by Bill Crider
I put some old 45s on the Voice of Music and listened to Creedence, the Beatles, and Buddy Holly while I tried to read a few more pages in the Faulkner book. I didn't accomplish much. The problems of Quentin Compson and Rosa Coldfield seemed pretty much far removed from what I was working on.
I put the book down. By then Nameless was sound asleep, stretched out full length against the back of the couch.
Having called Dino and put him onto Ferguson, I had several new options. I could try talking to Julie Gregg again. I could call Vicky Bryan and try to find out more about Terry Shelton. That was an attractive idea, but it involved prying into the murder case. I definitely liked the thought of Vicky, but I definitely disliked the idea of tangling with Barnes. I could call Evelyn Matthews, but she would see me only after she got off work, and it was much too early.
It had to be Julie Gregg, though I certainly hadn't ruled Vicky out. I would get back to her later. I grabbed up Nameless, who clearly didn't appreciate it, held him in one arm, and made my way down the stairs to the car. I put Nameless down and thought about the gun.
Texas gun laws are a little strange. I'm sure most New Yorkers think that armed Texans walk the streets of every city and town in the state, but that's just not true. Only the cops can carry a pistol. Legally. You can't even carry one in your car unless you lock it in the trunk, and you certainly can't carry one on your person. Legally.
Now what good a pistol would do me if it were locked in the trunk of my car, I couldn't imagine. So I wasn't going to put it there. At the same time, I wasn't going to carry it tucked into my jeans.
I compromised by wrapping it in an old towel that I carry around to wipe the dew off my windshield on days when the humidity is bad--nearly every day, in other words. If I was stopped and the car was searched, I was going to be in big trouble. It was a risk I'd just have to take. And I was pretty sure that if I went back to The Sidepocket, the pistol would be stuck in the waistband. I wasn't eager to meet Ferguson's little pals again unless I was armed.
I started the car and headed for the college.
9
I stopped for a Schlotsky's sandwich on the way. I was either going to have to buy some groceries or get all my vital nutrients from fast food. I thought for a second about buying some vitamin pills, but it was only a thought.
I got lucky again. Julie Gregg was in the same office, stapling some more papers. It was almost as if no time at all had passed in her world.
She looked up at me, then back down at the papers. I could tell that she wasn't pleased to see me.
"Hi," I said, leaning on my cane. I hoped it gave me a rakish look.
She stared at me with her wide blue eyes, but she didn't speak.
"Look," I said. "I'm not really any more thrilled about this than you are, but I have to talk to you again. Sharon is still missing."
"So?"
It wasn't much, but it was a start. "So a boy she knew, Terry Shelton, turned up dead yesterday. Maybe you heard about it. He was murdered."
The wide eyes got even wider. She hadn't heard. "I found out that he and Sharon used to go to Houston, to a club called The Sidepocket, but that's all I found out. Sharon could be in real trouble, Julie. You may be able to help her."
"I really don't know very much," she said. The defiance was gone out of her. Death sometimes has a way of affecting the young like that, especially when it's someone young who's died, and especially when the death is sudden and unexpected. And violent.
"You know more than I do," I said. "Anything at all might help."
She thought about it. "OK. I don't know who told her about her mother, if that's what you want. She came in one day, really upset, and we talked about it. But she didn't say how she knew."
"When was that?"
"About two weeks ago, I guess."
"And just how upset did she seem?"
Julie shook her head. "That's what I don't understand. She was upset, like I said, but she wasn't crazy or anything. I mean it wasn't like she was thinking of suicide or something like that. She was mostly just mad that her mother hadn't told her before."
"But she didn't say how she found out?"
"No."
"Then we won't worry about it. What about this Terry Shelton?"
"I met him once. He didn't go to school. He worked down on The Strand somewhere, but he came up here on his lunch hour one day to visit Sharon."
"What was your impression of him?"
She tried not to look disapproving, and failed. "He wasn't very mature. He thought he could just manage to get by on his salary, which I bet wasn't very much, until someday his big opportunity came along. I don't know where he thought he was going to get a big opportunity in this place." She looked around the room, but that wasn't the place she meant. She meant the Island, or maybe the whole Gulf Coast.
"Did you find out anything about him? His family, where he lived?"
"I got the impression that he's not BOI," she said. "I think he's from Houston, but his parents have a place over on Bolivar. That's where he's staying." She caught herself. "Where he was staying."
Bolivar Peninsula isn't far from Galveston, just across the Bay, but the only way to reach it is by ferry. Unless you want to go the long, long way around. The state runs the ferry service, and if you don't make the trip on a weekend, the wait isn't usually too long. The boats run every fifteen minutes. I could find out Shelton's address from his employer if I had to.
"One more thing," I said. "No one's seen Sharon since last Friday. Was she in school that day?"
"I think so," Julie said. "That's the day we had a test in government class, and we got them back today. The teacher called her name when he was passing them out, so she must have taken the test."
"Did she seem nervous that day, anxious about anything?"
"You mean besides the test? No, I don't think so. I don't remember anything different about her at all."
