Deadline

by K. A. Tracy

  “That’s all?” Monica asked hopefully.

  “Not quite.” Sam handed Monica the Data Search list of Rydells. “While he’s doing that, I’d like you to see if any of the numbers on the bill match any of these numbers.”

  Monica slowly flipped through the pages. “I hope my scotch is in the mail, too,” she commented with an arched eyebrow.

  “If you scan both the phone bill and the list of Rydell numbers as editable text files and merge them into a directory, it’ll be easy to see if there are any duplicates.”

  Monica made a face. “I should have thought of that. I’ll get right on it.”

  Sam tapped on the door jamb of Marlene’s office. Her editor waved her in. “Come in, come in. So when can I expect to see the Rydell copy?”

  “How late can I go with the deadline?”

  “Five o’clock Thursday.”

  “Then you’ll probably see something around 4:55 Thursday,” Sam smiled.

  “Is turning in copy early against your religion or something?”

  “I have no religion.”

  “No wonder it’s impossible to put the fear of God into you,” Marlene smiled back.

  “That’s not necessarily true,” Sam said slowly. She recounted the experience of nearly being reduced to human road kill the night before.

  Marlene slumped back in her chair. “Were you hurt? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “No and no. Thanks anyway.”

  “This just doesn’t happen in Palm Springs, except back when the college kids used to invade us for spring break. You think there’s a connection between what happened last night and your investigation?”

  Sam did but played it down. “It’s possible although it does seem a bit melodramatic.”

  “Well, for God’s sake—and mine—please be careful. No story’s worth getting run over for. By the way, how is the story coming?”

  “Fine, thanks.” San stood up and headed toward the door.

  “Do you think you’ll be doing a follow up?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Can you at least give me an idea of how many column inches you think the story will be?”

  “You’ll be the first to know, as soon as I figure it out.”

  Marlene sighed and pulled an economy-sized bottle of Rolaids out of her desk. “Writers. God love ‘em.”

  • • •

  Despite Ellen’s adamancy, Sam wasn’t convinced drugs could be completely ruled out yet as a factor in Rydell’s death. His reported run-ins with George Manuel prompted her to see if the neighbor had a known history with drugs. It took calls to the DMV, Nate Joseph, and a cop friend in LA before she had the answer and was on her way back to Desert Wash Drive.

  The idea in Palm Springs is to get errands done early to beat the afternoon heat. But when it’s already 105 degrees at 10:00 in the morning, that plan gets shot to literal hell. The forecasted high for the day was 118, with warmer temperatures expected tomorrow. Visitors either stayed inside with the air conditioner running nonstop or neck deep in a pool outside. Residents just soldiered on with sunscreen and water bottles in hand to stave off skin cancer and dehydration. Sam found it fascinating that despite having already drunk two quarts of iced green tea this morning, she had yet to go to the bathroom once.

  Walking into the Windy Dunes lobby, Sam noticed a shiny new aluminum mailbox making a gleaming spectacle of itself among the older copper-colored doors. She took the elevator to the third floor where wind-blown desert sand crunched under her cross-trainers. Sam wondered if that’s how the building got its name.

  She opened the screen door to George Manuel’s apartment and tapped out a friendly rat-tat-a-tat-tat, tat-tat. From behind the lightweight front door, she could hear the faint sound of music. Sam waited a full minute then knocked again, this time with enough insistence to make her knuckles sting.

  A sleepy voice called out from behind the door, “Yeah?”

  “Hey George, it’s Sam.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah, you know…”

  A dead bolt lock turned, and the door opened. Sleep-puffed eyes squinted at her. “I don’t know you.”

  “You would if you read the right paper.”

  George shook his head, as if his ears were plugged with water. “Man, who are you, and what do you want?”

  Sam wedged her leg and shoulder just inside the doorjamb. “I’m Sam Perry. I’m a reporter for the Weekender, and I want to talk to you about one of your neighbors, Jeff Rydell.”

