by Jack Lynch
TWENTY
I had a hangover the next morning when I phoned Marietta Narcoff. I had a throbbing in my head that people over in Spokane could have heard had they listened closely. I’d spent too long in that little bar down by the government locks drinking brandy and, in time, drinking draft beer along with it. Lorna had been a part of it, of course.
I could only half recall what the man in the hard hat had been telling people about the Potlatch Bay project, although I did remember that it seemed to make sense at the time. I barely remembered to make the phone call to Marietta Narcoff. She told me her young friend had turned guarded when she told him about me and my wanting to meet him. He had balked at that, she told me, until she had said to her young friend that she thought he should see me before the two of them spent any more time playing around together. So he’d finally agreed to meet me and Marietta that afternoon at a downtown restaurant and bar not far from Marietta’s apartment building.
I’d spent the night in another little motel not far from the See Fair on Elliott Avenue. I’d originally intended to go back to the See Fair since I’d already paid for the room, but my brain had come through in the clutch and told me, No, sap, you go back there with the candles on the dresser and Lorna’s scent on the pillow cases and your resolve would turn to mush and you’d drive right on up to Phinney Ridge and beg Lorna to let you in so you could stay there and absorb her abuse for the rest of your stay in Seattle. I still didn’t know how she’d managed to turn our conversation in the little bar by the locks into the platter of whips and jingles it had become.
I phoned Benny at his motel and asked how things were going. He said he was bored as hell and lonely for Dolly and the kids. I urged him to stay calm and said I might have some news for him by later that evening. I also telephoned a frosty-voiced Mary Ellen Cutler, who told me she didn’t have any messages for me.
Seattle seemed to be between storms right then. There still were some low clouds scudding overhead, but there were patches of blue sky and bursts of sunshine as well. People were out and about with pleased grins on their faces, as if a siege had been lifted.
After breakfast I drove back out to the Potlatch Bay site in Ballard. A gate in the perimeter fence was padlocked from the inside. I hailed the trailer office beyond the fence and a moment later an elderly man came out. I asked to speak to the construction foreman.
“Ain’t here. Works starts next week. I’m the watchman.”
“Who’s the contractor?”
“Can’t give that out. They’re announcing it on Monday. You a newspaper feller?”
“Nope.” I took out a card and wrote Mary Ellen’s number on it, then wrapped it inside a $10 bill and handed it through the fence. I asked if he could have any of the contractor’s men who showed up phone and leave word where I could reach them.
“It’s important,” I told him.
“It must be,” he told me, pocketing the money and studying the card on his way back to the trailer office.
I still had plenty of time to kill. The balding fellow in the yachting cap had told me his name was Ed Bjorkland and he ran what he called Captain Ed’s Charter Service. He’d invited me to stop by and have a look at his boat, so I drove on down to the boat moorage. I found the berth number he’d written on the back of a business card and stood admiring the smart-looking craft tied up there, but when I hailed the boat, nobody answered. I drove on back over to Aurora Avenue and found another motel. I checked in, hung up my clothes, and took a long nap.
The restaurant where Marietta Narcoff, her young friend and I had agreed to meet at was called the Coachman’s Rest. It was a gloomy sort of place, with dark wood furnishings and flickering gas lamps. It occurred to me that Marietta Narcoff, although not vain enough to visit a plastic surgeon, might have decided she presented a better face to the world in the kindness of shadows. She and her friend were there waiting for me in a wood and leather-padded booth along one wall. Marietta was wearing a dark tailored suit with a white blouse. Her friend was the man in the pictures Benny Bartlett had taken up at the Beyerly ranch outside of Bellingham. He’d let his hair grow some and he dressed up a little more than he had in the photos I’d seen. He was wearing gray slacks, a white shirt with thin blue stripes, a dark knit tie and a navy blue blazer with brass buttons. When Marietta introduced us, he barely acknowledged me. I sat down across from the man going these days by the name of Kirby and ordered a gin and tonic from a waitress wearing a low-bosomed period gown.
“We’ve already talked some about the things you told me,” Marietta said by way of breaking the ice. Buddy tells me he knew the Beyerly girl. He said they just—fell out of love.”
I stared at him for a moment. He was a pretty-looking lad, but there was a decided coldness in his eyes. I didn’t like him. Not at all. I decided to jump right in and start punching.
“Who fell out of love?” I asked him.
“We both did.”
“Her sister told me differently. Barbara Beyerly said you wrote her sister the equivalent of a Dear John letter and left town with twenty thousand dollars the girl had given you a few days earlier.”
“Her sister doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“You heard, I suppose, that Beverly Beyerly hanged herself from the rafters in their boathouse a few days after she got your letter.”
“Yes, I heard that,” he acknowledged. “One of the reasons I was beginning to feel distant from Bev was that she’d been showing some unusual behavior patterns toward the end. She was very neurotic. Not nearly as mature as Marietta here.” He said that last bit with a longing look at the older woman he was chasing after.
