The Rose Clown was in full costume and makeup when I saw him on the Square working his magic on anyone who cared to watch and listen. Nate was tall, lanky, dark, and bald. One wouldn’t recognize him when looking at the clown in a baggy outfit, white curly wig, green painted face, and big red nose.
He acknowledged my presence with a half-hearted nod. I dropped a few dollar bills into his bucket that was sparsely filled with mostly dimes and quarters. He finished a terrible rendition of a rap song before giving me a moment of his time.
“They love you, Nate,” I told him encouragingly, “even if your singing stinks.”
“It’s all in the ears of the beholder,” he said, smiling and showing off a gold front crown. Then he looked into his nearly empty bucket and seemed to do an about face. “Guess I could use some work on my chords.”
Guiltily I dug into my pocket and came out with a couple more dollars, dropping them into the bucket. “Maybe this will help—”
He wet his full lips. “Thanks, D.J. Times are tough these days.”
“For all of us,” I said with a sneer.
He peered at me suspiciously. “So what brings you my way?” He chose to answer his own question, fluttering his false lashes. “You probably missed seeing my pretty face!”
“Don’t believe that for a minute,” I said firmly. “I’m not into clowns, pretty or not.” It had been about six weeks since I’d come his way. If there was anyone who could find out where Jessie Wylson was holed up, it was Nate and his seemingly endless network of street contacts.
I removed the photo of The Worm from my pocket and laid it on Nate’s palm. “Know him?”
He studied the picture as if it held the secret of the universe. “Should I?”
“His name is Jessie Wylson. They call him The Worm.”
“Ugly dude,” commented Nate bluntly, his brow furrowed.
For once we agreed on something. Nate was still staring at the photo when he asked: “Why you looking for the man?”
I decided to be straight with him. “He’s wanted by the D.A.’s office for drug trafficking, among other things.”
Nate scratched his fake nose, then sniffed like it was clogged with a white powdered substance. “So why come to me?” he asked, as if he hadn’t a clue.
“I need to find him.” My mouth became a straight line. “And I need your help—”
Nate’s eyes popped wide. “Don’t know the man. Don’t want to know him, ‘specially if he’s got the D.A. on his ass. Sorry.” He handed me the photo as if glad to be rid of it.
I had a feeling he was holding back on me, but didn’t press it—yet. “Ask around anyway,” I insisted. “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“Can’t make no promises,” he hedged. “But I’ll give it my best shot—for you.”
“I’ll check back with you in a couple of days.”
“That soon?” He rolled his eyes. “What do I look like, a miracle worker?”
Gazing at the Rose Clown, that wasn’t exactly the first thing to come to mind. I told him: “The sooner you give me what I want, the sooner I’ll leave you alone—for a while.”
Nate went back to what he arguably did best and I headed to my favorite nightclub, satisfied that I had at least put the wheels in motion to find the man known as The Worm.
CHAPTER TWO
Jasmine’s was located right on the Willamette River. The jazz supper club was owned and operated by Gus Taylor, Vietnam vet, friend, and, at fifty-one, the ninth wonder of the world. I liked to think of him as the black version of John Goodman or Dom Deluise. He hovered somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds on six feet, three inches of flab. His salt and pepper beard was thick, as were his brows over large brown eyes. He was shiny bald like Mr. Clean.
Jasmine’s had the best jazz in town. Gus had named it after his late wife who was his pride and joy. I couldn’t remember a time dating back to my days as a rookie officer when I didn’t come to the club and leave feeling genuinely uplifted. Tonight was well on its way to following suit. The featured singer looked like a young Diana Ross, but had a voice that sounded much more like Billie Holiday than Ross ever did in “Lady Sings the Blues.”
“What’s shakin’, D.J.?” The boisterous voice was none other than Gus himself, who often doubled as bartender, waiter, janitor, and security guard.
“She is!” I declared from my stool, while my eyes remained riveted on the singer who called herself Star Quality.
