by Tom Pitts
The bartender greeted him with a smile. “Good evening, sir. What can I get cha?”
“Dewar’s, over.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have Dewar’s. These’re our whiskeys, right here.” He swung his arm out, proudly displaying the three or four brands they carried.
“Never mind. Make it a Stoli tonic.”
The bartender’s smile squished inward and he squinted like he had gas. “Ewww, so sorry. Our top shelf is Grey Goose.”
Tremblay was already feeling tired and he’d been in the bar less than a minute. The bartender was at least twenty years his junior. “Fine.” He pulled back one of the high-backed bar stools and wedged himself between it and the bar. While the young man hurried and fixed his drink, Tremblay took a look around at the other patrons. All men. All sitting by themselves. Fucking Holiday Inn.
The bartender set the drink in front of him on a cardboard coaster. Tremblay took his own lime wedge from the open tray of drink garnishments and squeezed it in. He drained half the glass with one long, slow swallow. Little light on the vodka. He finished the short glass in two more slugs and waved the bartender over for one more.
He was halfway through his second when a woman walked in. The other customers all looked up from their laptops, their phones, or their coasters, whatever had been holding their attention up until then. She was blonde, tall, well-dressed by Holiday Inn standards. She walked straight to the bar and took a seat two stools away from Tremblay.
“What kind of red wine do you have?”
The bartender showed her what was already open, and, without looking at the label, she said that’d be fine. He poured her a glass and she slapped down a credit card. She took a good pull on the glass, smacked her lips, and let out a deep satisfied groan.
“Needed that one, huh?” Tremblay said.
“Excuse me?”
“The drink. You needed that one, eh?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said with a smile.
Tremblay wasn’t sure if she was offended or flirting. He did notice that, once she smiled, she was not the same creature he saw walking into the bar. Her teeth were discolored and stained. Her eyes were bloodshot and cased by tired wrinkles. Her make-up was cheap and applied too thick, covering pockmarked and uneven skin. Tremblay decided right then that, if he was going to fuck her, he’d need a few more drinks. He preferred beautiful women, who didn’t? But the ugly ones were more approachable if no less crazy. “You stayin’ here at the hotel?”
She looked at him as though this was the stupidest thing he could have asked. Tremblay decided her smile must be a snarl. He shrugged and went back to his drink, finishing it in one swig and holding his finger up to the bartender before he set his glass down.
After the bartender had poured him another, he tried again. “These places are all the same aren’t they? Hotel lounges?”
The woman pulled a cell phone from her purse and pretended to turn her focus on it. She wasn’t fooling anybody.
“Cunt,” Tremblay said.
She looked up, eyebrows furrowed, and again said, “Excuse me?”
Tremblay said, “Cunt. As in: Stinking fucking cunt. Ugly cunt. Stupid cunt.”
The woman got up, took her glass, and moved to an isolated table at the back of the room, leaving Tremblay alone with his drink.
Chapter Five
They were back on Highway 101 speeding toward the city. Steven still behind the wheel, Quinn riding shotgun. The windows were down and the music was up when Quinn noticed a highway patrol car behind them. He glanced from the sideview to the speedometer. “Slow down a little bit.”
Steven turned the volume on the radio down. “Why?”
“There’s a cop behind us. Take it down to seventy.”
Steven did. The cop stayed where he was. Tight behind the BMW.
“This would probably be a good time to tell you,” Quinn said. “This car may be hot.”
“Hot? What’d you mean hot? As in stolen? I thought it was your friend’s?”
“It is, we just don’t always see eye to eye. It’s a long story. Don’t get pulled over. If that happens, I’m not sure what’ll happen next. Focus on the road and see what he does.”
