by Richard Neer
Black had gone inside the trailer to fetch Mrs. Townes while I inspected the van. They made quite the odd couple when they emerged. Carla Townes was petite and slender, her face bearing signs of age and neglect. Black towered over her by at least a foot. She was wearing a pink down parka, over black polyester pants, shiny from years of ironing. The flat soled ankle boots she wore were shined to a brilliant black sheen. This was the best she could do, lunching at a fancy restaurant.
Black said, “Carla, this is Riley King. He’s agreed to help find out what happened to Colton. I’ll drive you to the restaurant in my truck and we can talk there.”
I mumbled a greeting and she smiled. Now seventyish, she had once been a very pretty woman and could still be attractive had she the resources. Her gray hair was long and pulled back from her face, slightly shorter than Black’s own pony tail. Relics of another era.
The Frog and Peach was fifteen minutes away. I drove alone, thinking alternately of my new car and the questions I wanted to ask Townes. On first impression, I could see why Jason wanted to help this lady. She had an air of quiet dignity, despite her unfortunate situation.
Kat wasn’t at the restaurant when we arrived but had left instructions with her second-in-command, a fetching thirty-something named Sarah Bernstein. After hanging Townes’ parka and Black’s jacket in the coatroom, she ushered us to the same corner spot where I had lunched days earlier. I was wearing a wool sweater under my navy blazer and no overcoat, which was sufficient for the fifty five degree day.
After we were settled in, I said, “Mrs. Townes, I’m very sorry for what happened to your husband.”
She nodded and said in a small, unaccented voice, “Thank you. Call me Carla.”
“I don’t know what Jason has told you so far, but I have to be honest. The chances of reconstructing exactly what happened are pretty slim. I’ll do my best and I have contacts in Washington who can help, but finding anything definitive after forty years is going to be difficult.”
Jason said, “Carla understands that but I told her that you’re the best man for the job. She appreciates that you’re doing this pro bono.”
Carla said, “I do, Mr. King, thank you. Let me say upfront, I’m an optimist. The police were anything but thorough when it happened. They were more interested in covering their asses. I believe Colton is still alive. The songs Jason played for me from that new band are his. I have no doubt. I heard him working on them, night after night. They could only have come from his notebook.”
“First off, call me Riley. I’m going to speak to that band next week when they get back East and find out where they got their material. It’s possible that Colton’s notes passed through many hands before they reached them. But let me ask you this: if Colton is alive, why hasn’t he contacted you over all these years?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“What about the letter he wrote the day he left?”
“I can tell you that he felt he had let me down throughout our marriage and he didn’t deserve me. He said he was more of a burden than a help. If he made something of himself, he promised I’d share in his success and he’d come back to me.”
Young Bernstein came by with a bottle of wine that we hadn’t ordered, compliments of the house. She understood that we wanted to talk in private and she’d held off with menus until we were ready.
Jason said, “That sounds fine, Sarah. Maybe some cold antipasto now and we’ll look at menus and order later.”
As Sarah walked away, I couldn’t help but noticing again how attractive she was. Her stride was fluid and athletic, as if she’d been a dancer at some point. I turned to Carla Townes said, “I have to ask. Was your marriage a happy one? I’m sorry if I seem indelicate, but is there a chance that he was unhappy and left for that reason?”
“Don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I took a pounding from the police for a week after it happened. They tried every dirty angle. They were convinced that Colton ran off with another woman.”
She sniffled but her eyes were dry. “That wasn’t the case, I can swear to it. I’ve met enough cheating rock stars in my time and I know the smell.”
Jason looked as if she was talking about him.
She said, “Colton was a wonderful husband. Long walks on the beach with the dog. God, he loved that dog. We’d take the van, bring food and wine and make them all day affairs. He never raised his voice at me. Never.”
“The police said he had a temper.”
“Oh that he did, but it was never directed at me. He hated the outright racism that pervaded everything here back then. Still around today but it’s a lot more subtle.”
Jason nodded in agreement. “I can attest to that. I did see him lit up once or twice about his music. He took it real seriously. But Carla, I can back you up about how faithful he was. After gigs when we were out partying with our groupies, he went back to the motel. Smoked a joint, watched TV, then off to bed.”
She said, “And if the tour was gonna be more than a week or so, I was always with him. I asked him if he was tempted by all those women and he said, ‘how could he be when he had me?’ That’s the kind of man he was.”
Jason said, “I admit for a while I was into that scene, but when the white lines and naked chicks were on the table, he was nowhere to be seen.”
I hated pushing her but I needed the whole picture, warts and all. “I was told he was arrested more than a few times.”
Carla said, “They’d bust him at demonstrations. He was into causes, standing up for anyone or group who was oppressed. Cops around here hated him. They were always trying to make him look bad because he wouldn’t take any shit from them.”
“Does the name Paul Dugger mean anything to you?”
She made a sour face. “He was one of the bastards who investigated what happened. He had his mind made up that Colton wanted out of the marriage but didn’t have the guts to tell me to my face.”
“He disappeared the night after John Lennon died. Was that coincidence?”
She took a sip of wine. Jason and I hadn’t touched ours.
