The Twenty-Year Death

by Ariel S. Winter

  A second man appeared, rail thin and well over six feet tall, wearing a gray suit with a black vest underneath. He patted me down to see if I had a gun. I didn’t. He took the newspaper article I’d stolen from the library out of my pocket. Then he nodded at Mitch.

  The weight fell away from the door and I staggered forward. “What do you two want?”

  The tall man unfolded the newspaper article, glanced it over, and looked back at me. “For somebody not working on a murder, you have an interesting choice of reading material.”

  “I just ripped that out for the crossword on the back.”

  He held up the backside, which wasn’t a crossword. “We were told to give you a chance. We were told to use our discretion.”

  “I told it to Gilplaine straight. I’m working another job.”

  “Then how do you explain this?”

  I couldn’t explain it. I couldn’t even say why it was important. I didn’t know anything other than I was a damn fool for having gotten mixed up with this business in the first place.

  “Mr. Gilplaine finds your explanation unconvincing,” the tall man said. He turned to Mitch, who was jumping lightly in place on the balls of his feet, like he was warming up. “Leave his face alone. This is only a warning.”

  I tried to dodge to my left in an attempt to get out the door, but Mitch barreled into me, slamming me back up against it. Holding me there, he punched me in the kidney. One would have been plenty, but he did it again and then a third time, so that my legs went watery and tears pushed out between my squinting eyelids. A fire lapped around my midsection. He let me go since he was sure I wasn’t going anywhere now. Before I could collapse, he propped me up and punched me just once in the stomach. I doubled over, throwing my upper torso into Mitch’s waiting fist. The dull ache of my pectoral met up with the fire in my side, and I fell back against the door, trying to draw breath and failing.

  Mitch stood up, his breathing only slightly heavy. “He doesn’t look too good, does he?”

  The tall man made no comment. We could have been reading the stock prices. He was bored.

  Mitch jumped in place again. “I think I better even him out.” He twisted his torso, bringing his arm all the way back. He was going to show me that fist long before it was going to get to me. I couldn’t move anyway, and he barreled it into my other kidney. I fell forward onto my knees.

  “He’s blocking the door.”

  “You’re in the way,” Mitch said. He shoved me over with the toe of one shoe. I didn’t resist. I couldn’t have if I’d tried.

  “I think we’ve made our point,” the tall man said.

  Mitch kicked me in the stomach once more for good measure. Before I could catch my breath, he bent down and snaked a thick arm around my windpipe, his hot breath up against my ear. “Just because I’m not supposed to mark up your face don’t mean I’ve got to leave you conscious, you flatfooted...”

  Whatever it was that he called me was lost to the ages. There were more interesting things to command my attention, black splotches appearing before my eyes intermixed with white flashes, and then the black beat out the white and then I was drifting above the floor, high up near the ceiling, and then I wasn’t.

  The black-and-white flicker of a movie screen came on in front of me, the test strip counting down five, four, three, two, one. Chloë Rose lit up the screen, a radiant aura around her. There were quick cuts and there was a knife and there was a gun, and then there was a body floating on a pool of blood. Chloë Rose came back again, and she was screaming. She was beautiful. Then there was a man seen from behind. It must have been the star of the picture. John Stark or Hub Gilplaine. He came to a mirror and I saw that it was me. But I’m down there with the paying marks in the cinema seats. How could I be up on the screen? The image flickered past. There was a lanky brunette stuffing a body into a car. There was another body floating in a pool of blood, but this time the blood was mixed with white foam. It was on the beach, and the waves were lapping away at the black blood, white, black, white, black, a gaping throat. A gunshot. And they’re off. The horses pounded around the track. Cut to the stands. Chloë Rose. The horses rounding the far turn. Cut to the stands. Mitch and the tall man and me holding our tickets. The horses are coming around. Cut to the stands. John Stark holding hands with Greg Taylor. The photoflash! It hurts my eyes. And then the horse race was a prize fight and Mitch was in the ring with me and the bell was being rung...

  And then suddenly it was a telephone ringing.