"Think about it," I said. "Think hard. Did she say anything? Did she mention Terry?"
She brightened, and I could have kicked myself. Leading the witness, that's what they call it in court. No matter what she said now, if it involved Terry Shelton, I'd wonder if she really recalled it or if I'd prodded her into a false memory.
"I do remember something," she said. "Right after the test we went to the soft drink machine for a Pepsi. She said something about having a date with Terry that night, but that it would be a lot different from their usual dates. I asked what she meant, but she said she couldn't tell me. She seemed a little excited, but not nervous or anything."
"And she didn't tell you anything more about it?"
"No. We just drank the Pepsis and that was it. She went off to another class."
I leaned against the door frame and thought about what Julie had said. It sounded as if she were telling the truth and not as if she were creating a memory to please me. Everything seemed to be forcing me more and more toward the murder, as much as I wanted to avoid it.
"Thanks, Julie," I said. "You've been a help." I turned to go.
Her voice stopped me. "Do you think Sharon's . . . all right?"
"Sure," I said over my shoulder. "She'll probably be back in school in a few days."
"I hope so," she said.
I went on down the hall, thinking that our dialogue had almost reversed itself since our first talk. The trouble was, this time I was trying to string her along. After everything that had happened, I really didn't think she'd ever see Sharon Matthews again.
~ * ~
I located a pay phone and called Dino. Ray answered. When I identified myself, he said that Dino wanted to talk to me.
"Tru?" Dino said when he came on.
"That's me," I said.
"I got that information you wanted. It may mean something to you. It does to me, but I don't know what."
"So tell me."
"That Chuck Ferguson does own The Sidepocket. Ray and me, we never heard of him, that's why Ray said he couldn't be sure who really o
wned it. Anyway, here's the funny part. Until a few months ago, Ferguson was just the manager. The club was owned by Jimmie Hargis. You heard of him?”
I'd heard of him. He was a big name in low circles. He owned a few "straight" clubs, but mostly his name made the news when the cops closed down one or another of his peep-shows or nude bars.
"I've never met the man," I said. "What about you?"
"I've met him. And this is straight from the horse's mouth. Ferguson bought him out."
"You mean Ferguson bought everything Hargis owned?"
"No, no. Just that one club. But it's still funny."
"Why?"
"Because Ferguson is just a small-timer. Just a guy who runs a place. Where does he get the money to buy a club from somebody like Hargis?"
"That's a good question," I said. "You got the answer?"
"Hargis didn't ask Ferguson any questions. I guess you know how that goes. He was just glad to get the money, times being what they are."
What Dino meant was that the city of Houston was cracking down on the topless clubs and peep shows and Hargis was having his own version of a money crunch.
"So it was a cash sale?"
"That's right. Except that Hargis had to loan Ferguson the money for a while. He didn't say what the juice was, but you can bet it was plenty. Anyway, Ferguson met the payments. Paid everything off right on time. So now he owns the place."
I didn't say anything for a second or two.
"You still there?" Dino said.
"I'm still here. Just thinking."
"I want to know what this has to do with Sharon. I mean it sounds funny, all right, but so what?"
"I don't know yet," I said.
"Well, when are you gonna know?" Dino's voice was sharp with impatience.
"I don't know when. But I'll be in touch." I hung up the phone before he could say any more.
I went out to the parking lot. The weather had turned so warm and humid that you'd hardly guess it was February. I pushed up the sleeves of my sweatshirt and unlocked the car.
I hadn't been lying to Dino. I really had no idea what was going on, but I knew something was, something that had to do with the disappearance of Sharon Matthews. Eventually a pattern would begin to take shape, or I hoped that was what would happen. Until it did, there was nothing I could do but talk. Find out a little here, a little there, until things began to make some kind of sense.
I was nearly certain now that Sharon and Terry Shelton's murder were somehow tied together, but I didn't know how. The disappearance and the murder had occurred at about the same time, and Sharon and Terry had been seen together at The Sidepocket talking to a man who now denied even knowing them. A man who had suddenly come into a good bit of cash money. But Sharon had also discovered some disturbing information about her family history at about the same time. How did that fit in? Or did it?
My theory was that there was always a reason for a disappearance. I'd never been able to find one in Jan's case, and that one thing bothered me more than any other. If there was no reason, none at all, then she was dead. But who had killed her? And where was her body?
I tried to stop thinking about Jan. She didn't have anything to do with Sharon Matthews.
It was still early afternoon. It was time to try tapping two of my pipelines into the gossip of the Island, two people who might have some inkling of things out of the ordinary. Usually these two would know more about adults than about troubled teenagers, but I didn't have any better sources to try, even though only kids seemed to be involved here. To tell the truth, I was beginning to suspect some of the adults were more involved than they were telling me.
One person who might know something lived right on Broadway, in a house that had been part of the city for well over a hundred years. Sally West's family wasn't one of the Big Three families that had built the Island, but her roots went almost back to Galveston's beginnings. Her ancestors hadn't amassed quite the fortunes others had, nor had they attained quite the fame, but the people who counted knew about them. Sally was the last of the line. Her husband had died young, and she had refused to marry again, thus leaving no one to carry on the family name. Instead she lived in decaying splendor and kept up with everything that happened through a series of visitors, most of whom hoped to get some of her money in one way or another.
