Desolation Flats

by Andrew Hunt

  “Four,” I said. “And she’s as feisty as they come.”

  Gail laughed, and then she shook her head. “Where does the time go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She closed the wallet and handed it to me, and I stuffed it in my pocket.

  “Thank you, Art,” she said. “You’re one in a million.”

  I shrugged and drank ice water. “I’m glad to see you’re doing OK, Gail. You look fine, you really do, and the birds seem completely happy.”

  “Those are my babies,” she said, echoing her words from a moment ago, this time with a throaty laugh. “I cherish their company.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  For a long moment, the two of us sat on the steps, watching cars whiz by on 400 South. I checked my wristwatch. I didn’t realize I’d been there so long. It was past five. Time to go home.

  “I know you have to leave,” she said. “Thank you for coming, and for the groceries. You shouldn’t have. But I’m glad you did.”

  We both stood up at the same time, and I held my hand out awkwardly and she took it in hers and gave it an affectionate little shake.

  “It’s good to see you again, Gail,” I said. “If you ever need anything, you know where to reach me.”

  She nodded, and her smile faded, and she stared deeply into my eyes. “He’s not coming back, is he?”

  “You know what I always say. It’s best to be hopeful. Optimism is the key to—”

  “Art?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s not coming back.” She swallowed hard and held back the tears. “Is he?”

  Paralysis gripped me momentarily as I looked at her.

  “Probably not,” I finally said.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. She leaned in and kissed me lightly on the cheek, like the flit from a butterfly’s wing, then stepped back. “Don’t be a stranger. Bring Myron with you next time. I’ll introduce him to Ray.”

  “I will. He’d like that.”

  “So long, Art.”

  “I’ll see you again soon, Gail.”

  I crossed the street to my car, parked under the shade of a tree, and got in. I waved to Gail as I started the engine. She gave a little wave back. Then I steered away from the curb, waited for a streetcar to pass me before I accelerated, and I headed for home.

  Twenty-five

  My first jolt the next morning came when I spotted all of those federal agents—there must have been half a dozen of them, maybe more—camped out at Roscoe’s house in the Marmalade District. Four enormous black government Ford Standard Fordor sedans were parked in the cul-de-sac, all gleaming in the sunlight. The men strutted about in stiff suits and dark fedoras, all beady eyes and lantern jaws, cold as the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

  They evil-eyed me with open mouths and furrowed brows—clearly not pleased by my presence—as I walked up the porch steps to enter the house so I could feed Roscoe’s cats. I was two feet inside of the house when one of them came up behind me, throwing the screen door open, gripping my right wrist, and shoving me against the frame of the door opening up to Roscoe’s living room. Out the corner of my eye, I saw one of the cats dart past us and run out the front door.

  “Hey, don’t let her out!” I shouted, with my face pressed into the wall. “They’re not supposed to go outside!”

  Cold metal of handcuffs clicked tightly around my wrist. Seconds later, my fingertips began to go numb from lack of circulation.

  “Roscoe Lund, you’re under arrest for violating the Federal Kidnapping Act of 1932, and for the murder of Nigel Underhill at the Hotel Utah on—”

  “I’m not Roscoe Lund!”

  “Check his I.D.,” said a nearby voice.

  I felt my billfold being fished out of my trouser pocket. Whispers hissed behind my back. A moment later, the G-man loosened his grip on me. “Police dick. Got the same last name as the boss,” said the agent who checked my badge and identification. “Let him go.”

  The handcuffs clicked and loosened. Feeling returned to the ends of my fingers as I jerked my hands loose and faced the feds. One of them tossed me my wallet. I fumbled for it and nearly dropped it.

  “You let his cat out,” I said, gazing into the brightness beyond the screen door. “She wasn’t supposed to go outside.”

  A Bureau man with a deep dimple in his chin shrugged and smiled crookedly. “He can always file a complaint with Director Hoover.”

  A redheaded fed with big pink ears laughed stupidly, which seemed to make the spray of freckles on his cheeks and nose light up. “I say let the coyotes have at her. They gotta eat, too, ya know.”

