Forever Man (5 page)

Jack’s expression darkened. “Do you think he’s involved with your daughter’s disappearance? Or the Cain boy’s death?”

“Of course not. I’m just trying to—”

“So he isn’t a suspect of any kind? This isn’t part of an official investigation?”

“I still have a missing person. I need to know what your son might—”

“Is it or isn’t it a formal investigation?” 

Izzy paused. Reluctantly, she said, “No. Not yet. Natalie hasn’t been missing long enough. But I am asking for a little cooperation here.”

“Then this conversation really needs to be over, doesn’t it?” He turned to open the front door, then stopped and glanced back over his shoulder. “I do understand how important this is. And I will talk with my son. I promise. If he has anything to add, I’ll let you know.” He gave her a sympathetic look, stepped into his house, and closed the door. The muted click of the deadbolt signaled an end to their discussion.

Izzy Morris stood there a moment, debating if she should push her luck and start kicking the door. But as much as she hated to admit it, he did have a point. She had no authority to demand an interview. Not yet. Not until she knew more.

She looked down at Kevin’s drawing, stuck it in the back of the notepad, and turned to leave.

From inside the Sallinen house, Jack watched as Chief Morris climbed into her cop car and drove off.

He despised Morris and her ilk—the Be Nothings that infested the world.

Long ago, when Jack was young boy sitting at the dining room table doing his homework, his father would often plop down next to him, beer in hand, and preach about the perils of the Be Nothings:
Don’t let ‘em get the better of you, son
.
They’re everywhere. Mostly coloreds, like that uppity King fella down south, but they can jus’ as easily be real God-fearing Americans. They’re the vermin of the world, Jacky, scurrying ‘round like rats and spreading diseases called
welfare
and
equal rights.
And they hate us. They hate us with a fervor passion! They see what we got and they want it. But are they willin’ to work for it? Hell no! They stand ‘round with hat in hand and that gimme-gimme look on their faces and never say so much as a thank you and then call it
progress.
Stay sharp, son. Never let the Be Nothings
stand in your way.

It was one of the few lessons his father had tried to teach him that made any sense. Despite the man’s distasteful prejudices, his concerns about the Be Nothings had resonated with Jack. And Jack had come to understand them better than his old man: no one was born a Be Nothing—the condition wasn’t based on race or creed. A person
chose
to be
nothing
in life. Chose to ignore the opportunities the world had to offer. Refused to take what he wanted and seize it for his own.

In Jack’s opinion, a Be Nothing lacked ambition, plain and simple.

And the thought of anyone living like that galled him.

Moving away from the window, Jack walked down the short hallway into his office. He closed the doors and engaged the lock. At his desk, he pulled out a key, unlocked a drawer, and withdrew a locked, gray metal box. Inside that box were color photos. He’d found them this morning in a large unmarked envelope, exactly where he’d been told to look: wedged between the front left tire of his Benz and the steering assembly.

He grabbed his cell, thumbed the buttons.

A man answered on the third ring. “Yes, Jack?”

“Morris was here. She’s looking for her kid.”

“Excellent. It’s started already.”

“This whole thing’s got me nervous. I don’t want to lose everything I’ve worked for.”

“
Again,
what you have is small compared to what you can attain. Keep that in mind.”

Jack fanned the photos out on his desk top. “I have the gift you left me.”

“Yes,” the man said trenchantly. “And I’m already regretting it.”

“Why?” He traced his finger over the glossy surfaces, then lifted one to his nose and inhaled deeply. “I like them.”

“Just be careful. If anyone sees them, you
will
lose everything—and more.”

Jack ignored the threat. “So what’s next?”

“I’m early. Pulled in last night. Right now I’m trying to find a place to stay.”

“Is there something you want me to do?”

“Not at the moment. Later, yes. But for now, just sit tight.”

“I hope you don’t plan on waiting too long. You’ve promised me a lot.”

“Relax, Jack. I’ll call you when it’s time to move.” The man clicked off.

Jack closed his cell, then picked up the photos, feeling his heart accelerate.

It was finally going to come to him. Everything he’d worked for.

The thrill was almost too much to contain.

