[Rafferty 01.0] Rafferty's Rules

by W. Glenn Duncan

  “Yeah,” Durkee yawned, “I’ll bet. What the hell, you can get away with stomping some toad for information. We can’t. Good luck.”

  Ricco went away to dredge up the list for me. I smoked a pipe and watched Ed work through his paper mountain. Rafferty’s Rule for Modern Police Work: No arrest is permissible until the weight of the paperwork equals the weight of the suspect.

  When Ricco came back twenty minutes later, I had finished my pipe and Ed had signed thirty-seven files.

  I figured we were just about even on useful work completed.

  Chapter 7

  There must be five hundred bars in Texas named the Dew Drop Inn. Mostly, they aren’t the sort of place to take your elderly mother when she comes to visit. And the Dew Drop Inn where Fran Zifretti worked was definitely not on the maternal tourist list.

  That afternoon, a nasal voice had answered the phone and told me Fran wouldn't come in until six. I gave it a couple of hours extra and arrived a little after eight.

  The exterior decor was 1950s Public Toilet: white concrete block with a flat roof and a scabrous parking lot on all four sides. It was a block off Industrial Boulevard, between a tire retreading plant and a place that manufactured sheet metal ductwork.

  The Dew Drop Inn didn’t look like a meeting place for The Beautiful People.

  I parked my Mustang on the outside edge of the parking lot, where it couldn’t be blocked in. I locked my wallet in the glove compartment, folded a twenty and a fifty into small squares, and tucked them deep in separate pockets.

  I had dressed in old jeans, boots, a Cowboys T-shirt, and a nylon windbreaker. The evening was too warm for the windbreaker, but it hid the shoulder-holstered .38 nicely. And I had my old Ithaca twelve-gauge pump under a blanket on the back seat.

  It was that kind of a Dew Drop Inn.

  The inside of the place was nearly as depressing as the outside. There was one large rectangular room with booths set against the walls. The bar formed a square, off-set toward the entrance. Inside the bar square, there was a head-high stage, roughly ten feet on a side, with baby spots around the edge.

  Between the stage and the bar, there were two bartenders listlessly cleaning glasses. I bet myself they never bothered to turn around and look up at the girls.

  At the other end of the room, there were two pool tables, four round tables with chairs, and a jukebox playing mournful country music. And a corridor going away. Toilets and an office, probably.

  The lighting was halfway between cocktail-bar dim and see-the-grime bright. There was a thin blue pall of cigarette smoke and a sour smell in the room.

  I looked at the mess behind the bar and decided against draft beer. I ordered a bottle of Bud instead and leaned against the bar, wondering which of the girls was Fran Zifretti. There were four of them, sitting in booths, hustling drinks, wearing only bikini bottoms, and pushing their chests at the suckers.

  The bartender brought me my change. Not enough change for one lousy beer, but it was Mollison’s expense money. What was I, the Better Business Bureau?

  I shoved a buck back at the bartender and said, “Where’s Fran?”

  He made the bill disappear before my very eyes and jerked his head at the stage above and behind him. “She’s on next. Five minutes.”

  Halfway through the beer, a bouncy redhead trotted out of the back corridor, ducked under the bar service hatch and up steep steps to the stage. A bartender pushed buttons and snapped switches. The baby spots came on and the jukebox died in mid-whine. A cassette tape player hiccuped, then kicked in at high volume with a thumping disco beat.

  Ricco was wrong. Fran Zifretti hadn’t climbed onto the stage to take off her clothes. She was already stripped down to standard uniform for the Dew Drop: bikini bottoms and boobs. Standard dance: stylized jiggling and arm waving. There’s no business like show business, et cetera.

  Had to give her credit, though. She tried. She mugged her way through quick eager smiles and outrageous winks. Her amateur bumps and grinds were enthusiastic. And half a beat off the rhythm.

  Despite her efforts, the crowd was unmoved. Two leathery men on my side of the bar were lost in an argument about which was better, Mack or Peterbilt. The bartenders never turned around—I won my personal bet—and, except for a toothless old-timer in a booth, I was Fran’s only audience.