“Don’t even think about it,” Gus warned me. “She’s too hot for even you to handle.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” I said, finishing off my beer.
“How ‘bout another?”
“Why not?”
Gus filled two mugs. “Why don’t you come and work for me, D.J.?” he said as if he really meant it.
I raised a brow. “You mean you want me to sing?”
“Not if I wanna stay in business,” he quipped. “I was thinking more along the lines of security.”
I looked at him like he was half crazy, though I suspected he was dead serious. “Thanks, but no thanks, Gus. I’m afraid I’m not cut out to break up bar brawls.”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” he said. “You hang out here almost as much as I do. Why not put your talent to good use?”
“I thought I was,” I responded with serious sarcasm, and tasted the beer.
Gus leaned at me from across the bar. He could tell that I was a little pissed. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said apologetically, putting froth to his mouth. “I’m not knocking what you do to earn a living. We need some of our own doing the private eye bit. ‘The Man’ sho ain’t gonna bust his ass to find out whodunit, especially not in the part of town where most of us live. But you, my man, could do better than that. And I could use a man with your background and guts to help keep law and order around here. Think about it, D.J. That’s all I’m askin’.”
I already had thought about it, but saw no reason to tell him at that moment. Good intentions aside, I didn’t quit the force to wind up checking I.D.’s for the proper drinking age. “I’ll think about it,” I lied.
He left it at that and went to jaw with another patron. I refocused my attention on Star Quality and became lost in her velvety, soulful voice.
* * *
The Worm’s last known address was a house on Thirty-Third Street and Drummond, an area in Northeast Portland that was known more for its crack houses and gang bangers than its law-abiding citizens.
That next morning I paid the house a visit, figuring I might hit the jackpot the first time around and catch The Worm with his pants down. Not that I really believed I could be that lucky. If it had been that easy to locate Jessie Wylson, Sherman could have—and probably would have—done the job himself.
Wearing my alternate P.I. suit, this one dusty brown, with a tan shirt and thin brown tie, I rang the doorbell. It seemed that dressing the way people expected detectives to dress—somewhat rumpled and sleazy—made it easier to get a little cooperation from those least apt to give it.
There was a beat up Olds Cutlass in the driveway. From the looks of the house, with its peeling paint and overgrown lawn, it was as if no one had lived there in years.
I heard a rustling noise inside. It sounded more like a snake than a worm. But I was taking no chances. I placed my hand close to the .40 caliber Glock I kept between my waist and pants. I had never been accused of being trigger-happy as a cop or P.I., but that didn’t mean I wasn’t ready and willing to confront any dangerous situation that came my way.
The door slowly opened. A walnut skinned woman in her early thirties stuck her face out. Her short, permed dark hair was highlighted with blonde streaks. The way her sable eyes squinted like taking a direct hit of bright sunlight suggested that I had disturbed her beauty sleep. A terrycloth white robe was loosely wrapped around her voluptuous body, revealing enough cleavage for my eyes to get sore.
“What?” she asked brusquely.
“M
y name’s Drake,” I said tersely. “I understand Jessie Wylson lives here.”
Her brow creased. “He ain’t here. Ain’t seen him for weeks.”
I glanced around skeptically and then back at her. “Who are you?”
She batted her lashes as if to say Who’s asking? “Used to be his girlfriend.”
“Anyone else home?” I asked guardedly, my hand still within reach of the Glock.
“I live by myself,” she hissed.
“Do you have a name?”
She hesitated, regarding me suspiciously, before saying in a higher octave: “Nicole.”
“Nicole, do you expect me to believe that even a low-life drug dealer like The Worm would dump a lady as fine as you?” I figured that would elicit a meaningful response.
She gave me a coquettish grin and seemed genuinely flattered. Then her face became an angry machine. “I dumped the bastard after he stole from me—every chance he got.”
“Maybe the biggest mistake of his life,” I offered, almost feeling sorry for her. “Do you know where can I find him?”
