Working Stiff (23 page)

“Would you like me to see if Calvin's willing to help you out?”

“Yes, please,” I say. “Thanks, Chris.”

He removes a compact from the small purse he has slung over his shoulder. Flipping it open, he checks his face in the mirror, primping his hair a bit before he snaps it closed. “How do I look?”

“Stunning,” I say with all honesty.

His smile broadens as he hoists himself up and straightens out the wrinkles in his skintight skirt. He sashays his way to the dance floor and I watch in amusement as he expertly corrals Calvin and steers him away.

“Damn,” Dom says, his tone respectful. “He's good.”

Chris brings Calvin to our table and introduces him. Up close I see that Calvin has huge, soulful brown eyes that seem to twinkle with some hidden source of humor. His voice is deep but softly sensual and whenever he speaks or smiles, the ends of his moustache tease dimples in both cheeks. And speaking of cheeks, the physique is quite nice too—muscular, tight, and tanned.

And gay. Damn it.

As soon as the introductions are out of the way, I explain the story all over again to Calvin, including the fact that Halverson had AIDS and was brutally murdered by someone. “I understand the need for discretion at the Grizzly,” I tell him. “But we need to know why Mike Halverson was murdered. It could be we have some sort of homophobic vigilante on our hands.”

I don't actually believe that, but I figure it can't hurt to make Calvin feel as if he is doing something righteous and in favor of the overall gay good by helping us talk to the motel owners. I take Calvin's slight nod as evidence he agrees and push a little more.

“Any chance you might be willing to introduce us to the owners?”

“Sure,” he says. “I can't promise they'll help, but I'm happy to give it a shot. When do you want to go?”

I look at Dom, my eyebrows raised in question. He gives me back a shrug of indifference. “Can we do it tonight?” I ask, turning back to Calvin.

He considers this, then smiles. “Why not? Just give me about fifteen minutes to tie up some loose ends here.” With that, he rises from his chair and disappears into the crowd. I thank Chris for his help and watch as he stands, smoothes the lines of his skirt, and scans the room for his next target. Then he, too, disappears into the crowd.

While we are waiting for Calvin, Dom and I order a couple of beers and spend some time rating the moves of the Travolta imitators on the dance floor. After the promised fifteen minutes have passed, I start searching for Calvin but spot another familiar face instead.

“Oh, hell,” I say, giving Dom a nudge with my leg. “Looks like we aren't the only ones to zero in on The Cellar. Lookie there.” I nod toward the main entrance. “That tall, dark, and handsome fella over there by the door is Steve Hurley, the homicide detective on the Owenby case.”

Hurley sees me, waves, and heads toward our table. “Well, hello there,” he says when he reaches us. Grinning smugly, he grabs a chair, spins it around backward and straddles it. For the first time in my life, I am envious of a chair.

“Detective Hurley. What brings you out here on a night like this?” I ask.

“I might ask you the same thing.”

I ignore his rebuttal and gesture toward Dom. “Have you two met?”

Hurley glances at Dom, nods, and mumbles a greeting. Dom mumbles something back and quickly looks away, his arms folded tight across his chest. I'm dying to know why it is that Dom dislikes cops so much, but every time I try to ask him about it, he changes the subject.

“So, what
are
you doing here?” Hurley asks me.

“Just enjoying a night out,” I tell him. “Izzy's away at his medical conference so Dom and I thought we'd go out and have a little R&R.”

“R&R,” Hurley repeats, his tone rich with skepticism. “When will Izzy be back?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Don't tell me he left you in charge while he's gone.”

His tone of disbelief pricks my ego. “Why wouldn't he?”

“Well, for one thing, you haven't been at this very long. I would think he'd want someone with a bit more experience.”

“I'm a quick learner.”

“Are you now?” he says, flashing me a crooked grin.

The truth is, Izzy has a couple of forensic pathologists who fill in for him from time to time. If any autopsies need to be done, they will do them and either Arnie or I will assist. But that is the extent of my duties while Izzy is away. As for the day-to-day office stuff, some of that is done by Arnie, but most of it falls to Cass.

Dom is starting to squirm, and as much as I am enjoying my repartee with Hurley, I fear he might start asking questions I don't want to answer. Withholding facts from him is one thing. Lying directly to those blue eyes is something else again. I can't trust my hormones not to betray me. And I don't want Hurley along when Calvin takes us to the Grizzly.

“Well, it's great seeing you, Hurley, but we were just about to leave.” I drain the last of my beer and stand. Dom takes the cue enthusiastically and is halfway to the door seconds after I'm on my feet.

“Heading home?” Hurley asks, his tone suspicious.

“I'm tired. It's been a long day.” It's the truth, and if Hurley assumes from that statement that I have answered his question in the affirmative, so be it.

“Yes, I imagine it has been,” he says, studying me intently. “In fact, I'm surprised to see you out and about at all tonight.”

“Hey, a girl is entitled to a little fun, isn't she?”

“Fun? Is that what you came here for?”

“Sure. This is a pretty happening place.” I look about the room as if to confirm all the “happenings” but I really just need to look away from Hurley while I lie to him.

