Dead on the Island

by Bill Crider

  I turned right at Eight Mile Road and took Vicky home. We shared a chaste kiss at the top of her stairs, but I had a feeling that better things were in store, even if I was a good twelve or more years older than she was. I told her I'd call her soon. She didn't object.

  When I got home, Nameless was nowhere around. I went up and read for a few minutes, then tried to sleep. It wasn't much good. I'd drift off for a second or two, and dreams of Sharon and Jan would wake me up. There were some dreams in which Jan was Sharon and some in which Sharon was Jan. Every time I woke up, I was sweating.

  So I was still pretty much awake when the telephone rang somewhere in the neighborhood of three o'clock. I got it on the first ring.

  The caller was Evelyn Matthews. "Can you come to my house?" she said. "Dino's been shot."

  11

  I didn't ask any questions. I just said I'd be there. As I put on my jeans, I wondered what had happened. Dino had ventured out of his house, for the first time in who knows how long, and look at the results. Now he might never go outside again. I wondered how badly he was hurt.

  I also thought about how much alike Dino and Sally Western I was on the way to becoming. Like them, I'd pulled back into my shell, going out now and then to paint a house or for my morning run, but more and more staying at home when I could, letting all the food disappear before I'd go to the store for more. If I kept on long enough, I'd go out less and less, probably even giving up the running. Sally and Dino had someone to do the going for them; I didn't. That was probably the only reason I hadn't already become a recluse. If it hadn't been for Dino's getting me to look for Sharon, when would I have left the house again other than to run? It didn't bear too much thinking about. He'd gotten me out, and despite himself, he'd gotten me interested. And now he'd been shot.

  I went downstairs. When I opened the door, Nameless bolted in, nearly tripping me and causing a stab of pain in the knee. I didn't hold it against him. I took a few seconds to rip open a packet of food, watch him eat, and toss him back out.

  When I stepped outside, I was struck by the peculiar odor of a coastal town, a mixture of dying hermit crabs, salt water, and what I figured was probably diesel fuel. As often happens, the temperature hadn't dropped much with the darkness, and the humid air felt heavy and almost warm.

  I had taken the pistol out of the car before going out with Vicky, but I had it with me now. When I got in, I shoved it under the seat. I didn't think I'd need it, but it was nice to know it was there. Since the pistol was wrapped in the towel, I used the car's wipers to clear the windshield. I'd have to guess what was behind me, but at that time there wasn't likely to be anything on the streets except me, not in February, not in the middle of the week.

  It took me only a few minutes to drive to Evelyn Matthews' house. The streets were quiet and deserted; no lights showed in any of the homes nearby. Cars that wouldn't fit in the one-car garages were parked at the curb by neatly trimmed lawns that turned briefly green in my headlights, then turned black again. It had been a mild winter, as it nearly always was, and some of the people on this street had already had to mow their yards. The homeowners were all quietly asleep now, never dreaming about what was happening in the house where the light was on.

  I stopped in front and got out. Left the pistol in the car. Evelyn Matthews came to the door before I could knock.

  "Come in," she said. She shut the door behind me when I entered.

  "How is he?" I said.

  "He'll be fine, I think. The doctor--"

  "Doctor? At this time of night? For a gunshot wound?"

  "Dino knew who to call. He's retired now. I think he used to do some work for the uncles."

  "Of course," I said. "I should have known."

  "Yes. Anyway, the doctor says that Dino was lucky. One bullet went right on through, at the shoulder. It didn't hit anything major. Another one took off a little bit of his forearm. I think both of them hurt him a lot, but he wouldn't let the doctor give him a sedative. He wants to talk to you." She gestured with her right hand. "He's in the bedroom."

  I went down a very short hall and into an equally small bedroom. There was a lamp with what must have been a forty-watt bulb on an end table. That was all the light in the room, and it wasn't much. The lamp had a heavy shade. Still, it was light enough for me to see that Dino wasn't feeling any too well. He half-sat, half-lay on the bed against a stack of three pillows. He still had on his pants, but his shirt and his shoes were off. There was a wide white bandage wrapped across his chest and over his left shoulder, not stained too badly. Another was wrapped around his left arm.

