by Bill Crider
He swung the chair again. I somehow got my hands up and grabbed one of the legs. The man was so strong that he picked me the rest of the way up on the follow-through.
I was shaky, but I held onto the chair for all I was worth. Through all of this, neither of us had said a word. I was groaning and he was snorting, but that was it. Now I started yelling. Maybe someone would hear me and call the cops. I wasn't eager to be caught in Shelton's house, but it was better than being beaten to death with a bentwood chair.
We continued to struggle for the chair, with me yelling "Fire!" and "Murder!" and "Rape!" at the top of my lungs. I didn't really think anyone would rush to my aid, but maybe I could distract the gorilla.
He was far stronger than I was, but I wasn't about to let go of the chair. Then I noticed where we were. We had struggled away from the bed and were very close to the curtained windows.
I put everything I had into pulling the chair in my direction, my arms straining and burning with the effort. He had the top of the chair, and he applied an equal and opposite force. OK, more than equal.
Suddenly I relaxed, not only giving way but aiding him by leaning in his direction. He was surprised and went backward very quickly, stumbling when the back of his calves hit the low windowsill. I pushed as hard as I could then, and his back hit the curtain. The window shattered, and he went through it, still holding onto the chair. I had let it go. I didn't want it anymore.
I sat on the bed to catch my breath. When it was more or less back to normal, I walked over to the window and looked out. The curtains were hanging with their bottoms outside the sill now, and I pulled them back inside.
The ground in back of the house was not as low as it was in front, only about six feet from the windowsill. There was no one lying there. The chair lay harmlessly on the scruffy grass.
I locked the bedroom door. If he came after me again, he was going to have to kick it in, not that I thought he'd hesitate to do it. I sat on the bed and waited. Nothing happened for fifteen minutes. Maybe I'd hurt him at least a little.
I went into the bathroom and bathed my face. There was a lump forming on the left side of my head, just above the ear, but there were no other marks, though my ribs hadn't been improved any. I didn't even have a bloody nose.
While I was in the bathroom I looked around. There was a bottle of Old Spice, a can of Noxema shaving cream, half a package of Bic disposable razors, aspirin, and a box of Puffs. A bar of Ivory soap on the rim of the tub. There was nothing unusual in the other bedroom, either.
Somehow, though, I was convinced that Sharon had been there, and I was equally certain that the guy who'd jumped me had been left there or sent there by someone just in case I happened by. I didn't know who he was or who had sent him, but I was more determined than ever to find out.
13
It was getting on toward late afternoon when I drove into the River Oaks section of Houston. My little Subaru looked as much out of place there as Dumbo at a mastodon convention. River Oaks was Money, some of the million-dollar homes sitting boldly on their lots so that the underprivileged could drive by and see what they were missing, while other houses, just as expensive if not more so, were hidden from the gawkers behind high walls or dense foliage or both and shaded by the enormous expanses of trees that gave the area its name.
Jimmie Hargis lived in one of those houses. I doubted that his neighbors knew how he'd made his money, or cared, as long as he kept to himself, didn't bother anyone, and didn't try to attend their bridge parties, or whatever kind of parties people with that much money had. I'd never been invited to one any more than Hargis had.
I drove down a tree-lined street to the address that Dino had given me and pulled off at a wrought-iron gate, painted black. An asphalt drive curved off into the trees, and I could see parts of the house through the limbs and foliage.
By the time I got my window rolled down, a voice was speaking to me out of a metal speaker grille set in the stone gatepost. I gave my name and, thanks to a phone call that Dino had made earlier, the gate split down the middle and began to swing slowly inward. When it was open all the way, I drove through.
I parked in front of the house, an impressive Spanish-style number that appeared to sit on about half a block of expensive acreage. It was all white, with a red tile roof. There was black grille-work on all the windows. It would be a hard place to get into, or out of. There were frequent stories in the Houston papers about people who had died in fires in their homes, trapped by burglar bars as the flames raged through the dwellings. I figured that Hargis was safe enough. He could no doubt afford a good sprinkler system.
The front door was heavy wood, about the size of the front door of the Alamo. There was no knocker, but I didn't need one. By the time I got there, the door was already opening.
I have to admit that I was surprised by the man who stood there. He was a butler. There's no other way to describe him. He looked like a picture of Jeeves on the cover of a P. G. Wodehouse novel, starched white front and all. I'd read that there was a training school for real British butlers in Houston, but I'd never really given it much thought. Now I knew it was true. I expected him to say, "Right this way, Sir."
He didn't, but what he did say was almost as good. "Come in, Mr. Smith. Mr. Hargis is expecting you."
I followed him down a tiled hallway. We must have looked like two players in a drawing-room comedy lost in a cathedral as we walked beneath the house's high, vaulted ceiling and beside its thick white walls.
Hargis met me in a room that I suppose he called his study. The butler stood aside, and I walked in. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and there was a thick wool carpet, also dark, on the floor. In the center of the room was a huge wooded desk, and the wall behind it was covered with book shelves. Shiny leather-bound volumes crowded the shelves, as if Hargis had bought every reprint the Franklin Mint issued. I wouldn't be surprised if he had even read some of them.