*   *   *

Eugene Vincent thumbed the switch on the old Budweiser sign that hung in the front window. The circuitry stuttered and hitched like an old man’s heart, and he wondered briefly if the Big Red Bow Tie was finally going toes up on him—or in this case, tubes up. But then the electrodes sparked, the gas flared, and he heard the high, hard hum of electricity surging through the sign. He smiled. In the afternoon sun, the neon glow would be nearly invisible—a chemical ghost. At night, it would blush pale red, almost pink. Not exactly the most masculine color for a bar, but that didn’t bother him. He was never one to worry about what other people thought.

He walked gingerly to the front door, navigating around white laminate tables with their shiny metal napkin dispensers and wire condiments racks filled with bottles of catsup and mustard and A-1 sauce, and disengaged the lock. He flipped the sign over so the CLOSED side faced him.

Three o’clock sharp. The Lula was open for business.

He turned, careful not to aggravate his back.

While the Lula wasn’t very different from other small town bars—booze and burgers were still his moneymakers—he had worked hard to make it unique. And with a name like Gene Vincent, picking a theme hadn’t been difficult.

Instead of the typical beer memorabilia hanging on the walls, he’d hunted down and framed vintage concert posters. There was one for Bill Haley and the Comets at the Old Orchard Beach Pier, another for Little Richard at the Armory Dance Center. And his personal favorite, a poster for Buddy Holly with the Big Bopper and Richie Valens, all performing together at the Laramar Ballroom. The gig took place four days before they would die tragically in a plane crash outside Clear Lake, Iowa.

He also knew he would need music, so he’d installed a digital jukebox filled with oldies. And not oldies as in 70s oldies, either. He was talking
real
oldies, with songs by guys sporting nicknames like Fats and Killer and the King—people with real talent, belting out hit after hit, long before the advent of vocal tuning gimmickry.

In keeping with the motif, Gene had installed a small stage for live music. The sound system consisted of a vintage Music Man amp and a mic connected to two speakers mounted from the ceiling; basically enough for someone to sit on a stool and noodle around on a guitar. He kept putting out ads for musicians, but so far all he’d gotten were long-haired Metallica wannabes and crusty old farts whose musical repertoire ended before Chuck Berry first duck-walked across a stage.

He had a musician coming in next weekend, but he’d given up hope of finding anyone good. The pay simply wasn’t sufficient to attract real talent.

Across the room, a bar ran the length of the wall, an elegant oak construct with old 45 rpm records inlayed into the surface and treble clefs carved into the wainscoting. He’d bought half a dozen old-fashioned, square-ringed bar stools with the thickly padded seats covered in bright red vinyl. He’d even replaced the draft beer pull-handles with customized guitar necks, the style of beer printed along the fret board.

Cool, daddy-o.

The kitchen door to the right of the bar creaked open. Sam Burkardt poked out his head, his long black hair tied into a ponytail and held back with a hair net.

“The grill’s ready to go, boss. Deep fryers still need about fifteen. Other than that, we’re ready to rock and roll.”

Sam was his cook, and a pretty damn good one. Years ago, he had left Kinsey behind to attend culinary school. Then, as the excesses of the 90s came crashing down, the job offers fell faster than a bad soufflé. So he decided to move back to Kinsey. When Gene ran into him years later, Sam had been working odd jobs to make ends meet. And when Gene decided to open a bar, Sam had jumped at the chance to cook again.

Two Kinsey ex-pats had come home to roost and had ended up working in the same coop.

“Let’s hope we get an encore,” Gene said, smiling.

Sam kept staring at him, lips pursed.

“Something on your mind, Sam?”

“Sorry. You were standing there, you know, real still. Like maybe you’d jacked your back up again.”

“I’m fine. See?” Gene did a quick soft-shoe shuffle, his hands scissoring in front of him. The movement sent a wave of pain washing down his left hip and leg, but he kept his smile. “Now quit playing Mother Hen and go work on the chili. And cut back on the peppers this time. My blisters haven’t healed from your last batch.”

Sam nodded solemnly. “Sure, boss. But you ain’t fooling me. You’re sweating.” Then he retreated into the kitchen.

As soon as Sam was gone, Gene grabbed the nearest chair for support. Breathing heavily, he pulled several napkins from the dispenser and mopped his face. It took a minute or two of standing still before low tide returned and the pain receded to a dull throb.

