"Name's Garrison."
"So?"
It was frustrating shouting to be heard over the music, but Gage pressed on. "So I'm looking into the death of the girl who showed up on the beach a week ago."
"What girl?" he said.
"Come on, man. You're saying you didn't hear about it, in a town this small?"
He shrugged, then pulled out a rag and wiped the counter. "If it's none of my business, I don't pay attention. Don't see how it has anything to do with us."
"I had a hunch she might have worked here."
"Doubt it."
Gage pulled the head shot out of his jacket and placed it in front of the bartender. The man took his time, wiping the counter far longer than the counter warranted, but eventually looked at it. Gage was sure the man intended only a glance, a kind of dismissiveness, but that was actually what gave him away. He actually looked twice, before turning his concentration fully to the counter again. The orange-haired woman watched but said nothing.
"Well?" Gage said.
"Don't know her."
"You sure?"
The man stopped wiping and stared at Gage. "You calling me a liar?"
"I'm just trying to find out who killed her, and I'm getting the distinct sense you're deliberately not being helpful."
"Fuck you, man. I think you better hit the road."
Gage slid the photo into his jacket. The pulsing music was giving him a headache. "All right. If you won't talk to me, then maybe you'll talk to the police." He got up from the chair, leaning heavily on his cane. "Wonder how a bunch of cop cars out front will affect business. Maybe they'll check to see if all your dancers are above legal age while they're here."
"I told you," the bartender said, "we never seen her."
"Yeah, okay," Gage said.
He started to walk away. He'd only gone a few steps when the expected response followed.
"Wait a minute."
What he hadn't expected was that it was the woman, not the man, who'd called after him. Gage turned. She rotated on her stool, arms crossed, her faded jean jacket open. Underneath she wore a white Betty Boop T-shirt, and her rather sizable breasts distorted Betty's face. She looked like the sort of woman who'd spent her whole life in bars. Or behind them.
"Just who are you working for, anyway?" she said.
"Nobody," he said.
"Nobody?"
"That's right. I'm doing this all on my own." He took a step toward her, to be heard better over the music. "Can I ask to whom I'm speaking?"
"I don't get it," she said. "What's in it for you?"
"A placated conscience."
"Huh?"
Gage took another step toward her so that they were now only a few feet apart. "I assume you're the manager?"
"The owner, actually. I still don't get why you're doing this."
"Is there somewhere we can talk that's more quiet?"
The bartender, who'd been watching like an impatient parent, finally had enough. "You don't have to talk to this prick, Sue. I'll throw him out of here."
She sighed. "That's all right, Bob."
"But, Sue—"
"Let it go, Bob."
With a snort, he stalked off to the end of the counter. Mercifully, the song finally ended and there was a bit of silence—if you didn't count the assorted snickers, guffaws, and clinking beer bottles. A high-pitched whine lingered in Gage's ears. Sue watched him with world-weary eyes.
"Did she work here?" Gage said.
Sue hesitated, then nodded towards the end of the bar. Under a pink neon clock, there was a hall to the restrooms. She led him that way, and he was careful where he put his cane since the floor was littered with pretzels. The walls were paneled in faux mahogany. Beyond the restrooms was another door, one marked PRIVATE. By the time they reached it, another song cranked over the speakers. She led him into a tiny office, one with a big metal desk, a couple filing cabinets, and framed Playboys covering every square inch of wall space—except for a gun cabinet with four rifles inside. The room smelled like burnt popcorn; he spotted the crumpled microwave bag in the trash can.
She shut the door, blocking out the noise.
"Those are my husband's," she explained, nodding at the Playboys.
"I'm sorry?"
"I don't want you to get the idea I'm lesbo or nothing," she explained. "I just ain't ever gotten around to taking 'em down. Willie passed two years ago—shot himself with that Smith and Wesson right there." She nodded to the case mounted on the wall.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
She settled into the swivel chair. A boxy, 80's-era computer sat on the desk next to an adding machine, various papers, and receipts piled everywhere. "Don't be. Willie was a rotten bastard. I just ain't found a buyer for this rat hole yet. You interested?"