  George’s foggy brain cleared, and he was instantly alert—and wary. “I don’t know anything about that.” He tried to close the door, but Sam’s body was an effective doorstop.

  “I think you’d rather talk to me than the police.”

  “Why would I be talking to the police?”

  “Local cops are always interested when a convicted drug dealer moves into their area, Jorge.”

  Once again, a social security number had proven to be her best friend. Sam used Manuel’s name and address to get his birthdate from the DMV; she gave Nate his name and birthdate to get a social security number; and then she asked her cop friend to run the social through the law enforcement data base. The name Jorge Diego-Manuel popped twice in Beverly Hills. Both arrests were pot busts with intent to distribute. The first case was dropped when the drugs disappeared from the police evidence room, and he received probation on the second after pleading down to a misdemeanor.

  “When did you start Anglicizing your name, Jorge?”

  “My name is George now,” his eyes darted nervously. “I’m not that person anymore.”

  “Look, I’m not out to get you busted,” Sam assured him. “All I want is to ask you some questions.”

  He rubbed his face. “Fine, come in.”

  “No thanks. I’d rather we talk here. Don’t worry, I’ll speak quietly.” Although she had occasionally walked into potentially dangerous situations during her career, she wasn’t foolhardy. No reason to go into a stranger’s apartment as an unwelcome guest when you could talk publicly in front of a slew of nosy neighbors.

  “Goddamn,” George glared at her. “Then wait a minute and let me get my shirt.”

  He left her at the front door and disappeared down the hall. Sam peered into Manuel’s apartment; it was the mirror-image of Rydell’s but in layout only. The living room boasted a state-of-the-art stereo in a solid oak entertainment cabinet—this was obviously not one of Rose’s furnished units. Resting on top of the cabinet was a brand-new television.

  “The drug business must be booming,” Sam muttered.

  George’s taste in art leaned toward cinematic pop culture, with what looked to be vintage posters of Clash of the Titans, Mighty Joe Young, and Beast from 20,000 Fathoms visible. Sam found it curious that Manuel had enough money for expensive furniture and electronics and yet chose to live in a rundown building in a low-income neighborhood.

  George came back five minutes later, looking surprisingly put together. He’d shaved, combed his hair, and looked downright collegiate in his jeans and T-shirt. Sam thought the gold Virgin of Guadalupe medallion was a nice altar boy touch.

  “Now what?” he asked in a decidedly un-collegial tone.

  “No need to be surly, George. I just want to know what was up with Rydell. I personally don’t care if you deal coke.”

  “You’re dreaming, lady. If you know I got busted then you know it was for pot.”

  She took out her cell phone. “So if the police searched your apartment they wouldn’t find any evidence of coke or meth in your apartment?”

  “Put that away,” he hissed. “And don’t talk so loud. Look, sometimes I’ll do people favors. About a month ago Jeff asked if I could get him some blow for some girl he was hot and heavy with. Said she got really wild when she was high, and he wanted to keep her happy and horny. So I did. But that was it. I just did a favor. Why are you hassling me?”

  “It’s what I get paid for.”

  “I th
ought reporters got paid to write.”

  “That, too. But I need information before I can write. I know the two of you had a falling out. And then he turns up dead. So you can see why I’m curious.”

  George kicked the carpet. Sam waited. Finally he sighed, “Jeff owed me money. That’s what we argued about. I was really blown away when I heard he was, you know…I still can’t believe it.”

  “How’d you know he was dead?”

  George looked at her in surprise. “Rose, how else? She told everybody. And she told everybody about being interviewed for the paper.”

  “How much money did he owe you?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “He owed you that much for coke? Sounds like more than a favor.”

  “He didn’t owe me for drugs. It was a loan.”

  “A loan for what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You lent someone $500, and you didn’t even ask?”