“Did it occur to you,” I asked, “that it might be the gentlemanly thing to do to return the twenty thousand dollars to the family after you heard of the girl’s death?”
“Why should I have? Bev wanted me to have that money to start a business with and have a chance to make something of myself. Even if things were coming to an end between us. Some people have that sort of confidence and trust in others, even after the infatuation ends. And the family certainly didn’t need any more money.”
“What business did you go into?”
“I opened a used car dealership. It failed after a few months. I had cash flow problems.”
“Where did you open the dealership?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“Benny Bartlett.”
He blinked, but his face stayed a blank.
“The name mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“He’s a freelance writer. He was doing a story on the Beyerly family the summer you were up there. Took some photos of you and Bev together. Barbara Beyerly told me you and her sister had a little fight over that when you learned what they were for, that you wanted her to get the photos back.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s what her sister told me.”
“Look. Her sister’s nearly as nutty as Beverly was. I don’t know why she told you those things, but they’re just not true.”
“Do you remember Bartlett, who was doing the story?”
“Yeah, I remember him. A guy who wore glasses.”
“Seen him recently?”
“No, I haven’t seen him. I haven’t been back to Bellingham since Bev died.”
“He doesn’t live in Bellingham. He lives in Seattle.”
He shrugged. “So what?”
“Somebody’s been harassing him and his family. With death threats and attempts on his life. I’m here to put a stop to it.”
He sat up a little straighter then. “Is that what this is about?” He made a wave of dismissal and got up from the booth. “Come on, Marietta, let’s go eat somewhere. I don’t know what this jerk’s talking about.”
“Sit back down a minute,” I told him.
“Up yours.”
“I said to sit back down a minute.”
He almost didn’t do it. We stared at e
ach other some. Marietta was keeping out of it. He finally decided that no matter what happened if we went for each other’s throats, it would be an embarrassing thing to do in front of his lady friend. He sat.
“Why did you change your name?”
“What difference does it make? Nothing illegal about changing your name.”
“Unless you do it for purposes of fraud or a couple of other things.”
He was on his feet again. “Come on, Marietta, this is really too much. I said I’d meet him. I’ve done that. But I don’t intend to take any more of this.”
“Buddy, why don’t you just run ahead without me,” Marietta told him. “I have a headache. I think I’ll just go on back home when I finish this drink.”
He stared at her with a pained expression, wondering if he’d lost her, then mumbled something about phoning her in the morning and left us.
“He doesn’t much like you,” Marietta observed.
“No.”
“Did you find out what you wanted?”
“I don’t know. He’s lying through his teeth about a few things, but that doesn’t mean he’s the one who’s been bothering my friend.”
“You’re probably right about the lying. I think he’s lied to me in the past also.”
“Why did you take up with him in the first place?”
“He amuses me—when he’s in a better mood than he was in front of you. But I’m glad you came along and told me what you did about him. I suspected a part of his motivation, I think. Now I know. I’ll just make him be a little more attentive in the future.”
“You intend to keep seeing him?”
“So long as he continues to amuse me.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll quit answering the telephone at nine o’clock every morning.”
“What if he approaches you all pouty and fuming at the East End club?”
“I’ll take him aside and tell him quietly that I’ve developed the most terrible rash. That my doctor diagnoses it as flaring genital herpes.”
“Yeah, I guess that would make him back off a ways.”
“Really, Mr. Bragg. This old girl’s been in and out of the barn and around the corral a few times. You needn’t worry about me around the likes of Buddy Kirby. Oh, what was it you said his name was up in Bellingham?”
“Roger Hampton.”
“Yes.” She took a small address booklet out of her purse and wrote the name on an inside cover. “I want to remember that. I think when I’ve decided that my relationship with Buddy has reached the home stretch, I’ll just start calling him Roger.” She giggled like a young girl.
“Miss Narcoff…”
“Oh for crying out loud, call me Marietta.”
“Okay, I’m Pete.”
“Nice to meet you, Pete.”
“The same. This is to do with something entirely different. I was wondering if you might know somebody with Seattle First Trust. A vice president or some other kind of company officer.”
“No I don’t. But I’m sure my banker does. Why?”
“I’m a little curious about a deal they’re supposed to be putting together. I’d like to be able to ask them some questions. Probably the sort of questions they wouldn’t want to answer for a complete stranger.”
“I see. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call Bill Shakey Monday morning. He’s my main money man, and anything but what his name would imply. If he doesn’t know somebody at First Trust, he’ll know somebody else who does. I’ll vouch for you and you can get in touch with him later in the day.”
She looked up the phone number of her main money man in the little address book and I copied it down. She offered to buy me dinner, but I told her I had more work to do.
“Then let’s try to get together another time before you go back to San Francisco. I’d like to know more about your work. I’ve never been friends with a private detective.”
“It’s a date,” I told her. “If not this time, then the next time I’m through town. I’ve never been friends with a really rich old broad.”
