Rafferty's Rules: A Rafferty P.I. Mystery

by W. Glenn Duncan

  Chapter 9

  Fran fished a tissue out of her shirt pocket. She honked and sniffed and waved her arms helplessly when I gathered up the coffee cups and carried them to the kitchen.

  I poured myself another cup and sipped it while leaning against the kitchen counter. In the other room, Fran’s snuffles and gulps slowly receded. Eventually, I fixed her a second cup and went back to the couch in her cramped, tidy living room.

  She was ready to talk again. I asked her about the weekend when Vivian went away with the DeathStars and didn’t come back.

  “Look,” she said, “I don’t know what the deal is. She might be your girlfriend or something. Even so, you should know that nobody liked her. No offense.”

  “No,” I said. “I met her once when she was a kid, that’s all. Go ahead.”

  “Okay, then. Well, I don’t know how she and Guts got together, but they weren’t friends, either. Guts said she was studying us, and that was probably right, because that‘s how she acted. I don’t know what she said to the guys, but she asked us girls all sorts of dumb questions. She wanted to know our roles in the … I think she called it the tribal society.”

  “Figures,” I said.

  “I had the feeling she thought she was in a zoo, if you can imagine that. She wanted to watch the animals and write everything down in her little notebook, so she could tell her la-de-da friends about the weird monkeys. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I’ve met sociologists. I know.”

  “Okay, but what she didn’t know was that she was just as weird to us. We laughed at her and made up crazy stories. We told her what she wanted to hear. It got to be a game.”

  “Margaret Mead in Samoa,” I said. “It’s been done before.”

  “What?” When I shook my head, she continued. “So, like I said, it was a game. Freak-out-the-rich-bitch. We went up to Sherman and hassled a drive-in to scare the straights and impress what’s-her-name. Then we rode out to the lake. We crashed a fancy country club, but they threw us out. The manager called the sheriff and everything. So, we camped in a picnic area on the lake shore. It was pretty. That’s a big lake, you know. Peaceful.”

  “Was that where you met the other bikers?”

  “Yes,” Fran said, “but that was later. After Guts got … uh, Vivian, high.”

  I sighed. “She hasn’t come down yet, Fran. What happened?”

  “We were loafing around the picnic area. Guts always made sure there was plenty of beer and grass, so people sat around drinking and smoking. There had been a family swimming there, but they left right away. A couple of the guys were on their bikes; doing doughnuts, practicing wheelies, that sort of thing.

  “And there was an initiation. They made the new guy take off all his clothes and lie down on his back. The other guys stood around him and they—never mind what they did, it was pretty gross.” She shook her head and grimaced. “I haven’t thought about that for a long time,” she said. “God, I can’t believe those guys.”

  “Vivian,” I said. “Vivian and the other bikers.”

  “Right. Well, some of it I saw at the time and some I found out later, but what happened was this. Guts had a bag of pills. Uppers, downers, reds, yellow-jackets, you name it. He put a handful of them into a beer he gave to Vivian. She got pretty loopy. I remember she staggered around talking to people and writing in her notebook, only she tried to write with the wrong end of her pencil. She was really out of it.”

  “Which vastly amused the assembled multitude.”

  “Sure,” she said defiantly. “And I thought it was funny, too. Not now, damn it, now I know it was dumb and cruel. But the only way I can handle this is to be straight with myself about those days. I don’t fool myself anymore.

  “Look, Rafferty, I’ll tell you what happened, because it helps me a little to pick at that scab, but you lay off the smart-ass cracks! Or you can fuck off out of here and not come back!”

  “I think you’ll make it, Fran,” I said. “I apologize. No more smart-ass cracks.”

  “Hey,” she said. “I’m sorry, too. And pardon my language. Just let me tell it, okay?”

  She rubbed the back of her neck and rolled her shoulders. “The bikers who took Vivian showed up just before dark. We heard them coming. Guts hollered at everybody. We girls hid and our guys got their guns out. I thought there was going to be a fight. Then Guts recognized one of the other bikers and they started talking. Sort of strained at first. You know how dogs walk around each other when they first meet? With their bodies stiff and their hair up? It was like that. After a while, though, Guts and the outlaws were slapping each other’s backs, and laughing and drinking together.”