  "Hello, Dino," I said. "Wanna race?"

  His face was twisted slightly with the pain, but his voice was clear. "Fuck you, Smith. I could take you any time."

  "Sure," I said. "You want to tell me about it?"

  "That's why you're here. Sit down."

  The bedroom was so small that there was no chair in it. Aside from the double bed and the end table, there was only a tiny chest of drawers. I looked around, and just about that time Evelyn arrived with a folding bridge chair with a metal seat.

  "Thanks," I said, taking it from her. I opened it and sat.

  "It was a set-up," Dino said.

  "They take the money and kill you besides, huh? What about Sharon?"

  "We'll get to her, but let's talk about the first part." His voice cracked slightly. He waited a second or two. "They didn't take the money."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't even think they wanted it. I'm going to try to tell you the whole thing. I got the money together. I have a little cash on hand. I put it all in a little suitcase."

  I didn't interrupt to ask just how much cash, or how much he kept on hand.

  "The guy on the phone told me to take the money out to Scholes Field, out past the runways, down by the bayou. There's a dirt road that runs back there and sort of peters out. You know where I mean?"

  Scholes Field is known now as the Municipal Airport for some reason. It's not because any planes to speak of ever land there. It was built to serve Fort Crockett, and I've heard that the runways can handle a 747, but all they handle now is the grass that grows up through the cracks. No major airline serves Galveston.

  "I'd guess it would be pretty deserted back there in the small hours," I said.

  "Yeah. Well, you'd be right. You can see the lights of the cars on the Causeway across the bayou, but that's about it."

  Evelyn squeezed by my chair and wiped Dino's face with a damp cloth. I hadn't even noticed that he'd been sweating, but obviously the talking was an effort for him.

  "I was told to come alone," he said. "But I said I'd have to have a driver. I haven't driven for a long time. They told me I could bring Evelyn."

  "What about Ray?" I said.

  "They told me to send Ray away, that there'd be someone watching the house. So I did."

  Evelyn finished with the cloth, squeezed back by me, and left the room. I noticed that she wasn't smoking now.

  "She drove," Dino said. "We got back there, in among some saw grass, and parked. A car came up behind us and blinked its lights, which was the signal. I got out to give them the money." He twisted a little on the bed. "That's when they started shooting."

  "They didn't even ask for the money?" It was hard to believe.

  "That's right. I don't know how many shots there were. First one hit me in the arm." He raised the bandaged arm slightly. "Next one got me here." He gestured to his shoulder. "Or maybe not. There may have been one or two misses. One of 'em hit the car, I know that. Whoever was shooting couldn't see too good with just the headlights, maybe. Anyway, I managed to get the suitcase up in front of my belly, which was a good thing, since the next one went right into it. Knocked me flat."

  "This sounds like one of those stories that end with me asking 'How did you get away from there?' and you saying 'I didn't.'"

  He almost smiled. "I did, though. That Evelyn. She must've been out of the car before I knew what was goin
g on. Dragged me back and shoved me in."

  I looked at him, the former linebacker, about two-twenty-five, and thought about Evelyn. This time, he did smile.

  "She's little, but she's stout. Got that car moving, tore out of there ninety to nothing, bounced up on the runway like she was at Daytona and laid rubber for a quarter of a mile. We were back here before you could say 'Jack Robinson.' She had the blood stopped with towels and the doctor called before I could hardly give her his name. She's something else."

  "So," I said. "What about Sharon?"

  "That's the big one, all right. That's what I want you to find out. Need any more money? I got a whole suitcase full. 'Course some of it's got a bullet hole in the middle."

  I thought about it. Earlier that night, or the previous night to be exact, I'd been morally outraged and considerably upset that Dino wanted me out of his way. Now that I had the chance to get mixed up in things again, I wasn't sure I wanted to. Things were getting too strange and dangerous. Getting my knee clobbered was one thing. Getting shot was another.

