Still River

by Harry Hunsicker

  “Hell, that’s what the police report said about the last ten dealers they busted,” I said. “Everybody they nail is a Fortune 500 drug lord.”

  Nolan shook her head. “That’s just publicity crap they put out so they can squeeze some more money for the budget.”

  “She’s right.” Delmar nodded once. “But according to my source, this guy really is like that.”

  “Is your source reliable?”

  Olson swallowed his drink wrong and started coughing. “Jesus Christ, Hank …”

  Delmar looked hurt. “That’s a low blow. Do I question your ability with that kung fu shit you use?”

  “So is your source reliable?” It was the same every time. And every time I wanted to know how reliable the source was. Bad intel’s killed a lot of folks over the years.

  Olson managed to quit spluttering vodka for a minute. “He’s with the DEA. He’s a friend of a friend. A very good friend of a friend. He has also been reliable in the past.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything.

  Nolan made little circular motions with her glass on the tabletop. “Dupree feels disenfranchised.”

  “Disen … what?” Delmar said.

  Olson frowned and raised one eyebrow. I took another sip of scotch.

  “Dis-en-fran-chised.” She said the word slowly, enunciating each syllable. “Guy’s from the bad part of town. No economic opportunities for an ambitious young man.”

  “He’s a drug dealer,” I said. “Coke, heroin. Bad guy. Bad stuff.”

  “I didn’t say he was a good guy.” Nolan removed the rubber band from her ponytail. She brushed her fingers once through her hair before replacing it. “Helps to understand what you’re up against.”

  Delmar changed the subject. “So how’d you get involved with this anyway?”

  I thought about it for a few seconds and then told the whole story to the three of them.

  “You realize that Charlie’s dead, don’t you?” Delmar said.

  “As the proverbial doorknob,” Olson added. He pulled a cigarillo out of a pocket and lit it, blowing a plume of smoke skyward.

  “Yeah. It looks that way.”

  Nobody said anything for a while. We sat and drank and looked at the purple walls. The waiter came back around. Delmar paid the tab and then put out his cigar. “What’s your next move?”

  “Try his apartment tomorrow. See if there’s any info there.” I stood up.

  Delmar stood also. “Watch your backside. Anybody named Jack the Crack doesn’t suffer a defeat quietly. We’ll keep our ears open, see if there’s any word on anything.”

  “Remember, there’s no I in team.” Olson patted me on the back so hard I thought my shoulder would separate. “Call if you need backup.” He loved to play the ex-jock sometimes, spouting off bumper sticker philosophy about winning and losing and the competitive spirit.

  “Thank you, Tom Landry.” I rubbed my throbbing shoulder and headed to the door. “You’re right; there’s no I in team. Only an m and an e.”

  “You’re not talking trash on Coach Landry, are you, Hank?” Olson stopped and frowned.

  “Me? Never.” I could sense Nolan a step behind me, trying not to laugh.

  We walked out together. The clouds had broken and I could see a couple of stars penetrate the smog and ambient city lights. We said good-bye, and Nolan and I drove off with the windows down, enjoying the not-quite-cool night air. “Where am I taking you?”

  “I’m staying at Ernie and Miranda’s.”

  We were silent for the next few blocks, both watching the city night slide past. At a stoplight Nolan turned to me and said, “Narcissistic personality disorder.”

  “Huh?”

  “The mark tonight. Shagan. At that fancy fish place on McKinney,” she said. “He has NPD. I’ll bet Coleman Dupree does too.”

  “Who are you? Dr. Phil’s assistant?”

  She ignored my question. “NPDs have a sense of entitlement and are exploitive. Rules don’t apply.”

  The light turned green. “What’s your point?”

  “Narcissistic personality, operating completely outside the law.” She slouched against the door and crossed her legs. “That’s a dangerous combination.”

  I nodded. “Kinda figured that already.”

  “Be careful.”

  “He’s not the first dangerous guy I’ve dealt with.”