  “What’re you doing here, anyhow?” asked Dimple. “We got orders to bring in a sack-of-shit murderer, and that’s exactly what we aim to do, and we don’t particularly care to have any local yokel hayseeds getting in our way.”

  “I’m responsible for my friend’s cats while he’s gone,” I said, pocketing my wallet. “I’m here to feed them. Now you’ve let Millicent outside. She’s not an outdoor cat.”

  Dimple approached me menacingly, with clenched fists. “Do I look like I give a shit about his fucking cat?”

  Before I could answer, the redhead with the enormous ears asked: “Where is he, Detective?”

  “I don’t know. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “A wise guy, huh?” grunted Dimple, clearly ready for ye olde fisticuffs. “Maybe you’d like to step outside and discuss this in greater detail. Police dick.”

  I walked past the two men, pushing my palms against the screen door mesh. A second later, I stood out on the porch, with more of these stiff, interchangeable fellows aiming their steely gazes my way. I’d had enough of these fresh-out-of-the-academy lads and their appalling arrogance. Years of law enforcement experience taught me that the longer you could keep the FBI out of an investigation, the better off everybody would be. They had a way of fouling everything up.

  I searched for Millicent. I explored weed-choked lots. I wandered into side yards. I checked up trees and utility poles. No sign of her anywhere. I’d have to come back later and seek her out again, hopefully without all of these G-men lurking. I returned to Roscoe’s house to feed Barney and Captain Jack, and on my way out to my car afterward, I drew the nasty stares of the Bureau boys.

  I climbed into my car and drove away. I felt so eager to escape from that dusty little nook at the base of the hill. Clearly, these FBI agents were determined to capture Roscoe and incapable of examining this case from all the angles. Somebody higher up on the totem pole—most likely my brother—had issued orders to bring my friend in dead or alive. At this point, even I was beginning to have my doubts about Roscoe. Estelle McKenna’s words still echoed in my mind: “I saw the big fellow wrap something—a wire or a cord or some twine—around Underhill’s neck and force him back into his hotel room.” It didn’t look good for Roscoe. But the man I’d known so well, and had worked with so closely for years, couldn’t have done the things that McKenna attributed to him. He was my friend, and I was loyal, and I wasn’t prepared to give up, despite my uncertainty.

  I feared for Roscoe’s safety. I still had vivid memories of the Bureau’s crackdown on crime four years ago, in which my brother played a key part. The names remained vividly emblazoned in my mind from all of the newspaper and newsreel and radio coverage: Bonnie and Clyde; John Dillinger; Baby Face Nelson; Pretty Boy Floyd. What chance would an ex-cop-turned-private-detective like Roscoe Lund have of evading them? Slim to none, I’d guess. I had to find him before they did. But where had he gone? Where would I even begin to look?

  * * *

  My second jolt of the morning came when I entered the lobby of Public Safety and got swarmed by press hounds. I’d been carrying a pink box of bakery goods that I’d picked up at Beau Brummel on the way over here—treats for my men—that I nearly dropped on the ground due to shock. I tried to remain calm and collected as I made my way across the staircase. Not only did I encounter the usual suspects, na
mely the ever-pesky Amelia Van Cott and her gangly photographer sidekick, Ephraim Nielsen, but I noticed all manner of reporters representing national newspapers, as well as wire service fellas in fedoras with PRESS tags in their hat bands. Flashes started to burst, burning into my retinas as I closed my eyes in a futile attempt to blink out the big white dots. The pen-and paper-wielding journalists began coming at me like a school of piranhas devouring a poor wayward cow. At the head of the pack, Amelia Van Cott attempted to move in for the kill.

  “What’s your response to the big announcement this morning?” she asked.

  “What big announcement?” I asked, spying her in my peripheral vision.

  “Your brother didn’t tell you about the press conference?”

  I halted and faced her. She stopped and turned to me.

  “What press conference?”