  George shoved his hands in his pockets. “He said he had a chance to do a deal and make a lot of money. He just needed an ante.”

  “And you didn’t mind the idea of new competition?”

  “I told you; I don’t deal. It’s too risky.”

  “Did Jeff do drugs?”

  “Not that I know of. That’s one reason why I trusted him and lent him money. I knew it wouldn’t go up his nose.”

  “That the only reason?”

  George looked away. “He was going to give me an extra $250 back.”

  “So what happened?

  “I don’t know. When I asked him for the cash, he put me off but promised he’d have it in a couple of days. I got pissed because I needed the money.”

  Sam nodded towards his living room. “Doesn’t look like it.”

  “It’s called credit card debt. Look, I move just enough pot to put myself through night school, okay? I’m almost finished now, so I won’t have to do it much longer. Good thing, since I never could spot an undercover narc.”

  That, she believed. “I don’t suppose he told you the name of his girlfriend?”

  George shook his head.

  “When’s the last time you saw Jeff?”

  “Last Friday. I caught him coming home, and that’s when we argued. I never saw him again after that.”

  Sam took some generic notes, using the time to think. Assuming George was right, it was conceivable Rydell was the victim of a drug deal gone bad. She wondered if the girlfriend was still breathing.

  “Did Jeff ever mention where he was from?”

  George shook his head. “He never talked much about anything.”

  “Do you know if he had any local hangouts?”

  “I ran into him once or twice at the Village Pub on Palm Canyon. Other than that, I don’t know. We really weren’t that tight.”

  Sam capped her pen and flipped her notebook closed. “Thanks, George. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me,” as if she’d given him much choice.

  George fingered his medallion. “You’re not really going to talk to the police about me, are you?”

  “No. They’ll have to find you on their own.”

  “Thanks.”

  Sam started to walk away then stopped and looked back. “By the way, what’re you studying in school?”

  George blushed. “Law.”

  Chapter Six

  Fielder spun a napkin in front of Sam and carefully placed the daiquiri on it. “Starting the hard stuff early today, eh?”

  “It’s not early. It’s got to be, what—ten past noon?”

  It was so hot out Sam wanted the coldest drink she could think of. When the icy slush hit her throat the searing pain of brain-freeze shot through her jaw into the back of her head. “That’s really good, Felder,” she rasped, eyes watering. Once the throbbing subsided, Sam flipped to her notes from Sunday and motioned Felder over. “What do you know about the Crazy Girl in Indio?”

  “Now there’s a fine establishment,” he said, doing a W. C. Fields impression. “Live nude girls who’ll dance for a song and a $50 bill. Being a happily married man, I know this only by reputation.”

  “I won’t tell Sharon.”

  “Planning a change of career?” he smiled, absently smoothing down his well-manicured beard.

  “Somehow I think my earning potential at the Crazy Girl would be severely limited. By some miracle, do you know any bartender or server who works there?”

  “I don’t, but I do know someone who probably does. A buddy of mine named Jim Pearson works in Indio at a joint called Tracks. He’s lived in Indio his whole life, poor fellow, and has tended bar since he was old enough to pour. You could say he’s the doyenne of the Indio liquor service industry, so I’m sure he knows somebody who works at Crazy Girl in some capacity. It’s been there a long time. Jim works the day shift at Tracks, so he’d be there now if you want to call him.”

  “I think I’d rather stop by in person.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to help you. Tell him I said hello. And remind him he still owes me for that Super Bowl pool.”

  “He still owes you from January?”

  “No, the Raiders-Redskins game. I told you—he’s an old buddy.”

  • • •

  Sam drove down Ramon Avenue to the I-10, heading east toward Indio, blaring the local country radio station on her stereo. The sky was a brilliant blue, but the ground was brown and brittle. The flowers that covered the desert in spring with vivid colors were now seared wisps crumbling in the sun. Marlene swore there was usually at least one good thunderstorm per summer, but Sam knew her editor’s sick sense of humor.

