The Bum's Rush (19 page)

"Really? You can do that?"

"Guys like Carl can do that. It's not commercially available."

Carl Cradduck was a former AP photographer who,
after being consigned to a wheelchair by a couple of drunken kids, had
worked his way into being the Pacific Northwest's premier surveillance
expert. C&C Technical was the cutting edge in everything from
sophisticated industrial espionage to recording those long phone calls
your wife kept making to that downtown plumbing shop. Not only had Jed
and I used Carl on numerous occasions over the years, but Carl had,
over time, become a close friend of mine. I was hoping his name would
lend some credibility to what I had to admit sounded like a pretty
far-fetched scheme. "Just to the end of the week," I said.

"No can do. Wednesday is the longest I can wait."

"I need the whole week. I don't know how long it's
going to take to get connected to the list. It's automatic, so it
shouldn't take too damn long, but I can't be sure. Friday. Close of
business."

Jed heaved a huge sigh. "What makes you think she's going to write in to this--this--"

"Digest. It's a compiled digest, and I think she's
going to keep participating because the thing has a strange, hypnotic
quality to it. Once you start reading it, it's like you don't want to
stop. She had digests everywhere. At home, at work. I'll bet she took a
bunch with her when she left."

"You need more to do."

"No, I'm serious. By the time I'd gone through all
the digests she'd downloaded to disk, I was like really disappointed
when I got to the end. It was weird. I was
depressed, like I'd lost a bunch of friends in an airplane crash or
something."

"I stand corrected. You don't need more to do. You need a nice long rest, is what you need."

"Friday. Close of business."

"God help me, Leo."

"And you're going to file that paperwork on behalf of Serena Dunlap this morning."

He heaved a sigh. ''Already done. I had it
messengered to both Sub-Rosa and Conover. I've already heard from both
of them. They want to meet this afternoon."

"What time?"

"Two."

"I want to be there."

"Why? It's just going to be the kind of legal posturing you hate."

"I want to watch them squirm."

"What is it with you and this Lukkas Terry thing?
You, my friend, are definitely not one for crusades. You've always been
old Mr. Live and Let Live. This is way out of character for you, buddy.
What's the deal here?"

He had a point. I'd been asking myself the same
question for the past couple of days. "I don't know, man," I said. "I
was thinking about that the other day when I was on my way down to
Vital Statistics."

"And?"

"It started out to be just idle curiosity."

"And?"

"And the minute I started to poke around in it, I
got all these discrepancies. A bunch of stuff that didn't fit. Just the
kind of crap that tends to get my attention."

"Like?"

"Like, I've got a competent police force under
heavy public scrutiny saying the kid died by misadventure. Accident,
period. No-brainer."

"So?"

"I've got a girlfriend. The one who found him, by
the way, who says they were about to move in together, saying he killed
himself because she told him she was pregnant. She swears Lukkas Terry
didn't use drugs."

"Really?"

"On the other hand, I've got a manager, a guy who
takes it upon himself to support half the down-and-out musicians in
town, so damn nice he's still paying Terry's girlfriend's bills out of
his own pocket, probably the closest guy in the world to Lukkas Terry
and he's strictly noncommittal on the drug issue. He says you never
really know what goes on behind closed doors with these rock stars."

"Probably a wise approach," Jed offered.

"I agree," I said. "Buuuut " I drew it out. "Number
one, I'm told that Terry had real bad migraines and was forever hitting
Conover up to help him with his shots. Couldn't do it himself. Too
squeamish."

"Do tell."

"Which, the way I see it, makes him real vulnerable to somebody slipping him something other than medicine."

"It do indeed."

"Yeah, and number two we're in a situation here
where millions upon millions of dollars are at stake. I don't need to
tell you how that gums up the works."

"Be like preaching to the choir."

"That about covers the range of possibilities, now,
doesn't it? Accident, suicide, murder. Other than dying of old age,
that's about all there is. And then just about the time I'm asking myself these same questions and thinking about bagging it "

"Somebody tried to run your big ass over," he finished.

"Correctomundo. Always an attention-getter with me. You want to pique my interest, try to run me down. Works every time."

"You said that's how it started."