  I grinned at her, using my disarming smile. Hilda claimed it was more oafish than disarming, but I kept practicing. Everyone needs a hobby.

  When I caught Fran’s eye, I pointed at her, then at myself, then at my drink. She nodded. With that out of the way, I sipped my beer and watched her dance.

  Fran Zifretti was twenty-fiveish, with a face that was plain, edging toward cute. She had a dusting of freckles that went with her red hair and she had a tan that didn’t. Ah, well, not every redhead can have milky skin and a lilting Irish brogue.

  Fran had good legs, a nice rump, and, overall, she would have had a terrific figure if her plastic surgeon hadn’t ripped her off. Some doctor had a lot to answer for. Fran Zifretti’s chest looked like someone had sliced a soccer ball in half and shoved the two domes under her skin.

  Poor Fran. She bobbed and weaved, disco-hopped, and jounced. Her curly hair moved, her arms moved, the flesh on her thighs moved—hell, everything moved except her breasts. Those phony boobs just sat there like lumps of concrete. Okay, maybe they moved a little bit, but it didn’t look right. The effect was similar to a man jogging while wearing a chest protector.

  I wondered if it hurt and felt relieved for her when the music finally stopped and she climbed down from the stage.

  She came straight toward me, smiling amiably as if we were casual acquaintances meeting by chance in a supermarket. No sultry looks, no posturing to emphasize her near-nudity, no extra hip swing. Fran Zifretti would never make it as a B-girl.

  “Hi,” she said, “how you doing?”

  “Great,” I said. “Sure did like your dance.” I practiced my disarming smile again. Fran didn’t wince. Maybe I was improving.

  A bartender appeared as if by magic. “Buy the lady a drink?”

  “Why not? Two more beers, my good man.”

  “The lady prefers champagne.”

  Fran looked around the grubby room and ignored our street theater performance.

  “Tell you what, pal,” I said to the bartender. “You ask the sommelier to bring the wine list. In the meantime, we’ll have two beers.”

  The bartender frowned at Fran. She chimed in with, “How about a Manhattan? I love Manhattans.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Another Bud and a Manhattan for the lady.”

  The bartender started to push the champagne again, but she cut him off. “A Manhattan, Chuck. That’ll be fine.”

  Chuck the bartender brought a glass of iced tea disguised as a Manhattan, a second beer, and a quarter change for a ten. I didn’t let him keep the quarter. He didn’t seem surprised.

  We took our drinks to a booth. Fran sipped her tea and smiled automatically. “Hey, I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “No,” I said. “Look, Fran, I don’t want to go through a big song-and-dance here. For one thing, I’ll get angry if I have to buy a champagne bottle full of Seven-Up and for another, I want to be up-front with you. I want to talk about the DeathStars.”

  She had looked puzzled when I started talking. Now she looked disgusted. “Jesus,” she said. “Those creeps. Who are you?”

  “My name is Rafferty. I’m a friend of Vivian Mollison. Tell me about the time Guts Holman sold her to the out-of-town bikers.”

  “Oh, shit! Hey, I had nothing to do with that—”

  “It’s okay, Fran. That’s what I hear, too,” I said. “There’s no trouble in this for you. Or the other DeathStars, unless Holman had help.”

  “No,” she said. “It was only Guts, I’m pretty sure. When he bragged about it later, some of the guys were really surprised, you know?”

  “Okay, then. Tell me about Holman. He was the stud du
ck of the DeathStars, right?”

  “Right. But …”

  The Dew Drop Inn had begun to fill up. A pair of ropy-looking cowboy types started a pool game in the back. It looked noisy, though you couldn’t be sure. A tall black girl was doing her version of a dance on the stage and her music was loud and bassy.

  A fat greasy guy in dark jeans and a stained T-shirt leaned against the bar and sucked on a beer bottle. He had a black headband and a straggly beard. It was entirely possible he got his hardjutting belly from the same silicon-stuffer who did Fran’s chest.

  “Look,” Fran said, “I gave up that biker bullshit when I dumped Tony. I’m out of it. I don’t think I should talk about it.” She frowned. “Besides, how do I know you’re not a cop?”

  “Beats the hell out of me, Fran. Do I look like a cop?”

