by T. N. Robb
As Fontana finished, Cleary saw a man through the glass partition being escorted from the squad room out of the building. Just before he reached the stairs, he looked back, and Cleary recognized Calvin Pettys.
He sensed what was coming next. His face was grim. "Who's your man, Charlie?"
"I just put out an APB for Johnny Betts for the murder of Billy Ray."
Their eyes met. "You want to save me a few man-hours and tell me where he lives?"
"You're asking the wrong guy."
"I don't think so," Fontana shot back. "Where is he, Jack?"
"Hard to tell. The kid moves around a lot. No permanent address."
"I don't blame him... car theft and parole violation in Tennessee. That's a real piece of work you got there for a partner. But I don't suppose you know anything about any of that."
"He's a stand-up kid, Charlie."
"Now I'm gonna ask you one more time, Jack," he said, pointing his pencil at Cleary. "Don't make me arrest you for withholding."
"I'm going to turn around right now and walk out of here," Cleary answered, glaring at Fontana. "You do what you have to do."
As he walked out, Fontana looked after him, enraged, but not enough to violate their longtime friendship. Instead of arresting him, he took it out on his pencil, hurling it against a wall.
It struck the frame of the photo of Cleary and Fontana standing together, smiling. The photo shook at the impact. But it didn't fall.
Pillars of dust motes hung suspended in the shafts of light filtering through the windows into the cavernous interior of the building. The warehouse, a survivor of the Depression era, was hauntingly quiet in the late afternoon. The huge, metallic record-pressing machines stood stoically in the shadows, awaiting the night.
Betts jimmied open the window, crawled through the frame, and hung a moment before dropping to the concrete floor. He looked up as Jesse's legs dangled through the frame. "Johnny?" she called.
"Go ahead. I got ya."
Jesse let go, and Betts grasped her around the waist, breaking her fall. Then they turned and stared at the silent warehouse. "We can pile up some of the boxes to get out of here," he said in a hushed voice.
She bent over one of the boxes. "Johnny, take a look at this," she whispered. She picked up a handful of record covers. All bore the likeness of Billy Ray.
"That didn't take long to find," he said, wandering over to a wall where albums and 45s by the thousands were stacked in industrial wall racks. "This is incredible," he called out in a loud, astonished voice, breaking the hushed spell of the place. "Gotta be at least fifty thousand counterfeits here." Jesse gazed out at the racks of rip-offs, her eyes filled with disdain. "They ain't real music, you know," she said softly, as if talking to herself. "Just counterfeits of broken dreams."
Betts moved down the stacks until he came upon a rack of master tapes. "No wonder they're so good. These are all master tapes. Whoever runs this place must've ripped off Silhouette for every master they had of Billy Ray, and a few others, too. Here's the Fox Tones, that R and B group. Remember when we were dancing to them?"
Jesse walked over to him and studied the rack. She pulled out a couple tapes. "Look here: 'Blue Hotel', 'Lie To Me', 'Wild Love', and 'Fade Away.'"
"God," Betts exclaimed. "That's the entire side of Billy Ray's new album. That's what Archie Hammond hired Cleary to find."
"Yeah, the B side as far as Slade is concerned." She gazed at the tape, cradling it in her hands. "These are the last real songs Billy Ray made before—before they changed him."
She stared at the tapes a moment longer, then suddenly shoved them inside her jacket. "We're taking 'em with us, Johnny."
Betts nodded, then looked around at the other masters and counterfeit records. "What about all these other ones. There's a lot of other musicians being ripped off by these guys."
"We're here for Billy Ray. The others are still alive. They can stand up for themselves."
Then, making a quick decision, she grabbed a newspaper from the floor, rolled it up.
Betts looked at her, puzzled. "What are you doing, Jess?" he asked as she took out a pack of matches and struck one.
She put the match to the paper, lighting it without answering. Then she held it out to him. "Take it, Johnny. You know what we've got to do."
"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Jess. It's destroying a lot of evidence."
"I'm passing you the torch, Johnny Betts. Now you must show me that you'll never compromise with the bastards. Billy Ray did, and you saw what happened to him."
