They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee (11 page)

“I think,” MacClough said, “we just found out how that Isotope got into your car.”

“But he's dead,” Valencia Jones was quick to note. “What good does that do me?”

“Maybe none,” John confessed. “But if I were you, I might find a way to get conveniently sick for a few days. I also think I can foresee your lawyer getting the urge to file every motion she can think of. I'd say it was in your best interest to stretch things out, if you catch my drift.”

We spent the remainder of our time with Valencia Jones talking directly about Zak's disappearance. She was as clueless on the subject as everyone else. She did, however, recommend that we look up some cyberfreak friend of Zak's called Guppy. She didn't know his real name or address, but that his hacking exploits were the stuff of campus legend. Just for the hell of it, I wondered if Zak had ever mentioned a girl named Kira Wantanabe? Valencia Jones said the name was unfamiliar to her, but that she didn't know all of Zak's friends.

There was a thunderous knock on the steel door. It swung open. The prison matron leaned into the room and shouted: “Time!”

We did a quick round of farewells. Just before I was at the door, Valencia Jones called to me. I turned.

“Even if this doesn't work out for me,” she said, “I hope you find Zak.”

“Thanks.”

And as I watched the guard unshackle Valencia Jones' leg, I thought I saw something that looked like hope in the corners of her eyes.

Paper Apologies

We didn't speak much on the ride back to Riversborough. MacClough was busy absorbing information and planning our next moves. My mind was just as busy, but my thoughts were far more scattered. I was furious with Jeffrey for not telling us about Zak's connection to Valencia Jones. At the same time, I had a gut feeling that John and I were on the verge of stumbling onto something very big. Unfortunately, I couldn't see how any of this was getting us closer to finding Zak. Traces of Zak were all around the periphery, but it was Valencia Jones at the center of this part of the universe.

It was past dusk when MacClough pulled into the rest stop where I had left my rental. As I was getting out of the car, John grabbed my arm.

“You can see now that you had nothing to do with Markum's death, can't you?”

“I guess,” I said, “but I still feel like shit.”

“Come on, Klein, think! This is bigger than Steven Markum. I can't tell you for sure, but I would bet Valencia Jones wasn't the only person whose car got packed with a little extra baggage. With the trial coming up, Markum's old employers probably didn't want to risk him opening his mouth. He was going down whether you got chucked in that holding cell with him or not. So stop beating yourself up over it.”

“Is that what you're doing with the Boatswain case,” I wondered, “beating yourself up over it?”

“Yeah.” MacClough shook his head, “I saw that fax in your room. But believe me, even your big
macher
friend Feld doesn't understand. So don't you try to. You'll find out soon enough.”

“What does that mean?”

He ignored me. “Get some sleep. I think we need some skiing lessons.”

The door wasn't fully closed, but he pulled away just the same. The sleeve buttons of the peacoat caught on the door edge, shredding the coat arm as it went.

I picked up some fast food and went back to the Old Watermill. I was so preoccupied that I nearly didn't notice who was behind the desk. My old pal was on duty.

“How was ice fishing?” I teased.

“Huh?” he puzzled.

“Never mind. Can I have a word with you?” The way I said it, it didn't sound like a question. I stepped into the vacant guest lounge. He followed, but without much bounce in his step. “Okay. Now you want to explain your rudeness to me the other morning? Or do you always treat people like shit who give you big tips?”

“It wasn't you,” he raised his hand as if to swear an oath. “It was . . . um . . . It was . . . you know.”

“The girl I was with?”

“You said it. But anyway, yes. We don't usually let her kind in here.”

I was so stunned by his admission that it took me a few seconds to lift him into the air by his neck. He was even more stunned and his face turned several shades of red. I told him he'd have a career as a color chart for flesh-tone paints, if I let him live.

“You don't understand,” he managed to choke out. “She's a—”

I squeezed a little harder. “She's a what, asshole? Come on, cat got your tongue?”

When his eyes began rolling up in his head, I relaxed my grip and let him down. He gasped, grabbing at his throat. He coughed up phlegm and fell to his knees.

“Listen, you racist motherfucker,” I began, “I'll cut your heart—”

“That's not what I meant,” he said, his voice stronger now. “She's a pro. This is a respectable place. It's against house rules to let working girls up to the rooms. I could have lost my job.”

And somewhere, deep in my belly, I knew he was telling the truth. I helped him to his feet. The, “How do you know that for sure?” came out of my mouth reflexively.

“There's this place over the border. A, um. . . Anyway, there's a place over there where they throw these way cool bachelor parties. Theme parties, you know? The bachelor chooses the theme and for like a C-note and a half a guy, they send you around the world.”

“Okay, I'm sold, but get to the point. What about the girl?”

“My friend's party was there. His theme was to get stranded with a native girl. She was—”

“—the native girl,” I finished. “You're sure?”

“Trust me, Mr. Klein, I wouldn't forget her. She—”

“Spare me the details.”

I pulled five hundred dollars of Jeffrey's money out of my wallet. I put the bills in the clerk's palm and told him it was just my way of saying sorry for nearly killing him. He said he preferred paper apologies and that anytime I wanted to work off a little tension at five hundred bucks per minute, to just ring him at the desk. I informed him that the money came with a catch. He had to keep quiet about the girl and he had to let her keep coming up to my room. He didn't like that so much. I could see him begin to waver. And when he moved his hand to return the five bills, I grabbed his wrist.