Dino had introduced me to her, and I was something of a novelty. All I wanted was information, not money or influence. Sally liked me, and I still dropped by every now and then to exchange information. That's what Sally called gossiping--exchanging information.
I stopped by a liquor store and bought of bottle of Mogen David wine. Despite her nearly patrician standing, Sally had modest tastes. With the wine in a plain brown paper sack I drove to her house, which was practically across the street from a fried-chicken franchise.
The house was red brick, built up high, with white lattice-work on the front porch. Wide concrete steps led from the ground level up to the porch. I mounted them and knocked at the screen. I'd left my cane in the car. I limped a bit, but not enough to matter.
And old black man opened the inner door. I had no idea how old he was; he might have been as old as Sally, who was eighty-nine. He might have been older. Or younger.
"Hello, John," I said.
"Hello, Mr. Truman," he said, in the same way he might have addressed me had I shown up at the doorway a hundred years earlier. "Come in, sir."
I opened the screen and stepped in, handing him the wine. He took it, but neither of us mentioned it.
"Miz Sally's in the parlor," he said.
I walked a few steps down the high-ceilinged hallway, and then turned through a wide double door to my right. There were worn throw-rugs on the hardwood floor. The furniture was all wood, and there was a baby grand piano in the back of the room. A white lace piano shawl was draped over it. There were a reclining couch and a love seat and several wooden rockers with cane bottoms and backs. Sally West was sitting in one of them, rocking gently.
The light in the room was dimmed by white curtains at the window, but I could see her plainly. She was wearing a dark floor-length dress, and she had a shawl around her shoulders. Her hands gripped the arms of the rocker to help her propel it. If she had stood, she would probably have come up to about my belt, I thought, though I'd never seen her stand.
She looked up at me, her eyes bright in her wrinkled face. "Truman," she said. "How nice of you to drop by."
"Hello, Sally," I said. I felt a little shy, because I hadn't been to visit for quite a while.
"Don't stand there looking awkward," she said. "Come in and sit down." Her voice had a slight quaver in it, but you had to listen for it. Otherwise you might mistake it for the voice of a much younger woman.
I stepped into the parlor and sat in one of the rockers. Just about the time I got settled, John came into the room with the Mogen David on a silver tray. He had poured some of it into two crystal glasses. He offered the tray to Sally.
"Thank you, John," she said. "And thank you, Truman."
"You're welcome," I said. John brought the tray over to me, and I took the second glass.
"Leave the wine, please, John," Sally said. He put the tray on a small table near my chair.
I took a sip of the wine. It was a little too warm and a little too sweet for me, but what did I know? I drank Big Red.
"How have you been, Truman?" Sally said after knocking back a hefty swallow of the wine. She liked it a lot more than I did.
"Fine," I said.
"I don't suppose you've come to tell me anything new about your sister?"
"No," I said. "This is about something else."
"I see." She took another swallow. "You're working again?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm working again. Not for myself this time."
"Good. I've often wondered if you would ever stop your brooding and get back on your feet."
"I was ready," I said. "I just needed a push."
"And who gave it to you?"
I told her.
"Ah, Dino. I knew his uncles well, of course. The Island was a different place in those days."
Her eyes drifted around the room. She had seen quite a few changes in her long life. On the wall, a little higher than the level of the piano, there was a black mark about six inches wide and a foot long. It indicated the level to which the water had risen in the storm of 1900. She hadn't seen that, but she hadn't missed it by much.
Her eyes came back to rest on my face. "And what are you doing for Dino? I do hope it's interesting."
"It is. But it's confidential."
She drank the last of the wine in her glass. I still hadn't taken a second swallow. "Confidential?" she said.
"I can tell you, but you can't tell anyone else."
"Oh, then, that's all right. As long as I know. Could you do me the favor . . . ?" She extended her glass, and I got up and refilled it.
I sat back down and told her the story, leaving out a little, but not much. I told her more than I'd told Dino about the fight at The Sidepocket.
"Goodness," she said. "Maybe you were better off when you were vegetating there in that old house, doing a bit of painting to make ends meet."
"I'd forgotten what a sarcastic old lady you are," I said.
She laughed. "At my age, it's about all the aggression I have. Now, what do you think I know about any of this?"
"Not much. Maybe nothing. But there's one thing that's been bothering me. Why is Dino so interested in this Sharon Matthews? I know that her mother was one of his uncle’s girls, and I can understand the concept of family loyalty, up to a point. But he's really worried about this. If you could talk to him, you'd know what I mean. You can hear it in his voice."
"Dino doesn't get out much," she said. "I was afraid for a time that you might become like that."
"I've wondered about him," I said. "Does he ever leave that house?"
"Hardly ever. He's become like me, though he is not so much a prisoner of his body as his mind."
"Come again?"
"You've been away from the Island for quite a while, haven't you? Too long, really, for you to have noticed, I suppose."