  With the help of her cell phone’s navigation app, Sam found Tracks with no trouble. She parked illegally in an alley so her car would be in the shade and walked across the street where a neon sign blinked Welcome.

  Sam strode through the door and stopped, blinded by the darkness. Once her eyes adjusted she saw a pub pretty much like every other local pub she’d ever been in. The bar was on the right; to the left were tables covered in red and white checkered plastic tablecloths. In the back was a pool table and a pinball machine so old it probably played five balls for a quarter.

  Two older men hunched over the bar, staring at her. She nodded in their direction as she slid onto a stool. The bartender was watching a soap opera on a small portable TV. Slim and petite, he wore wire frame glasses, a vest, and a bowl haircut.

  “Excuse me. Are you Jim?”

  He turned around and smiled. “You must be Miss Perry. Felder called and warned me I’d better do right by you, or I’d have him to answer to.” His voice was soft but had a distinctive throaty quality to it. “However, he refused to tell me what you needed, just to irritate me.”

  “Felder thought you might know somebody who works at the Crazy Girl.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Sure. A man was murdered in Palm Springs a few days ago, and I’m hoping to track down anybody who might have known him. It’s possible he hung out there.”

  “Do you work for the police?”

  “No, just a reporter for the Weekender trying to do a story.”

  Jim nodded. “You know, someone just mentioned that place to me the other day, lemme think. Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’ll take a split.”

  He grabbed the champagne and a chilled glass from the cooler and didn’t talk until he popped the cork and poured. “If I’m not mistaken, a girl who used to work here got a job tending bar at the Crazy Girl. My girlfriend, Terry, and Alison—that’s the girl—got to be pretty close, and they keep in touch. I’m pretty sure Terry said that’s where she was working.”

  “Do you know Alison’s last name?”

  “Peters.” One of the men at the end of the counter, draped over an empty glass, raised his hand and wiggled two fingers at Jim. “Excuse me. If I don’t give ‘em their drinks fast they’ll go into DTs.”

  Sam quickly finished her drink and stood up when Jim returned. “Listen, thanks for every
thing. What do I owe you?”

  Jim shook his head, “Nothing. Just tell Felder I’m still waiting for the money he owes me for that Super Bowl game.”

  “Raiders-Redskins?”

  “Hell, no. Jets-Baltimore.”

  • • •

  The Crazy Girl was a converted warehouse wedged between a body repair shop and a wholesale mattress outlet. There was no sign in front, and the street number on the curb was barely visible. It was not the kind of place you’d likely happen upon by chance. Sam knew; she’d driven right past it her first time around the block. She pulled into the club’s fenced-in lot and parked near the lone light post a few yards from the door. At night, the outer reaches of the lot would be a mugger’s paradise. She wondered how many businessmen had been rolled after an evening of naughty pleasures.

  Even though it was only 2:30 on a weekday afternoon, there were at least two-dozen cars in the lot. According to a placard on the door, Crazy Girl’s hours were from noon ‘til 2:00 a.m. seven days a week, 365 days a year. “And who wouldn’t love a Crazy Girl Christmas show?” Sam grinned, opening the front door.

  The cashier’s booth in the foyer was closed; a sign in the barred window listed a $10 cover from 8:00 p.m. until closing. At the end of the foyer was a pair of dingy red velvet curtains that muted the music playing behind them. Sam slipped through the drapes and stepped into a surprisingly clean and well-kept main showroom.

  A large stage with a silver pole dominated the center of the room. The stage was elevated enough so that the sides and front doubled as counter space for the customers who sat bug-eyed in the chairs lining the perimeter. The rear of the stage was draped with black curtains that spanned the width of the room. The bar was located to Sam’s left against the far wall. Past the end of the bar was another set of faded, red drapes she assumed led to the lap dance room. A circle of ledges bordered the room, with tables and comfortable chairs on casters filling the rest of the space.