"It's tempting," Gage said, "but no."
"Yeah, that's pretty much it for everyone. Can't walk away in the middle of the lease, so I'm gonna hold out for at least another two years." She squinted at him, as if remembering the reason she'd brought him inside. "So tell me again, why you want to know about this kid?"
"I'm the one who found her on the beach," Gage said.
"Oh."
He could see that she didn't understand this reasoning but for whatever reason didn't feel compelled to press further. She tapped her hand on the desk.
"Well, she worked here."
"She did?"
Sue nodded. "Only for a week. That's why Bob was acting that way. She just worked a week and then she was gone."
"Do you have paperwork on her?"
She snorted. "What do you think this is, McDonalds? Our girls work for tips. It's a good amount, though. None of 'em ever complains."
"Do you at least know her name?"
"Only her first name. Abby. She went by Dolly on stage, though."
Gage nodded. Dolly, Dolphins —at least he knew he had the right girl. "Do you know anything else about her? She come with anyone?"
"No, didn't come with no one," Sue said. "I think she walked. I never saw a car outside. It was only for a week, you know, and she kinda kept to herself. It's why Bob and me didn't want to say nothing. It's not like we have a whole lot to say, and we didn't want no cops barging in here creating a fuss. Hard enough making a living in this rat hole as it is."
"Had she danced before?"
Sue looked thoughtful. "Hard to say. I think, yeah, maybe. She didn't have any of the usual jitters. But she didn't have a lot of good moves either, so if she had danced before it wasn't for long. Got good tips, though. Guys liked her. There was something about her. It was like . . . I don't know, like you were looking at her inside a cage." She fell silent, staring out blankly into space. "I got this dog once. A stray. He'd been beaten a lot, you could tell, he was all jittery, and I'd kennel him at night because it was the only way he'd calm down. But when I'd open the door in the morning he'd just look at me. He wouldn't come out, even with the door open. That's what this girl was like. The cage door was open but she still wouldn't come out."
"Is there anybody else who might know her?" Gage asked. "How about your bouncer? Maybe a customer?"
"Nah, I don't think so. It's why nobody said nothing."
"When was this, exactly?"
"Oh, let me see. It was right after Jolene left, and I remember her saying she wanted to go get her son before his birthday, which was in May. So April, last year? I think that's about right. Yeah, yeah, it was early April."
"Nothing else?" Gage said.
"I wish I did remember something. It's a shame what happened. You may think I don't care, but I do. I danced once, too, a long time ago. I could see me in her some. That coulda been me on the beach."
The somber look on her face reminded Gage of when Mattie said the same thing about Zoe. He wondered what it was about these women who saw themselves in this dead girl on the beach, what made them want to project themselves or the people they cared about into that situation.
When he was sure there was nothing more of value she
could tell him, he thanked her and left Alex's store number in case she thought of something else. On his way out, there was another girl on the stage, a spiky-haired blonde. She swung around the pole and puckered her lips at him. She couldn't have been more than nineteen.
He thought about the girl on the beach, and then he understood. He left a twenty on the dance floor for her.
The bartender and the bouncer were chatting at the bar. Gage nodded to them and headed outside, into moist cool air. The rain had stopped. That was the Oregon coast for you; even a monsoon could pass through as quickly as the tourists. Before the door swung shut, the bouncer called after him. He turned, and the big guy stepped onto the gravel parking lot. His bald dome glistened in the wet air.
"Look," the guy said, in a voice much higher and more nasal than Gage expected, "Bob told me you're looking for that girl, the one who showed up dead on the beach."
"Yeah," Gage said. "Why, did you know her?"
"Naw, didn't know her. She didn't talk to nobody. But I do remember something. I don't know if it means much, but I still remember it a year later."
"What's that?"
"Well, it was her last day. She danced a late set, maybe a little after midnight. It was crowded. I think it was a Friday. This dude in a trench coat comes in and sits at the back. I didn't think nothing of it, but man, when she laid eyes on him she stopped dead in her tracks. She just stopped on the stage and stared at him. It was like the music wasn't even playing."