Hargis stood behind the desk, looking nothing like I'd expected. From his reputation, I'd thought of him as being a large, tough-looking man. Instead, he was small and delicate, not over five-four, with small bones; he couldn't have weighed over a hundred and ten. I'd never seen a picture of him, of course. He wasn't a man given to having his photo taken.
In the normal course of things Hargis would never have agreed to talk to me, much less to see me in his house. But this wasn't the normal course of things.
I'd gone by to see Dino after my little adventure on Bolivar and told him what happened. Now that the shock of being shot had worn off, he was feeling rotten, but he was alert enough to see that things were getting out of hand. Ferguson was dead, Sharon was still missing, Shelton was murdered, and someone had made a try at Dino. None of it made any sense, and the only link we had left to any of it was Hargis. Dino could pull enough strings to get him to talk to me. He'd arranged it by phone, called me, and here I was.
Hargis motioned me to a seat in one of the brown leather chairs in front of his desk, and then sat down himself. His chair must have been custom made, or maybe it just had a thick cushion in it. He looked to be taller than he was as he sat there, leaning slightly forward, his elbows on the desk, his arms crossed.
"Dino told me most of the story," Hargis said. He had a mellow, pleasantly modulated voice. "He did say that I should listen to you relate one other bit of the puzzle, however."
"I'm sure he told you about the three men who jumped me outside The Sidepocket," I said. "I can describe one of them pretty well. He's about thirty-five, at least six-three, and goes around two-fifty. Maybe he was a fighter once, or a football player. His nose has been broken a couple of times at least. Dark hair, wears a crew cut. Has a pretty bad scar on his forehead, above the right eye." I knew it was a bad one, or I wouldn't have been able to see it so well in the dim light of the room where we had fought.
Hargis sat and looked at me. He was wearing a gray pinstripe that must have set him back a thousand dollars, and a gold cuff link winked at
me from one of its sleeves. How long had it been since I'd owned a shirt with French cuffs? I couldn't even remember. I felt a little shabby and cheap. I tried to compensate by feeling morally superior, but it didn't help much.
After a minute or so, Hargis began talking. "I agreed to talk to you, Mr. Smith, out of regard for an old relationship that Dino made a claim on. I must admit that I really do not see how any of this business affects me, or even how it touches me in any way."
I started to tell him, but he raised a hand from the desk to silence me. "I'll be glad to hear your comments in a moment. For now, allow me to have my say. My connection with Chuck Ferguson is purely a business one. He was the manager of one of my clubs, and that was all. It was not a particularly profitable club, though I must say that business improved slightly when Ferguson took over. It was his idea to convert it from a topless club to a place where local bands of dubious ability could display their talents, such as they are. Certainly the new venue caused much less trouble with the city.
"At any rate, it developed into a fairly successful club, but it still wasn't among my top investments. So when Ferguson came to me with the idea of buying it, I listened with interest. He had knocked about a bit in the club business, and I believe that he'd done other kinds of work earlier in his career, though I never questioned him about that. He wanted a place of his own, a place where he could make a little money and feel as if he belonged. It didn't seem too much to ask, and since I had no real desire to keep The Sidepocket, I sold it to him."
Once again I started to interrupt, and once again he held up a palm. "Please. Let me tell this. I was not at all sure of how Ferguson intended to get the money to pay me, but he insisted that he could get it and that he could pay me in cash." Hargis allowed himself a thin smile. "For a man of my profession and inclinations, cash has a certain appeal. And I am not a man to question another's sources of revenue. Eventually we agreed on a price, and Ferguson asked for a short time to get the money. The papers were taken care of, and Ferguson came through with the money." He smiled again. "People rarely try to cheat me in money matters, Mr. Smith. I did not ask where he got it.
"Now, as for the . . . ah . . . individual you have described. I must confess that in my profession I have from time to time been forced to hire men to do jobs that require a certain amount of strength and daring."
I thought he had a nice way of putting things, but I didn't try to interrupt again.
"Often I do not see these individuals myself, as they are contracted for by others, and I can say with a fair amount of certainty that I have never seen the person you describe. That does not mean that he has never worked under my employ, but it is very unlikely that he is working for me at the present time."
He paused, and I thought that maybe it was my turn to talk, but I waited a few more seconds. Which was just as well.
"Now, Mr. Smith, you see that I have spoken quite frankly to you. Much more frankly than I would have done under ordinary circumstances. But these are not ordinary circumstances. The police have visited me today. I am not fond of being visited by the police."
"Me either," I said. I couldn't resist, and he didn't seem to mind. But that was probably because he paid me absolutely no attention at all.
"Ferguson's murder is causing me trouble," he said. "Trouble that I wish to avoid."
Someone had found the body then. "I didn't report it," I said.
"I didn't mean to imply that you did," he said impatiently. At least he had heard me that time. "The point is that the city is on one of its periodic crusades to regulate businesses of the sort in which I have an interest. Any scandal connected to me at this time is most irritating and inconvenient. I certainly had nothing to do with either Ferguson's death or the attack on Dino. But I would very much like to know who did. I would like to know even before the police find out, if that could be arranged, though it is not entirely necessary."
