In Plain Sight (12 page)

G
eorge became absorbed in peeling the label off his bottle of Molson. When he looked back up he had on his cop face. I half expected him to reach into his pocket and take out a pad and a pen and start taking notes. I guess once you're a cop you're always one even if you quit the force. You just can't help it. Or maybe he wanted to make sure I got good value for his twenty bucks. Zsa Zsa reached over and licked the edge of his hand. George gave her an absentminded pat and began drumming his fingers on the bar.

“So Connie,” he rasped, “where'd you get this information from? Did Marsha tell you?”

“Not exactly,” Connie hedged.

“Then who did?” I demanded.

“My ex-brother-in-law.”

George rolled his eyes. “Je-SUS.”

I put out my hand. “Give me back his money.”

Connie took a couple of steps to the left. “Hey, lighten up. The information's good. Reggie used to work for Fast Eddie.”

“Doing what?” I demanded.

“Reclaiming Eddie's lost assets.”

George raised an eyebrow. “You mean he was an enforcer?”

Connie nervously rubbed her top lip with a knuckle. “What can I say? My sister has lousy taste in men. Put her in a room full of good ones and she'll come out with the loser every time.”

George clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Can we talk to this guy?”

“You can if you can find him.”

George's eyes narrowed. “Why? Where'd he go?”

“Good question.” Connie scratched her cheek. “I don't know. Nobody does. My sister came home from work last week and he was gone. He'd taken her Trans Am, cleaned out her checking account and split.”

“She file a report?” George asked.

“Of course. But nothing's turned up.”

I used one of my fingernails to make a “t” on the counter with George's potato chip crumbs. “So how come Reggie told you this stuff about Marsha?”

“Because he was here when she walked in. She took one look, turned sheet white, and ran out the door. When I asked him what was going on he told me she owed Fast Eddie some serious money.”

“I guess we can assume he'd already spoken to her,” I said.

“I think we can,” George agreed. He turned back to Connie. “Your brother-in-law say anything else?”

“Not about Marsha,” Connie replied. A couple of the college kids down at the other end of the bar started yelling for Connie. She turned and waved at them. “Gotta go,” she told George and me. “My fans want me.”

I fed Zsa Zsa a potato chip. “What do you think?” I asked George after Connie left.

“I think your friend had a serious problem.”

“Besides that.”

He cracked a knuckle. “Are you asking me if I think Marsha was killed for a gambling debt?”

“Yes.”

“I don't. These guys don't kill people. They scare them, maybe mess them up, but that's about it.”

I restrained Zsa Zsa from getting on the bar. “Yeah, but sometimes things get out of hand. Sometimes things don't always go as planned.”

“True. Except if I remember the newspaper article about Marsha's death correctly, it stated that no marks of violence were found on her body. Believe me, if Reggie or one of his friends had had a session with her, she would have had bruises all over.”

“You're probably right.” I took a cigarette out of the pack in my backpack and lit it.

George scowled and waved the smoke away with his hand. “There's no probably about it. I've seen these guys work. Owing that much money however does give her a good reason for suicide.”

“Or her husband a reason for murder,” I mused. “I know if I had a wife like that I'd want her out of the way. She'd be a real liability.” I thought again about the limo I'd seen at the funeral and Merlin's reaction to it. “I wonder if Fast Eddie considers Merlin responsible for Marsha's debts?”

“Interesting question,” George observed.

“Think about it. Here you are putting in fifty hours a week on the floor of a furniture store working your ass off selling sofas to ladies who can't decide between chintz and plaid, and your partner goes out and not only spends everything you bring in but runs up an enormous debt as well. It would sure piss me off. Maybe it pissed Merlin off, too. Maybe that's why he killed her. He just couldn't stand it anymore.”

“You're conjecturing.”

“I know, but it makes sense,” I argued.

“So would a lot of other reasons. The fact is, you want to kill someone, one reason is as good as another.” George twisted his voice into a savage whine. “Officer, he beat me. Officer, she cheated on me. He owed me money. I loved her. I was drunk. She was stoned. It was an accident.” He stopped and took a couple of breaths. “It all comes down to the same shit in the end.”

