The Bar Watcher (10 page)

The niggling had started, and try though I might, I could not get the story of the two dead bitch-queens out of my head. I really hate it when I know something and my brain won't tell me what it is. And something
was
telling me there was more to their deaths than met the eye.

But what possible connection could there be between them and Comstock? With Richie, there was obviously a direct link, since he knew Comstock and had appeared in his videos. Two queens, probably in their forties or fifties? What gave me any idea their deaths could be related to Comstock's?

My mind didn't know, but my gut did.

Early Saturday morning, I had the urge to get up early and take a drive to the Hilltop. I took the longer, less-winding route to Cortez, drove past the Hilltop then turned on McAlester and started down the bluff. There had been a sufficient number of accidents on this stretch of road over the years to prompt sporadic attempts to close it entirely; but it was the shortest way from Riverside to the top of the bluff, and the speed limit was set at 25 mph—which, unlike most speed limits, was pretty much heeded, given the road's proximity to the edge of the bluff. It was a tricky road, but not really dangerous if you took it easy.

However, for someone drunk and going too fast…

There wasn't much traffic that time of morning, so I drove even slower than the posted limit, watching the road carefully. About halfway down, I noticed a new section of guardrail at the start of a sharp turn. I pulled over onto the narrow shoulder on the uphill side of the road and got out of the car. Uphill of the new piece of guardrail there were about twenty-five feet of skidmarks.

Looking over the edge, I saw a badly broken tree and a scraped-clear area in the narrow strip between Riverside and the base of the bluff, about 100 feet below. Directly across from where the car had landed, on another narrow strip of ground, was a gas station. I got back into my car and continued down to Riverside, turning right to head for the station. I needed gas, anyway.

While I usually opt for self-serve, I pulled up to one of the full-service pumps. A teenager well on his way to being a pretty attractive hunk when his acne finally cleared up came out of the service bay, wiping his hands on a rag. I got out of the car on the pretext of stretching my legs.

“Fill it up,” I said, and the kid nodded. I motioned to the broken tree and scraped area across the street. “That where that car went over a couple days ago?”

The kid set the hose nozzle and squeezed the trigger to start the gas flowing.

“Yeah,” he said. “I saw the whole thing.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, I normally work four to midnight. The only reason I'm here this early is because the regular guy's off sick and I can use the extra money.”

“What happened that night?”

The kid topped off the tank then removed the nozzle and replaced the hose onto the pump.

“I was filling up some guy's tank—it was just a little before closing—and I hear a couple pops then brakes squealing then the crash of the car going through the rail. I looked up to see these two headlights just soaring out into open air then arcing down toward the ground. It plowed through that tree there then landed on its roof.

“I ran in to call for help, but the guys inside were already dead when they pulled them out.”

“What happened to the car?” I asked, taking a bill from my wallet to pay for the gas.

“Marv's Salvage came for it,” the kid said, handing me my change. “Guess it's still at his yard.”

“Thanks,” I said, getting back into the car. I had a sudden thought from out of absolutely nowhere. “Oh, by the way, what kind of car was it?”

“It was a beauty—a classic fifty-three Packard Caribbean. Looked like it had been in mint condition until it hit the ground. A real shame.”

“Yeah,” I said, starting the engine.

“Have a good day,” the kid said, heading back to the service bay as I drove off.

*

A couple pops,
the kid had said. What kind of pops? How many? What could they have been? Something told me I knew.

I pulled up at the nearest phone booth and looked up the address for Marv's Salvage. Taking a chance they might be open on a Saturday morning, I drove over. Luckily, there was an “Open” sign on the chain link fence beside the open gate leading to the auto graveyard inside.

I pulled up to the small shed that served as an office and went in. It smelled of rust and motor oil. A short, heavyset man in grease-stained coveralls sat behind a battered desk piled high with bills and receipts, punching numbers into an equally battered adding machine.

He looked up when I entered.

“Help you?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I hope so. I'm planning on restoring a fifty-three Packard Caribbean and wonder if you might know where I can find one for parts.”

The guy got out of his chair, smiling.

“You're in luck,” he said. “I just got one in the other day. Pretty good shape, except for the flattened top. Let me show you where it is.”

I followed him out into the yard, and he pointed down the makeshift road between rows of junked vehicles of all ages, sizes and descriptions.

“Almost to the end of this row, then turn right.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll go take a look.”

He nodded and went back into the office while I got back in my car and started down the long row of cars.

There's something kind of sad about an auto junkyard—all those abandoned, once-shiny-new cars, trucks, buses and, for some odd reason, a vintage WWII tank with its tracks missing. All sitting there like they were hoping their owners would come back for them.

I drove slowly and, near the end of the lane, saw another short path to the right. As I came parallel with it, I saw a 1953 Packard Caribbean, top flattened almost to the level of the hood, doors pried open, looking much the worse for wear.

I backed into the narrow lane so as not to block the main road, turned off the engine and got out to look at the wreck. I went first to the driver's side. A glance in through the pried-open door revealed a mangled seat with dark stains I preferred not to think about. I noted that both tires on the driver's side were still fully inflated. Well, the car
had
landed on its roof.

However, when I continued to the passenger's side, I saw that, while the rear tire looked perfectly normal, the front tire was shredded, as though there had been a blowout. That could easily have caused the car to veer to the right and send it through the rail.