  A voice said, “Turn off the lights.”

  I took a deep breath and immediately started coughing. Every part of my upper torso ached, except when I moved, at which point the ache was replaced with shooting pain.

  “It’s too bright,” the voice said. “Turn off the light and bring me a drink.”

  No one answered, and it’s a good thing, because I was alone.

  I looked over at the phone, but it had stopped ringing. If it ever had been ringing. Maybe it had just been my head.

  I put my hand against the wall. It was a good wall. It stayed where you left it. Not like my breath. I gasped to draw it in, my throat getting tight, but in it went, and I exhaled with the only consequence being more throbbing and jabbing along my ribs.

  The wall helped me to my knees and even held me when I fell against it. Like I said, it was a good wall. I was able to reach up and flip off the light.

  Now it was too dark. Whatever little light was supposed to come from the window in the bathroom wasn’t there, so I’d been out at least a couple of hours.

  Okey, Foster, one step at a time. That’s the way. Hands and knees. Now just knees. What do you say about feet?

  One foot was under me now, and then with the help of the doorknob I got up onto both feet and stumbled across to my chair and fell into it. The newspaper article was sitting on the bed. That was nice of them. They were solid people who wouldn’t steal a newspaper clipping from an unconscious man. The library should hire those two. They’d never have any late returns again.

  I rested for some amount of time, re-learning how to breathe. I got so I was pretty good at it. I could even do it with my eyes closed. When I had gotten that under my belt, I figured I might as well try for that drink. I got to my feet, and this time it wasn’t like riding a bicycle with a bent wheel. I made it to the liquor, poured a stiff drink, and drank it off in one gulp, enjoying the only burning inside of me that I had put there. While I poured another one, the phone began to ring again. Or maybe it was the first time. I looked at it way over on the side table. It was probably Pauly Fisher. Anything he had to tell me, I didn’t want to know just then; he could call me at the office tomorrow.

  I made my way back to the light switch with the second drink in my hand, the phone still ringing. The lights came on and I squinted, holding up my hand as if to ward off a blow.

  I drank the second drink. I could see then. The clock on my nightstand said it was almost half past eight. It had been just about five when I’d left the library. I’d been out for three hours, assuming it wasn’t the next day.

  The phone was still hollering at anyone who would listen. Pauly Fisher wasn’t that persistent, but I didn’t want to find out who was. It was still plenty early for Market Street—in fact, it might still have been too early. But it was time to go either way. Because that was my job. All of this other stuff was just a sideline, a hobby.

  I looked at the newspaper article again. Gilplaine had done me a favor in his own vicious way. He’d told me this dead woman was much more important than I’d known. That seemed like a mistake a man like Gilplaine wouldn’t make. Maybe someday I’d know why.

  I thought about a third drink, but left my glass on the table and went to the door instead. I got it open without any problem. No one was waiting outside. It was just me and the hallway. They seemed pretty confident I’d gotten the message. I’d gotten it, but it might not have been the message they intended.

  I locked up behind me and leaned agains
t the wall. Behind my door the telephone was still ringing. That was an awfully long time to let a phone ring. Maybe it was important after all.

  But getting out of there was important too. Whoever it was could call back.

  I went down the hall, took the automatic elevator, and found my car just like a man who had all of his organs in the right place.

  NINETEEN

  Market Street in Harbor City meant Market Street between Fifth and Sixth, a rundown block of seedy bars that had been glamorous at some time but no one could remember when. Among the fairies it was known simply as The Market. If you were a pretty boy on the prowl, The Market would be one of the first places you would go. In its heyday, neon signs and flashing lights had gone up all along the length of the block, and the signs had survived the block’s decline, making for a rather bright underworld now. All the light didn’t make it look any better than the rest of the neighborhood. It just made it easier to see how shabby everything was.

  I parked three blocks away on Second Street, where the storefronts were mostly covered with yellowing newsprint or plywood. As I walked up Market, the stores began to look like they had some daytime trade, even if there were bars on most of the windows. One doorway was being used as a bedroom by a man wearing paint-spattered overalls and no shirt. He was laid out on a cardboard mat he’d made by cutting open a batch of fruit cartons, and he slept like a corpse at a wake.