“That's a pretty bleak view.”

“Most murders are pretty bleak affairs.”

I flicked my cigarette ash into one of George's empty Molson bottles. “Well, Marsha's certainly was.” Zsa Zsa woofed and I scratched her back. “Merlin must have really hated her to do what he did to those dogs.”

“I'd say so,” George agreed. He took another drink of beer. “One thing you might want to bear in mind,” he continued. “That stuff about Marsha and her gambling problems ...”

“What about it?”

“It's all hearsay.”

“I know.” I took a moment and rubbed the front of my calf with my toe. My burn scar was itching, a sign I was tired. “Maybe I should just go to Fast Eddie and ask him.”

He stared at me. “You really are crazy.”

“Why?”

“What you gonna do, wear a short skirt, tight sweater and high heels and waltz in there?”

“Why? Will that help?”

“No.”

“Good, because I was planning on wearing jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers.”

“That's a relief.”

“I'm glad you approve. Anyway, I thought I'd go in and tell him I was a friend of Marsha's and that I understand they did business together and that I'm very interested in getting in on the action.”

“And you expect him to tell you—what?”

“At the very least I'll find out whether or not Marsha was a customer of his. As for anything else, I guess that'll depend on how chatty he is.”

“He's not.”

I stubbed out my cigarette and tossed it in the Molson bottle. “Maybe he'll talk to me.”

“Why should he do that?”

“Because I'm good at getting people to talk. When I worked for the paper I used to make my living coaxing people to tell me things.”

George leaned back and laced his fingers together and put them behind his head. “Gentleman's bet he won't say a word.”

“You're on.”

George grinned. Looking at the width of his smile I had a strong feeling there was something he wasn't telling me. Oh, well. I guess I'd find out what it was soon enough. “Now, you said this guy has ties to the mob.”

“That's what I'm told. All these guys do. Central New York is like their summer camp.”

“So where does he live?”

“On Pond. He shares an apartment over a sleazoid bar called Outlaw with his mother.”

“His mother? You're kidding.”

“No. I'm serious. She takes care of him. He's got emphysema or some sort of lung thing really bad. He can't get around much.”

“Why do they call him Fast Eddie, then?”

“Because he's got this souped-up electric wheelchair he speeds around in. Except of course when you want to arrest him. Then the damn thing won't move. The prick,” George said with feeling. “Last time I brought him in I had to call two other guys to help me pick Eddie up and put him in the van.”

“I didn't think wheelchairs were that heavy.”

“They are when you have someone weighing over three hundred pounds sitting in one.”

I stifled a giggle.

George glared at me and took a pull of his beer. Then he started smiling, too. “It was pretty funny,” he admitted. “The DA doesn't even want to prosecute him anymore.”

“Why's that?”

“What the hell are you going to do with him? Put him in Jamesville? It'll cost an arm and a leg. They're not set up for that kind of thing. Put him under house arrest? He already is. And doesn't that sonofabitch know it, too. He's got a leer on his face I'd love to wipe off.”

“He really gets to you.”

“Yes, he does.” George took another gulp of his Molson. “I'll tell you one thing, though.”

“What's that?”

“You know who you should really be careful of?”

“His enforcers?”

“His mother.”

“You've got to be kidding.”

“I'm not.”

“Why? What could she possibly do?”

George chuckled dryly. “I think I'll let you find out for yourself. I wouldn't want to deny you the pleasure.”

“Thanks a whole bunch.”

He gave a little bow. “I shall eagerly await your story.”

“You know, sometimes you really are a creep.”

“No. I just want my twenty dollars' worth of entertainment.”

“Hey,” I protested. “I told you I'd give you the money tomorrow.”

George stood up. “Fine. I'll drop by the store to collect it.”

“You do that.”

He leaned toward me and twirled an imaginary mustache. “And if you don't have it, you're all mine.”

“H
e's interested,” Connie said to me after George had left. She'd drifted back from the other end of the bar in time to catch the tail end of our conversation. “I can tell.”

“You're nuts,” I retorted.

“Trust Mother Connie.” She patted her chest. “I know about this kind of thing.”

