My Soul to Keep

by Melanie Wells

  I tried to look enthusiastic. “Wow. Great. Good for you.”

  “I know Caligula has always had a bad reputation—”

  “Terrible.”

  “But we’re changing that.” I could see her considering what to say next. “I knew the dancer who was killed this winter. And I know her killer met her here.” She said it like she was confessing.

  “She was a nice kid.”

  “She was.”

  “It was terrible, what happened to her.”

  “We’re looking to attract a different crowd now. Nothing like that should ever happen here. These girls should be safe.”

  I didn’t say anything. If she was looking for absolution, she’d come to the wrong place.

  “Our target market is men ages twenty-five to sixty-five with incomes of forty-five thousand or more.”

  I sighed. I hadn’t come to discuss her business plans. “Do you remember a customer named Gordon Pryne?”

  “Very well.” She sipped her Pellegrino. “No longer our target market.”

  “He’s back in Huntsville, so I don’t think you’ll need to worry about it.”

  “Did you want to talk to me about Gordon Pryne?”

  “Not exactly. I’m actually wondering if any of your customers drives a white Ford Fairlane.”

  She gestured toward the walls. “We’re a business with no windows. I come early. I leave late. I eat at my desk. You looking for anyone in particular?”

  I pulled out my sex offender list and read her the names.

  “I don’t recognize any of them.”

  “It was worth a shot,” I said. “I thought maybe there was some connection.”

  “To what?”

  “Nicholas Chavez’s kidnapping. I’m sure you’ve heard about that. The kidnapper drove a white Ford Fairlane, we think, and may have lived in this neighborhood.” I took a sip from my glass. My stomach hurt. “I think this was a wild goose chase. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  She stood and offered her hand. “You didn’t introduce yourself, by the way.”

  “I’m sorry.” I extended my hand. “I guess I’m a little overwhelmed. This is not exactly familiar territory for me. I’m Dylan Foster.”

  “You’re not a cop. A reporter?”

  “Just a friend of the family.” I handed her a business card. “Will you call me if you hear anything about that white car? Or anything about Nicholas?”

  “Of course.” She walked me to the door. “Did you talk to Wayne yet?”

  “Who’s Wayne?”

  She pointed. “The bartender. He knows more about the clientele than I do. If there’s anything to find out, he’s your man.”

  “Thanks.”

  I kept my head down as I walked to the bar. I didn’t want any more images from this place in my head.

  I sat down on the edge of a bar stool and worked on maintaining as unfriendly a demeanor as I could muster to discourage anyone from even thinking of hitting on me. Since I’m naturally hostile, this was the one part of my evening that was a snap. I was careful not to touch the bar—I didn’t want to contemplate where the customers’ hands had been. As I waited for the bartender to come my way, I glanced up at the bar. My rotten luck was holding. The bar was mirrored to make sure patrons seated there could have a full, unobstructed view of the dancers behind them. I grimaced and looked away.

  The bartender made his way over. “What can I get you, little lady?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions. Do you have a minute?”

  He gestured toward the packed bar.

  “Do I look like I have a minute?”

  “Please? It will only take a second. Eileen Hardy suggested I talk to you.”

  He leaned on his elbows and looked at me. “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you know if any of your customers drives a white Ford Fairlane? Probably a ’63 or ’64?”

  He jerked his head at the wall behind him. “See any windows? I’m behind the bar pulling drinks. Why don’t you talk to Rocky?”

  “Who’s Rocky?”

  He nodded toward the door. “Bouncer. He keeps an eye on the lot. He might know about a car like that. You don’t see many of ’em.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check with him on the way out. I don’t suppose you’ve overheard anyone talking about Nicholas Chavez?”

  “The kidnapped kid? That’s what you’re after? You a cop?”

  “No.”

  “Private detective?”

  “Just a friend.”

  “I haven’t heard a thing. I guarantee you if I had, I’d a called it in first thing. That’s sick, taking a kid like that. They ought to string that guy up by his—”

  “Any of your regulars stop showing up suddenly?” I asked. “The kidnapping happened last Saturday.”

  He looked up toward the ceiling, thinking. “Not that I can think of, off the top of my head. With a little time, I could give you a better answer, probably.”

  “Any of your customers Phoenix fans?”

  “Suns or Diamondbacks?”

  “Both.”

  “Lots of ’em, probably.”

  “If I have someone bring you a sketch of the suspect, will you look at it and see if you know the guy?”

  “Sure. What’s he look like?”

  “He has a Phoenix Suns jersey, number thirteen.”

  The bartender nodded enthusiastically. “Steve Nash. Point guard. Leads the NBA in assists.”

  “I know. Great floor vision.”

  “What else you got?”

  “He’s kind of scrawny. Probably a meth addict. Narrow, sharp features. Sallow complexion. White guy, or maybe Hispanic. And he wears cowboy boots. We think he wears long-sleeved collared shirts. Lots of plaid. All old and worn out. And he wears an Arizona Diamondbacks cap. A black one, we think. The one with the snake head on it.”

  “Sounds like Googie.”

  My heart stopped. “Googie who? Do you have a last name? Address? Anything?”