  The Blacklight was on the corner of Market and Fifth. To distinguish itself from its competitors, the front was completely dark. No neon. No lights. The windows had been painted over black. The only sign was an unlit naked light bulb over the door. This unassuming front, coupled with its location at the end of the block, helped make the Blacklight the favorite of S.A. queens who wanted to go slumming but be discreet about it.

  Inside, the lighting wasn’t much better. After passing through a second door, I found myself at one end of a fifteen-foot bar, which ran along the close wall all the way to the back. The bar top was painted red but had been scuffed to white in some places. A padded black leather armrest lined the side of the bar where the drinkers sat. On the bartender’s side there was a door with a brightly lit square posing as a diamond that must have let into the kitchen. Next to an out-of-order phone, another door led to the toilets. They were still marked ‘M’ and ‘F.’ On the opposite wall was a row of booths with black leather cushions, some of which were intact, some of which had been repaired with tire patches, and some of which had bits of their yellow stuffing spilling out. A narrow row of two-top tables divided the bar from the booths. There were maybe a dozen patrons spread out across the room. I sat down at the closest stool.

  The bartender came over with his arms crossed over his apron. They were big arms and tattooed, and they went with the rest of his physique. He looked like a boxer who no longer fought in the ring but stayed in shape because it was all he knew how to do. They come in all sizes, I guessed, but maybe he wasn’t like that and just worked there. Maybe he had been here from before it turned into a queer joint. Maybe he couldn’t stand his job but it was a job and who could argue with that? Right now his brow was pulled into an angry V. He hated somebody.

  I put a five-dollar bill on the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. His look grew nastier, but he made the drink and set it on a paper napkin in front of me with a scowl. He didn’t touch the five-dollar bill. He watched me sip my drink. Then he said, “We’re paid up for the month.”

  “I’m not a cop,” I said.

  “You sure look like a cop. And we’re all paid.”

  “I’m not a cop,” I said again, and took another sip of my gin and tonic. Just a sip, because I didn’t know how many drinks I was going to have to order in how many bars before I got something. “I’m looking for Greg Taylor. Does he come in here?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” the man said, his arms crossed again. There was a nervous quiet among the other patrons, but I didn’t look to see if they were watching.

  “Would you know the names of any of your regulars?”

  “No. I’m not too good with names.”

  I leaned in, pressing myself against the bar, ignoring the complaint from my bruised ribs. “Look, I’m not a cop, I’m a private detective. The man’s family is worried about him. I’m just trying to find where he is and if he’s okey.”

  “I don’t know any Greg Taylor.”

  “I thought you weren’t good with names. You remembered that one all right.”

  He didn’t have an answer to that other than to shift his weight from one foot to the other.

  “Look, I’m not trying to stir up any trouble. My client doesn’t want that either. Could you just give me a yes or a no if he comes in here? He’s a pretty man, about my height, tan skin, light hair, small, feminine features, couldn’t weigh more than one-thirty, probably less.”

  His face grew even emptier. “I don’t know,” he said pointedly, giving each word its own time in the spotlight.

  I did look around at the other patrons then. Greg Taylor wasn’t among them. No one appeared to be giving our conversation too much attention. Just a group of men enjoying their beer. To anyone who didn’t know better it looked like a regular crowd of steady drinkers. I brought my eyes back to the bartender, but I said in a louder voice, “If you hear anything about Greg Taylor, you let me know.”

  I left the rest of my drink when I got up and put my card on the five-dollar bill. The money hadn’t bought anything but you never knew when a five was going to be remembered at the right time. I glanced over the patrons again, but no one seemed to have reacted to my announcement. “Don’t think too hard,” I said.

  “Don’t come back,” the bartender said.

  “You must get a lot of repeat business talking that way,” I said. He didn’t care to respond. I went out through both of the doors and back into the glare of the street.