  “Did you hear any names?”

  “Umm, let me think. One was called Turk, I remember that. He was the one Guts recognized. And another was named Smokey.” She bit her lip daintily. “Smokey something; I don’t know what the rest was.”

  “Smokey Joe?”

  “Maybe. I’m really not sure.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “What did they look like?”

  “The Smokey guy was a typical biker. Fat, long hair, beard. He had a gold earring. Turk was strange; really unusual for an outlaw. He was tall, even taller than you are—which is going some—and he had big muscles like a weight-lifter.”

  “Most weight-lifters look fat, even if they’re not.”

  “Well, not a weight-lifter, then. He was like the men in health studio ads on TV. Turk had muscles you could see. And he wasn’t hairy. He didn’t have a beard or mustache and his head was shaved. I remember it was shiny in the firelight.”

  “That’s two,” I said. “What about the others?”

  Fran shrugged. “They looked like bikers. What can I say?”

  “Okay. Tell me about their clothes. Were they wearing—what did you call them? Colors?”

  “No. That was strange, too. They were dressed like outlaws and they rode Harleys, but they didn’t wear colors.”

  “Does it matter what kind of bikes they rode?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “No outlaw would ride anything but a Harley.”

  “Goose didn’t wear his colors in the Dew Drop Inn last night. He left his vest hanging on his bike outside. Could that have happened with the five bikers at Lake Texoma?"

  “No,” she said positively. “In the first place, the boss calls the cops if bikers wear their colors in the Dew Drop, which tells you how weak the DeathStars are right now. Secondly, that night at Lake Texoma, I saw the outlaws ride up and stop. And, anyway, they wore vests, but they didn’t have any badges sewn on.”

  “Is there anything else about them you can remember?"

  “Umm, not that I can think of.” She slapped her thighs. “Hey, I’m starving. You want some lunch?”

  “Okay.”

  “The only thing is, you caught me too early on shopping day. Would you mind going out to pick up a loaf of bread? I should be okay for everything else, if sandwiches are all right.”

  “Don’t bother fixing anything. I‘ll get hamburgers. Or chicken. Or whatever.”

  “Oh, great,” she said, hopping up. “Chicken, please. There’s a Kentucky Fried about eight blocks down and two over. And I’ll make a salad.”

  “If you’d rather, we can go out.”

  “No,” she said. “Let’s eat here.” She grinned like a little girl. “I’m more comfortable in my nest. I like to play house.”

  The Colonel’s troops loaded me up with chicken and I stopped at a liquor store for a cold six-pack. I drove back toward Fran’s apartment feeling mellow and avuncular.

  Hilda had often accused me of having unusual priorities. Perhaps she was right. The night before, I hadn’t particularly enjoyed boozing with Fran Rosencrantz when she was near-naked in a dark bar. Now, I found myself looking forward to a scratch meal where she would be fully clothed in her homey little apartment.

  Well, I was looking forward to it until I turned into the driveway and saw a big black motorcycle parke
d at the foot of her steps.

  Chapter 10

  My shotgun was in the trunk. It was clean and loaded and pure hell on DeathStars. Then I thought about how it could mess up Fran’s apartment.

  I settled for the jack handle. And my car gun, a fine old Colt military automatic.

  Moderation in all things, I always say.

  My sneakers squeaked on the painted wooden steps as I climbed up to Fran’s door. Sneakers, not jogging shoes. Occupational jargon.

  There were four glass panes in the top half of the door. Fran and the biker stood in the kitchen. He was in his early twenties, with dark hair. He was cleaner than Goose and a lot neater. He wore new jeans and a short-sleeved white shirt. He waved his arms a lot when he talked.

  Fran’s kitchen had a small Formica serving counter and she stood behind it, opposite the biker. Her face was pale and her eyes were large and round. She held a long kitchen knife in her right hand. She looked shocked, not frightened, and she didn’t seem to be holding the knife defensively. And she had mentioned salad. Still …

  The young guy jabbered away like a nervous salesman, his words muffled and indistinct through the closed door. I wondered if there was more mileage in watching or interrupting. Decisions, decisions.