Her nostrils ballooned. “You askin’ the wrong person. I’m not his damned keeper—not anymore.” She sighed raggedly. “If there’s nothin’ else, I got things to do.”
I was not altogether convinced that she had no knowledge of Wylson’s whereabouts, but gave her the benefit of the doubt—for now. “Your ex-boyfriend’s wanted on drug charges,” I said coldly. “I’m not a cop, but I’ve been hired to bring Wylson in if I can find him.” My eyes sharpened on her. “If you know where he is, you’d better think twice about keeping it to yourself. He’s not worth going to prison for.” I slipped my card in her cleavage for a perfect fit. “Give me a call if you hear from Jessie or happen to remember where he’s hiding out.”
* * *
By afternoon I had finished up some paperwork from a previous case. I rewarded myself by running. There was an unexpected joy in feeling the stress and strain course through my entire body as I pushed myself to go the extra mile, so to speak.
I took the long way home—about four miles along the river—leaving me exhausted and regenerated. I finished my run by cooling down and walking about the last quarter of a mile.
As I approached the front of my apartment building, I noticed a cab pull up to the curb. My ideal woman, the attractive lady whose name I still didn’t know, got out of the back seat. She was wearing a gray business suit that flattered her nice figure. She reached in the back seat and came out with a painting that seemed nearly as tall as her. With obvious difficulty, she began to carry it toward the brownstone.
“Let me help you with that.” I took full advantage of the moment, catching up to her in looping strides. Maybe this was the break I’d been hoping for to get to know this angel. I grabbed the painting before she could say no thanks.
“Thank you,” she said in a shaky, but appreciatively soft voice. “I think this one was just a bit too much to handle.”
I looked at the painting. It was a scenic landscape of Mount Hood and the surrounding area. I was not exactly a connoisseur of the arts. I wondered if she was the artist. The apartments in our building hardly seemed large enough to hold such a painting.
“Where to?” I asked. For one of the few times in my life, I was actually intimidated by someone. Her attractiveness, grace, and sensuality really did a number on me.
“I’m in 427,” she said with a slight smile that revealed small, straight white teeth and thin sweet lips.
She even smelled good, as I got a whiff of her perfume. Definitely not the cheap stuff.
We took the elevator up and neither one of us seemed to have much to say. For my part, saying the wrong thing seemed worse than saying nothing at all.
“Do you live here?” she asked, seemingly out of courtesy, and apparently oblivious to the fact that we had been practically bumping into each other every other day for the last two months.
I nodded. “Third floor.”
She smiled ingenuously. “Thought I’d seen you before. I suppose it’s a good thing you came along when you did.”
“If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else,” I muttered like an idiot.
She gave me a look to suggest that she agreed.
The elevator doors opened and I followed her to the apartment.
“Just set it there,” she pointed to an empty wall in the living room.
I did and we stared at each other for seconds that seemed like hours. I started to ask her if she wanted to go for a drink, but something told me I wouldn’t like her answer. So I kept my mouth shut. There was plenty of time to get to know this lady. Why rush a potentially good thing?
“Well, I’d better get going now.” The words crept from my mouth as if they were stuck in cement.
She did not argue the point. “Thanks again. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
I nodded miserably, and left without even finding out her name or telling her mine.
At the mailboxes, I discovered that her name was Vanessa King. It seemed to fit her. This was another possible step in the right direction for me.
CHAPTER THREE
Once again, I found Nate Griffin holding an audience captive at Pioneer Courthouse Square. There was wild applause when he finished his impersonation of Michael Jackson as a clown.
“Your timing sucks, D.J.,” he complained in a crass voice once we were alone.
“So sue me,” I spat. Admittedly, I was an impatient man, but I would make it up to him if I could, so long as he delivered. “What have you got for me?”