  There was a group of three streetwalkers on the opposite corner now. I crossed and they saw me coming and started in with their propositions until they got a good look at me and turned away as though they were waiting for a bus. They all looked young, no more than twenty-five but probably younger. One of them was dressed in women’s clothing, a long, slinky kimono wrap with matching slippers that weren’t meant for wearing out of the house. His makeup made it almost hard to tell he wasn’t a she, but only almost. The other two wore suit pants that were too tight on their already thin frames and untucked white shirts with the top three buttons left open and shoes that needed polishing. One had sunken cheeks and pallid skin with a slight sheen to it in the streetlight. I made him for a junky. None of them had hats.

  “Can I buy anyone a drink?” I said. All three heads turned studiously away from me, doing what they could to catch the shadows from the next block. “I just have a few questions. The people on the block don’t seem very friendly.”

  “We got nothing to say to you, copper,” the he-she said, still with his head turned.

  “I’m not a cop,” I said. I was starting to wonder if I was, I had to say it so much. “I’m just looking for someone who I was told comes down here. For his folks.”

  The he-she turned then. “Peeper, huh?” he said. There was a reedy lilt to his voice and a softness around the edges, but it wasn’t fooling anyone. “We’ve got nothing to say to peepers either. Unless you’re looking for a good time.”

  I ignored that, took out my wallet and brought out another five. I held it where they could see it. “All I’m looking for is the whereabouts of a particular person. Easy money.” I waited, but none of them made a move for the money. The two dressed in regular clothes shifted on their feet and looked up and down the block. They couldn’t talk. Most of their customers had a wife and kids and a whole ordinary life in the city. The boys who worked in The Market were partially paid for confidentiality. I put the money away, and said, “Fine.” I started to turn around, and one of them spoke.

  “What’s the name?” It was an unsteady voice. It came from the junky. His companions
eyed him with upper lips curled in disgust.

  I turned back and watched them as I said, “Greg Taylor.” There was no flash of recognition. Just the same shiftiness. I was making them nervous. “Fine,” I said again and went across the street and into the bar next to the Blacklight, a place called Jillian’s. Stark had mentioned only the Blacklight and Choices by name, but that was because those were the bars that someone of his caliber might know about. I had a feeling that Taylor was just as likely to be known at any of the places along the block.

  Jillian’s was no different than the Blacklight. The tables were up front and the bar was in back and the lighting was better and there was a small platform in one corner with a drum kit, a standup base, and a trumpet beside a stool, but it was the same anyway. The same eyes looked at me. The same eyes made sure to look away. The bartender gave me the same business. I looked around, but nobody dared a second glance in my direction. As I watched, three Negroes came out from the back and went to the stage, resuming their positions at the instruments. The trumpet player counted a beat with his foot, and they all started together, a fast number that the patrons shouted over to be heard. The band didn’t need the audience; they were making music. I left another five. No Greg Taylor. No anything. I didn’t even touch my drink.

  I went outside. It was getting later and there were more men on the street now. Different music could be heard coming from a few of the joints, clashing in the night. A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying the briny smell of the Pacific from only a block away, but it didn’t make the night any cooler. As people passed me they hardly noticed I was there. They didn’t like my look and I didn’t like theirs. Only two of the whores were standing on their corner. I was probably wasting my time out there, but I didn’t have a better idea, and the thought of going home to lick my wounds made me feel sorry for myself, and I didn’t like feeling sorry for myself.

  At the third bar, after going through the same routine with a blond-haired bartender wearing a too-tight shirt, my eyes caught on a face as I made my quick survey of the place. It was the junky from outside. He drew a few knowing glances from some of the men at the tables but he kept his eyes on the back of the bar, heading for the toilets. As I watched him, his eyes flicked at me and then away just for a moment. He went into the bathroom. I nursed my gin and tonic. The bartender had gone to the other end of the bar, finished with me. After ten minutes the junky still hadn’t come out of the bathroom. I pushed off of the bar and went to the front door. If the junky wanted to find me, he would find me once he had worked up his nerve. For all I knew, he was just getting high.