  Finally, he stopped pacing and waving and he started around the kitchen counter toward Fran.

  That seemed a good time to interrupt.

  I left the Colt tucked in the back of my belt and I walked in carrying the jack handle. “I’m home, honey,” I said.

  Fran eek-ed and jumped back. The knife clattered onto the counter. The kid whirled around. He looked excited, not dangerous.

  Fran leaned against the sink with her right hand flat on her chest in that “you startled me” gesture only women use. “Rafferty!” she said. “Don’t do that!”

  The kid’s eyes lit up like he had won a season ticket to the motorcycle races. “Hey, wow,” he said. “You’re the guy who did that to Goose? All right!”

  I nodded at him and spoke to Fran. “I take it we’re all friends here?”

  “Of course,” she said. “What’s that? Did you have a flat tire?”

  I laid the jack handle on the counter. “I hate to hit people with my hands,” I said. “Contrary to what you see in the movies, it’s awfully hard on knuckles.”

  The kid was pretty impressed by that. He did thirty seconds of “wows” and “all rights.” Plus arm waving. Considering his dark hair and windmill imitations, his last name had to end with a vowel.

  Fran frowned. “Joe told me you … But why … Oh, Joe’s bike!” She smiled smugly. “But what if he had a gun?”

  “Then,” I said, “I would have played my castanets for him. Music soothes the savage beast and all that.”

  They both looked puzzled until I showed them the Colt and shook it. It rattled; all those mass-produced military pieces do.

  I was showing off, I suppose, or maybe, as Hilda claimed, I haven’t grown up in many ways. Take your pick. No fair choosing both answers.

  Before Joe, the kid biker, could start up again, I sent him down to the car for the chicken and beer. He called me sir when he left. It made me feel battle-scarred. And old.

  We attacked the Colonel’s chicken, Fran’s salad, and my beer at a matchbook-sized pine table between the kitchen and the living room. Between bites, I heard about Joe.

  He was Joe Zifretti, the younger brother of Fran’s ex-husband. He loved motorcycles, hated outlaw bikers, and didn’t get along with his brother any better than Fran did.

  “Joe heard about Goose,” said Fran, “and he came to see if I was okay.” She wiped her lips, smoothed her napkin into her lap, and looked at me steadily. “You didn’t tell me you beat up Goose last night.”

  Joe Zifretti clicked his tongue and shook his head in a “wow” gesture. In a dark room, he would have been speechless.

  I shrugged.

  “And you burned Goose’s bike,” Fran said.

  “He burned his bike,” I said. “However, I did suggest to him the act might please me.”

  Joe’s eyes clicked back and forth. Wimbledon front row. If his mouth hadn’t been busy chewing, the noise would have been unbearable.

  “You’re not so different from Goose, then, are you?”

  “Wrong,” I said. “I am not fat, merely robust. I brush my teeth regularly and bathe when the need arises. I don’t wear anybody’s colors. And, cross my heart, Miss Priss, I never sold a blonde in my whole entire life. Which brings us back to the point: what happened to Vivian after Turk, Smokey Joe, and the others arrived?”

  “Men!” Fran said.

  “It's hell, ain’t it? So tell me about it.”

  She helped herself to more carrot salad before she spoke. “As I said, Vivian was pretty high from the pills Guts gave her. After things calmed down—when Guts and the others were talking and drinking—Vivian stumbled over to them. I wasn’t close enough to hear everything they said, but I think they were annoyed. I remember Wendy and I watched for a while, because we thought Fancy-Pants was going to get hers. But she didn’t. Guts let her sit down with them. He patted her shoulder like you would pat a dog. Friendly, but like he owned her.”

  “The more I hear about this Holman scumbag,” I said, “the happier I am that truck got him.”

  Joe mumbled around a chicken leg. It sounded like “you got it.” Or something similar.

  “Okay,” I said. “I get the picture, Fran. What happened then?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. After a while, our guys—the DeathStars—came around and told us to go to bed. Guts wanted to talk to Turk and Smokey What’s-it and the others, alone. So Tony and I went to sleep. The last I saw, Guts and the outlaws were still sitting around the fire, talking.”

