Irish Eyes (12 page)

“In there, through the office. Don’t know how clean it is. You know these Greeks.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, heaping on the gratitude. The funny thing was, I was so nervous, I really did have to go.

He reached around the doorway into the office area and flipped on a light. A bare bulb hung over a cheap wooden desk wedged in the corner of the tiny airless room. Two banks of file cabinets and metal utility shelving took up the rest of the room, which was decorated with dusty beer posters and broken neon signs.

I pushed open the hollow core door to the bathroom and locked it behind me. The cop hadn’t been lying about the state of the bathroom. It was filthy. Suddenly I didn’t have to go anymore. I stood in the middle of the room and looked around. It was so small I could touch each wall standing in one place. A commode, a sink with a leaky faucet, and a metal shelf holding rolls of toilet tissue and paper towels were the only furnishings. The floor was concrete with a drain in the middle. In the wall, high above the commode, was a narrow window made of frosted glass. I’m terrible about measurements. I took my hands, measured my shoulders, held them up toward the
window. Yes, I thought. The window was big enough to crawl in or out of. But the glass was puttied in, and there didn’t appear to be any hinges.

I sighed and flushed the commode, turned the water on high, reminding myself to disinfect my hands once I got home to my own, clean bathroom.

The cop sat at the desk in the office, leafing through a magazine.

“Okay?”

“Much better,” I assured him.

P
ete Viatkos and the other cop were intent on their basketball game. I wandered around the store picking up bottles and putting them into the rusty A&P shopping cart I found near the doorway. Most of the wine in the store was of the screwtop variety, but I found a dusty bottle of Kendall-Jackson Chardonnay, an interesting Chilean red, and the Jack Daniels for Mac.

I moved over toward the cooler, which stood next to the counter. The shelves were stacked with singles and ponies of beer and malt liquor. Most of it was the usual stuff, Bud, Miller, Coors. There were only a few imports. I saw Killian’s Red, Heineken, Amstel, and Guinness. But no Harp.

“Excuse me,” I said.

Viatkos’s eyes were glued to the television set. UNLV was behind by five but pouring it to U. Conn. He didn’t bother to look up. “What?”

“Do you carry Harp?”

“No.”

Funny, Bucky had a six-pack of the stuff last night.

“My boyfriend really likes Harp, but it’s hard to find in this
part of town,” I said, trying another tack. “Do you ever carry it?”

“Sometimes,” Viatkos said. “Check tomorrow. The truck comes on Friday.”

I unloaded my purchases onto the counter. Cop number one, the one who was watching the game, lifted the hinged trap door and moved around behind the counter and started totaling me up on the cash register.

“Sixty-six even,” he said, his eyes wandering back to the set.

I counted out the cash. He took the bills and put them in the register. The drawer was stacked high with twenties and tens. It was nearly ten o’clock and Viatkos hadn’t bothered to empty the cash out of the register tonight. But then, his store had already been robbed recently. Why lock the barn after the cow’s gone?

“Where’s Deecie tonight?” I asked, trying to sound lighthearted. “Couldn’t get a sitter?”

That got Viatkos’s attention. “You know Deecie?”

“Sure,” I said. “I just work down the street. I stop in here at night sometimes. Is she all right?”

“She quit,” Viatkos said, glowering.

“Oh.” As long as I was pushing it, I decided to push a little more. “I’m sorry to hear that. She was a nice girl.”

“A thief,” Viatkos said, spitting the words. “The girl was a goddamn thief. You see her around town, you call me here at the store. I catch up with her, you’ll get a reward.”

“Hey, hey,” number one cop said, laughing uneasily. “Go easy, Pete.” He gave me the big smile. “Pete’s worked up. We had a little incident in here last night. Maybe you heard about it on the news.”

I let my eyes go big and naïve. “That’s right! That officer got shot. Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” I backed away toward the door, rolling the cart with me.

I tapped on the passenger-side window and Mac unlocked the door. “What took so long?” he demanded. “I was getting kind of worried.”

“Sorry,” I said, stowing the liquor on the backseat. “I was taking the fifty-cent tour.”

“Find anything interesting?”

“Maybe. Drive around back, would you?”

He started the Blazer’s engine. “Whatever you say.”