As he took the torch from her, he saw the same look in her eye that he had seen during her wild, desperate drive toward the cliff. Her challenge pierced through him, a chill streaking up his spine as the flames kindled in his eyes. He knew he couldn't let Jesse down this time.
It was his last chance. He hadn't been bold enough to drive off with her to Texas. He hadn't taken her challenge on Dead Man's Curve. This was it. He knew he would lose her if he didn't accept the challenge.
This time he would do it.
He held the flame to an album cover, lit it. He ignited a box of paper covers of 45s, then another. He pushed them against the wall and below the racks of counterfeits. Flames licked at the wooden walls and racks.
He stared at the flickering orange flames, watching as if in a trance. The walls crackled. He felt the heat and saw the flames running across the wall.
He turned away, tossed more boxes toward the wall. He was going to burn them all. Then, as he picked up the last stack, Jesse slipped her arms around him from behind. He dropped the boxes just outside the flames.
He turned around, embraced her, then gazed into her face. Fiery reflections flickered in her eyes. He saw the smile again. She pressed herself hard against him, thrusting her hips forward. Their mouths met.
When their lips parted, the flames were stronger, the fire hotter. Smoke was spreading across the warehouse. The stack of boxes he had dropped were starting to smolder. In a moment they would ignite. Something about that was important, but he couldn't remember what.
Betts felt as if he were in a dream. He saw Jesse lying down next to the boxes. Then he felt the heat of the flames starting to singe his eyebrows. The boxes were about to be engulfed in flames.
The boxes were important. But why?
Then he knew. The boxes were their escape. They had to get out of here.
He stood up, took off his jacket, and pounded the boxes, smothering the flames, pushing them away from the wall. He bent down, picked up Jesse. "C'mon, babe. We gotta go now. We gotta get out of here."
She smiled. "You stepping on the brakes already, Johnny?"
"It's time," he said.
He carried the boxes over to the wall with the open window, stacked them while she gathered up Billy Ray's master tapes. Then he helped Jesse balance as she climbed to the top of the stack. The boxes wobbled unsteadily, but she reached the window frame and he pushed at her legs until she was able to crawl out on her own.
Betts quickly restacked the boxes, mounted them, and was about to grasp for the window frame when the stack tumbled over. He fell backward, hitting his head on the floor. For a moment he lay there, stunned. Something white and soft was blanketing him, comforting him. Nothing to worry about.
He heard his name being called from somewhere over him. An angelic voice, raising him from his lethargy. "Johnny, I'm waiting for you. C'mon, Johnny."
Then he coughed, realizing that smoke was flowing over him. He sat up, coughed again, then looked at the confusion of smoldering boxes. He had to get out, fast, or he would die. He stacked them again, pushing them against the wall. They sagged under his weight as he climbed to the top, and the stack tumbled apart again.
"Johnny? I can't see you."
"I'm here, babe. I'm coming."
He placed them together, carefully stepped up, climbing from the larger boxes to the smaller ones. He felt a welcome breeze from the window, but the fresh air reignited the boxe
s. They wobbled below him; flames licked at his heels. He reached up, felt Jesse's hand grab his wrist and guide him to the window frame.
He grasped it just as the boxes collapsed. He hung for a moment by one hand, then managed to grip the frame with his other hand. With all the strength left in him, he pulled himself up as Jesse tugged at his shoulders.
Then he was out, rolling over and coughing. He heard the distant wail of a fire engine as he rose to his knees. Then he was on his feet, and they were running hand in hand, their eyes wild. They slammed into the Merc, then peeled out just as a gun-toting thug rushed along the side of the warehouse. He was too late to do anything but glimpse the fast-fleeing Mercury. Behind him, smoke billowed from the roof, and flames sprouted through the open window.
Inside the burning warehouse, the counterfeit wax was warping, melting, and bubbling.