Steven gripped the steering wheel. He didn’t have any smoke with him, but he had no ID either. What the hell was he even doing in a car with this stranger? He didn’t want to spend even a minute in jail. Never mind grand larceny and vehicle theft. He knew no phone numbers by heart that he could call for help. No one would know where he was. He would languish there, stuck. He must have been out of his mind getting in this car with Quinn, let alone behind the wheel. He began to feel a pressure in his chest. It was fear. He looked out of the corner of his eye at Quinn, who still appeared relaxed, even had a little smile curling up at the corners of his mouth. They rolled over the hills outside San Rafael, Steven working hard to control his speed. Not too fast, not too slow.
“Fuck,” Steven said.
“Relax. Getting upset won’t help. Odds are the car isn’t in the system. Just drive and see what he does.”
“What happens if he pulls us over?”
“Then I may have to kill him, so don’t get pulled over.”
Steven smirked. He thought Quinn was kidding, but the man’s face didn’t change. He had to be kidding.
As they approached the 580 junction, the traffic became muddied and the CHP car pulled off at an exit. Steven exhaled for the first time in minutes.
“That’s that,” Quinn said. “Now just get us to the city and I’ll find us a nice motel on Lombard Street—on me. We won’t be there ’til late. You can chill out and rest up while we figure out how to find our friends.”
Steven kept his eyes on the freeway. It all seemed too easy. The car, the ride to the city. This man, a perfect stranger, willing to help him.
“What do you do again?”
“What d’you mean?”
“For a living. What do you do?”
Quinn smiled at Steven before saying, “I live in the moment, kid. It’s a full-time job.”
***
When he woke in the morning, Steven was alone in the motel room. He remembered driving across the Golden Gate Bridge shortly after sunset, how the glow of the city seemed both strange but familiar. He’d been to San Francisco many times during his life but never really knew his way around. Most of his visits to the city were with his parents when he was too young to explore. The strip of motels on Lombard greeted them when they came into town. Quinn chose the Francisco Bay Inn and paid for a double. He’d settled Steven in the room and went out to buy beer and whiskey. When he returned, they’d sat drinking and bullshitting until Quinn stood and said he’d be back in a little while. That had to have been before eleven o’clock. Steven, not accustomed to drinking so much, passed out on his bed with his clothes on and slept there through the night.
The sun was up now and beams of daylight streamed through the window. The TV was still playing and the bed beside his was still made. Steven went to the bathroom sink and guzzled as much water as he could. He wondered if he could get back to sleep, but decided to watch the local news instead. He flipped through the morning news broadcasts, both local and national. The stories were all the same. Puff pieces and interviews with celebrities pushing movies or books. Steven grew bored and dug through an ashtray for a butt long enough to smoke. After lighting one up, he felt nauseated and light-headed. He stubbed it out and lay back on his bed and felt yesterday’s bruises throb in time with his head.
He wondered about what he was doing there, in a motel room paid for by a man he didn’t know. He’d made it to the city, no reason he shouldn’t strike out on his own now. He owed the stranger nothing. He’d agreed to help Quinn, but didn’t promise anything. His mind drifted until he fluttered into sleep.
The door swung open.
Quinn said, “Rise and shine,” in a bright voice that jarred Steven back to consciousness. “How’re you feelin’ there, bud? Shit, you
were gettin’ positively cross-eyed last night. You need to practice drinking liquor more often. All that weed has made you soft. Keep smoking that shit and you’re gonna grow tits.” He tossed a bag of donuts on the bed beside the boy. “Here. I brought you some breakfast.”
Steven could see chocolate icing smeared onto the grease stains inside the bag. The thought of choking down a donut made him feel even worse. “No, thanks.”
“Eat up, you’re gonna need your energy. We got a lot of stuff to do today. It’s already ten o’clock. Get your ass up, shower if you got to. Switched cars last night so you won’t have to worry about that one being hot.”
“You switched cars?”
“Yeah, got us a new one. Not as nice, but it runs fine. It’ll get the job done.”
“From another friend?”
“Your sarcasm would work better if you were standing up. Chop, chop, let’s go.”
