by Sue Grafton
I circled the building to the entrance, where the line of people awaiting admittance seemed to be singles and couples in roughly equal numbers. I gave the bouncer my driver’s license and watched him run it through his scanning device. I paid the five-dollar cover charge and received the inked benediction on the back of my right hand.
As I moved through the front room, I was forced to run the gauntlet of chain smokers standing four deep at the bar—shifty—eyed guys trying to look a lot hipper than they actually were. The music coming from the other room was live that night. I couldn’t see the band, but the melody (or its equivalent) pounded, the beat distorted through the speakers to a tribal throb. The lyrics were indecipherable but probably consisted of sophomoric sentiments laid out in awkward rhyming couplets. The band sounded local, playing all their own tunes, if this one was any indication. I’ve picked up similar performances on local cable channels, shows that air at 3 A.M. as a special torture to the occasional insomniac like me.
I was already wishing I’d stayed at home. I’d have turned and fled if not for the fact that Mickey’d been here himself six consecutive Fridays. I couldn’t imagine what he’d been doing. Maybe counting drinks, calculating Tim’s profits, and thus computing his gross. Maybe Tim had cried poor, claiming he wasn’t making sufficient money to repay the loan. If Tim’s bartender happened to have his hand in the till, this could well be true. Bartenders have their little methods, and an experienced investigator, sitting at the bar, can simultaneously chat with other patrons and do an eyeball audit. If the bartender was skimming, it would have been in Mickey’s best interests to spot the practice and blow the whistle on him. It was equally possible Mickey’s presence was generated by another motive—a woman, for instance, or the need to escape his financial woes in L.A. Then, too, a heavy drinker doesn’t really need an excuse to hit a bar anywhere.
I did the usual visual survey. All the tables were full, the booths bulging with customers packed four to a bench. The portion of the dance floor I could see from where I stood was so dense with moving bodies there was scarcely any room to spare. There was no sign of Tim, but I did see the black-haired waitress, inching through the mob in front of me. She held her tray aloft, balancing empty glasses above the reach of jostling patrons. She wore a black leather vest over nothing at all, her arms long and bare, the V of the garment exposing as much as it concealed. The dyed black of her hair was a harsh contrast to the milky pallor of her skin. A dark slash of lipstick made her mouth look grim. She leaned toward the bartender, calling her order over the generalized din.
There’s a phenomenon I’ve noticed when I’m driving on the highway. If you turn and look at other drivers, they’ll turn and look at you. Maybe the instinct is a holdover from more primitive days when being the object of scrutiny might mean you were in peril of being killed and consumed. Here, it happened again. Soon after I spotted her, she turned instinctively and caught my gaze. Her eyes dropped to Mickey’s leather jacket. I shifted my attention, but not before I saw her expression undergo a change.
Thereafter, I was careful to avoid her, and I focused instead on what was going on nearby. I kept picking up an intermittent whiff of marijuana, though I couldn’t trace the source. I started watching people’s hands, since dopers seldom hold a joint the way they’d hold an ordinary cigarette. The average smoker tucks a cigarette in the V formed between the index and middle fingers, bringing the cigarette to the lips with the palm of the hand open. A doper with a joint makes an O-ring with the thumb and index finger, the doobie at the center, the three remaining fingers fanned out so the palm forms a shelter around the burning joint. Whether the intent is to shield the dope from the wind or from public view, I’ve never been able to determine. My own dopesmoking days are long since past, but the ceremonial aspects seem consistent to this day. I’ve seen a doper ask for a joint by simply forming that O and pressing it to his lips, a gesture that signals, Shall we smoke a little cannabis, my dear?