From a pay phone in the restaurant lobby I called Mary Ellen Cutler. No messages. Click. Thank you, Mary Ellen Cutler. I stood at the phone thinking for a minute. I was beginning to feel maybe I was chasing after more wild geese than one man should try for. But finally I tried to call Lorna at Scandia Farms. The girl who answered told me she was in conference. I left my name and said I was on my way over there.
My ex probably wouldn’t be any happier to see me than I was to see her after that eerie little throwback to the past we’d been through the night before. Because that’s what it’d been, I finally realized sometime in the course of the day. It had been a long time ago and I didn’t see the pattern right away. I didn’t even know if I could expand on it, but it was one of the things I used to brood about and try to make sense of back in my Sausalito apartment after Lorna and I had split up. It was an alternating pattern—an overwhelming outburst of passion and affection, then a quick turnaround with the sharp tongue and the critical eye, almost as if she felt sudden shame over such a display of love.
I parked in the basement garage and went on up to the second-floor Scandia office. The conference was still going on in Gene Olson’s office. This time Olson and Lorna were in there with Thackery, the Seahawks official, and another man I hadn’t seen before.
“I understand there are some very delicate negotiations going on in there,” the receptionist told me.
Lorna looked up just then and saw me. She said something to the others and came out of the office with a questioning look. She didn’t say anything right away, but led me down the short corridor toward her own office, and when she spoke it was in a low enough voice so she wouldn’t be overheard by the receptionist.
“Peter? I’m a little surprised to see you here. If it’s about last night…”
“No, Lorna, it’s not about last night. At least it isn’t anything personal. It’s just some information I’ve heard that might be of concern to you and Gene Olson.”
Her face tightened up. “It’s nothing to do with the Seahawks, I hope.”
“No, no.”
She relaxed some. “Thank God. But then, I really shouldn’t take the time right now. We’re so very close on this Seahawks contract. Could you phone me later, at home?”
“Sure, no problem. Go on back in there and slay ’em.”
“Thanks.” She touched my arm and hurried back down the corridor. I went on into Lorna’s office and phoned Benny.
“Tell me you’ve cracked it,” Benny pleaded. “Tell me you’ve found and broken the bad guys so I can get the hell out of here. I want out of this dump. I wanna go home.”
“Can’t do all that yet, Benny. The Hampton boy is up to mischief, but I’d say odds are against his being behind your troubles. I just had a bristling little conversation with him.”
“Yeah? What’s he up to now?”
“He’s changed his name and he’s chasing after an older moneyed woman in town here.”
“Jesus Christ, how does he do it? He looked like a high school kid when I saw him.”
“He’s let his hair grow some since you knew him. The moneyed woman finds him amusing. But she’s a smart lady, and she was fascinated by the things I had to tell her about Roger Hampton. He’ll be wasting his time if he keeps chasing after her in earnest.”
“So where does all that leave me?”
“I’m not sure. Look, how about if I pick up some cheeseburgers and bring them by. We can visit for a while.”
“Oh, Pete, that’d be great.”
“Okay, sit tight.”
I hung up and took the elevator back down to the basement garage and went over and unlocked the rental car. Later it would occur to me I was spending too much time worrying about Benny. I’d been poking into enough queer events so I should have been paying a little more attention to myself.
I sensed it just as I started to climb in behind the wheel, but I was in an awkward position and couldn�
��t move quickly enough. Somebody cracked me on the back of the skull with an object that was blunt enough to do the job. It was as if every light in the world had been turned up to maximum with a universal rheostat. And then they all went out.
TWENTY-ONE
They brought me around to where I was partially conscious by throwing what felt like a bucket of water on my head. Sometime in the course of things, I realized they must have had to pour more than one bucket of water over me to bring me around. The top of me was soaked to the skin. We weren’t in the parking garage but outdoors somewhere. They’d put a blindfold across my eyes and had jammed what felt like an inch-thick piece of manila line between my jaws and tied it behind my head. It served as a very effective gag. I could only grunt and gurgle—if I’d had anything to gurgle about. I didn’t. They didn’t want to talk to me.
They’d thrown the water over me so I’d be conscious enough to savor the beating they gave me. I did do some grunting in the course of it all. In addition to putting the blindfold over my eyes and sticking the rope in my mouth, they’d wired my wrists together behind my back.
What went on then went on for an awfully long time. There were at least two of them, maybe three. They started with my face and head and worked down. One of them, wearing gloves, used his fists. One of them had some sort of blunt object, probably whatever they’d whacked me on the head with back at the parking garage. I was on the ground when they’d thrown the water over me to bring me around, and I stayed down the whole time. They kicked and punched and banged. I hunched up as tightly as I could and tried to stay tucked in a fetal position, but this was all pretty useless. I suppose I did it more to keep my body friends with my brain than anything else. I wanted my body to know I was trying, the best I could with my brain, to lessen the impact of what we were going through.
