by Jude Hardin
Brenda finally clicked off.
“If you’ll have a seat, someone will be out to speak with you shortly.”
I didn’t need to speak with someone. I needed to speak with Thelma Watson.
But I decided not to get into it with the clerk. Angry sweaty people were waiting, and I’d taken up a lot of her time. I went back and sat down on one of the plastic chairs against the wall, trying to ignore the stares I was getting.
Twenty more minutes ticked by, and then another ten. I was about to give up when a woman in her late twenties or early thirties walked out from a door marked PRIVATE. She didn’t look like she was supposed to work there. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and a pair of sneakers that had seen better days. Frizzy brown hair, no makeup, no jewelry.
“I’m Thelma Watson,” she said. “You wanted to talk to me?”
I stood and shook her hand. “Cam Retro. I’m a private investigator, and I was hired to find a woman named Anna Parks. I understand she was a friend of yours.”
“Let’s step outside for a minute.”
I followed her through a swinging glass door that led out to the sidewalk. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, offered me one.
“I quit a few years ago,” I said.
“Good for you.”
She tapped one of the cigarettes out, held it to her lips, lit it with a disposable butane lighter.
I pulled out my notepad. “Could I get your current phone number in case I need to contact you again?” I said.
“Sure.”
She gave me the number. I wrote it down.
“How well do you know Anna?” I said.
“Pretty well. We hang out sometimes. What’s going on?”
“I got a call from her father a while ago. He hasn’t been able to get in touch with her for a few days.”
“A few days? From what I understand, he goes months without getting in touch with her. I think he still sends her a birthday card and a Christmas card, but that’s about it.”
“When was the last time you talked to Anna?” I said.
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“Did she mention anything to you about quitting her job and moving out of her apartment?”
“She moved?”
“That’s what her father said. He’d gotten a message from a man named Kei Thrasher, and it prompted him to start checking some things out.”
“Anna never said anything to me about moving,” Thelma said. “Or quitting her job.”
“Were you familiar with this Thrasher guy?”
“Never heard of him. Anna was engaged for a while, but she ended up breaking it off. That was about a year ago, I think.”
“Any idea why she broke it off?”
“Guy was an asshole. I don’t think he ever hit her or anything. I don’t know. He might have. But I know that he was verbally abusive, especially when he drank too much. Which was practically every day, according to Anna.”
“Do you remember his name?” I said.
“Sure. Lambert Tillwater. Everyone calls him Tilly. Hangs out at Dragster Red’s over on Eighth Street.”
“Where did you and Anna hang out?”
“Usually at her place, or my place. Sometimes we went out, but not very often. It was nice to just sit at home and talk and have a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. We’re pretty good friends. I’m worried about her. Something must be wrong. She wouldn’t have just taken off like that without at least calling me first. I don’t think she would have.”
“It does seem strange that she left her job and her residence so abruptly,” I said. “But she did send her supervisor at work a letter of resignation, and her dad said that she’d sent the property managers at her apartment complex a letter as well. So I’m trying to stay optimistic. I’m planning to talk to them later today or first thing tomorrow. The property managers, that is. I already talked to the manager at the deli.”
Thelma dropped her cigarette on the sidewalk, stepped on it with the toe of her sneaker, bent down and picked up the butt and slid it into the back pocket of her jeans.
“I need to get back to work,” she said.
“What kind of work do you do here?”
“I’m in the IT department. We maintain the computer systems.”
I handed her a business card.
“Give me a call if you hear from Anna,” I said. “Or if you think of anything else that might be pertinent to the investigation.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. I hope you find her.”
Thelma used the same door we’d exited from to walk back inside.
I walked back out to my car and headed toward Eighth Street.
6
Dragster Red’s was a wooden shack situated in the middle of a gravel parking lot on the corner of Eighth and Cedar. Metal roof, neon beer signs in the windows. According to the portable marquis, I was just in time for happy hour. I parked between two pickup trucks, climbed out and walked inside.
The interior of the place wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. There was a long wooden bar on one side and some tables with candles on the other. Framed pictures on the walls—souped-up cars and smoking tires and winners holding trophies. Three guys were setting up some band equipment on a small stage at the far end of the room. The row of tables to their right was interrupted by an archway that led to a separate area. I could hear a jukebox playing over there. It wasn’t very loud, but the bass was cutting through and competing with the basketball commentary coming from the TV mounted over the liquor bottles.
I took a seat at the bar. A guy with a long red beard and a yellow ball cap came over a few seconds later and asked if he could help me.
“You must be Dragster Red,” I said.
“How did you guess?”
“Are you familiar with a man named Lambert Tillwater?”
He shrugged. “Who wants to know?” he said.
I slid him a business card. He picked it up, held it at arm’s length and looked at it.
“I’m looking for a woman named Anna Parks,” I said. “She’s been missing for a few days.”