“Give me a few days. There's another five hundred in it for you and we can leave out the rough stuff this time. Just look the other way when the girl comes in and goes out. Half a grand to look the other way is pretty easy money. Deal?” I let go of his wrist.

He hesitated. Then shoved the money in his pocket. “Deal.”

I was curious. “Anybody else who works here know about her?”

“I don't think so.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I let him walk back to his station at the front desk. After taking a minute to consult the local Yellow Pages, I headed back into the night. Before I got out the door, I literally ran into MacClough. Judging by the bags he dropped at my feet, he too had decided on fast food for dinner.

“Where you going?” he whispered, as I knelt down to pick up his food.

“To take a test,” I whispered back. “Wish me luck.”

Clearly confused, John stood stony-faced as I played the part of the clumsy stranger. I apologized profusely for knocking into him. I think the desk clerk was watching to see how much money I would slip MacClough. John reluctantly let me go with a warning to be a little more careful in the future. At the time, John had no way of knowing just how ironic that bit of advice was.

Peekaboo

I knew one of them would be waiting for me when I got back. I was glad it wasn't Kira, if that was her name. I don't know how I would have handled that. Ripping her heart out seemed fair. I could hear the interrogation now.

“Why'd ya do it, Klein?”

“I was looking for a hooker with a heart of gold.”

I wanted to tear my own hair out, I had been so stupid. Why hadn't I listened to my own suspicions? I cursed my own vanity, my insecurities. And for some reason, at that moment, I found myself missing my father. It was an unfamiliar feeling. During his life, he had not been the type of man to be missed. His anger, his bitterness had seen to that. Who would miss me, I wondered? Who would miss
me
?

The TV was on and MacClough was passed out on my bed when I came in. He looked tense these days, even in sleep. I noticed he was dreaming. His fingers and legs jerked. His eyeballs rolled frantically beneath his lids. He kept mumbling something that sounded like I'm sorry. He wasn't the only one. It was a night for being sorry. Some nights you fry fish. Some nights you're sorry.

He was up when I got out of the shower and busy worrying a bald spot in the carpet. He wanted to know what that mumbo jumbo was that I had whispered about taking a test. I detailed my conversation with the desk clerk. MacClough didn't bother calling Kira names. He had been a cop too long to get indignant about prostitution. To him, it was a business not too unlike most others. There were users and people who got used. Sometimes it was hard to tell them apart.

“How long before you get the results?”

“You know,” I laughed, “I didn't ask. Having the test done was stupid, anyway. It'ss take weeks for me to develop HIV antibodies if I'm infected. I guess I just panicked.”

“Yeah, I never thought I'd ever look back at worrying about the clap as the good old days, but Christ almighty, it's a nightmare out there now.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Listen,” he said, “I don't think you've got anything to worry about.”

“Thanks, John, but—”

“Hear me out, schmuck. If she's a high-ticket girl, her employers have a vested interest in keeping her healthy. She's a valuable commodity. She probably gets tested all the time. Besides, whoever put her close to you wants you outta town as soon as possible and wants you to stay out. Why risk getting you sick and coming back here dredging up all kinds of shit? It's stupid and from what I've seen so far, I don't think we're dealing with idiots. Crime works best when nobody notices it. Sound reasonable to you?”

“Sounds like a rationalization,” I winked, “but thanks.”

“Yeah, well, maybe it is.” He hesitated a bit before speaking again. “You know you've got to let her keep coming here. If she finds out her cover is blown, we're fucked. Her employers will close down shop and we won't find jack shit.”

“I know, John.”

“I'm just worried about you, Klein.”

“That's funny,” I said. “I've been pretty worried about you lately. When I came in here, you were having a bad dream. You were twitching like mad and mumbling, ‘I'm sorry.' What's wrong? Does this have anything to do with the Boatswain-Hernandez thing?”

“You're right, I
was
having a bad dream.” His whole face smiled but for his eyes. “I dreamed I was asking a Jewish girl to marry me and she thought the five carat ring I bought her wasn't big enough. You bet I was saying I was sorry.”

“Get the fuck out of here, you antiSemite.”

“I'm not antiSemitic,” he protested, “I only hate you. Now get some sleep. The slopes await us.” He closed the door behind him.

I dialed both Larry Feld's office and home numbers and got two machines. I hung up twice without leaving messages. After the second hang up, I dutifully went through the motions of going to sleep. I spent the rest of the time till sunup playing peekaboo with every bad decision I had ever made.

Coney Island Burning

Larry Feld was unhappy. That was par for the course. His parents had set a good example. Today he was unhappy about answering phone calls at sunrise. He was unhappy I had waited so long to get back to him after his fax. But what made him most unhappy—and this, of course, went unsaid—was the prospect that I no longer needed him or his dirty little stories.

I was usually amenable to playing the game his way: answering his questions, letting him gloat when I got things wrong. I wasn't in the mood today. I didn't know that I'd ever be in the mood again. I was scared for Zak. I was scared for myself, too scared to play straight man to Larry Feld's wounded ego or to stroke the lost little boy that would live inside him forever. I had done enough of that when we were kids. And when he began interrogating me about his fax, I told him to forget it. He was either going to tell me about Boatswain-Hernandez or he wasn't, but I wasn't going to play.

“No, Dylan, it doesn't work that way.”

“Larry!”

“Sorry,” he said without feeling. “But let me ask you something. Do you remember what your brother did straight out of law school?”

“He was an assistant district attorney in the Bronx. So what?”

Feld didn't answer that. He just said, “Go read your first book and put two and two together. Even you can get to four.”

“I'm not in the mood for this, Larry.”