"Yeah, well, you know, it's gotten to be more than
that, too. It's as if I'm pissed off about something. About Elvis
getting fat and wearing those stupid jumpsuits in fucking Las Vegas.
It's about every dead musician I ever liked. From Buddy Holly and
Elvis, Jimi and Janis, all the way up to Stevie Ray and Lukkas Terry
you know, all of them. What happened to them. What they did to
themselves. How record companies end up with all the fucking money and
the families get screwed. All of it. Like I feel cheated or something
and now suddenly, just this once, I've got this chance to fuck with
somebody over it, and I seem to be determined to make the most of it."

Jed took a minute and then said, "Yeah. I know what
you mean. Let's kick some ass." Before I could reply, he said, "You
find that goddamn bed and get it back where it belongs."

"Scout's honor."

"I mean now. Right now. First thing," he insisted.

"I won't be able to find them until about one,
one-thirty, when they start to wander into the Zoo. They move so often.
I don't know where any of them flop anymore."

"All right," he said without enthusiasm. "But you round up that goddamn bed, you hear me?"

He was still grumbling as I set the receiver in the
cradle and sat up. Without rising, I pulled the cord on the Levolor and
took a peek at the day. A thick drizzle hissed against the glass,
distorting the newspaper-headed creatures trotting up Fremont Avenue.
Back to normal. Arrrrgh.

The coffeepot had progressed from drooling to
dripping to a full-throated gargle by the time I configured and clicked
my way to my E-mail. Ta ta de da. You have mail today. Mr. Happyface.
Nobody loved me. One measly message. Oh, goody. A big one. This would
require coffee and possibly an onion bagel. Life was good.

Date: Mon, 19 Feb 1996 00:00:00-0500

Reply-To: Mystery Literature E-conference

Sender: Mystery Literature E-conference

From: Automatic digest

processor

Subject: DOROTHYL Digest--17 Feb 1996 to 18

Feb 1996 j

To: Recipients of DOROTHYL digests ^

There are 26 messages totaling 1046 lines in this issue.

Topics of the day:

1. A basketball mystery 2. Phoenix and Tucson
mystery tips? 3. Fair Dinkum 4. Anti-semitism 5. Dropshot 6.
Inappropriate Places to Read 7. Dealbreaker/Series/LOC 

8. British authors 9. Phillips's Perdition USA

10. Reading earlier novels 11. new addresses for
dorothyl 12. recursive digest 13. Sayers' Values 14. Multiple pen names
15. Political correctness 16. SinC/BOP 17. Enough of Sayers 18. Jance
and Seattle 19. Basketball mysteries 20. Parker's basketball mystery
21. VinceKohler 22. museums, dentists 23. Reunions/Dental 24.
Sayers/Revisionist History 25. Thanks/reading habits 26. Late
protagonist

I kept it short. "I've got nothing to say about
what you assholes pulled off yesterday. That's your business. I'm
talking about today. And TODAY, I want that bed back up at Providence
Hospital by two. That's it. End of story."

They'd come out of the woodwork for this little
gala. The Return of Ralph. People I hadn't seen in years. Waldo and Big
Frank. Heavy Duty Judy, still wearing that friggin' tiara. The little
guy with the brain damage. What was his name? Soloman. Something like
that. Poor guy had this neurological problem that kept him from
approaching anything directly. Instead, he was forced to close in on
things in a series of oblique tacking movements, like a sailboat.
Slalom. That was it, they called him Slalom. Flounder in a brand-new Mariners cap. Red Gomez and some Asian
woman. Half a dozen younger guys I didn't recognize. All gathered
around the regular crew.

They were a sullen lot. I'd interrupted a perfectly
good party, and they didn't like it one bit. The Speaker's board read
Free at Last.

"I never thought of you guys as thieves," I said.

George gave me the reaction I was fishing for. "We
ain't no goddamn thieves." His scalp glowed red beneath the carefully
combed rows of his white hair. "Don't you be callin' us no thieves."

"Then return the bed to the hospital."

Harold spoke up. "Ya know, Ralph lost his shopping cart down there at that hotel. We just figured, you know "

"That bed's a four-thousand-dollar shopping cart," I said.