  Nolan shrugged but didn’t reply.

  After a few more blocks she said, “I’m gonna be using Ernie’s office for a while.”

  “I figured as such.”

  “That okay with you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Trying not to step on any toes,” she said. “But since he’s not going to need it for the immediate future …”

  “Fine by me. Use it however long you need it.” I left unspoken the fact that barring a miracle, Uncle Ernie would never need his office again. “How do you like Dallas?”

  “It’s been good to me so far. You like living here?”

  “It’s home.” I nodded.

  “You ever think about leaving here, starting something fresh?” She looked out the side window, watching the lights blur past.

  A strange question. I paused for a moment before answering. Then: “Only on months that end in r.”

  She chuckled but didn’t say anything.

  I made the right for Ernie’s street. A hundred feet later I turned into the Ruibal driveway. “Where’d you learn what you did tonight, the action you put together at the restaurant? That was smooth.”

  “I worked undercover for a while. Picked up a trick or two.” She opened the door and put one foot on the ground, turning back to look at me. “Thanks for the ride.” A smile crossed her face briefly. I was conscious of her eyes and how smoky blue they appeared in the moonlight. We looked at each other for a moment, that slightly unsettling jittery gaze people have when they are considering, if only briefly, the possibility of hooking up, the what-would-it-be-like thoughts that pass through the heads of all normal people at one time or the other. The moment passed. This was Ernie’s niece.

  “See you around,” I said.

  She waved without turning as she made her way up the sidewalk.

  I watched her enter the house of my dying partner and then drove home.

  Three fingers of Dewar’s filled one of my good, leaded crystal highball glasses to the middle. Two ice cubes raised the level more, but made it look less like a shot of whiskey and more like a nightcap. I made my evening tour of the house, sipping scotch and thinking about Coleman Dupree, Jack the Crack Washington, and Charlie Wesson. Every window and door checked out, locked and bolted. I armed the security system, a series of commercial-grade stuff and a couple of homemade devices. Never hurts to be too careful.

  Glenda piled up on her corner of the bed. I turned the air conditioner to arctic, placed my pistol beneath one of the pillows, and slid under the covers, eager for sleep.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  My alarm buzzed at seven. I rolled over and looked at the address on the piece of paper sitting on the bedside table. It would have been too easy if Charlie Wesson’s apartment had been in the neighborhood. Instead, he lived as far away from me as possible while still being in the city limits.

  I groaned and rolled out of bed. A hot shower drove the rest of the scotch out of my system. I fried three eggs in olive oil in one skillet, a thick slab of Virginia ham from the freezer in another. Coffee percolated while I buttered two pieces of toast. I threw all of it on a plate, doused the eggs with Tabasco, and ate the breakfast of the successful private investigator. At 8:03 I started the truck and pulled out of the driveway with my third cup of coffee in an insulated, spill-proof tumbler between my legs.

  Charlie lived off Luna Road, on the far west side of the city. With traffic it took an hour and five minutes to get there. The location was a strange place to put an apartment, in the middle of a run-down industrial district. The Trinity River ran north to south through t
his section of the city, and much of the land lay in the floodplain. Charlie’s apartment, Meadowland Estates, would have looked better if it had been under water. It was two stories, about forty units, and sat at the bottom of a hollow. Boards covered the doors and windows of three downstairs units. The middle of the second-floor walkway sagged like a swaybacked mule.

  A concrete plant and a warehouse sat on either side. Grimy lettering on the front door of the warehouse proclaimed it to be the world headquarters of Max’s Extruded Plastics. A double-wide trailer with a faded sign that said “April’s Massage” sat directly across the street. Trees and overgrown vegetation threatened to return April to the wild. It was the only structure on that side of the road for miles.