“Colton was devastated when we got the news. We spent that entire night at our friend Benny’s house, playing Beatles records and mourning. In the letter, he said he was going up to New York to pay his respects, and then he was going stay there to try to get a record deal or at least some session work. He had some friends he could crash with. He’d wait tables if he had to until he could get his music out there. Then he’d send for me.”
“Did you know who these friends were?”
“I met a couple of them while he was touring. I spoke to them after Colt disappeared and they hadn’t seen him. They said they’d let me know if they heard anything from him or about him.”
“Is it possible he just ditched the van and headed to New York anyway? Maybe hitched a ride on I-95?”
“That’s what I thought might’ve happened. But he wouldn’t have left his guitar behind. A month later, I went up to New York myself. Took a train with the money he left me. Even though it’s a big city, the music community is tight and they’d know if he was there.”
“Did you sell the guitar?”
“No, I still have it. I’ll never sell it, no matter how desperate for money I am. That and the van are all I have of his to hold on to.”
Black said, “Uh, I need the little boys’ room. Drank a lot of coffee this morning.”
The look he gave me said he wanted company.
“Me, too. Start the antipasto without us, Carla.”
The men’s room was at the back of the small restaurant and I detected a hint of pride in Jason as we entered.
“Nice work. Did you do the remodel yourself?” I asked. “Tile and all?”
“It was pretty grungy when Kat took over the place. This isn’t the original Frog. The first was outside of Charleston. She got this place and I spent a few months fixing it up.”
“You’re very talented.”
“Thanks. Look, I think y
ou and I both know that Colton is dead. I’m second guessing myself for asking you to help her.”
“She isn’t buying it. She’s holding on hard.”
“I was hoping you and me might be able to scare some royalties out of The Flying Machine, make her life a little nicer. That might be the best we could do. I think Colton’s been dead a long time.”
“I get the feeling unless we show her a body, she’ll never believe he’s dead. If we don’t find him, she’ll resent us both.”
Jason nodded sadly in agreement. “No matter, I want to help this lady and I think you can see why. I’ll talk to Charlene about your idea for a benefit. Unless you’d rather bring that up to her yourself.”
“No, I’m trying to avoid Ms. Jones, as much as possible.”
“Oh, I thought you two were tight.”
“Once upon a time. Long story.”
He wasn’t faking the urgency his bladder dictated. He said, “I’d love to hear it if it’s not too personal. I’ve been true to Kat since we moved in together, but Charlene is mighty hot.”
“Make you a deal. I’ll tell you about Charlene if you tell me what really happened with Brand X.”
His cheerful bearing dropped like he’d picked up a hot frying pan. “On second thought, I was out of line to ask you to satisfy my Charlene fantasies. Forget I mentioned it.”
15
Ginn arrived shortly after Jason had left to take Carla home. I was still savoring the fine meal specially prepared for us. Another five mile fartlek was in order.
I reflected on the fact that every woman I’ve ever shared a house with had zero culinary skills. Could I trade Charlene to Jason for Kat --- straight up, no future considerations?
I did dismiss the idea as a joke, but I found myself thinking that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if my daydream came to fruition. Fortunately, Katrina McCann was not around today to fuel the fantasy.
Moses had roared into the lot with Molly. He gave an extra tap on the gas while parked to show me his ride could shut my new one down. The place still hadn’t caught on with the lunch crowd, so we could speak freely at the back table without worrying about being overheard.
The dessert was a superb tiramisu. It’s prepared differently at every Italian restaurant I’ve ever visited: it can have a soft filling or a cold custard. Ladyfingers or no crust at all. Stiff cream topping or just a sprinkle of cinnamon and nutmeg. All good, but Kat’s was at the top of the list.
I told Ginn about Carla. How Jason and I had tried to temper her expectations, but she was convinced that we would find Colton and bring him back to her.
Ginn said, “I wasn’t sitting around watching Soul Train on YouTube either. Found some interesting shit about the cops back then. Seems like Paul Dugger wasn’t working in a vacuum.”
He explained he’d visited with the three surviving retired cops who served at the time of Townes disappearance. “I could tell that two of them weren’t real comfortable talking to a black man. They made a lame try at sounding cool, but when an eighty year old dude says ‘Hey, what up?’ it don’t sound real.”
“You think that attitude applied to a man who was part Cherokee?”
“They both called him a half breed. That a tip off to you? They said he was a troublemaker, one of them even said he liked his ‘firewater’ too much. He did say, ‘pardon the expression’ afterwards, but ain’t no pardon for that shit. So basically, two of them said Townes was a bad apple and either ‘kilt’ himself or ran off with a ‘ho’, like his kind did all the time. I guess ‘Ho’ was another word supposed to show me he was a hep cat.”
“So did the third guy give you anything useful?”
“Think so. He was a little younger and a lot less scared of pissing off his ex-bosses. Said that Dugger and Bolton were tight. Bolton was the politician, never got his hands dirty. Dugger was the enforcer. Someone needed to be taught a lesson, Dugger did it, Bolton looked the other way, gave him cover.”
Sarah Bernstein came over with cappuccinos. Ginn said, “Due espresso per favore. Bene.”