  “No, not quite,” she said. “You seem more … interested.”

  “You got it. I’m interested. I’m being paid to be interested, of course, but it’s the sort of thing I might do as a hobby, anyway. Rafferty’s Rule Twelve: Selling people is antisocial.”

  “So, what are you, a private detective?”

  “Investigator,” I said automatically.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “None, really. Except that cops don’t like it if you call yourself a detective. They think it sounds too official. And people don’t like to talk to ’detectives’, for the same reason. Investigator, on the other hand, sounds like insurance or credit ratings. Wimpy stuff like that.” I gave her another disarming smile.

  “Did you hurt your mouth or something?”

  “Forget it,” I said.

  One of the other girls drifted over to our booth and we did Scene Two of Buy The Lady A Drink. I had to crack the fifty to pay for that round.

  “Fran, this goddamn place is gonna break me while we swap pleasantries. I’ve told you the way this thing is going down. You, hubby Tony, and the other DeathStars can play big bad bikers all you want. Believe me, I don’t care. Holman seems to be the only one who did the dirty on Vivian. And he gets a free ride because he’s dead. All I want are the five clowns you met at Lake Texoma. That’s all.”

  She shook her head doubtfully. “I bet you don’t find them.”

  “I’ll find them, Fran. It’s what I do. And, despite my shy, unassuming manner, I’m pretty good at what I do.”

  “You say.” She smiled, with a hint of a sneer. Then the sneer and the smile dropped away to a lifeless mask. She lowered her face and stared at the table.

  “Hey, Clyde, how’s it going? You having a good time slobbering over Frannie’s tits?”

  The jerk with the beard and belly stood near the booth. He tilted his beer bottle up to drain it while he kept his eyes on me. Implied threat. Tough guy. Big deal.

  “Hey, Frannie,” he said, “don’tcha say hello no more?”

  “Hello, Goose,” she said in a monotone.

  At first, I had pegged Goose for thirtyish, but now, up close I thought he was closer to my age. Or maybe not. Perhaps he looked older because of the dirt in the wrinkles around his eyes. Whatever.

  No matter how old he was, he was a classic case of arrested development. He wore a gold earring and a replica Nazi ring with a skull. He used a length of chain for a belt. His arms were tattooed. The general theme was eagles, with a smattering of toilet graffiti.

  Goose said, “Clyde, man, your time is up. Give somebody else a chance to score with old Frannie Rottencrotch, hey?”

  “He’s right, mister,” Fran said. “I better go now.” She slid out of the booth. “Thanks for the drinks.”

  Goose laughed at me and followed Fran to the bar. They argued briefly, then Fran stalked away. One of the truck drivers stroked her backside, but she kept walking and disappeared down the back corridor.

  She came back after twenty minutes or so, did another jerky, painful-looking dance, then sat at a table with two slumming salesmen and another house girl.

  Goose stayed at the bar, swilling beer and playing hairy majordomo.

  The black girl came to my booth and we tried Scene Three of the booze burlesque. I messed up my lines and she left before the curtain.

  Five minutes later, a blonde with no breasts—but enormous nipples—came to bat, presumably to determine whether my problem was racial prejudice or diminished libido. Bartender Chuck made a personal appearance with a bottle of champagne that time. He started his pitch, then looked at my face and stopped in midsentence. He took the blonde with him when he left. At the bar, Goose guffawed.

  I went to the salesmen’s table and tried to take Fran aside long enough to get her phone number or address, but Goose moved in too quickly. I became less and less tolerant of my fellow man.

  Chuck the bartender, after a hard look from Goose, decided he didn’t know anything for twenty dollars and he declined to advance into the semifinals.

  Goose had become a significant pain in the ass.

  I found a pay phone in a corner and called Hilda at her place.

  “It’s late, Rafferty,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh sure,” I said. “I am frivolously disporting with the jet-setters. They keep trying to sell me bottles of vintage champagne.”

  “What vintage?”

  “June, I think. Or maybe July. Hil, babe, I just want to talk to you for a minute.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah. A tad frustrated. I’m playing footsie with a prime, number-one cretin who’s ripe for maiming, but I have to be careful how I do it. There’s a frightened lady here who can tell me things I need to know.”