We circled to the end of the shopping center. It wasn’t much of a center. There was a discount video rental store that seemed to specialize in Spanish-language movies, a closed-up Chinese restaurant called the Jade Dragon, and another closed-up storefront that had a For Lease sign in the window. “Call Parthenon Properties,” the sign urged, and a phone number was listed.

“Parthenon,” I said. “Wonder if that’s Pete Viatkos’s company? It would be interesting if he owned the whole shopping center.”

“Viatkos?”

“Yeah. He owns the liquor store. Why, you know him?”

“Of him,” Mac said. “He owns a parcel of land out in Rockdale County. It’s zoned agricultural, but he wants to put some kind of industrial park out there. The county commission is falling all over themselves to make it happen.”

“That’s bad?”

“It fronts on a two-lane county road. No way it could handle the kind of heavy traffic a park like that would create. We’re studying the proposal, but I can tell you right now we’d recommend the zoning request be turned down.”

Mac turned the Blazer around on the backside of the shopping center. It was dark back there, and the asphalt was full of potholes. Abandoned grocery carts lay on their sides, and Dumpsters spewed trash.

“Not exactly a garden spot,” Mac said as the Blazer crept forward.

I pointed at a wall of cardboard beer crates that leaned against the back of one building. “That’s the liquor store,” I said. “Pull up.”

He nosed the Blazer within five feet of the back of the store, his headlights shining on the heavy metal door. Something small and furry scurried by the door.

“No wonder Deecie didn’t want to park back here,” I muttered. “It’s like something out of Stephen King.”

“Seen enough?” Mac asked, yawning.

“Almost,” I said. “Deecie said there was a road back here. I want to see where it goes.”

At the far end of the strip the asphalt curved away, into a narrow driveway that dipped sharply below grade. Mac put his brights on and inched forward. Sure enough, at the bottom of the drive, a two-lane road passed by.

“What street is this?” I asked. Even under good conditions I am what some would call directionally challenged. But it was late and dark, and I couldn’t picture exactly where we were.

“Don’t know,” Mac said. “I don’t see any signs.” He turned to the right, and after a block, the road dead-ended into a trash dump. More shopping carts, burned-out mattresses, and junk cars spilled out of a thinly wooded area.

He turned around and we passed the back of the shopping center again. This time, the road intersected with a real road. “Woodbridge Way,” I said, reading a street sign. “I never knew this was back here.”

The houses on the street were modest one-story wood frame cottages, mostly of World War II vintage. Large expanses of weed-covered empty lots were sprinkled all down the street.

“All these houses were condemned by the state when they were trying to put the Presidential Parkway through,” Mac said. “But the neighborhood associations fought the state tooth and nail, sued them in federal court, and eventually won. But it was too late for a lot of people. As soon as they started condemning, the state bulldozed a lot of the houses. That’s why all the vacant lots.”

“I knew a lot of stuff was condemned over in Inman Park,” I said, looking around, “but I had no idea the property extended over this far. I wonder why nobody ever built on those lots?”

Mac laughed. “The state still holds title. If you think it doesn’t pay to fight city hall, try fighting the State of Georgia.”

“Let’s see where Woodbridge takes us,” I said.

He turned right. “I can tell you where it takes us,” he said. “North Avenue. We’re not even two blocks from Manuel’s.”

Manuel’s Tavern is an Atlanta landmark in a city whose idea
of a landmark is anything built before the Gulf War. It’s a big dark barn of a place that sits at the corner of North Avenue and Highland, and it’s the closest thing the city has to a real old-fashioned beer joint.

“You get any dinner?” I asked.

“A package of mixed nuts on the plane. I came directly to your place from the airport. You want to get some dinner?”

I was still full of cookies and milk, but a cold beer sounded good. Besides, Manuel’s is a cop hangout. It was a good bet there would be at least half a dozen cops inside, holding forth. I wanted to hear what the scuttlebutt was over at City Hall East.

W
e found a booth in the front room, ordered a J.J. Special for Mac and a cold draft for me. By now, I really, really needed a bathroom.

“Be back in a minute,” I told Mac. He was watching the basketball game. Everybody in Manuel’s was watching the game.