I began to circle the bar, moving casually from table to table until I spotted the fellow with a joint between his lips. He was sitting alone in a booth on the far side of the room, close to the corridor that led to the telephones and rest rooms. He was in his mid-thirties, vaguely familiar with his long, lean face. He was a type I’d found appealing when I was twenty: silent, brooding, and slightly dangerous. His eyes were light and close-set. He sported a mustache and goatee, both contributing to the look of borderline scruffiness. He wore a loose khaki-colored jacket and a black watch cap. A fringe of light hair extended well below his collar. He carried himself with a certain worldliness, something in the hunch of his shoulders and the mild knowing smile that flitted across his face.
Tim Littenberg emerged from the back corridor and paused in the doorway while he adjusted his cuffs. The two of them, the joint smoker and the bar owner, ignored each other with a casualness that seemed phony from my perspective. Their behavior reminded me of those occasions when illicit lovers run across each other in a social setting. Under the watchful eyes of their respective spouses, they’ll make a point of avoiding contact, thus trumpeting their innocence, or so they think. The only problem is the aura of heightened awareness that underlies the act. Anyone who knows either can detect the charade. Between the man in the booth and Tim Littenberg there was an unmistakable air of self-consciousness. Both seemed to be watching the black-haired waitress, who seemed equally conscious of them.
Within minutes, she’d circled and arrived at the booth. Tim moved away without looking at her. The guy with the joint leaned forward on his elbows. He reached out and put a hand on her hip. He motioned for her to sit. She slid into the bench across from him with her tray between them as though the empty glasses might remind him she had other things to do. He took her free hand and began to talk earnestly. I couldn’t see her face, but from where I stood she didn’t seem relaxed or receptive to his message.
“You know that guy?” a voice said into my right ear.
I turned to find Tim leaning close to me, his voice amazingly intimate in the midst of loud music and high-pitched voices. I said, “Who?”
“The man you’re watching, sitting in the booth over there.”
“He seems familiar,” I said. “Mostly, I was trying to remember where the rest rooms are.”
“I see.”
I stole a look at his face and then looked off in the other direction, deflecting the intensity with which he’d fixed his attentions on me. He said, “Remember Mickey’s friend Shack?”
“Sure. We talked earlier this week.”
“That’s his son, Scottie. The waitress is his girlfriend, Thea. In case you’re wondering,” he added, with a hint of irony.
“You’re kidding. That’s Scott? No wonder he looked familiar. I’ve seen pictures of him. I take it you’re still friends?”
“Of course. I’ve known Scottie for years. I don’t like dope in my bar, but I don’t want to make a fuss so I tend to ignore him when he’s got a joint.”
“Ah.”
“I’m surprised you’re back. Are you looking for someone in particular, or will I do?”
“I was hoping to find Mickey. I told you that last night.”
“That’s right. So you did. Can I buy you a drink?”
“Maybe when I finish this. I’m really fine for now.”
He reached over and removed the beer glass from my hand and helped himself to a sip. “This is warm. Let me get you a fresh one in an icy mug.” He caught the bartender’s eye and lifted the glass, indicating a replacement. Tim was wearing a dark navy suit with a dress shirt that was oxblood red. His tie bore a pattern of diagonal wishbones, navy and red on a field of light blue. The musky bite of his aftershave filled the air between us. His pupils were pinpricks and his skin had a sheen. Tonight, instead of seeming restless and distracted, his demeanor was slow, every gesture deliberate as if he were slogging his way through mud. Well, well, well. What was he on? I felt a faint ridge of fear prickling up along my spine, like
a cat in the presence of aliens.
I watched a frosty mug of beer being passed in my direction, hand over hand, like a bucket brigade. Tim placed the mug in my hand, at the same time resting his free hand against the middle of my back. He was standing too close, but in the press of the crowd it was hard to complain. I longed to back away, but there wasn’t room. I said, “Thanks.”
Again, he bent low and put his mouth close to my ear. “What’s the story with Mick? This is twice you’ve been in.”
“He lent me his jacket. I was hoping to return it.”