I knelt to inspect it closer and found a large hole at the top of the tire from which long, wide strips of shredded rubber dangled. The front of the car was resting on something that raised the front tires off the ground. Out of curiosity, I rotated the tire to bring the hole toward the bottom. As I moved it, with some effort, I heard a slight sliding sound, as if there were a small stone inside the tire. I kept turning until the hole was at the bottom then reached into it with two fingers. I felt something.

Using my index and third fingers like a pair of pliers, I grasped it and removed it from the hole.

It was a spent bullet.

Chapter 5

I very carefully put it back into the hole and turned the tire back to the position in which I'd found it. Then I drove back to the office, where the owner was still at his desk, punching the keys on the adding machine.

“Find it okay?” he asked, not looking up.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said. “I think I can definitely use some stuff off it, but let me check to see exactly what I need, okay?”

He nodded.

“It's going to be right there for a couple days, isn't it?” I asked.

“It ain't goin' nowhere. But if somebody else comes along wantin' parts from it…well, first come, first served.”

“Understood,” I said, rationalizing that even if someone did want some pieces of the wreck, it wouldn't likely be a blown tire. “I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I would have to wait until Monday to call O'Banyon's office, but I badly needed to talk with him. I was convinced I was on to something that went considerably beyond Comstock's murder, but since I was working on O'Banyon's dime, I didn't want to do anything more until I'd gotten his okay. And there was the little matter of the bullet.

While I couldn't prove Richie Smith hadn't died accidentally, there was no doubt in my mind the car with the two bitchy queens going over the cliff was neither an accident nor a coincidence, and the police should know about it. Obviously, they hadn't considered it anything but an accident, but they'd sure as hell be curious as to what I was doing sticking my fingers into a blown tire.

The pattern I'd begun to see at dinner with Bob and Mario was taking on a far more definite shape, and I didn't like the picture I could see emerging.

*

I called O'Banyon's office at exactly eight-thirty Monday morning and told the receptionist it was extremely important I speak with him in person at his earliest convenience. She said she would see that Mr. O'Banyon got the message as soon as he came into the office.

Less than an hour later, Donna called to say he would be in court most of the day, but could see me at four-thirty. I thanked her and told her I'd be there.

I spent the rest of the morning finishing, then rewriting and rewriting again, my first official weekly report for O'Banyon. It was hard putting everything in words, since a lot of my suspicions were largely that—just suspicions and gut-level reactions, neither of which have extensive vocabularies. Hard facts, which are always easiest to work with, were in sadly short supply.

The specific investigation into Comstock's death, which had been the reason I was hired in the first place, was going nowhere, and I was less than happy with myself.

Suddenly, I found myself wondering whether Comstock's murder had merely been the first-identified link in a chain that could extend back in time for who knew how long, or whether his death had been the first act that set the killer off, and that now he was embarked on a personal crusade to rid the world of assholes.

*

I stepped out of the elevator on O'Banyon's floor at exactly 4:28. The receptionist smiled and, before I had a chance to announce myself, said “Mr. O'Banyon has been slightly delayed, Mr. Hardesty, but he should be here shortly. May I get you some coffee while you wait?”

“No, thanks,” I said, and moved to one of the expensive-looking upholstered chairs against the wall, picking up a copy of the latest
U.S. News & World Report
on the small table beside it.

At 4:45, the elevator door opened and O'Banyon stepped out, carrying a briefcase and looking every inch the successful attorney he was. He saw me, came over to shake my hand and said, “Just give me a minute, would you, Dick?”

“Sure,” I said as he went to exchange greetings with the receptionist and then passed through the glass doors and disappeared down the hall toward his office.

Another ten minutes passed while I paged through the
Wall Street Journal
looking for the comics' section. Finally, Donna appeared at the door and invited me to follow her.

The door to O'Banyon's office was already open, and Donna just motioned me in. O'Banyon hung up the phone and rose from his chair for another handshake.

“I apologize, Dick,” he said, and sounded as though he meant it. “When I have to be in court all day, there just isn't enough time to get much else done.” He gestured me to a seat, then sat himself.

“Now,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

I leaned forward to hand him the large envelope with my report.

“Basically,” I said, “everything is in here. I'm not happy with the way things are going…or rather, not going…in regards to getting any real leads on Comstock's death. But what really bothers me is that I think Barry's death may have somehow started a chain reaction. As I say in the report, a lot of it is just gut reaction, but…” I proceeded to tell him about Richie Smith's death and what I suspected may have led directly to it, and about the two queens at Venture and their subsequent deaths.

“And here's what I consider the clincher,” I said, and told him about finding the bullet in the shredded tire.

O'Banyon's eyebrows raised and he pulled back his head, and stared at me.

“A bullet!” he said. “You're sure it was a bullet?”

“A .22,” I said. “I used to do a lot of target shooting.”

O'Banyon sat back in his chair, still looking at me.

“I'm sorry,” he said; “I didn't mean to doubt you, but this does put a whole new light on things.” He sat quiet for a full minute, apparently lost in thought. “The police will have to know about this,” he said, finally.

“I know,” I said. “The problem is how to do it without opening up the whole can of worms and telling them everything. If we do that, my involvement in the case will become moot—which is fine if that's what you think should happen. But I have a deep feeling that something's been started here that isn't anywhere near over yet, and if the police take it out of our hands, there's not much we can do to stop it.”