***
As soon as Carl awoke he called Peters to tell him he ought to think about getting over to the Holiday Inn Express to have a chat with Mr. Tremblay. Why not bring him down to the station for a formal statement. He said he could meet Peters there about nine.
“Way ahead of you. I called down there this morning to make sure he hadn’t checked out,” Peters said. “I asked ’em to call me if he was on the move. Haven’t heard a thing.”
“That’s fine. But let’s not have the Holiday Inn employees do our police work for us, huh? Last I heard, they’re still making minimum wage down there. Ain’t no danger-pay in hotel management.”
“You think this guy is dangerous, Carl? He have something to do with this Oulilette thing?”
“I don’t know. I heard he hasn’t always been a straight arrow, though. Let’s make sure he’s telling us everything he knows.”
“You telling me everything you know?”
“Peters,” Carl said. “That would take a lifetime.”
Peters laughed and hung up.
Carl fixed himself a quick breakfast. Two eggs in a loose scramble scooped straight onto a piece of toast. The dishes were all dirty and piled in the sink, so toast would have to suffice for a plate. He ate standing up. He brushed off the crumbs on his chest and poured himself a second cup of coffee and thought about what he had to do next: call his old friend Bill Panzer down at SFPD. He had a bad feeling about this Tremblay character and knew calling Panzer was only going to cement that feeling. He sat down on the couch and wished he still smoked cigarettes.
Before he got up to make the call, the phone rang.
“Carl? It’s me again.” Peters’ voice was quiet.
“I was just headin’ out.”
“He’s gone. Tossed his key on the counter and walked out about twenty minutes ago.”
“Shit.”
***
Tremblay was well on his way to San Francisco in his rented Ford Focus. Radio off and windows down, he smoked cigarette after cigarette. He kept thinking about that woman last night. What a bitch. Some people just scream bitch as soon as they open their mouths. She was one of them. Shit, she was all of them. His hangover wasn’t helping his mood. He was hungry and tired, but if he didn’t get to the city soon, Richard would be all over his ass. He glanced at his cell phone plugged into the car charger. There was no blinking light informing him he had a message. He promised himself he would call that old son of a bitch as soon as he got to San Francisco. Until then, he’d leave the ringer off.
Tremblay clutched his jacket pocket. A wave of dread rushed through him. For a moment, he thought he’d forgotten his blow back at the hotel. He felt around in his pocket until he was sure he’d located the small plastic baggie. Relieved, he decided it was time for a short blast to help keep him driving. Numb that headache a little. He pulled off the highway and into a Starbucks Coffee. Cocaine and caffeine: the breakfast of champions.
***
Carl stood with his cell in his hand in the Holiday Inn Express lobby, waiting to be connected to Bill Panzer at the SFPD. Peters stood beside him, anxious as a pup. Bill came on the line and extended his late condolences for Carl’s wife. Carl got right to the point and asked what he knew about Tremblay.
“Maurice Tremblay? The French Connection?”
“Excuse me?”
“The French Connection. That’s what we used to call him. He started in ninety-five or so and got in with narcotics. Fuck was dirty from the get-go. Most guys it takes a while before temptation wins ’em over. Not Tremblay. He came in with an agenda. Up to his armpits in shit within a year.”
“What happened with him?”
“You don’t remember? Shit, it musta been two thousand and two. His bullshit hit the fan big time. Big busts, dope disappearing. It was all over the papers. You get the news up there, don’t you, Carl?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“He got twisted up with some of our more greedy civic leaders. Turns out ol’ Maurice had some mafia-type connections. The papers only covered the missing evidence angle, but he was suspected to be involved in some more shit. A city supervisor from the Sunset District went missing, a CEO from some big-money computer company turned up dead. The guy is bad news. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned up dead himself. Why you asking about Tremblay?”
“I guess he’s what you’d call a person of interest in a homicide that occurred yesterday up here in Calistoga. You’re ratcheting up the interest right now.”