  I parked facing toward the street and got out. It was hot already, probably in the low nineties, and the air smelled funny, like chemicals, either the concrete or the plastics, I wasn’t sure. Charlie rented the apartment on the top right, number 309. The stairs looked solid so I went up, two at a time. No answer when I rapped. No deadbolt, just a locked thumb latch. I looked in both directions and got out my lock picks. Nothing moved anywhere. Not a person, not a dog or cat, not even a bird chirped. I felt like I was in one of those bad 1950s movies where everybody disappears except for the brain-eating zombies.

  Years of use had worn the tumblers on the lock. That made picking it more difficult. After almost two minutes I pushed open the door and entered. The AC hadn’t been used in a while and hot, musty air billowed out, wrapping around me. I immediately started to sweat.

  Charlie dwelled in a spartan world, a clean but simple apartment on the dirt end of town.

  The place was tiny; a minuscule kitchen opened onto a combination living/dining area with a bedroom and bath off to the right. I’d owned stereo speakers bigger than that kitchen. In the center of the room a milk-crate coffee table sat in front of a threadbare sofa in the center of the room. Two high-back dining room chairs were on the other side. A thirteen-inch black-and-white TV rested in the corner, on the floor. On one wall, an eight-by-ten picture of Charlie and Vera and what appeared to be their mother hung cockeyed. I straightened it. It was an old photograph; Vera had wings for hair and purple eye shadow. That was it for the living area.

  The rest of the place wasn’t as fancy. A twin bed, freshly made with hospital crispness, dominated the bedroom. On the opposite wall, a cheap, particleboard dresser sat under a cracked mirror. Someone had taped several inspirational poems and sappy friendship cards on the mirror. The cards were signed “Jenny.” A gooseneck reading lamp sat on the battered metal folding chair that served as a nightstand. There were two books resting on the makeshift table—a Bible and an Alcoholics Anonymous handbook.

  Cue the sad music, please.

  I didn’t know what I was looking for so I looked at everything. The bathroom was closest and I started there. Charlie preferred discount-brand toiletries. He even used the single-blade, disposable razors. My face hurt just looking at them. There were no drugs of any sort, not even aspirin or cold medicine. Two towels, so worn that light shown through, hung over the shower rod. Everything was clean.

  Bedroom next. The door on the closet stuck so I banged on it until it moved. I was groping the pockets in the third of Charlie’s fourth pair of khakis when I heard the front door open.

  I drew my pistol and disappeared into the closet, leaving the door open slightly so the entrance to the bedroom was visible. I heard the front door shut. Then silence.

  One one thousand.

  Two one thousand.

  I moved my head slightly, straining for a better angle to catch a sound. Sweat drenched my body now. The compressor on the refrigerator kicked in. At the count of thirty, I heard a footfall on the linoleum in the kitchen. Then movement at the bedroom door. I got the faintest whiff of stale cigarette smoke. I drew a bead at the entrance, chest high, pistol clasped in both hands.

  The door rested ajar, at a forty-five-degree angle to the wall. It opened inward, toward the closet where I hid. The bathroom was on the opposite side of the room. The door started a slow arc toward me, moving at the speed of dripping honey. Something long and black poked into the room. The barrel of a shotgun, pointed at the bathroom. The intruder had a fifty-fifty shot of where someone would hide—closet or bathroom. Lucky for me, he chose the bathroom first.

  More of the weapon slid into view, including the wooden forearm and the hand holding it. Call me old-fashioned, but my personal code of ethics did not allow me to shoot an unknown someone through a door. Even if he was holding a weapon. I jumped out of the closet as quietly as possible and kicked the door, putting everything I had into it. The door splintered into the arm, the gun dropped, and a woman’s voice screamed.

  I booted the shotgun toward the bed and slung open the door, pistol at the ready. A woman stood there, in the middle of the living area, breathing heavily. She looked to be somewhere between twenty-five and forty, with the hollowed-eyed appearance of one who’d seen too much too soon too often. She was wearing a dirty pair of hip-hugger blue jeans and a worn gray T-shirt. Five foot four, she weighed in at maybe one hundred pounds, and then only after eating Thanksgiving dinner. Everything about her was stringy: her hair, limbs, torso, even her voice.