  “Was Vivian Mollison with them?”

  “Oh, yes. I think she was asleep on the ground next to Guts. At least, she looked asleep.” Fran put her fork down. “That was the last time I saw her.”

  “When did the outlaws leave?”

  “Sometime in the middle of the night. Their bikes woke me and I got up to go to the bathroom. When I went back to bed, I could still hear them a long way off.”

  “What happened the next morning?”

  “First thing, Guts called all the guys around for a meeting. They made sure none of us girls were close enough to hear.”

  “Presumably, that was when Guts told them he had sold Vivian.”

  Fran nodded. “But, look, I can’t prove that. I’m pretty sure he sold her, but I’m really only guessing from what happened after the meeting.”

  “Give me a fr’instance,” I said.

  “Well, we never saw Vivian again. That was the most obvious thing. And the guys acted funny, like little kids with a secret. They wouldn’t tell, but they were ready to bust. They made jokes about the going price for college girls and whether it was better to sell one complete or a piece at a time. Dumb stuff like that.”

  “Any idea how much money was involved?”

  Fran shook her head. “No. And Guts didn’t share it with the guys, I don’t think. Joe, do you know?”

  Joe Zifretti choked on a bite of chicken and dropped the drumstick like it was hot. Then, with his hands empty, he could talk. “Christ, no! I only heard the story later, on the street. Somebody said five hundred dollars, but somebody else said seventy-five. And another guy said he heard a thousand.”

  He knocked over a salt shaker. Fran’s table wasn’t big enough for three people if one of them was an arm-waver. “Street talk,” said Joe. “You know how it goes. You can hear anything.”

  “One of the things I heard indicated the outlaws who bought Vivian were from Oklahoma,” I said. “What do you know about that?”

  Joe twisted his lips and said, “That’s nothing. Me—I heard Oklahoma, Louisiana, and Arkansas, plus San Antonio, Odessa, Lubbock, even Mineral Wells, for God’s sake. I don’t believe any of it. Thing is, see, outlaws don’t hang around any one place unless they’re in a club. Okay,
they might move into somebody’s territory for a while, but they won’t stay too long, because the local club will run ’em off. Hell, those guys could be anywhere in the country by now.”

  “Maybe so,” I said. “Now tell me how you fit in between sister-in-law Fran and brother Tony. You see, Joe, if you’re keeping tabs on Fran for the DeathStars, I will be very angry about it.”

  “Hey, no way!” Palms out, fingers spread, wide eyes, and a touch of urgency in his voice. Joe Zifretti was a study of innocence. “See, that’s the problem! To the average person, everyone who rides a bike is an outlaw. We all get blamed because of a few sleazy guys like Guts Holman.”

  “Not to mention your brother.”

  “Okay, okay. That’s fair enough, Mr Rafferty, but Tony and I don’t get along. We never have. Fran can tell you that.”

  Fran continued to crunch her salad. I had long since given up. There‘s a limit to how many carrots a man can eat at one sitting.

  “Joe’s right,” Fran said. “He’s been very sweet to me since I left Tony. Don’t be so macho and over-protective, Rafferty.”

  “Congratulations, Joe,” I Said. “The vote is two to nothing—with one abstention—that you’re a good-guy biker, not a bad-guy biker. Maybe so. Still, you showed up too soon for me. Twelve hours after I play patty-cake with Goose, you rush in here to tell Fran about it.” I smiled at him. “Reassure me.”

  “Mr Rafferty, everybody in town is laughing about that. After all, Goose isn’t very popular. He's mean as a snake; he’s stomped lots of guys. So when you took him like you did, well …”

  Even if you gagged him, Joe would never be at a loss for words. His hands kept talking long after his mouth took a break.

  “All right,” I said. “I’m the new street legend. A one-man A-Team. I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

  “Mr Rafferty,” he said, “what did you really do to his foot?”

  “Shotgun. But it was only birdshot. I made sure he didn’t get one of the buckshot rounds. I don’t know why everybody acts like I went after him with a goddamned flame thrower.”