“You and he have something going?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Tim laughed and his gaze glided off, easing toward Thea, who was just rising from the booth. Scott Shackelford was staring down at the table, pinching out the joint, which was barely visible between his fingers. Thea picked up her tray and began to push toward the bar, studiously avoiding the sight of Tim. Maybe she was still pissed off for what he’d said to her last night. I didn’t want the beer, but I didn’t see a place to set it down.
I said, “I’ll be right back.”
Tim touched my arm. “Where’re you going?”
“To take a whiz. Is that okay?”
Again, he laughed, but it was not the sound of merriment.
I pushed my way through the crowd, praying he’d lose interest during the time I was gone. The first flat surface I saw, I put the beer glass down and walked on.
The rest room was undergoing one of those temporary lulls where I was the only person present. I crossed to the window and opened it a crack. A wedge of cold air slanted in, and I could see the smoke drift out. The quiet was like a tonic. I could feel myself resist the notion of ever leaving the room. If the window had been lower, I’d have crawled on out. I went into a stall and peed just for something to do.
I was standing at the sink, soaping my hands, when the door opened behind me and Thea walked in. She crossed to the adjacent sink and began washing her hands, her manner businesslike. I didn’t think her arrival was an accident, especially when she could have used the employee’s lounge around the corner. She caught my reflection in the mirror and gave me a pallid smile as if she’d just that moment noticed I was standing there. She said “Hi” and I responded in kind, letting her define the communication since she’d initiated it.
I pulled out a sheet of paper towel and dried my hands. She followed suit. A silence ensued and then she spoke up again. “I hear you’re looking for Mickey.”
I focused my attention, hoping she couldn’t guess how very curious I was. “I’d like to talk to him. Have you seen him tonight?”
“I haven’t seen him for weeks.”
“Really? That seems odd. Somebody told me he was usually here on Fridays.”
“Uh-uh. Not lately. No telling where he’s at. He could be out of town.”
“I doubt it. Not that he told me.”
She took a lipstick from her pocket and twisted the color into view, sliding it across her lips. I read an article once in some glamour magazine—probably waiting for the dentist and hoping to distract myself—in which the author analyzed the ways women wear down a tube of lipstick. A flat surface meant one thing, slanted meant something else. I couldn’t recall the theory, but I noticed hers was flat, the lipstick itself coming perilously close to the metal.
She screwed the lipstick back down and popped the top back on while she rubbed her lips together to even out the color. She corrected a slight mishap at the corner of her mouth, then studied her reflection. She tucked her coal-black hair behind her ears. Idly, she pursued the subject without any help on my part. “So what’s your interest?” She used her tongue to remove a smudge of lipstick from her two front teeth.
“He’s a friend.”
She studied me with interest. “Is that why you have his jacket?”
“He’s a good friend,” I said, and then glanced down at myself. “You recognize this?”
“It sure looks like his. I spotted it when you were in here the other night.”
“Last night,” I said, as if she didn’t know.
“Really. Did he give you that?”
“It’s on loan. That’s why I’m looking for him, to give it back,” I said. “I tried calling, but his phone’s been disconnected.”
She’d taken out a mascara wand, leaning close to the mirror while she brushed through her lashes, leaving little dots of black. As long as she was wangling for information, I thought I’d wangle some myself.
I said, “What about you? Are you a friend of his?”
She shrugged. “I wait on him when he’s in and we shoot the breeze.”
“So nothing personal.”
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Was that him?”
“Who?”
“The guy in the watch cap, sitting at the booth out there?”
She stopped what she was doing. “As a matter of fact, yes. What makes you ask?”
“I was thinking to cop a joint when I saw you sit down. Is he local?”
She shook her head. “L.A.” There was a pause and then she said, “How long have you dated Mickey?”
“It’s kind of hard to keep track.”
“Then this is recent,” she said, turning the question into a statement to offset the inquisition.
I started fluffing at my hair the way she’d been fluffing hers. I leaned close to the mirror and checked some imaginary eye makeup, running the flat of one knuckle along the lower edge of one eye. She was still waiting for an answer. I looked at her blankly. “Sorry. Did you ask me something?”