  “This morning, about a half hour ago,” she said. “Frank Oveson read a statement at the capitol rotunda. Then he left. He refused to take questions.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She looked over her shoulders at the crowd of reporters behind her, all of them silent and listening intently to my every word. Her eyes met mine and she said, “Well, this is a little embarrassing.”

  “C’mon, Amelia,” I said. “Out with it.”

  She cleared her throat meekly. Eyelashes fluttered. “He said Clive Underhill is missing. The Bureau suspects abduction, and it’s focusing its search on a lone kidnapper: your former partner, Roscoe Lund. That’s what your brother said.”

  I nodded. “I see.”

  “So how about it?” she asked. “Any comment?”

  “No.”

  A reporter called out, “Can you address rumors that Nigel Underhill was found dead in his hotel room? Police are refusing to confirm or deny.”

  “I have nothing to say,” I told the reporters, to the sound of pencils scratching against spiral pads. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  I rushed up the stairs, deeply shaken and trying to ignore the questions being shouted out to me from below. Lucky for me, Public Safety regulations stated the press could only question police from near the building’s front and rear entrances, or if there was a large enough group of journalists, they would be given access to the lobby by a supervising officer. Despite the pressroom being located on the second floor, reporters were not allowed to question detectives in any of the nearby offices without the prior written or verbal consent of the interviewee.

  Doing my best to chase away thoughts of the belligerent press, I entered the Bureau of Missing Persons office to find a Negro couple—an older man and woman, likely in their fifties or sixties—being questioned by DeVoy. They were dressed formally, as if they’d just gotten out of church, and the woman’s velvety hat had a net that went down over her face. DeVoy sat a few feet away from her, attempting to record her every word with a pencil and notepad.

  I sneaked a better look at the couple. She was on the plump side, he was lean, but they both wore solemn expressions, and their eyes glimmered with dignity. His hair had gone salt-and-pepper, and lines were etched deeply into his face, like tiny trenches. Her coiffure was as black as the darkest night, and I could tell from her swollen eyes—which she dabbed from time to time with a hanky—that she had been weeping. As the man talked about his son in a hushed voice; they both glanced at me, then shifted their focus back to DeVoy, still scribbling furiously to keep up with them.

  DeVoy raised his head and gestured to me. “This is my supervisor, Detective Arthur Oveson. Perhaps I should turn it over to him.” He shot me a pleading glance. “Sir, this is Mr. and Mrs. Leon Booker.”

  “I’m Maybelle,” the woman said under her breath. I nodded a greeting to them.

  DeVoy continued: “They reside here in Salt Lake City. They say their son…” He checked his notes quickly. “Antoine Winston Booker”—he looked up from his scribbles—“has been missing since his shift ended at the Hotel Utah on Tuesday night.”

  “It isn’t like him to vanish like this,” said Mr. Booker. “He was supposed to play with his musical troupe last night.”

  “The King Rufus Hi-Hat Harmonica Quartet,” I said.

  “Have you heard of them?” asked Maybelle Booker, clearly surprised.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I met your son on Tuesday, at the Hotel Utah.”

  Their eyes widened with hope. “You saw him the day he went missing?” asked Leon Booker.

  DeVoy rolled his wheeled chair backward, waving toward the couple, as if inviting me to join in. “You really should be the one talking to them. Not me.”

  I passed the pink box of pastries in my hands to Myron, then slid up a chair and sat down. “Would either of you care for a Danish?”

  “No thank you.”

  “No, that’s mighty kind of you, though.”

  I maneuvered my chair closer and scooped up a spiral notepad and a pencil from my desk. I flashed the couple a reassuring smile. They returned the gesture, but only briefly.

  “Where does your son reside?” I asked. “Let’s start there.”

  “He lives with us,” said Leon. “Our house is at seven fifty-two Roberta Street. Little side street, ’twixt Second and Third East, and Seventh and Eighth South.”

  I was jotting all this down. I nodded and looked up at them. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Tuesday morning,” said Maybelle. “Before he left for work. He ate a big breakfast, and he looked so fancy in his hotel uniform.”