“Really?” The skepticism in his tone is thick enough to slice.

“Yes, really.” I see Dom over by the exit, standing next to Calvin.

“I'm surprised you're not staying longer then,” Hurley challenges. “You got all dolled up and drove all this way and you've only been here…what”—he glances at his watch—“twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

Now how did he know that? Has he been here all along? Did he follow me here? That might explain the burgundy-and-gray van—maybe it is one of Hurley's cohorts tailing me. I wonder if Hurley or his goon squad will try to follow me when I leave. That simply won't do. Calvin and the Grizzly are my finds. Besides, I suspect the presence of an overbearing police detective might put a damper on Calvin's willingness to help, not to mention the motel owners' willingness to share. Somehow, I have to find a way to keep Hurley here long enough for us to get a head start. And as my gaze wanders over the dance floor, I get an idea.

“I guess I underestimated just how much the day took out of me,” I tell Hurley. “I really need to head home, but hey, it was good seeing you. Have fun and I'll catch you later.”

With that, I turn away and head onto the dance floor, where I grab Chris, whisper, “I need your help,” and escort him toward the opposite side of the room, as far away from Hurley as possible.

I look back quickly to see if Hurley is watching me and, seeing that he is, I turn Chris around so he can see Hurley over my shoulder. “Act as if we're just two buddies saying good-bye. Smile, laugh, look casual,” I say.

Chris instantly complies. “But of course,” he says, smiling broadly. “What's up, girlfriend?”

“See that real tall fellow over there at the table where we were sitting?”

Chris glances quickly, licks his lips, then turns his gaze back to me. “How could I miss him, honey? That is one
fine
specimen of manhood.”

He is that, and I take a second to ponder the irony of discussing Hurley's sexual appeal with another man. “Yes, he is,” I agree. “But he's also a cop and I think he's following me. And I don't want him tagging along when Calvin takes us out to the Grizzly.”

“Hmm, yes. I can see where that might be a problem,” Chris says.

“So here's what I want you to do….”

T
en minutes later, Dom and I are following Calvin's motorcycle down a two-lane highway and there are no headlights we can see anywhere behind us. Thirty minutes after that, we pull into the parking lot of the Grizzly Motel.

There are probably plenty of places that are tackier than the Grizzly but it is hard for me to imagine any. Out by the road, a giant grizzly bear rises up in green and pink neon, his arm pointing the way to the main office, which is sandwiched between two long wings of rooms. Below the bear is another splash of neon that says
VACAN_Y
, the
Y
blinking on and off as it threatens to join its darkened neighbor. Another sign, this one in simple white light with black lettering, advertises seventy-five cable channels.

The parking lot is surprisingly full. We follow Calvin around to the back of the place and I see that each wing has rooms both in front and in back. We pull into an empty spot near the middle of the two wings and Dom turns off the engine.

Calvin parks his motorcycle and we are about to get out of the car and meet him when he signals for us to stay put. He walks over to our car and I roll down my window.

“Wait here,” he says, leaning down close enough for me catch a whiff of something spicy and tantalizing. “I want to approach them alone first. I don't want it to seem as if I'm making any assumptions or putting them on the spot. I'll come out and get you if things look good.”

We sit and wait, watching the activity around us. And the Grizzly is plenty active. Within a few minutes, the door to one of the rooms opens and two men emerge, climb into separate cars, and drive away. Minutes after that, a maid enters the just-vacated room with a cart loaded with towels, sheets, and cleaning supplies. Speedy nighttime maid service isn't the hallmark of your typical roadside motel. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the Grizzly is renting rooms by the hour.

“Interesting place,” I mutter.

“It's clean and the owners are discreet,” Dom says.

I shoot him a look. “You know this place?”

“A little. I came here myself a time or two, years ago. Before Izzy.”

I ponder that.

“And before you get all high and mighty,” Dom continues, “you might want to know that the owners aren't particular about who they rent to. Yes, it's a popular spot for us homos because the place is clean and quiet and the owners are willing to look the other way. But we're not the only ones who find that appealing. There's a brisk hourly trade among the breeders here, too.”

Sure enough, another door opens a few minutes later and a man and woman step outside. The man escorts the woman to her car, leans in through the window to give her a kiss, and then watches her pull away before climbing into his own car. A few minutes later, yet another maid appears, wheeling her cart into the room the couple just left.

“Good Lord,” I say, shaking my head. “What if some family showed up here to spend the night?”

“The entire left wing is reserved for regular overnight business,” Dom explains. “Only the right wing rooms are available to the hourly crowd.”

Calvin reappears then and I fear bad news when I see the grim expression on his face.

“Randall isn't here right now but his sister is,” he says, leaning in through my window. “She isn't real pleased with me for bringing you here and she won't commit to anything. But when I told her why you needed the information, she said she'd hear you out as long as you promise her the Grizzly won't get caught up in some official investigation. It wouldn't be real good for business…if you get my drift.”

“I understand,” I tell him. “I can't guarantee that the cops won't show up here on their own, but I can promise that I won't bring them here.”

“Tell her that, not me,” Calvin says. “Come on and I'll introduce you.”