Fumbling with his braided wig, Nate said waveringly: “Not much, man. I heard The Worm likes to hang out at a club in Northeast Portland called Nightmares.” He rubbed his nose as though it was itching to have something nourishing. Nate was a recovering cocaine addict. As far as I knew, he was clean these days. But what did I know?
“You’re one tough dude,” Nate was saying, “but believe me, man, that’s not the type of place you wanna go into by your lonesome—if you get my drift?”
“Thanks for the advice,” I said, dismissing the warning. “I think I can take care of myself.” Especially with a little help from my friend. I patted the gun tucked away inside my pants. I splurged and dropped a ten spot in the Rose Clown’s bucket, feeling a bit generous for some reason. “I’ll be in touch, Nate,” I promised.
* * *
The difference between Northeast Portland and the rest of the city was like night and day. Whereas most areas of Portland were generally safe and comfortable places to live, the Northeast area seemed to have a disproportionate share of drug activity, gangs, drive-by shootings, and uneasiness in the air like a constant cumulus cloud hanging over that part of the city.
I had heard of Nightmares, but never had the pleasure of going there until now. It was one of Northeast Portland’s most notorious hangouts for reputed gang members, drug dealers, and other lowlife types. Police raids and dead bodies had done little to tarnish the appeal of Nightmares for those who liked to live dangerously.
I entered the establishment after getting some less than supportive glares from a few mean looking dudes and ladies hanging around outside as though they had nothing better to do. It was smaller than I imagined and had Bloods and Crips written all over it. A few pool tables sat in one corner and were occupied. Rap music blared loudly through huge loud speakers suspended from the ceiling. All in all, the place was rather empty since it was a Monday night.
No sign of The Worm.
By the time I reached the bar, those who were present had noticed or been notified of my entry, judging by the looks I received—like I had just dropped in from Neptune. I had the feeling that strangers were not welcome. That didn’t deter me from approaching the bartender. He was a tall, dark man in his mid-twenties with short gerry curls and a goatee.
Before I could speak, he asked in a frosty tone: “What do you want?”
For a moment, I thought he was speaking to someone else. Meeting his eyes, I aske
d curtly: “Is there some reason a person can’t get a drink? Or is it members only?”
He looked me over like I was a side of beef that may or may not have been contaminated. “You The Man?”
“I’m not a cop,” I told him. I glanced around at some of the patrons who had moved threateningly close. Being an ex-cop did have its advantages. It taught me that no crisis was ever as bad as it seemed. I also learned that intimidation and respect often neutralized each other when fear gave way to fearless.
I looked the bartender straight in the eye and said with a definite edge to my voice: “I’m a private investigator. Not looking for trouble—just need some information.”
“If you want information,” he told me snidely, “call the operator.” He was not smiling.
Neither was I. “I’m looking for Jessie Wylson. Or don’t you give a damn that he’s selling drugs to your kids?”
His eyes bulged. “Who the hell do you think is supplyin’ him the drugs?”
“And that’s supposed to make it all right?” I sneered, hoping I could reason with him, but doubting it.
“Even if I knew who this dude was,” the bartender barked loudly so everyone in the place could hear him, “what makes you think I’d tell you?”
This guy was really starting to piss me off.
He aimed his eyes menacingly at me. “I think you’d better get your ass outta here while you can still walk on your own two feet.”
“Maybe he’d rather be carried out,” said an ominous, deep voice behind me. I swiveled and saw a heavyset man with a zigzag part in the middle of his closely cropped brown hair. A cue stick was dangling at his side as if that was supposed to be insurance for his flabby body. “You heard the man. Go find somewhere else to play private asshole.”
Heat began to ooze from my pores. “Get outta my face, dickhead,” I warned him, “or I’ll make you eat that cue.”
He took umbrage to that and decided to put me to the test, swinging the pool cue toward my head like a baseball slugger. My reflexes acted quickly and decisively. I grabbed the stick from him and jammed it into his fat gut twice, then hard under his chin, rendering him ineffective and out like a light.
Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery Page 2