  “Did he say if he was going anywhere after work?” I asked.

  “He was supposed to play with the quartet down at the Old Mill Club, but he didn’t show up,” said Leon. “It isn’t like him to miss a performance.”

  “This isn’t much to go on,” I said. “Is there anything else you could possibly tell me? Has he been morose lately, or has he had any troubles of any sort?”

  “Nothing like that,” said Leon. “But there was something else—”

  Maybelle gripped his arm, “Do you think it’s wise, telling the police?”

  Leon turned in his chair toward his wife. “They ought to know, dear. It’ll help.”

  “Yes, anything might help,” I said. “Please tell me everything you can.”

  Maybelle’s eyes, full of fear, met mine. “I don’t know if it’s right to tell you.”

  “My number-one priority is to find your son,” I said. “Every little thing helps.”

  “Winston was working the early morning shift on Sunday at the Hotel Utah,” Maybelle said. “He came home that morning worried about something or other, but he wouldn’t say what it was.”

  “He didn’t give you any hints?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t himself, Detective Oveson,” said Leon. “He started crying at one point, and he made a run for the bathroom and I could hear him throwing up. After he was through in there, I asked him what was wrong, but he wouldn’t say. We could tell our son was mighty distressed about something.”

  “I ain’t never seen him that way,” said Maybelle. “Something was eating away at our boy, and I don’t have the foggiest notion as to what it might’ve been.”

  “Did he mention a fella named Metzger?” I asked. “Dooley Metzger? That name ring any bells?”

  They looked at each other. She nodded at him. Then he addressed me.

  “We knew Metzger from the times we picked our son up at work. We were never partial to him. Something about him wasn’t right. A few months ago, I went to the Hotel Utah to pick up our son. I waited out back for him, behind the hotel, by the loading platform, minding my own business. But Metzger saw me out there and he come up and told me to leave. He said, loudly, there weren’t no niggers allowed. I says, ‘Even back here?’ And he says, ‘Yeah, they ain’t even allowed back here. Now go on, get, before I let you have it!’ That’s the word he used. Niggers. He had his service revolver poking out of his jacket in plain sight. He was fixing to us
e it. That’s what I thought, anyhow, at the time.”

  “Maybe I need to pay a visit to the Hotel Utah and talk to Mr. Metzger,” I said. “Find out what he knows.”

  “Here, Detective Oveson…” Maybelle reached in her purse, pulled out a five-by-seven photograph, and passed it to me. It was a close up of Winston Booker, a smile on his face and holding up his harmonica. “It was taken in October of ’36, right before he joined up with the quartet.”

  I held the picture up closer, to get a good look. His eyes glimmered with hope, the way they did when I met him.

  “Please find our son,” said Leon, his lower lip quivering. He was on the verge of tears. Maybelle, convulsing with sobs, fished a handkerchief out of her purse and dabbed her eyes. Leon wrapped his arm around her shoulder and patted her lovingly, all the while keeping his eyes on me. “He’s a fine young man, Detective Oveson, and we’ve been plenty worried about him.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said. I turned the picture toward them. “May I?”

  “Please do,” said Maybelle. “We’d like it back when you’re done.”

  “Sure.”

  The parents spent another ten minutes filling me on details about their son, such as when his Tuesday shift was supposed to end (6:00 P.M.), and that the desk attendants at the hotel did not see him punch out the time clock or leave the building. After they were finished, we said our good-byes, and I promised them I’d update them as soon as I found out anything. DeVoy led them downstairs, taking them to the rear exit of Public Safety. I stared at the picture of Winston “Blue” Booker for a long time. Knowing Metzger’s history of violence when he was a policeman, I feared the worst for the young man. Myron and I stayed silent for a long while, and we were soon joined by DeVoy again, who returned to his desk and resumed working.

  “Got any guesses as to what happened to him?” Myron finally asked.

  “I don’t know.” I reached for my hat. “But I’m going to try to find out.”

  DeVoy lowered his pen and turned in his chair to observe the discussion.