I snorted. “Maybe you do, but you're sure as hell wrong this time. First of all I'm not his type. My boobs are too small and my IQ is too high.”

Connie tsked. “Nasty, nasty.”

I leaned forward. “But true—as you well know by some of the bimbos he's dragged in here. Remember Myra?”

“Be that as it may,” Connie told me, “you think he's hot. Admit it, the guy turns you on.”

I ran my finger around the edge of my glass. “I admit I like him, but that's as far as it goes.”

“You do more than that,” Connie declared as she cleared away George's beer bottles and began wiping down the counter. “Really, you're such a chicken shit.”

I could feel myself redden.

“I mean,” Connie continued, “I know you've gotten shot at and all the rest of that junk, but the reality is you're chicken about what counts.” She pointed a finger at me. “Ever since Murphy died I've watched you wall yourself off in your own little world. You're scared to get involved with anyone you could feel anything about.”

“I didn't know you were getting a degree in psychology,” I sneered.

Connie shrugged. “Fine. Have it your way.”

“I will.” I drained my Scotch, grabbed Zsa Zsa and left.

Okay, so maybe Connie was on to something, I admitted to myself as I zoomed out of the parking lot. She still didn't have to say what she did. I wasn't being a chicken shit; I was just being cautious. Given my relationship with Murphy it made sense. One of my friends had said that being with us was like being on a roller coaster. Either we couldn't keep our hands off one another or we were ready to slit each other's throats. I don't think we were ever really in love; we were in lust and when we started to cool off we had nowhere else to go. Now I think I didn't really know Murphy at all; all I knew was the fantasy of him I'd created in my mind. And that scares me. I don't want to do that with George. I also don't want to start something and have George go away. I like him too much. Which means what? That I should only go to bed with guys I don't like? God, how did I manage to get so screwed up? The question depressed me, and I pressed my foot on the gas and went flying down Meadowbrook at sixty miles an hour. I knew I'd have to deal with this stuff soon, but I wasn't ready to deal with it tonight.

I could hear my answering machine beeping as soon as I walked into the house. I went into the kitchen and played the tape back. There were three calls, all of them from the folks at Visa and MasterCard wanting to know when they were going to get paid. I deleted the messages and went into the kitchen. James was sitting on the counter waiting to be fed. I opened a can of tuna for him and grabbed a handful of Oreo cookies for myself. “Well,” I said to him. “It looks as if we're going to be strictly cash-and-carry for a while.”

James ignored me and went on eating. I sighed and went up the stairs.

That night I dreamt about George. I woke at five with a sense of dread I didn't understand and couldn't shake. I tossed and turned trying to get back to sleep, until finally I gave up, went downstairs, turned on the TV, and lay down on the sofa. I was just dozing off when Zsa Zsa woke me. She wanted to go out.

I was wide awake when I came back in, so I spent the rest of the time before I had to go to work alternating between writing advertising copy for the store and coming up with a plan to find Estrella.

Tim and I hit the parking lot at the same time—he with his container of yogurt and I with the three doughnuts I'd picked up at Nice N' Easy. Pickles was right by the door when I opened it. The moment I stepped inside she meowed and twined herself around my legs while Zsa Zsa danced around us. I petted the cat for a while, then got down to work. It was an annoying morning. Two customers returned fish which had died of ich. Then I signed for a case of flea powder only to find upon opening the carton that the company had sent me defoggers instead—which we didn't need.

It took me half an hour to get the distributor on the phone and another fifteen minutes to convince the secretary that a mistake had been made. Then on top of everything someone kept calling and hanging up. Finally around eleven I took a break and called Rabbit. There wouldn't have been any point in calling earlier because he's never up before eleven. I was hoping he'd come up with some information on Estrella, but he wasn't home. His brother told me he was with Manuel. Manuel's mother said the boys were with Will. Will's mother told me the three of them hadn't come home last night.

“If you see 'em, you tell 'em to get their butts over here,” she growled.