"Are you shittin' me?" said George. "Four grand?"

"The crux of the healthcare dilemma," intoned Normal.

"Four grand. Grand theft. Hard time," I chanted.

The mention of hard time sent the crowd scurrying
for the dim corners of the bar. A week or two in the King County
slammer was one thing. Sometimes, if times were tough, when that belt
of arctic air slipped down and decent flops were hard to come by, a
roof and three squares wasn't the worst thing in the world. Hard time
was a whole 'nother matter.

"You shoulda seen him coming down Cherry Street," Earlene said with a huge grin.

"He passed an old broad in a Buick," added Big Frank.

"Sucker's got good brakes," said Ralph solemnly.

"By two," I repeated. Nothing. I went for the throat.

"Have it back there by noon, and I've got work for all of you." 

A murmur ran through the crowd. "Detective work?" asked Ralph.

"Yep. Twenty-five a day, plus twenty-five for expenses."

"Each?" asked Harold.

"Each," I confirmed.

"Wadda we gotta do?" asked Earlene.

"Go to bars," I said.

"Dickie," George bellowed. "Get the truck."

As the kid hustled out the front, George turned to me. "How many guys?" he asked.

"As many as you can find. But I need real quick results. I'm paying the freight on this one. There's no client."

"What's the job?" he asked.

"I need to find Charlie Boxer."

George's shoulders slumped. "That fucker's dead," he whined.

"I don't think so."

"Nobody seen that bum since "

"I seen him." Heavy Duty Judy strode over, wearing
a truly awesome collection of junk jewelry that rattled as she walked.
"Maybe two months ago. He come into Spins'. Bought me a beer."

This last statement precluded further argument. These were not people to forget anybody who bought them a drink.

"He told me he had a woman," Big Frank offered.

Heavy Duty Judy shook a massive, segmented arm in
his direction. It sounded like a car wreck. "That's what he told me,
too. Told me he had some old dame takin' real good care of him."

"He say where?" I asked.

"Local," said Judy. "At least, that's what I figured."

I reached in my pants pocket, pulled out five hundred in twenties, and dropped them on the bar in front of George.

"I need to find him. That's all I could get out of the cash machine. When you need more, call me."

George pulled me aside. "I'm worried about Ralphie," he whispered.

"What's the problem?"

"They done somethin' to him. Drugged him or somethin'."

"How can you tell?"

He leaned in close. "He's been wearing his teeth."

"In public?"

"Wearin"em right now," he affirmed.

The back door opened. Dickie appeared in
silhouette. George addressed himself to the younger guys. "If you'll
leave Ralph's stuff on the porch and then load that bed into the truck,
I'll put you guys on with the crew. Wadda ya say?"

He turned, squinting toward Dickie. "Tell 'em you
found it in the street, kid. Who knows, maybe they'll give you a
reward. Then hustle back here so we can get to work." ik As the door
hissed us back into blackness, the crowd

formed itself into small whispering knots. Harold
made an expansive gesture, indicating that another round was in order
for the assembled multitude. Terry began to pour. I turned to George.

"Get the best people you can, okay? People who will
actually look." I shot a glance over my shoulder at Slalom, || who
seemed to be stuck in the corner like some berserk

windup toy.

"You'd be surprised, Leo," George assured me. "Slalom finds some interesting shit in his travels."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Here's my pager number. I reactivated it this morning. Give it to everybody. Have them
look in twos. Anybody finds him, one goes and calls me, the other keeps
an eye on him."

"Got it," he said. "We'll start downtown and work north."

"Why north?"

"He don't drink in the Square, or everybody'd know
about it. And old Charlie was never any too fond of fags, so that about
lets out the whole Hill. So if Judy's right and he's still in the city
someplace, that pretty much leaves downtown and north. Don't worry,
Leo. If he's out there, we'll find him."

I had no doubt. What was for sure was that,
wherever he was, Charlie Boxer was a regular at some bar or another. It
was his life. Charlie Boxer extracted from bars the same range of
succor and support other people get out of their families. If it's true
that it takes one to know one, then I definitely had the right guys for
this job.