"What happened then?"
"Nothing. She just went back to dancing. It probably only lasted a few seconds, and I'm not sure nobody but me noticed who she was looking at. He only stayed a little while, maybe twenty minutes, had a beer, then left. She finished her set and went home. She wasn't here at close otherwise I probably would have asked her about him."
"You remember what he looks like?"
"Naw. He's just some dude. It was dark and crowded. Only reason I remember it at all was 'cause it was her last day. We get a lot of creeps in here, so it would have just been one more creep. But then she didn't come back on Monday when she was supposed to and I thought of that guy, wondering."
Gage wondered, too. Maybe he was somebody from her old life, who'd followed her to Barnacle Bluffs. Maybe he was somebody she'd met in town. Maybe he was the very person who'd killed her.
He thanked the bouncer and headed to his van. The sky was even darker than earlier, a layered darkness that grew thicker along the horizon. On the highway, he reviewed what he knew so far. She'd arrived in Barnacle Bluffs in late February, coming in through Kooby. She'd gotten a tattoo of a dolphin on her ankle and told the old Indian that she was going to Barnacle Bluffs. She'd signed out the art books at the library in March. In early April, she was stripping at The Gold Cabaret. For a Jane Doe—or an Abby Doe, he did have her first name—there were an awful lot of people already who'd met her.
The question was, what had she done during those five or six weeks between coming to Barnacle Buffs and showing up at the strip club? When he found that out, he knew there was a good chance he'd discover who'd killed her.
Books and Oddities was on his way home, so he swung by to see if Alex had talked to anyone at the Bureau. Sure enough, Alex already had a dozen names of foster kids of about her age from the various states east of Carson City, all with the first name Abby or Abigail. There were no missing reports filed on any of them.
He hung out until the shop closed, begged off going to Alex's place for dinner, and took the list with him home. Darkness had fallen, and it was a deep darkness, the cloud cover a veil that swaddled everything in black. The headlights of the passing cars were as tiny as needle heads.
It was after six when he turned off the highway onto the curving road up to his house. He thought about stopping at Mattie's, but he saw Zoe washing dishes in the kitchen and drove on past. He knew he was only avoiding the inevitable, but that was all right. Janet had often said he must have gotten a Ph.D. in avoidance, he was so good at it. Thinking this brought on a sinking loneliness.
When he reached his house, somebody was on his stoop. He saw the person first only as a silhouette—his porch light was off—and it set his heart skipping. But then the van's headlights swept across the person and he saw that it was Carmen, her trench coat billowing about her bare legs. He also saw her black Camry parked right where he usually parked his van, which put him in a foul mood right away.
He parked behind her, half on the bark dust and half on the gravel driveway, giving her just enough room to pull out. When he got out of the car, she stood next to the door, hand on the hood, his weak dome light leaving her mostly shrouded in darkness. Her hair looked silvery like tinsel.
"Ready to go?" she said.
"Go?"
She chuckled. "To dinner, of course."
"I thought I was pretty clear at your office, Carmen."
"Oh, you were. I just decided to ignore it. Come on, you don't have anything to be afraid of. I've already seen you in your underwear."
He headed for his front door. His damn leg seized up on him, making his limp more pronounced; he must have looked like a drunken pirate with two wooden legs. "My God," he said, "you're a persistent woman."
She didn't say anything while he limped to the door, jangled the lock open, and flicked on the porch light. He thought he might have offended her, but when he turned and looked, she was smiling.
"Persistence is a personality trait that comes in handy in my line of work," she said. "Don't make me get down on my knees and beg. This gravel would be murder on my nylons."
He gaped at her. Not only was she wearing black nylons, but she was wearing patent leather heels, too; the kind a woman only wore when she didn't think she was going to be doing a lot walking. Her lips, bearing a hint of lipstick, glistened in the thick air. There was eye shadow and blush and tiny pearl earrings, all of it subtle, none of it over the top. It was like she was trying to impress him without looking like she was trying to impress him.