He wasn't smiling now, and as I looked at his cold eyes I could see why he was sitting on his side of the desk and I was on the other, why he owned a house in River Oaks and I was a house-sitter in Galveston. Why he had on an expensive suit and a shirt with French cuffs and I was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.
"I know that I have not been able to help you much, except in a negative way," he said. "But I feel that the information that I am requesting would be fair trade for the time I've given you here today."
"I appreciate the time," I said. "And I appreciate your being frank with me. I hope you won't mind if I ask just one indelicate question, since you've assured me that you had nothing at all to do with any of this."
He gave me a straight look that he might not have meant to be unfriendly. "Only one?" he said.
"Only one. Since you aren't involved at all, did you ever hear of any plot against Dino or to kidnap the girl? Sharon Matthews."
He leaned back in his chair. "I suppose that might be interpreted as a bit indelicate if the answer were yes, but the answer is no. I assure you that I have no knowledge of anything relating to the kidnapping of Sharon Matthews other than what you and Dino have told me today."
"All right," I said. "I believe you. But before I agree to tell you anything else I find out, I want you to agree to help me with something."
He raised one eyebrow. The left one. I never could understand how someone could do that. "What?"
I told him about Jan. "If you ever hear anything, anything at all, that might connect to her--"
"I'll be glad to let you know," he said. "It's quite unlikely, however."
"I know," I said.
~ * ~
I was hungry by the time I got back to the Island, but I didn't take the time to eat. I was looking for another source of information, the only one I had any confidence in aside from Sally West. It was a fairly nice night, not too cool, and I found him almost immediately, dumpster diving behind a huge Kroger supermarket on 61st Street.
At least I thought it was him. All I could see was legs hanging out of the dumpster. I drove the Subaru down to the end of the buildings, parked, and walked back.
"That you in there, Harry?" I said.
There was a noise of papers rustling and than a hollow banging as something hit one of the sides of the dumpster. Then a burlap bag hit the pavement beside me. God knows what was in it. Harry followed it down.
"You're looking sharp, Harry," I said.
In the light of the blue mercury vapor lamp that flooded the area I could see that he was wearing at least two shirts, one black and red flannel and one underneath that was some unidentifiable miracle fabric. Over them both he wore a ripped jacket of olive drab with the lining showing through a couple of the jagged holes in the sides. He had on a pair of olive drab pants that hit him about halfway up the calves. A pair of faded jeans underneath extended a little farther down.
"That you, Tru?" he said. "You look like you doin' all right for youself. Want a bite to eat?" He reached for the sack.
"No, thanks," I said, maybe too quickly for politeness.
He reached into the sack and came out with what appeared to be a very dented, labelless can of dog food or cat food. The can was the right shape, and I was willing to bet it wasn't tuna.
"This go pretty good 'bout now," he said.
I took a step back. "My God, Harry. How can you eat that stuff?"
He looked at me, amazed that I would ask such a stupid question. "You jus' takes a piece of bread," he said, extending one hand as if it held the slice he was speaking of, "and you jus' spreads it on." He made a spreading motion with the hand that held the can.
I'd met Harry--"Outside" Harry, most people called him--when I was looking for Jan. I had occasion to visit a few alleyways, and Harry had been in more than one of them. I'd struck up a conversation one day, more out of curiosity than anything else and soon discovered that he was a mine of information. No one knew how old he was, but I'd talked to people who swore that he must be at least eighty. He'd been on the Island for as long as anyone could remember. Afte
r so many years, no one really paid any attention to him. He came and went, picking the garbage for whatever he needed or wanted. During all that time, he'd heard and seen a lot and remembered most of it. Despite what many people thought, he wasn't feeble-minded. He was just old.
"I think I'll skip the meal tonight," I said.
"Got me a head of lettuce in here, too," he said, reaching back into the sack. "Couple oranges, too."
"Save them for yourself, Harry. I'm not hungry." It wasn't much of a lie. Thinking about Harry's diet took away my appetite.
Harry twisted the top of his bag shut. "Well, I jus' like to share. But if you don't want none . . . . "He looked up at me sharply. "Must want somethin', though."
"Just to talk."
"Well, tha's all right, but I got to work." Harry shuffled off toward the next dumpster. "Some folks got to stay busy."
I followed along after him. "I wondered if you'd seen a man," I said.
Harry stopped. "Seen lotsa men," he said. "See 'em all the time."
"This is a particular man." I described the man I'd previously described to Jimmie Hargis.
Harry listened carefully, his head cocked to one side. He was short to begin with, and with his bag tossed over his shoulder he looked like a black gnome standing in the blue light. "Might've seen that one," he said. He turned and shuffled off again.
I went after him. This was the way conversations with Harry were usually carried on.
He stopped at a brown-painted dumpster, tossed his bag in, and then pulled himself over the rim. He dug around for a while with his legs sticking out. I could hear him tossing things around. Then his legs disappeared inside. I hoped I was half as agile as he was when I reached his age.
A cardboard box flew out of the dumpster and hit the ground beside me. Then Harry's head appeared above the rim. "Prob'ly around Corea's, somewhere in there," he said. The head disappeared.