Keep moving. Don’t let your back stiffen up.

He stepped carefully to the bar, flipped up the swing top, and maneuvered behind it. He didn’t want to sit; that only made his back worse. Instead he found a damp rag and began wiping down the bar top.

He was almost done when the front door opened. Through it stepped Chet Boardman, one of his regulars. He was followed by another figure, a black man carrying a guitar case and some kind of large duffel.

Chet strolled over to the bar, his boots scraping against the linoleum. He slid comfortably onto one of the bar stools. “The usual, Gene.”

As Gene started on the bourbon and cola, the stranger took the seat next to Chet. He leaned his guitar case against the bar and set the duffel on the empty stool beside him.

Chet scooted one seat over—away from the stranger.

With a puzzled look, Gene placed the drink in front of Chet, followed by a bowl of snack mix. He turned to the stranger. “What can I do you for?”

The man studied the bottles lined behind the bar. “Whiskey and water?”

“Sure thing. Premium or house?”

“House is fine.”

Gene grabbed a bottle and quickly placed the drink in front of the man. “Four-fifty.”

The stranger pulled out a five and laid it on the bar. “Keep the change.”

Nodding his thanks, Gene set out another bowl of mix.

The man sipped his drink, then asked, “You the owner?”

Gene extended his hand. “Eugene Vincent.”

The man shook it. “Bart Owens.” He gestured to his guitar case. “I’m here for the job.”

Gene had to think for a moment. “The stage gig?”

Owens nodded. “I’m a little early.”

“I’m sorry, but—” He stared at the man. “You’re the guy I talked to? The one who’s supposed to start next week?”

“That’d be me,” Owens said with a quick grin. “I was hoping to start
this
weekend, if you don’t mind. You know, earn a little extra cash. Make it worth the trip.”

Gene gave the man a closer look. His black hair was shot through with gray, his dark skin smooth with only hints of the usual crow’s feet or laugh lines. His eyes were an unusual bright blue, like sapphires. But what caught Gene’s attention was the teardrop-shaped mark under his left eye. He’d seen gang members and ex-cons with similar tats.

“When we talked on the phone, you said you’d be traveling to get here. I’d assumed you meant from somewhere nearby, like Traverse City or Marquette.”

Picking up his drink, Owens took another sip. “No, I meant from out of state.”

“Wisconsin?”

“Nope. Nashville.”

“You came all the way from Tennessee? To play here?”

Owens shrugged. “A job’s a job.”

“But…?”

“The pay’s still the same, right? Friday and Saturday nights. Fifty a night, plus tips.”

Before Gene could respond, Chet signaled from two seats away. “Running on fumes here, Gene.”

Reluctantly, Gene turned away from Owens. After fixing a new drink, he leaned over and set the bourbon and cola in front of Chet. It wasn’t much of a bend, but that was the pisser with bad backs: it often doesn’t take much. Pain drilled into him like an auger.

Chet must have caught his expression. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” Gene said, grimacing. Then he slid a menu over to Chet. “Why don’t you order something? I don’t want to see you drunk by six.”

Chet snorted. “Dodge and evade. You’d’ve made a good politician.”

“And your concern is?”

“I understand pain,” said Chet, holding up his hands. His fingers were gnarled and bent. “See these? Forty years of fishing—day after day, haulin’ in nets of menominee and lake trout. Me and pain, we know each other well.”

“Chronic pain can be stressful,” Owens added quietly.

When Chet scowled at the old man, Gene leaned in and whispered into Chet’s ear. “Whatever your problem is, get over it. Or you can find somewhere else to drink.”

Chet shifted his scowl to the depths of his drink, but he kept quiet.

“I have back problems,” Gene explained to Owens. “And hip. And leg. A few years back, a drunk driver ran a red light. Plowed right into me. I got pretty messed up.” He’d spent weeks in the hospital, and then months in rehab. He’d lost his construction job in Chicago, and his injury had made him too much of a liability to other employers. It was a memory he’d love to forget. “It still gives me trouble now and again.”

Owens sipped at his drink. “You have my sympathies, sir.”

“Anyway,” Gene said, wanting to change the subject. “Back to business. You’re okay with two nights a week? Hundred bucks plus tips?”