She took a pack of unfiltered Camels from her jeans and extracted a cigarette. She applied a flame to the tip, using a wooden match she scratched on the bottom of her shoe. “I didn’t know he was dating.”
“Who, Mickey? Oh, please. He’s always on the make. That’s half his charm.” I could picture the ashtray in his apartment, the numerous unfiltered Camel cigarette butts, along with the array of kitchen matches that looked just like hers. “He’s so secretive. Jeez. You never know what he’s up to or who he’s doing these days.”
She said, “I didn’t know that about him.” She turned to face me, leaning her backside against the sink with her weight on one hip.
I was warming to the subject, lies tumbling out with a tidy little mix of truth. “Take my word for it. Mickey doesn’t give you a straight answer about anything. He’s impossible that way.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?” she asked.
“Nah. I used to be jealous, but what’s the point? Monogamy’s not his thing. I figure what the hell? He’s still a stud in his way. Take it or leave it. He’s always got someone waiting in the wings.”
“You live in L.A.?”
“I’m mostly here. Anytime I’m down, though, I stop by his place.”
The information I was doling out seemed to make her restless. She said, “I have to get back to work. If you see him, tell him Thea said ‘hi.’” She dropped the cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. “Let me know if you find him. He owes me money.”
“You and me both, kid,” I said.
Thea left the room. I confess I smirked when she banged the door shut. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. “You are such a little shit,” I said.
I leaned on the sink for a minute, trying to piece together what I’d learned from her. Thea couldn’t know about the shooting or she wouldn’t have been forced to try to weasel information out of me. She must have hoped he was out of town, which would go a long way toward explaining why he hadn’t been in touch with her. It wasn’t difficult to picture her in a snit of some kind. There’s no one as irrational as a woman on the make. She might seize the opportunity to screw around on her steady boyfriend, but woe betide the man who screwed around on her. Given the fact that Mickey’s phone was out, she must have driven down to his apartment to collect her personal belongings. She certainly hadn’t warmed to the idea that he and I were an item. I wondered how S
cottie Shackelford would feel if he found out she was boffing Mick. Or maybe he knew. In which case, I wondered if he’d taken steps to put a stop to it.
17
I came out of the ladies’ room and paused inside the doorway to the bar, glancing to my left. Scott Shackelford was no longer sitting in the booth. I spotted him at the bar, chatting with the bartender, Charlie. The crowd was beginning to thin out. The band had long ago packed up and departed. It was nearly one-forty-five and the guys looking to get laid were forced to zero in on the few single women who remained. The busboys were loading dirty glassware into plastic bins. Thea was now standing at the bar with Scott, using a calculator to add up her tips. I zipped up the front of Mickey’s jacket. As I made my way to the front door, I became aware that she was watching me.
The chilly air was a relief after the smoky confinement of the bar. I could smell pine needles and loam. Colgate’s main street was deserted, all the neighboring businesses long since shut down for the night. I cut through the parking lot on the way to my car, hands in my jeans pockets, the strap of my handbag hooked over my right shoulder. Streetlights splashed the pavement with pale circles of illumination, emphasizing the darkness beyond their reach. Somewhere behind me, I heard the basso profundo rumble of a motorcycle. I looked over my shoulder in time to see a guy on a bike turning into the alley to the rear of the bar. I stared, walking backward, wondering if my eyes were deceiving me. I’d only caught a glimpse of him, but I could have sworn this was the same guy who’d shown up at Mickey’s Wednesday night in L.A. As I watched, he cut the engine and, still astride, began to roll his bike toward the trash bins. A wan light shining down from the rear exit shone on his corn-yellow hair and glinted against the chrome of the bike. He lifted the bike backward onto the center stand, locked the bike, dismounted, and rounded the building, walking toward the main entrance with a jingling sound, his jacket flapping open. The body type was the same: tall, thin, with wide bony shoulders and a sunken-looking chest.