I said I would, but privately I doubted they'd listen. If I had that waiting for me, I wouldn't be in a big hurry to go home either. I twisted a lock of hair around my finger. So much for that idea. The guys could be back in a half hour or two days from now, and I couldn't afford to wait and find out which one it was going to be. After a couple of minutes of consideration I decided to visit the house on Deal on my way to the bank. Who knew? Maybe I'd get lucky.

This time a girl answered the door. With her pale, scrubbed skin and waiflike body she looked eleven at the most. I wondered if the baby she was cradling in her arms was hers.

“What do you want?” she whispered. Her voice was so soft I had to strain to hear it.

“I'm looking for Estrella Torres,” I told her.

“She's gone.”

I guess I wasn't going to be lucky after all. “Do you know where she went?”

“No.” The baby the girl was cradling let out an anemic mewl. The girl looked down. “Excuse me but I got to go feed her.”

“She yours?”

The girl nodded. “She's three months old. She was born a month early, but she's doing all right now.” She offered her up for my inspection. The baby had circles under her eyes. She looked tired, as if she'd already seen more of life than she wanted to. “She's got to have an operation, though.”

“That's too bad.”

“Next month.” The baby cried again. “The doctors said she's going to be fine.” The girl leaned forward. “But I don't think she's going to be,” she confided. “You believe in angels?”

I told her I did because I didn't have the heart to say anything else.

“Me, too.” The girl was going to say something else, but another girl, an older one, appeared behind her.

“I was wondering where you went off to,” the second one said. Her blond hair was streaked with blue. Her dark eyes were wary.

The younger girl pointed at me. “She was asking for Estrella.”

“Well, she ain't here,” the older girl said.

“I know.” I tried again. “Do you know where she went?”

“I think she's living at the Colony or maybe at her mother's. She said something about going to see her mother.”

“And where is her mother?”

“I don't know. Toronto maybe. I'm not sure.”

I thanked her and turned to go.

“Hey,” the older girl said to me, “you catch up with her tell her I want my shirt back.”

I told her I would and left. Seeing the girl and her baby depressed me and I almost wished I hadn't come. Their vision stayed with me while I stood in line at the bank. It seemed as if we, as a country, were slipping back to an earlier, harsher time and place. It also seemed to me as if Estrella wasn't too far away from a similar fate. It made me want to look harder. I hadn't been able to help Marsha; maybe I could help her.

The first thing I did when I got back to the store was call Garriques and ask him for Estrella's mother's phone number. He didn't have it, but he gave me the aunt's. I could hear the school PA system announcing club meetings in the background while he talked. The sounds made me long for school's simplicity.

I called Ana Torres next. I wanted to tell her what I'd found out, but she wasn't home. A youngish-sounding child answered and told me that her mother had gone to the store and would be back in a couple of minutes. I decided to go over and talk to her in person. I didn't know how good her English was, but I knew that my Spanish was lousy. Communication would go better if we were face to face.

I was reaching for my keys when a man I'd never seen pushed the door open and walked in. He was wearing a gray suit and tie. The jacket pulled around the shoulders and the waist and looked as if it had been made for someone smaller. He had a round face, made even rounder-looking by a receding hairline, and a soft body; but his eyes were hard, and the scar running from his lip to his chin had fixed the left side of his mouth in a permanent sneer. But sneer or not the man was a customer, so I smiled and asked if I could help him.

“I'll take one of those,” he said, pointing to the box of rubber mice sitting on the counter.

“That'll be $2.99 plus tax,” I told him.

He reached in his pocket and handed me a five-dollar bill.

“So what kind of cat do you have?” I asked, trying to get a conversation going.

“I don't,” he informed me. His voice was hoarse and low and I had to strain to hear him.

I tried again. “Dogs like these, too. Especially terriers.”

“I don't have one of those either,” he said as I handed him his change.

Strike two. “Well, is there anything else I can help you with?” I figured what was the harm in asking.

“No.”

I tried one last time. “Are you sure you don't need anything else for your pet?”

“I don't have any pets.” He threw the mouse back down on the counter.

“I don't understand.” I was definitely missing something here.

“It's simple really. I just came in to get a good look at you.”

I felt a chill going down my spine as he turned and walked out the door.