NINETEEN
Calvin's Flight
Cleary peered out from the phone booth, watching the cars drive by and looking suspiciously at every one of them. Even though Fontana hadn't arrested him, an unmarked car had picked him up and tailed him. He hadn't been away from the precinct building for more than five minutes when he spotted the dark '54 Ford. If Fontana thought he would lead the plainclothes cop right to Betts's place, he had another think coming.
He had spent most of the afternoon holed up in diners, alternately calling Betts's trailer and the office, and not getting any response at either one. At the first stop, the plainclothes guy had wandered inside, then pretended to use the next phone when Cleary made his calls. "I hope you're having better luck than I am," Cleary had said to him when he had hung up in disgust after listening to his office phone ring. After that, the cop had stayed in his car, watching him through the window.
Finally after three diners, Cleary managed to lose the guy after making several quick turns. But he still hadn't reached either Dottie or Betts, so he wasn't much better off. Now he could be frustrated by himself with no one watching, if that was any consolation.
He shoved a nickel in the slot and tried the office again. He was starting to wonder if Dottie had decided to give up her job and run off with Dwayne. This time she answered on the third ring. "Where you been, Dottie? I've been calling all afternoon."
"Oh, God. Don't you remember? I told you on Monday I'd work Saturday, but I had an audition at one. You won't believe what happened," she babbled on. "I think I've got a part on an episode of 'The Millionaire.' Six lines. Aren't you proud of me?"
"Great. Unless you plan on marrying that millionaire, you better remind me about these auditions. I've got real-life business to operate."
"Sorry, boss. I'll write it down from now on and put a note right on your desk where you can't miss it. So what's goin' on?"
"You heard anything from Betts?"
"Not a word since I've been here. Got back at three."
"I called at three-ten."
"Okay. It was three-thirty," she said contritely. "Am I missing something, Cleary?"
He felt like telling her that her acting career could cost Betts his freedom. Instead he simply told her Betts's situation, and that there was no answer at his phone. "Sit tight, and wait for him to call."
"You bet, Jack. I'll stay here and make up my hours. Where you gonna be in case he calls?"
"I'll check in with you. Listen, you remember that address you traced from Calvin Petty's phone number?"
"You mean the one we got from the post office box number? Sure, what about it?"
"I need it."
"I never throw anything out. I got it here, somewhere. Hang on. Let me look."
Cleary continued watching the cars go by, and studied everyone that was parked within his range of vision. So far he hadn't seen a sign of the guy who'd been tailing him. "Dottie, you still there?"
The phone hummed.
He waited.
"Okay, here it is. I thought it was in with my phone numbers, but I found it in the Archie Hammond file." She read him the address, and he jotted it down. "Thanks, Dottie."
"Is that where you're—"
Before she finished, Cleary disconnected her and dropped another nickel in the phone. He didn't have time for any more small talk. He dialed Betts's number and let the phone ring a dozen times. Finally he hung up. He wondered if Betts had tried the office, or if he had just taken off somewhere, not wanting to get stuck working on a Saturday night. He hoped that wherever he had gone, it was someplace discreet, someplace street cops wouldn't be likely to be looking for him.
He glanced at the address Dottie had given him, looked around once more, then slid out of the phone booth. He walked around the block and up the alley where he had parked the Eldorado. A moment later he was on his way.
Cleary walked up to the apartment building, found Calvin Pettys's name on the directory, and climbed the stairs to the second-floor flat. The hallway was dank, in need of paint. The place was considerably shabbier than his own, he thought as he found the door.
He was about to knock when he saw the lock had been chiseled off the door. The knob hung loosely in the hole next to the gash. Someone had wanted to get inside real bad, and whoever it was hadn't cared a damn about the door. He lifted his hand and pushed it open.
"Hey. What the hell?" Pettys barked from behind the door.
Cleary strode into the apartment as the door bounced off its tenant
"You ever hear a knockin' fer chrissakes, Cleary?" Pettys rubbed his head. "What the hell you want, anyhow? Didn't your fee run out awhile back? Or you just like to nose around into people's business for the fun of it?"
"Yeah, maybe that's it, Calvin. Especially guys who got something to hide."
Cleary's eyes quickly swept the living room. He glanced into the adjoining bedroom and noticed the suitcases. "Going somewhere?"
