alley. The night air was cool and soothing, and the sounds of the city had muted to the occasional swish of the few cars that still made their way through the misty night. He went back to a different hotel, carefully washed and bandaged his cut lip, changed, and then drove back near the club, concealed himself carefully in the cross-alley, and waited for closing, but failed to spot the fishnet stocking girl leaving he building. It was a long shot – that was the kind of set-up he’d need backup for, and the whole set-up – a wire, cameras, the works. It had been a long shot and it hadn’t paid off. Dejected, Jake returned to the hotel room and flopped down onto the bed.

The next morning he gave Sandy a quick call.

“Sandy – Jake. What’s up?”

“Didn’t you get my message last night?”

“No... uh, they must have forgotten.”

“Jake, you’d better get back down here. That kid’s picture you sent me – well, he showed up on a security camera at a gas station here.”

“What!? Which kid?”

“Uh, Keith.”

“You mean he’s in town?”

“Yeah, or at least he was. He was traveling with this black chick. Got ‘em at a gas station.”

“You mean they robbed it?”

“No, we just got a lucky break, that’s all. The attendant remembered them and they still had the tape.”

“Get the plates?”

“You bet. Rental, out of Vegas. I’m gonna head over there tomorrow,” Sandy said matter-of-factly.

“Well… be careful.”

“Bye, Jake.” And with that, Sandy hung up.

The afternoon shadows were quickly lengthening in the scattered sunlight which marked the late afternoon in Tacoma when Jake had finally bullied, bluffed, and through means both legal and otherwise, his way into Mr. Bert Lieberson’s office
cum
classroom. Burt sat in a fancy new leather swivel chair incongruously placed behind an obviously war-surplus wooden desk, in the run-down former government office building which now served as the film institute’s campus. Burt wore a tropical print shirt, chinos, and flip-flops, but had to keep the steam radiator in his office fully cranked up to ward off the autumn chill which crept in through the drafty old building. He was about Jake’s age but a bit shorter and thinner, with grey hair that he kept in a comb-over. In front of his desk were about a dozen chairs each with a little writing arm, all obviously surplussed from the same backwater shithole as the other furnishings of the office. Behind him stood two large bookcases crammed mostly with knick-knacks, camera and sound equipment, and a few books scattered here and there, and a couple of large metal filing cabinets.

Jake got down to business by showing his badge and introducing himself.

“What’s this all about?” Bert demanded.

“Some students in your class,” Jake replied, producing the pictures. “Do you know them?”

Bert shook his head, but before he could open his mouth, Jake continued, “We know who they are and we know they were your students. These kids are in trouble, Burt. Big trouble. They’re mixed up with – organized crime.”

“I can’t believe that. Those were good kids,” Bert replied, shaking his head.

“You can’t always tell, Burt. That’s the thing. Sometimes the ones you think are the best turn out to have the darkest secrets…” Jake’s eyes wandered about the room. There sure was quite a clutter in this room, and a smell that he couldn’t quite place. An industrial smell. What was that smell? He walked towards the window, continuing to speak with his back turned towards Bert.

“You know, I always wanted to be a writer myself. Always liked making up stories.” Jake turned back and absent-mindedly picked up a folder from the sprawling stack on Bert’s desk.

“Maybe that’s because I spend all day listening to people who are making up their own.”

Jake casually picked up and flipped through one of the folders on Bert’s desk. It was a script for a sci-fi movie.

“Tell me about the script writing class that you have.”

“There’s not much to tell. The kids write scripts, I grade ‘em.”

“They keep journals.”

“Yes.”

Then Jake realized that the smell was the smell of toner from a heavily-used copier machine that he hadn’t seen in the back of the room.

“Did you give them any instructions about what to write in their journals?”

“No, just to write about things that happened to them.”

“Personal things?”

“Whatever makes for good drama.”

“Do you read the journals?”

“I have to grade them.”

“Ever find any good enough to make into a movie?”

Bert laughed nervously. “No, not with their experience.”

“You mean, their experience as writers.”

“Exactly.”

“I bet some of the experiences are pretty…intimate.”

“I suppose.”

“Pretty personal.”

“Yes.”

“Could be a lot of sex.”

Bert didn’t say anything, so Jake continued. “A lot of young, hot, steamy teenage sex. At least, if they’re honest.” Jake could see Bert’s face turning red. “Look, Bert, you can level with me. I can see maybe, how, for academic purposes, you’d want to maybe keep some copies of these journals.”