“This is you?” he said, still squinting at the card. “Camden A. Retro?”
“Yes. Anna’s father hired me to find her. I’m just checking with some of her acquaintances to see if they might have any information regarding her whereabouts.”
“She used to come in here sometimes. She would sit at the bar and order some kind of crazy cocktail, a mai-tai or something, and I would bring her a plain shot of vodka—which was what she really wanted anyway. It was kind of like our own private little joke.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“A few months ago, I guess. She got kind of wild one night. Haven’t seen her around since then.”
“What do you mean by kind of wild?” I said.
“Fighting. Screaming. Throwing stuff.”
“Was she fighting with Lambert Tillwater?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Has Tillwater been in here lately? Has he talked to you about Anna Parks?”
“I don’t pay any attention to all that stuff. I try not to get involved in anyone’s personal business. Know what I mean?”
I had a feeling that Dragster Red knew more than he was willing to say. Which was understandable. He had a business to run. He couldn’t afford to alienate his clientele, especially regulars who might have an influence on other regulars. I knew I couldn’t force him to talk, but I thought I might be able to throw a little apprehension his way.
“The police are probably going to come in here eventually,” I said. “They’ll be asking some of the same questions I’m asking. They’ll be hanging around trying to talk to your customers, making their presence known with patrol cars in the parking lot. Flashing blue lights and all that. It would be a lot easier on everyone if we could resolve this issue before any of that happens.”
“I don’t want any trouble here
at my place,” he said.
“I don’t want any trouble either. I’m not looking for any.”
He slid the business card into his back pocket.
“You want something to drink?” he said.
“I want to speak with Lambert Tillwater.”
“This is a bar. People usually order drinks in bars.”
“Whatever you have on draft,” I said.
He pulled a mug from a stainless steel freezer, filled it from the tap and set it in front of me.
“We have some pool tables in the other room,” he said. “If you’re interested.”
I nodded. I got the hint. I paid him and followed the sound of billiard balls clacking on the other side of the archway. It was a lot warmer over there. A ceiling fan whirred overhead, but it wasn’t helping much.
I could tell right away that Dragster Red’s wasn’t the kind of place where serious pool players came. There were two tables, both seven feet long, coin-operated. Worn felt, saggy rails. One of the tables was vacant, the other occupied by two guys playing a game of eight ball. They were both around thirty, one with a shaved head and lots of tattoos and the other with long black hair and a white bandana. The one with hair had a cigarette dangling from his lips. He leaned over to take his next shot. He missed. The bald guy chalked his cue and assessed the layout of the balls.
“Can I have winner?” I said.
The two guys looked at each other. The bald one shrugged, and then the one with long hair said, “Whatever, man.”
I placed two quarters on the rail over the pay slot, sat on a stool and watched until they finished the game. Neither of them was very good. The guy with hair won. The bald guy handed him a five dollar bill, picked up two empty mugs from one of the bistro tables against the wall and headed toward the bar. I figured he was going for refills.
“Five dollars and the next round?” I said. “Is that the bet?”
“Want to make it ten?”
“I don’t want to take your money, Lambert. How about we just play for fun?”
“How did you know my name?”
The truth was, I hadn’t known it was him. I’d been guessing. I’d never seen a photograph of Lambert Tillwater, and I hadn’t thought to ask Thelma Watson for a description. I’d been guessing, but I figured it was one of the two guys back there playing pool, and the bald guy didn’t seem like Anna’s type. He didn’t seem like anybody’s type.
“I’m looking for Anna Parks,” I said. “Seen her around?”
He tightened his grip on his cue stick.
“Who are you?” he said.
“Cam Retro. I’m a private investigator.”
“Why are you here?”
“You and Anna were engaged to be married, and then she broke it off. The reason behind her decision to—”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“How I know what I know is irrelevant. I just want to find Anna and make sure she’s okay.”
“Haven’t seen her. Haven’t talked to her, haven’t heard anything, can’t help you.”
I stood there for a few seconds trying to assess his state of mind. He was projecting the kind of arrogant attitude that some people acquire after consuming too much alcohol. Thelma was right. He was an asshole. Maybe he had something to do with Anna’s disappearance. Maybe not. Probably not. But if it turned out that Anna Parks had been harmed in any way, Lambert Tillwater was going to be first on the list of suspects. He probably knew that, probably didn’t need me to tell him.
But I did anyway.
“From what I understand, your relationship with Anna Parks was fairly tumultuous at times,” I said. “I’m sure the sheriff’s department will take that into account if anything bad has happened to Anna.”
He walked over to the table where the beer mugs had been, picked up a pack of cigarettes, tapped one out and lit it.
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” he said.
“I thought we were going to shoot a game of eight ball.”
“You thought wrong.”
I walked over to the pool table and picked up my quarters, replaced them with one of my new business cards.