  Hilda said, “It always reassures me when you bring your little troubles home instead of taking them to strangers. It makes me feel so needed.”

  “Okay, okay. You going to be up for a while yet?”

  “After this call, yes, I expect so.”

  “I might drop by.”

  “Bring hamburgers or something. I’m hungry.”

  “Will do. Bye, hon.”

  “Rafferty,” Hilda said. “you’re weird.”

  “But lovable. Don’t forget how lovable I am.”

  “There is that. See you later.”

  I hung up, walked over to where Fran sat with the salesmen, and handed her a business card. “Here. Phone me in the morning.”

  “But—” She looked sideways at Goose stomping our way.

  “It’s all right. Goose and I are about to settle this minor contretemps.”

  Goose arrived. “Gimme that,” he said to Fran.

  “Later, Goose,” I said. “First, let’s go outside, so I can kick the shit out of you.”

  Goose grinned. Two of his teeth were missing. Those remaining were muddy brown. “Now that’s my man!” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  I told Fran not to lose my card. “I'm expecting that call.”

  She slipped the card into her bikini pants.

  “Lucky card,” muttered one of the salesmen.

  “Okay, Goose,” I said. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Outside, in the parking lot, he spun around and shuffled toward me with his arms held wide. That made sense. With his build, he was a good bet to be a bear-hugger.

  “Wait one,” I said. “Neither of us wants to get Fran fired. Let’s go down the street a little way.”

  He straightened up and grunted. “You ain’t getting out of this, chicken-shit. Follow me.” Goose swaggered to a black Harley parked near the front door. He took a black denim vest from the bike’s handlebars and shrugged into it. On the back of the vest was a stylized skull on a starry background. Separate, curved patches above and below the skull said DEATHSTARS and DALLAS.

  Which was about what I had guessed. Maybe I should offer a correspondence course. Famous Detective School.

  Goose swung a thick leg over the bike and jabbed a finger at me. “Don’t try to run, Clyde. You try to get away, I might decide to hurt you real bad.” He snarled in case I wasn’t sufficiently impressed
, kicked his Harley in the guts, and blue-smoked the night air.

  I walked to the Mustang, unlocked it, got in, started up, and waved him ahead. He made the first fifty feet with the front wheel in the air, then slowed to make sure I was following him. I took the shotgun off the back seat and laid it across my lap.

  We convoyed through the quiet industrial district. Goose squirted ahead, then dropped back to wait for me. He made a series of rights and lefts, turned into a cul-de-sac ringed by electronics firms and stopped his motorcycle.

  I ran down the Harley-Davidson. Goose jumped clear at the last minute. The bike made a satisfying clatter as the Mustang bounced over it. Metal screeched like a hurt animal. Something under the car tangled with the motorcycle for a moment, and I had to gun it hard in reverse to jerk free.

  Tired old cars like the Mustang are so handy for that sort of thing.

  “You cocksuckerrr!” Goose screamed as I got out of the car. I showed him my shotgun and he quieted down a bit.

  “Hey, Clyde,” he said, “we had us a fair fight set up.”

  “Bullshit, Goose. I bet you haven’t fought fair for twenty years. Come to think of it, neither have I.” I tossed a load of shot into the motor and gas tank of the Harley. As the echo off the buildings faded, I jacked another shell into the chamber. Scrick, scrack. Nice counterpoint.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you, man?” Goose said. “You crazy?”

  “Pass the word to the turkeys you run with. I’m after the bikers who bought Vivian Mollison. Not you guys. But you stay out of my way when I’m trying to talk to Fran Zifretti or anyone else.”

  “You bastard,” he said, pointing at his Harley. “You’re not after me, but you did that to my bike?”

  The Harley looked like it had fallen off a building. The frame was bent. Both wheels were mangled. There were bright pellet smears on the engine and frame. Acrid fumes from the ruptured gas tank drifted in the light evening breeze.

  “Oh, that’s not because of Vivian. That’s because you got in my way, Goose. Well, partly because you got in my way. And partly because you’re such an offensive asshole.”