Everybody except me. I washed my hands twice in the ladies’ room. Instead of going back to the booth, I decided to make a loop through the back room. Every table was full. I saw a couple of people I knew—you never go to Manuel’s without seeing somebody. Tonight, there were a couple lawyers I knew from college days, a nurse who once worked at Grady with my sister, and a woman who works the checkout at the neighborhood video store.

The cops were seated in the back corner of the room, eight of them, at two round tables they’d pushed together. They were all in street clothes, but there were three radios heaped in the middle of the table alongside two full pitchers of beer.

I knew some of the guys. Ellis Washington and the other homicide detective named Parini were there.

I stopped at the lawyers’ table, waved to my sister’s friend. When I got to the back of the room I tapped Ellis Washington on the shoulder and pointed at a vacant chair. “This seat taken?”

Washington looked surprised to see me. “Uh, yeah. I mean, no. Go ahead. Sit down, if you want.”

I sat. Washington found a clean glass and poured me a beer.

“You guys,” he said. The others turned away from the game. “This is Callahan Garrity. A friend of Deavers. Used to be his partner. She was there last night—at the liquor store.”

Parini gave me an acknowledging nod. “How’s it going?”

“Okay,” I said. “Anybody call the hospital tonight? Last I heard, this afternoon, Bucky was listed in serious condition.”

One of the uniform cops chimed in. “I called around six. No change.”

“How’s Lisa Dugan holding up?” I asked.

Parini and Washington exchanged looks.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

“Captain Dugan doesn’t talk about her personal life,” Washington said. “We’re not supposed to know she’s been shacking up with Deavers.”

“Oh.”

“She’s still back at the office,” Parini said. “She hasn’t gone home since it happened. The only reason we’re here is to take a dinner break. She wouldn’t come. Said she wanted to be by the phone in case something breaks.”

“How about that girl—Deecie Styles?” I asked. “Anybody get a line on her whereabouts yet?”

Washington gave me a look. It said I should shut up.

“I saw the news tonight,” I said, plunging ahead. “Channel Two is saying the chief asked internal affairs to investigate the shooting. They hinted that the chief suspects Bucky had something to do with what happened last night.”

I looked around the table. Each of the men wore identical deadpan expressions.

“Well?”

Nothing.

“Dammit,” I exclaimed. “I’m not a reporter. So don’t give
me that no-comment shit. I’m Bucky’s friend. Can’t any of you guys give me an idea what they’re talking about?”

Parini twirled his beer mug around. “Ask the chief.”

“I’m asking you guys,” I said plaintively. “You were all at the hospital last night. So I’m assuming you’re his friends. I’m assuming you really did know Bucky.”

“We know him,” Parini said. He glanced over at Washington, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head.

“That job Deavers was working at the liquor store—he was working two other jobs too. The guy was killing himself working all this overtime. We all work second and third jobs. We got families. We got to if we want to make a living. This friggin’ city don’t pay jack shit for wages. But you heard what the chief said when somebody asked her about a raise—right?”

“She didn’t say anything,” I said.

“Just my point,” Parini said, slapping the table with the palm of his hand.

“I’m hearing rumors,” I said, looking around at the others. “Like what?” Parini wanted to know.

“That there’s some kind of ATM robbery crew working the city,” I said.

“We get ATM robberies all the time,” Washington said, interrupting. “Why not? A machine that spits out money on command? The things draw bandits like shit draws flies. I made my wife and daughter cut up their ATM cards. Too dangerous. But is that supposed to have something to do with Deavers?”

“Maybe,” I said. “What I heard—”

A hand gripped my shoulder. I turned halfway around in my chair. Mac stood glaring down at me, his mouth pinched in fury.

“I thought you were coming right back,” he said. “Your beer’s warm. I already ate.” He reached in his pocket, brought out a wad of bills. He took my hand and folded my fingers over the money. “When you get ready to go home, call yourself a cab. This one’s going off duty.” He turned and walked rapidly out of the bar.

I felt my face go hot. Shit. I’d done it again. I’d gotten carried away, trying to pry information out of these cops. But
Mac had to know that was why I wanted to stop in at Manuel’s. He had to know how torn up I was about Bucky. Damn him. He’d turned everything around. All because I was selfish enough to tell him I didn’t want to give up my life in Atlanta to move to Nashville with him. Screw him, I thought. Screw him and the horse he rode in on.