“You caught the case, Carl? I thought you were retired.”
“I am. I’m helping out a friend. What else you know about this guy?”
“Well, SFPD dumped his sorry ass back in oh-four. He’d been fighting that shit for a couple years. He’s lucky he didn’t end up in jail. What happened to him after that, I don’t know. You want me to ask around?”
“I’d appreciate that, Bill. Call me at this number if you hear anything worth repeating. Say hello to the missus for me.”
When Carl hung up, Peters was looking at him excited. “What’d he say? He know him?”
“Yeah, he knows him. Or knew of him. And you shouldn’t have let him slip through your fingers.”
“He said that?”
“No, I’m saying it. We best be thinking on how we’re going to find this man.”
Chapter Six
The new car was a drab late-model Nissan Sentra. Quinn unlocked the doors with the key fob as they approached. “What’d ya think?”
“What happened to the BMW?”
“I thought it was making you uncomfortable, so I dumped it. This one’s a little more anonymous anyway.”
They climbed in, Quinn in the driver’s seat and Steven on the passenger side. The car wasn’t clean this time. Garbage on the floor, CDs stuffed in the door pockets, and a layer of dust over everything. As Steven buckled his seatbelt, he noticed flecks of dark red in a fine pattern across the dash.
“Is that blood?”
“If it is, then I’m suggesting that it’s not nice manners to ask.”
Steven looked at Quinn to see if he was joking. There was that perfect white smile again.
“You know what? I think I’m going to be able to find my friend on my own. I’m pretty sure I know where to start. Maybe I should just cut from here and head out.”
Quinn said, “Don’t worry, no one’s gonna be reporting this one as missing.”
“Stolen,” Steven said.
“Whatever.” Quinn turned over the engine, buckled his own belt, and pulled out of the parking lot.
“Where are we going?”
“You got any actual leads on how to find your friends?” asked Quinn.
“I just woke up; I haven’t had time to think about it yet.”
“No? Well, we’ll work on my thing then. There’s a guy that lives in the Lower Haight that might know who Teresa is shacked up with. Page Street, I think. I’ll know it when I see it.”
“Teresa. That’s her name?”
“Yeah, didn’t I mention it?”
“No, you didn’t.” Steven l
ooked out the window as they scaled Gough Street up out of the Marina District. “Nice name.”
“I didn’t choose it.”
They drove in silence with Quinn keeping beat on the steering wheel to some unheard music while he listened to a local news broadcast. Steven asked if he could smoke and Quinn said, “Sure, just put the butt right there.” He pointed to a half-full beer can in the drink caddy.
The Lower Haight looked vaguely familiar to Steven. He wondered if this was the neighborhood his friend lived in. He kept his eyes peeled just in case.
Quinn found the house, then spent a few more minutes trying to find a parking spot. Getting frustrated, he pulled the Nissan into a driveway a couple of doors down from the house he’d pointed out as his friend’s.
“You might as well come along on this one. Might be fun, who knows?”
Steven wasn’t sure what that meant.
The two of them walked up to a three-story Victorian. It was painted asparagus green with a darker green on the trim. It looked nice, expensive.
“Is this his house?” Steven looked up at the tall building, impressed.
“Fuck, no. He rents a flat inside. This guy can’t afford to own shit. Who knows how many apartments are in here.”
A beautiful doorway was blocked by a wrought iron gate. There was a chrome box with four buttons by the right side. Quinn ran his finger down the names slotted beside each button. “What’d you know? It’s Joe-Joe.” He pressed the third button.
An intercom speaker crackled. “Hello?” The voice was infused with static.
Quinn pressed the buzzer again. The voice came back. “Hello?”
Quinn pressed the button three more times. When the voice came back this time, Quinn said, “UPS.”
After a few moments, the heavy front door opened and a shirtless olive-skinned man appeared behind the gate. “What the fuck?”
“Aren’t you going to invite us in, Joey?”