  But I was curious, too. "What the hell," I said.

  "Good." His body seemed to relax a trifle.

  "Does Ray know?" I said.

  "No. What Ray don't know, Ray can't tell. I'm not taking any more chances."

  "What about Evelyn? Does she . . . ?" I didn't know exactly how to finish my question.

  "She's gonna let me stay here.” He had the grace to look a bit sheepish. Or maybe it was the pain. "I . . . well, hell, I've been rotten to her and to the kid, but they say it's never too late, don't they? Maybe even old Dino can get domestic."

  It would be hard for him to get any more domestic than he was already, I thought. He was just considering trading Ray for Evelyn. I wondered what she thought of the idea, but I didn't ask.

  "See if you can find the kid," he said. "I'd like the chance to get to know her a little. And find out what the hell is going on."

  "I'll try," I said.

  ~ * ~

  I talked to Evelyn in the living room before I left. She was going to give Dino the sedative and let him sleep.

  "Did they try to follow you from the airport?" I said.

  "I don't know. I wasn't looking. But I don't think so."

  They could find out where she lived easily enough, if they didn't know already. "Would you like for me to stay?"

  "That's all right. I've got a shotgun, and I know how to use it. And I'm a light sleeper. If anyone tries to bother us, he'd better be quieter than a cat."

  I asked to see the shotgun. It was an old double-barrel twelve gauge with a scarred wooden stock and flecks of rust along both the blued barrels.

  "It's been in the back of the closet," she said when she saw me looking dubiously at the rust spots. "But I cleaned it up, and the shells aren't but a year old."

  I broke the gun and looked at the shiny brass of the partially ejected casings. I could smell the gun oil. "I don't think it'll blow up in your face," I said, snapping the gun back together. It was a good weapon for her, since it would almost certainly hit whoever she pointed it at; and if it didn't hurt him, it would scare the hell out of him. And since it was a twelve gauge, even one pellet was going to cause a good bit of damage if it hit anyone. I handed the gun back to her.

  "I'll come back by tomorrow," I said. "Are you sure you want Dino here?"

  She carried the gun over to the couch and laid it down. "I think so. It seems funny, but I really think he's as worried about Sharon as I am. I never pressed him about her; I never even took any of his money. I think he was hurt by that. Maybe he wanted to be involved with her and I cut him off because I thought he looked at me as a cheap whore." She shook her head. "Maybe we were both just stubborn. Anyway, I do want to help him, to take care of him."

  "You've already saved his life," I said.

  "Maybe. Do you have any idea what's going on?"

  "Not a clue," I said.

  ~ * ~

  I pushed it all around in my head when I got to my car. It was about four o'clock and still dark, and I sat there in the faint bluish glow of a street light, trying to make some sense out of everything that had happened. First it had looked like a simple runaway. Then it had turned into something that probably involved a murder. Then came the kidnapping angle. And now someone was trying to kill Dino without even collecting the ransom.

  That last bit was what bothered me more than anything. No one had even asked Dino for the money. He was holding the suitcase where it could be clearly seen, but no one even appeared to have been interested. Someone had just started shooting.

  It was time to go back to Houston for a little conversation with Chuck Ferguson. He was the only handle I had on the case. I was convinced he'd lied to me, if the cop that I thought was a cop was really a cop. And if the cop hadn't lied. I didn't think he had. There was something about Ferguson's whole manner that indicated to me that he was hiding something. I wanted to find out what it was.

  I started the car. The light was still on in Evelyn Matthews' house. I could picture her sitting on the couch, holding the shotgun in her lap. It was almost as big as she was, but I wouldn't want to be the one to try walking through that front door without permission.

  I turned the car around on the narrow street, and as I passed under the street light I checked my digital watch. It was 4:09. I decided to pay Ferguson a visit before breakfast. One of the first things I wanted to talk to him about was where he had gotten the money to pay for The Sidepocket. He might not want to tell me, but I thought it could have something to do with the ransom, though I wasn't sure what, considering that the ransom hadn't been collected.