Dom waits in the car while I follow Calvin into the office. A thick fog of cigarette smoke hovers in the air and the tiny room has a dull, dingy look to it as if everything is covered with a fine layer of dust and ash. Behind a small, yellowed countertop stands the biggest woman I've ever seen. She has to be close to seven feet tall and has the broad, thick shoulders typical of swimmers. Her hair is cut short in a Joan-of-Arc-type fringe and she is wearing a blue plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans. I can't see her feet but mentally outfit them in a pair of heavy work boots. I nickname her Babe, like the blue ox.

“This is Mattie Winston,” Calvin says, gesturing toward me.

“Winston, eh?” Babe says, her brows knitting together.

“Yes.”

“And this,” Calvin says, giving Babe a nod, “is Cinder.”

“Cindy?” I say, not sure if I've heard right.

“No, Cin-der,” the woman says, enunciating each syllable in a voice that I'm sure could rattle windows.

“Oh, okay. Like Cinderella,” I say, smiling. The smile doesn't last long, and if looks could kill, Calvin will soon be hauling me out of here in a body bag. Cinder's face looks like a major storm front, the kind that spawns giant hailstones and F5 tornados.

“It ain't Cindy,” she growls. “And it sure as hell ain't Cinderella. Got that?”

I nod so vigorously I give myself a mild case of whiplash and decide that Cinder is obviously short for cinderblock.

“Calvin here says Mikey got kilt by someone,” she says. “And that you think maybe the friend he usta bring here might know sumpin 'bout it.”

“Yes.” I say nothing more. It is hard enough getting that out; my mouth is so dry, my tongue keeps sticking to my palate.

I hear the door open behind me but don't look. In fact, I instantly drop my gaze to the floor, resisting the urge to squeeze my eyes closed. I feel like a witness to a killing, knowing that if I dare to look at the murderer, I'll become the next victim.

Cinder reaches beneath the counter and I half expect her to come back up with a gun. Instead she is holding several sheets of paper, stapled together. She hands them to me and says, “These are the titles we have in stock. VCR rents for ten bucks an hour.” Then she dismisses me and turns to whoever came through the door. “Help you?” she grunts.

I get the hint, but just in case I didn't, Calvin tugs at my arm, pulling me off to one side. I look at the papers Cinder handed me and realize it's a list of videos available for rent. And not just any videos. I scan the titles, finding such gems as
Ass Ventura: The Crack Detective, The Blow Bitch Project,
and
Bonfire of the Panties
.

I am vaguely aware of a man checking in for a room, but keep my eyes on the list.
Ferris Bueller Gets Off, Forrest Hump, Good Will Humping.

The man checking in pays and Cinder gives him a key. I keep reading.
The Madam's Family, Muffy the Vampire Layer, Position: Impossible.

The man finally leaves and I hear Cinder clear her throat. I scan a few more titles as quickly as I can—
The Sperminator, Saving Ryan's Privates, Snatch Adams
—before reluctantly handing the pages back to her.

“Calvin says you work with Izzy Rybarceski,” Cinder says.

“I do,” I say, raising Cinder up a notch for pronouncing Izzy's name correctly and without hesitation.

“He here?”

“He's out of town.”

“You're not a cop, right?”

“No way, Jose.” I giggle then, a stupid-sounding nervous giggle that I fear might be grounds for murder. Cinder narrows her eyes and it is enough to scare the giggle right out of me. I try to swallow and can't.

“We have a lot of respect for our clients' privacy here, ya know.”

“I'm sure you do.”

“We figure what they do on their own time is their business. Long as they're adults, pay for the room and don't bust nothing up, we don't care what they do.”

I nod.

“We don't even pay attention to who comes with who or who leaves with who.”

My hopes sink like a two-bit criminal tossed into the East River wearing a pair of cement overshoes.

“But I don't cotton to people killing one another. That's wrong.”

I barely dare to breathe. What is she saying? Does she or doesn't she know anything? And if she does, is she going to tell me?

“So happens I did see who it was came to meet Mikey one time,” Cinder says. “Just a few days ago, in fact. I guess there was a mix-up cause he didn't know what room to go to. So he came here first. I don't usually ask for names or nothing but I seen this guy before someplace else. Knew him from there.”

“Where?”

“From the hospital over in Sorenson. He yanked out my brother's appendix two years ago.”

“He's a surgeon?” I say, feeling suddenly faint.

“I sure as hell hope so since he cut my brother's belly open.”

“And you know his name?”

“Of course. You think I'd let somebody carve Randall up without knowing his name?”

I feel as if I am leaning over a high ledge, petrified of the drop before me yet fighting a strange compulsion to throw myself off. And before I can think twice, I leap.

“Who was it?” It comes out as little more than a whisper. For one fleeting second, I hope she won't tell me. I pray that some lingering vestige of her strict confidentiality rule will take over at the last minute.

But she does tell me and my life falls apart.

“Funny thing,” she says, not knowing that what she is about to say is the most unfunny thing she could possibly tell me. “His last name is the same as yours. Winston. Dr. David Winston.”