  “Never heard a last name. He comes in here every now and again. Dealers don’t sit still. He never stays long.”

  “You don’t have a credit card slip, do you? Anything?”

  “Dealers always pay cash. Besides, I haven’t seen that much of him since … oh … January? Used to come in here with his running buddy.”

  “Do you know why they stopped coming?”

  “I think his buddy got sent up to Huntsville. Doing time for rape.”

  I could feel my hands go cold. “What’s his buddy’s name?”

  He cocked his head again, thinking. “Jeff? George? No … Gordon. I think it was Gordon something.”

  “Was it Gordon Pryne?”

  He slapped the bar and pointed at me. “That’s it. Gordon Pryne.”

  36

  I CALLED MARTINEZ AND Ybarra, but neither of them picked up. I left messages for both, then sat in my truck and stared at the steering wheel, trying to figure out what to do. Men walked in and out of Caligula, passing my truck without noticing me. The glow from the streetlight was greenish gray. It made everyone look dead.

  I couldn’t imagine how Gordon Pryne could be connected. As far as I knew, he’d never even seen Nicholas. He had shown up at Maria’s out of the blue, stoned out of his mind, one time that I knew of, and tried to give Nicholas a teddy bear. I don’t think he ever got into the house, though. That was last January.

  My phone rang. I dug in my bag and checked the ID. It was Maria. I almost answered it. I wanted so badly to tell her my news. But I didn’t know where it would lead. And I didn’t want to frighten her. Gordon Pryne was a soulless, violent man. His attack on her had been cruel, brutal. Just the sound of his name could drain the color from her face. If Nicholas was in the hands of one of Pryne’s buddies, there was no telling what had happened to him by now. I rubbed my eyes. My head was beginning to pound.

  I started the truck and pulled into the street. I had only one lead. I intended to follow it as far as it too
k me, and then I’d go home and wait for Martinez to call. I couldn’t stop now. Not when I was so close.

  I drove a couple of blocks west to find the Circle Inn, the crummy pay-by-the-week motel where Gordon Pryne had lived. I parked my truck alongside the few ratty cars that were parked in the lot. Curtains in most of the windows were askew or had been replaced with towels or sheets. One window had been covered over completely with aluminum foil. Lights were on in four of the rooms.

  I stepped out into a parking lot littered with cigarette butts and walked quickly toward the office. I reached into my bag for a Kleenex and used it to pick up a hypodermic I found on the ground. I could just see some little kid picking that thing up and getting some terrible disease. I held it at arm’s length, walked over to the Dumpster, dropped in both the Kleenex and the hypodermic, and wiped my hands on my jeans.

  The office was locked, so I knocked like the sign said. A minute later, an elderly man poked his head out. His white, feathery hair flew out in every direction, and I could see the collar of a terrycloth robe around his turkey neck.

  “What?” he shouted.

  “I’m looking for someone named Googie.”

  “What?” he shouted again.

  I noticed a hearing aid. I leaned in and enunciated my words, raising the volume of my voice a few notches.

  “I’m looking for someone named Googie.”

  He squinted at me. “Boobie? I don’t know any Boobie!”

  “No, Googie.” I drew a G in the air. “G-o-o-g-i-e. With a G.”

  “If you’re a cop, where’s your badge?” he shouted, jabbing his bony finger at me.

  I held up my hands. “I’m not a cop.”

  “I don’t know any Googie.”

  “Are you sure? Because he used to run with a guy who lived here. Do you remember a man named Gordon Pryne?”

  He slammed the door. I heard him throw the lock.

  I knocked again. I could hear him shuffling around in there, but he never came back to the door. I sighed and looked around. What was I thinking? Standing in the middle of a high-crime neighborhood, at a drug motel, knocking on doors. At night. Alone. Of all the idiot moves I’d made recently, this one had to be the dumbest. Or at least in the top ten. I started mentally cataloging my idiot moves as I walked over to the row of rooms and knocked on the first door where a light was on.

  I could hear a TV through the thin walls.

  The door flew open, revealing filthy carpet littered with Solo cups, beer cans, and cigarette butts. Clothes were strewn around the floor. The bed was unmade. A man wearing a wife-beater tank top and boxer shorts gestured toward the television set.

  “I’m in a meeting.”

  “I just need a minute,” I said. “I’m—”

  “I don’t want no Girl Scout cookies.”

  “I’m not selling anything.” I held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

  He squinted at me. “You’re looking for smack, you come to the wrong place. Charlie don’t live here no more.”

  “I don’t want any smack. I’m looking for someone named Googie.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “Are you sure? Because I know a friend of his who used to live here.”

  “Lots of people used to live here, lady.” The man turned casually and slammed the door in my face.

  I moved on to the next lighted window. No answer.

  Gripping my bag, I looked around the parking lot, which was uninhabited except for an emaciated gray cat licking its paws beside the Dumpster. I clutched my keys between my fingers anyway, following the ridiculous advice all girls get about being out alone at night—have your keys ready in case you need to jab someone’s eyes out to defend yourself. As though that would stop an attacker with a half ounce of determination.