She was putting him on the spot and it left him in a bind. He couldn't see how he could hurt her again, not so soon. And it was only dinner.
"All right," he said, "but I warn you, I'm a lousy conversationalist."
She beamed at him. "That's all right. I specialize in getting lousy conversationalists to converse. Your car or mine?"
They took hers.
Chapter 10
It was not a date. That was what Gage told himself. It was not a date, and if it was a date, or at least if she thought it was a date, well, then that wasn't his fault. He was just going to dinner. People had to eat, after all.
Without asking him, Carmen chose the popular Romani's, an expensive Italian restaurant next to the most plush hotel in town, the Inn at Sapphire Head. When he asked her about The Tidepool, she said that she went ahead and wrote a glowing review based on the opinion of the CPA next door. Gage made a crack about journalistic ethics, and she said she was happy to sacrifice what little journalistic ethics she had so she didn't have to eat seafood.
Both Romani's and the Inn were on the highest point in Barnacle Bluffs, surrounded by the Inn's golf course and a few hundred acres of national forest which eventually connected with Foggy Creek State Park. When she pulled into the packed parking lot, he told her he didn't like crowds. She reassured him that she'd be his bodyguard. When they squeezed into the restaurant lobby, people everywhere, he suggested they grab a burger from the joint down the street. She said if he left now, she'd write a lengthy piece in the Bugle about transsexuals living in seclusion in their hometown and she'd make him the centerpiece.
It went better after that. Twenty minutes later, during which his knee throbbed painfully but he resisted the impulse to dive for one of the few bench seats when it was vacated, they lucked out and got a table for two overlooking the ocean: white cloth tablecloths, separate salad forks, and wait staff in red bow ties, the whole deal. The ocean itself was dark, but spotlights mounted on the restaurant roof shone on the sandy beach
below. He could just make out the murmur of the waves over the din in the room.
After they'd given their waiter their drink orders, Carmen tore apart a roll, looking at him over the steam rising from the bread. "So tell me," she said, "how'd you get into the fine art of private investigation?"
"I don't know if I'd call it a fine art," he said.
"Don't dodge the question," she said, and tossed a smaller piece of the roll into her mouth.
She chewed, watching him expectantly, eyes wide. He figured it was a journalistic technique. Start eating and force your interviewee to talk.
"Is this for you or for the paper?" he asked.
"For me," she mumbled.
"I don't know if it's all that interesting."
She waved her hand impatiently for him to continue.
"Well," he said, "it wasn't by choice, I can tell you that much. Originally I thought I was going to be in the FBI. But I was just a kid back then, and I found out real quick that me and the FBI wouldn't get along."
She swallowed. "What happened?"
"I washed out of the program."
"I have a hard time believing that."
He shrugged and took a drink from his ice water. It gave him time to think. He'd surprised himself with how much he'd already said. There was something about her that made him want to let his guard down. He didn't know where it was coming from.
He thought his taking a drink would encourage her to jump in, maybe take the conversation off on a tangent, but she rearranged her silverware and went right on waiting.
"Maybe it was a mutual understanding," Gage said. "It just wasn't the right fit. I'm . . . not much of a group person. I have a hard time working in a team."
"How surprising," she said.
"You know, sarcasm makes your face look older. It's the wrinkles around the eyes. I just thought you should know."
She stuck out her tongue. He tore open some bread and buttered half of it.
"Anyway," he went on, "it just wasn't my thing. For example, I became a decent knife thrower. Turns out that's not a valued skill in the Bureau. It was always like that. I didn't mind learning to fire a handgun, but their focus was a bit too narrow. I wanted to learn what I wanted to learn whether it was on the agenda or not. I might have still finished, but then my dad died. Almost three years to the day after my mother passed. I went back to Long Island for the funeral. There was a bit of money. Not a lot, but enough to pay off my college debts and still have enough left over that I didn't have to get serious about anything for a while."
The Gray and Guilty Sea Page 9