  I zipped down Broadway, across the bridge, and onto the Gulf Freeway very quickly. There was a smattering of traffic, even at that ungodly hour, but not as much as there would be in thirty minutes or so when the morning rush would begin in earnest. Traffic would slow almost to a standstill around Almeda-Genoa Road. I was glad I was missing it.

  I made good time all the way to the club, pushing the little Subaru for all it was worth. The nearby peepshows and motels still had their lights blinking on and off, advertising their wares, but there were few other cars on the street.

  There were no cars at all in The Sidepocket's lot. The portable sign was still lighted, but there were no lights anywhere else. I was hoping that Ferguson lived in the room above the club. I wanted to catch him off guard, and a sleeping man is generally about as off guard as a man can get.

  I stopped the car in front of the club and turned off my lights. Before I got out I reached down under the seat and pulled out the towel-wrapped pistol. I unwrapped the Mauser and hefted it, tossing the towel into the back seat. The gun's weight was reassuring, and I decided to take it with me just in case I met the three refugees from the Pro Bowl again. I stepped out of the car and stuck the pistol into my waistband. The sweatshirt covered it nicely.

  I walked around to the back of the club. I was hoping there was a back entrance, not wanting to have to force my way into the front. The fewer chances I took, the better. Someone was sure to drive by, even this early.

  It was darker in the back, without the benefit of all the lights from the various enterprises along the street. I didn't have any trouble finding the door, however.

  Neither had someone else. The door was slightly ajar.

  That bothered me. A lot. It was possible that Ferguson wasn't there, that he had gone elsewhere and that since he lived in such a posh, crime-free neighborhood he hadn't bothered to lock the door behind him. He was so sure he wouldn't be robbed that he hadn't even bothered to shut the door.

  Somehow, I didn't think that was what had happened.

  What I thought was that someone had been here before me. Maybe someone was still here.

  I felt for the butt of the pistol through the thick cotton of the sweatshirt, but I didn't pull it from my belt. I'm a good range shooter, but I haven't had much practice using the pistol against someone who was shooting back. I didn't want to have to l
earn, either, unless it was absolutely necessary.

  I stepped to one side and pushed the door gently with my right hand. It opened slowly and quietly. There was no other sound, except for the shushing of a car passing on Telephone Road. After a second or two I stepped inside.

  There was a small open space not large enough to be called a foyer. That's where I was standing. It was very quiet, a far cry from the thundering of Amyl Nitrate's bass. In front of me was a staircase leading up to the second floor. The door I had pushed open did not lead into the main area of the club.

  There was barely enough light for me to see the staircase. I looked up, but I couldn't make out anything at the top except deeper blackness. There was probably a closed door up there. I started up to see.

  The steps were plain bare wood, but they didn't creak as I went up. Some carpenter had done a good job of nailing down the boards. I tested each step, putting my weight down on it completely before actually stepping up, but there was no problem.

  It was very dark at the top. I felt for the door handle, and when I felt it under my fingers I turned it slowly. Again there was no sound. Someone kept it oiled.

  I opened the door ever so slightly. There was no light in the upstairs area, but then I hadn't expected there to be. I hadn't seen any from the parking lot when I drove in.

  There were lots of things I could do at this point. I could close the door and go on my merry way. Or I could open it all the way and walk right in. I could drag out my Mauser and go in like the cops always do in TV shows, crouched down with the pistol extended in front of me in a two-hand grip.

  I decided to go in but to leave the pistol where it was. My thinking was that anyone who had been there must be gone by now. Otherwise there would have been a light. If Ferguson was there, he was probably asleep. I hoped.

  I opened the door slowly and ran my hand down the wall, searching blindly for a light switch. My fingers ran across it, and I flipped it up. The hall was suddenly bright with light. All the doors were closed. I could see the one Ferguson and I had entered the night before. There was a second door, closer to me and a third on the opposite side of the hall.