“Give me a call when you feel like talking,” I said.
He didn’t say anything. The bald guy walked in carrying two frosty mugs, vapors rising from the chilled glass and beer foam oozing over the sides.
“What’s going on?” the bald guy said.
Tillwater still didn’t say anything. He was smoking his cigarette, glaring at me, trying his best to look tough and intimidating.
“You guys go ahead and play,” I said.
I picked up my mug and started walking toward the archway. Before I made it to the opening, Tillwater stood and lowered his cue stick in front of me, blocking my path like a barrier arm in a parking garage.
“It’s probably best if you don’t come in here anymore,” he said.
“It’s probably best if you get that stick out of my way,” I said.
“Or what?”
In one swift motion I dropped my beer mug and grabbed the cue stick with both hands and twisted it away from him and jabbed him in the lower right side of his chest with the butt end of it and whizzed it across the room. He grunted and staggered back to the wall, clutching the area where I’d hit him. He was going to have a bad bruise there. He was going to be sore for a few days, but I was pretty sure I hadn’t cracked any ribs.
The bald guy wrapped his enormous fingers around one of the pool balls from the table and started walking toward me. It was the solid yellow ball. The one ball. I had a pretty good idea what he had in mind. He was going to bust my head open with that ball. That’s what he thought he was going to do, until I lifted my shirttails and pulled my revolver from its holster and pointed it at his face.
He stared into the .38 caliber barrel, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender and backed away.
Tillwater was still leaning against the wall holding his chest.
“This ain’t over,” he said.
I slid my gun back into its holster.
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s not over. But you’re going to wish it was.”
I walked through the archway and past the stage and the bar and the tables with candles and exited through the front door.
7
My first day on the job, and I’d already gotten into a physical altercation.
Seemed like old times.
At least Lambert Tillwater had gotten the worst of it. For now, anyway. When you jab someone in the ribs with a cue stick, you have to expect some sort of retaliation somewhere down the line. I’d bruised his body and his ego. He wasn’t going to just forget about it. Maybe I could have handled the situation better, but he shouldn’t have messed with me while I was trying to leave. He shouldn’t have lowered the stick down in front of me like that. It was an aggressive move, and he paid the price for it.
And if he decided to come back for more, I would give him more. Might as well establish a reputation right off the bat. The sooner the better with guys like Tillwater.
I stopped at my office and typed some notes into the computer, and then I drove over to Rita’s Wholesome Foods to pick up a few things for dinner. When I walked past the pet supply aisle, it reminded me of the tab I’d torn off at the print shop, the one from the corkboard with the phone number for free kittens. I looked around for a few minutes, and then I loaded a bag of dry cat food into my basket and a scratching post and a squeaky mouse and a litter box and some litter and a food bowl and a water bowl.
Rita had a few part-time employees, but tonight she was working the checkout counter herself.
“How you doing, Cam?”
“Good. How about you?”
“All right. You have a cat now?”
“I’m thinking about getting one,” I said. “I thought it might be best to get used to some of the things that’ll go along with it first.”
She laughed. “At least you’ll be ready if and when you do decide
to get one.”
I showed her the paper with the phone number on it.
“What do you think?” I said. “Should I go for it?”
“Sure. Why not? As long as you’re not allergic or anything.”
I pulled out my cell phone, tapped and scrolled until I found one of the pictures Everett Parks had sent.
“This woman ever come into the store?” I said.
“I don’t think so. No, she doesn’t look familiar. Who is she?”
“Her name’s Anna Parks. She’s been missing for a few days. Give me a call if you happen to see her.”
“You finally have a client?”
“Yeah. Her father called me earlier this afternoon. From Oregon.”
“That’s a long way from here.”
“It is.”
I paid for my stuff, told Rita I would let her know about the cat situation next time I was in the store.
It was after eight o’clock by the time I got home. The automatic flood lamp switched on as I pulled into the driveway. I climbed out and carried my things inside and turned on some lights and poured myself a glass of bourbon.
I thought about calling the free kitten number. But I didn’t. I still hadn’t made up my mind yet. Instead, I opened my laptop and ran some background checks on Kei Thrasher, the man who’d called Anna’s father about her disappearance.
Thrasher’s current address turned out to be a storage facility, and his current place of employment turned out to be a barbecue place I’d been to a couple of times. He had problems. Apparently he’d been a doctor, but had lost his license to practice medicine a few years ago. I found a newspaper article about it. His involvement with a pain clinic had gotten him into all kinds of trouble. Divorce. Bankruptcy. Criminal record. I wondered if Anna had known about any of that when she agreed to go out with the guy. One date, according to Jan Kennington, the manager at the supermarket deli. I wondered if Anna had done a background check of her own. Maybe she’d gotten scared. Maybe that was why she’d left her job and her apartment so abruptly. Maybe she was hiding from the guy.