  Cars zoomed by on Northwest Highway. The warm night air was still and humid as I climbed the stairs. I could feel myself starting to sweat, my hands getting clammy. I tossed out a prayer—maybe Joe Riley was on duty and God could send him on over. I wondered if you lost your angel-protection privileges if you indulged in moronic behavior.

  Another lit window, another knock. No answer.

  A light came on next door. A man flung open the door, grunted, and brushed past me, then stomped down the stairs and off into the night. A woman wearing a pink satin bathrobe and full makeup stepped out of the room with a pack of cigarettes. She looked me up and down.

  “You lost, honey?”

  “I’m just—”

  “ ’Cause this is Fat Daddy’s territory, and he’ll cut you if he knows you’re working it.”

  “No, I’m not … It’s not like that. I’m just looking for someone.”

  She lit her cigarette, pulled a long drag into her lungs, and leaned against the doorjamb. She closed her eyes.

  “Long night?” I asked.

  “Just gettin’ started, honey.” She blew a thin stream of smoke into the air, opened her eyes, and turned to me. “Who you looking for?”

  “Someone named Googie.”

  I watched her face. Nothing registered.

  “Who’s looking for him?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “You don’t hear too good, do you?”

  “My name is Dylan Foster.”

  “You a cop?”

  “No. A friend of the family.”

  She laughed. “He got a rich uncle or something? Who are you, lady? If you’re not a cop.”

  “I’m looking for Nicholas Chavez.”

  “The kid? The one that got kidnapped?”

  I nodded.

  “You a private detective?”

  “I told you. Just a friend of the family.” I held my hand out. “And you are?”

  “I saw that kid’s mom on TV. Rich doctor, right? What’s the reward?”

  “She works at Parkland. She doesn’t have any money.”

  She studied me. “You look like you might have some money.”

  “I’ve got nineteen bucks on me. You want it? If you’ll tell me what you know about Googie, you can have every dime.”

  She pointed her toes and admired her pedicure. “Mama needs a new pair of shoes.”

  “All I have is nineteen dollars.” I pulled my wallet out of my bag and showed her. “Look. A ten and nine ones. I might have some change in my truck.”

  She took another drag and pointed at the street. “ATM’s right over there, honey.”

  I followed her point with my eyes. There was indeed an ATM across the street, at Nuevo Laredo Bank, which was situated between another strip joint and a bar called Spanky’s.

  “You want me to walk over there and withdraw money at night, in this neighborhood, by myself? Do I look like an idiot to you?”

  “You want to know about Googie or not?”

  “I’ve got a call in to the cops. I’m sure they’d be glad to ask you themselves. Maybe you could call Fat Daddy and let him know he’s about to go out of business.”

  She leaned her head back against the door, eyes closed, and sighed, clearly bored with my threats. “Two hundred dollars.”

  “I’m calling 911.”

  “I’ll be gone by the time they get here, sweetie.” She jerked her head toward the motel room. “I pack real light.”

  I stared across the street at the ATM, then looked back at her.

  “We’re talking about a little kid,” I said. “A little kid’s life is at stake.”

  “Ought to be worth a couple of singles, then, huh?”

  I sighed and dug in my purse for my ATM card, then stomped down the stairs and across the parking lot to my truck. I threw the door open and felt around under the seat for my flashlight. My hand closed around it, and I pulled it out, wielding it like a club. It’s one of those long metal ones that could double as a baseball bat. Holding my weapon in my hand, I stalked across the street and pushed my ATM card into the slot. It took me a minute to remember my PIN. My fingers were shaking as I punched the numbers in.

  The machine spit
the money out, and I jammed it quickly into my pocket, gripping the flashlight again and heading back across the street.

  Upstairs at room eleven, I handed the woman the cash, which she counted.

  “This is only two hundred,” she said.

  “You said two hundred!” I shouted.

  “The price is two nineteen.”

  “You’re really something, you know that?” I dug in my purse for my wallet. “Unbelievable.” I was just about to start a rant when she snatched the money out of my hand.

  “Googie lives with his mother,” she said.

  I froze. “Where?”

  “Over off Inwood. Behind that Home Depot.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Do you know what kind of car Googie drives?”

  “Googie doesn’t have a car.”

  “What about his mom?”

  “Never saw a car.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Juanita Garcia.”

  “There have to be a hundred Juanita Garcias in this town.”

  She sucked on her cigarette. “Nice lady. She made me tamales one time.”

  “You’ve been to her house?”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me where it is. I want to know exactly.”

  “I don’t remember the street.”

  “For two hundred nineteen dollars, you’d better remember the street,” I said, my hand tightening on my flashlight.

  “She owns a day care.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Little something.”

  “Little what?”

  She looked up, trying to remember. “I’m blank.”

  “Picture the sign. What color is it?”

  “White, maybe. With balloons.”

  “What color are the balloons?”

  “Red, yellow, and blue.”

  “And the sign says ‘Little’ … what?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

  “What color is the house? Do you remember? Anything noteworthy about the yard? There’s play equipment, right? Is it a chain-link fence or a wood one?”

  She snapped her fingers. “Little Blue School House.”

  “Is the house blue?”

  “Turquoise.”