  “Who are you?” Her words came out half shriek, half whisper, a wreck from booze, cigarettes, or just plain bad living. She held her left arm pressed to her body and started to cry.

  “My name’s Hank. Who are you?”

  “Where’s Charlie?” She rubbed her nose with her good hand.

  “I don’t know. I’m looking for him too.” I holstered my pistol and picked up the shotgun from the bedroom. It was an old Remington, rusty. And empty. I tossed it on the sofa. “Are you Jenny?”

  She nodded and sniffled again. “Where’s Charlie?” Half shriek, half wail this time.

  I decided to try a different tack. “Is your arm okay?”

  She pressed her injured limb tighter into her bony chest and frowned at me, eyes wary. “It hurts.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Want me to look at it?” I took a step toward her, a smile on my face. You can trust me, even though I just kicked the shit out of you.

  “NO.” Back to shrieking again. She took a step backward, toward the front door.

  “Look, Jenny. I’m trying to find Charlie too. I don’t want to hurt him, or you. Charlie’s sister hired me. She’s very worried about him.” I held my hands out to her, palms upward, in a gesture of openness and honesty.

  “Vera hired you?”

  “Yeah. Vera hired me.” I dug a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped sweat out of my eyes. “Do you know her?”

  She sniffled and wiped her nose on her bare arm. “No. But Charlie talked about her. She was the only family he had. Do you have a cigarette?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “I want a cigarette.”

  “There’s a store not too far. Want to go with me and we’ll buy you a pack?”

  She looked at me like I had mush for brains. “I’ve got my own. They’re at my apartment. Next door. I want one now.”

  Stupid me. “Let’s go to your place so you can get a smoke, and then tell me about Charlie. Maybe together we can figure out where he is.”

  She said okay and trotted out. I followed her, leaving Charlie’s place unlocked. I could smell the cigarettes and the garbage can that needed to be emptied when she opened the door. I could also feel the thin trickle of cool air coming from the small air conditioner jammed in the window. The place was still hot but after Charlie’s it felt like the North Pole.

  Her apartment was identical to his, only dirty and more decorated. Not better decorated, just more. Colored beads dangled in the doorway of the kitchen. Two futons designated the living area. She had an actual coffee table between them. A stack of People magazines and an overflowing ashtray littered the top. Several framed posters of animals, cats and dogs doing cute stuff, had been hung haphazardly on one wall. She owned a color television, also a th
irteen-inch model. It was tuned to a cartoon show with the sound muted.

  “You want something to drink?” Jenny, the hostess with the mostest, was in the kitchen. She lit a cigarette and started rummaging in the refrigerator. “I got some Big Red, and iced tea.”

  “No thanks, I’m fine.” I debated whether to sit down but decided not too. “So how do you know Charlie?”

  “We met at an NA meeting. We’re both in recovery.”

  “You and Charlie dating?”

  She popped the top on a can of Big Red and took a swig. “Yeah. We were gonna get married too. Only now he’s disappeared.” Her voice was sad but resigned, as if important people disappeared from her life often. She sat down on one of the futons and looked off into space. “Charlie’d been straight for a long time, lots longer than me. We were gonna make something of ourselves. How’d you get into his apartment?” Something on her ass itched because she shifted her weight and scratched it.

  “When was the last time you saw Charlie?”

  Five seconds turned into ten as she looked at me and tried to process my question. You could almost hear the synapses firing. “Monday. Monday morning. He asked me if the tie he was wearing looked okay. He had a meeting that afternoon and wanted to look good.”

  “Who was his meeting with? Did he say?”

  “The tie was red with a green little doohickey on it. It looked kinda Christmasy—” She quit talking as a coughing fit racked her body. It rattled deep, sounding of chest congestion and bronchitis. When it subsided, she took a drink of Big Red and fired up another breather.

  “Jenny … the meeting? Did he say who it was with? What it was about?”