She apologized. “Oh. I thought Mr. King ordered cappuccinos. My mistake. I’ll be right back.”
I said, “Wait. That’s just my friend trying to impress you with the one Italian phrase he knows. Got it from that Brando and Matthew Broderick movie, The Freshman. Cappucino is fine.”
She laughed. I said, “Have you worked for Katrina long?”
“A couple of years.”
“What were you doing before that? Always been in the food business?”
I was just making conversation with an attractive woman. No intentions.
She gave me a look that said ‘none of your business’ but quickly recovered. “Uh, no. I was on another career path. Made a mid-course correction.”
Ginn said, “Oh, what was that?”
She seemed uncomfortable answering his innocent question. “I was in law enforcement.”
I said, “Wow. That’s a switch. County sheriff’s office?”
“No. Katrina said to make you comfortable, anything you like. Can I get you anything else? On the house.”
“We’re good, thanks. We’ll be moving on shortly.”
“Take your time. I’m here through dinner, so anything you need, just let me know.” She walked away, a little too fast.
Ginn said, “I can see why you ain’t got no lady at present. You brought that to a screeching halt. I was getting the vibe she was digging you till you brought up the sheriff.”
“I took something different out of her reaction, Mo. Law enforcement. She started working with Kat right after the time of the Brand X shootout. I wonder if that’s how they met.”
Ginn sipped the cappuccino and smacked his lips in approval. “What’s that shootout got to do with Townes?”
“Nothing maybe. Katrina told me to leave it alone, that it’d put them in danger if I start asking questions to the wrong people. You think this Sarah might be the wrong person?”
“Now you got me started. I hope you ain’t too decrepit to notice her butt and the way she moves. Nice guns on her, like that Sarah Connor babe in them Terminator flicks. She got some training. She couldn’t take me one on one but she could kick your ass.”
“Won’t be hard to find out what kind of law enforcement she was in. I wonder why she wouldn’t just tell us. Think she’s hiding something?”
“Again, 5-0, why you wanna open up that Pandora’s box?”
“Someone’s holding something over Jason and Kat. It’s not right they have to live in fear that their check’s going to get cashed someday. They’re good people. I’m afraid they got caught up in something way over their heads. I might be able to help.”
“Yeah, but there’s a chance your dicking around could get them killed.”
“Not if I’m careful.”
“That ain’t your best quality, 5-0. Focus, man. Townes case. Before the coffee came, I was telling you about the good cop I talked to.”
“You were. Okay, we’ll table Brand X for now. What else did you learn?”
“Dugger beat the shit out of folks if they gave him any lip. The Brando squad was his baby. Like in that Eastwood flick, Magnum Force, killer cops working on their own. Bolton was down with it when he could control it. Made him look good. Problem was that Dugger freelanced too much and that’s what got him fired. Bolton hushed it up, made it sound like he left on his own. Dugger did private dick work for a while after they canned his ass. My man suspected he got funneled a lot of work from Bolton.”
“That makes me wonder if Dugger took things too far with Townes and killed him, maybe by accident. He could have disposed of the body, left the guitar but kept the notebook. And Bolton covered for him.”
“According to the dude I talked to, that’d be a possibility. He said that more than once, they gave ‘compensation’ to one of Dugger’s victims to keep their mouth shut. He even wouldn’t put it past them to arrange an ‘accident’ to keep them from talking. Funny that the kid
s who found the wreck are both dead now.”
I took a long sip of cappuccino. “Of course, proving that after forty years is going to be next to impossible. They’ve kept it quiet that long, they’re not going to talk now.”
Ginn smcked his lips in appreciation of the food and drink. “You said that Bolton and Dugger don’t agree on what happened that night. Bolton said Dugger was with a lady and Dugger says he never left his post. That enough to drive a wedge ‘tween them?”
“Maybe. I need to find out who’s telling the truth and there’s only one way I might be able to do that. It’s going to be tricky.”
“Look at the bright side, 5-0. Florida’s nice this time of year.”
16
Iʹve worked for years with a computer wizard who performs incredible feats of magic. I call him Crain, which he claims is his real middle name. For understandable reasons, he prefers to remain a cypher. I suppose I could track him down, find out who he really is and where he lives. I value him far too much to risk alienating him just to satisfy my curiosity.
I may have met him once, although it’s possible he sent an avatar to consult with me on a case a few years back. I’ll never know. He doesn’t ask for payment anymore; he is so certain I’m on the side of the angels.
I ration my requests for his aid parsimoniously. He used to disguise his voice electronically, but now he trusts me and speaks normally, as if anyone would call his strange computer-like monotone normal. He doesn’t use slang or contractions. His English is stilted as if it’s not his first language or perhaps he has a mild case of Asperger’s. I sometimes wonder if he is a real human being or some advanced AI program that the government keeps under wraps.
Ginn had driven off with Molly, but before I left the restaurant, I ordered a second cappuccino and texted Crain for help in tracking down the Paulsens in Florida. His reply came ten minutes later, with an address, phone number and a concise bio. The retired chief and his wife were living in an oceanfront co-op in Jupiter, a six hour drive from Hilton Head, mostly on I-95.