"Yeah, outta here by a good thousand miles. Place called Texas."
Pettys turned back to a shelf and resumed clearing it off, placing the books, records, and photos into a box. Cleary watched him a moment, noticing that his left hand was bandaged.
"Heard Billy Ray was planning on dumping you as his manager. That must have been a blow after all those years in the boonies."
Pettys knelt down and rearranged the contents of the box. "He'd been under a lot of pressure lately... from Silhouette Records to sign a new contract, from that crazy ex-girlfriend, not to mention..."
Suddenly realizing the implications of the comment, Pettys stood up. "Hey, what the hell are you getting at? Tell me that!"
Cleary grabbed him by the lapel of his sport jacket, pulled it open, and patted the inside pocket. "What do we got here, Calvin?"
"Get your hands outta there, damn it," Pettys said, reaching for the intruder's arm.
Cleary grabbed his wrist, and with his other hand he pulled out a thick wad of bills. He whistled softly as he flipped through them. "My, my. 'Rock and roll ain't just music anymore, it's business.'"
He looked up at Pettys. "Remember that? Now I understand a little better."
"Damn it. Give me that money, Cleary, before I call the cops on you."
Cleary ignored him, quickly counted the bills. "There's eight grand here. Let's see, with the six grand you paid for that new Caddy outside, that's fourteen grand. You're real flush, aren't you?"
He looked Pettys in the eye. "Is that what it costs to sell a kid down the river, you two-bit, dried-up piece of Texarkana bullshit?"
"Betts wouldn't have taken the fall, Cleary. That's why I'm leaving town. Without my testimony, they got no case against him. See what I mean?"
"No, I don't see. You're not making much sense. Let's talk about it."
"Hey, for all I know, the kid did it. Billy Ray and he were both in love with the same girl. I tell you that Jesse has got something that can drive 'em nuts, too."
Cleary threw the money on the floor and grabbed Pettys by the shirt. "On the other hand, maybe some fat manager did it, and it had more to do with money than a girlfriend spat. Twenty percent of nothing is a lot-
different than twenty percent of a three-album deal for a hundred and fifty grand. That's what I see, Calvin."
Pettys struggled to get free, a look of outrage on his face. "Now you just hold on one goddamn minute here, Cleary," he sputtered. "I loved that boy. Been with him ever since he was a sixteen-year-old panhandle guitar picker. I'd just as soon have laid down in front of a westbound train as seen any harm come to him. You got that!"
Cleary studied the man a long moment, decided he believed him. He let go of his shirt. Maybe he didn't kill Billy Ray, but Pettys still had some explaining to do. High on the list was the matter of where Pettys came upon his windfall of cash, and why he had been so interested in pointing the finger at Betts.
He looked across the living room into the kitchenette and spotted a knife embedded in the bloodstained countertop. "I was looking forward to kicking your door in Calvin, but judging by the lock, someone beat me to it."
Pettys straightened his clothes, bent over and picked up the wad of bills. "Looks that way, doesn't it? Lots of burglaries in the neighborhood lately."
Cleary remained stationed between him and the door, to keep the manager from making an attempt to flee for his new Caddy. He nodded toward Pettys's bandaged hand. "Burglars stick around to play a game of mumbletypeg?"
Pettys stared at him. "I got nothing more to say to you."
Cleary's eyes narrowed. "Talk to me, Pettys. We need to get a few things out on the table here."
When the fat man didn't respond, Cleary grabbed his bandaged hand and squeezed. "Now!"
"Jesus," Pettys screamed. "Let go."
He loosed his hold slightly, but held the hand in the air, waiting for Pettys to start talking. "C'mon, speak up. Who were they?"
"Same two guys as before," he said in a rush of words. "I don't know who they work for."
"What did they want?"
Pettys remained silent, a terrified look on his face. Cleary noticed the bandage was stained dark brown on his palm. He started to squeeze again. "Damn it. Stop it, Cleary. They told me they'd kill me, for chrissakes, if I said anything. With guys like that it's as routine as coffee."
