The Man of Maybe Half-a-Dozen Faces (3 page)

Then it hit me that this is where I'd first seen 4e4.com. I brought up the original post again. Yes, the person who had spilled the beans (so to speak) was [email protected]. That person's handle was ESCOTILLA which some hasty research revealed meant “hatchway” (could that be “trapdoor”?) in Spanish. There was also a small town in the mountains of southwestern Arizona with the same name.

So now I knew why 4e4.com had bothered me in the first place, but did that mean that the society was somehow mixed up in Gerald's murder? Well, probably not, but I couldn't discount the possibility altogether. Prudence Deerfield might think certain elementary mathematical skills were what detective work was all about, but I knew it was all about intuition. The wheels were always turning even if you couldn't see them turning. You had to trust the process. The mind of the detective was always picking over the bones of the case, endlessly moving the pieces around. Never say never. Never ignore the little voices in your head.

I tossed off my drink and got up. Legwork. Just do it. I would not go as Dieter; I would go as Scarface. I made that decision without consciously deciding to do so. Process.

I walked into the washroom to become Scarface. People turn their eyes away from a really horrible facial scar. Makes it hard for them to see or remember the person behind the scar. Setting things up so people don't look too closely is the key to a good disguise. It is incredibly difficult to change a face enough to be absolutely unrecognizable. There is always something to give you away. Recognizing faces is one thing the human brain is very good at (we are all the time concerned with faces—just look at the Man in the Moon or the Face on Mars), and fooling it usually demands misdirection.

I applied the scar and put on a baseball cap with an attached ponytail. Checked myself out in the mirror. Grabbed an electric-blue fanny pack. Putting the man with the ponytail and the fanny pack in a tie-dyed tee shirt would make him altogether invisible in Eugene. And if you did look, well, there was that scar.

I turned off my office lights and left by way of the stairs to avoid anyone on the elevator.

GP Ink had its office in the Baltimore building downtown. There was a huge neon sign atop the building. The sign said TOFU. At night you could see the pink glow from the window of my office. It only took me a couple of minutes to walk around the corner and down the block to the Baltimore.

I rode the elevator up to the third floor and walked down a dim hallway. I detected no activity behind the doors I passed on the way to 317. It was as if everyone had taken the afternoon off. I knew there were people behind all the doors but they were being very very quiet, almost like they knew I was out in the hall.

When I found the right door, I looked both ways before pulling out my tools and dropping to one knee. The lock hadn't been updated in twenty years and it took only a moment for the tumblers to fall into place. I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Late afternoon sunlight slanted into the room from a high window above a reception desk. Three white plastic chairs for people waiting to see Gerald or Pablo. A filing cabinet. A phone and a computer monitor on the desk. A poster of people drinking red wine and laughing into a blue sky above a sidewalk café. There was a door behind and to one side of the desk, and under that door a line of daylight was suddenly broken by a shadow. Someone was in the inner office.

I eased the hall door closed behind me and stepped around the receptionist's desk. I stood very still and listened. Whoever was in there hadn't heard me. If they'd heard me, they would have been holding still and listening, too. Instead, I heard movement and finally the clatter of fingers on computer keys.

There was a chance that the person in there was with the police department. I had to take that possibility into account. On the other hand, maybe I'd gotten lucky. Maybe Pablo had been unable to resist sneaking back to his office and computer to catch up on some work.

I decided to take the chance. I put my hand on the doorknob and took a breath to fortify myself for a sudden rush inside. I looked closely at the door to make sure which way it opened (away from me so I should push). It's really embarrassing to telegraph your rush into a room by trying to open the door the wrong way.

I turned the knob and pushed and rushed inside.

A man jumped up from behind the desk and leaped at me. He looked like a whole wall of flesh coming my way. The best defense is a strong offense, I guess. He was over the desk and on top of me before I could even get a good look at him. A couple of expert judo jabs to the midsection and I went down. He scrambled over me and into the outer office. By the time I got to my feet, he'd dashed into the hall.

My cap was on backwards and the ponytail was hanging in front of my face. I pulled it back in place and rubbed my abdomen and groaned. I didn't think I'd catch him, but I took a deep breath and ran after him anyway. Maybe I could at least get a better look. By the time I got into the hall, it was empty, but I heard someone to the right, and I charged off in that direction.

If I could get even a glance at him, I could confirm my impression (over six feet tall, beard stubble, cheap gray sports jacket, skinny black tie, foreign shoes) and maybe even add a few things to this list.

I rounded the corner and ran headlong into two men coming the other way. The unreality of the situation threatened to freeze me as we all went down. One of the men I'd bowled over was Frank Wallace, my high school nemesis, the man I was watching on another case, the man whose wife (sweet Elsie) wanted me to find out who he was fooling around with. I would never have agreed to follow a lieutenant in the Eugene police department if there had been any chance whatever that I'd actually run into him.

Okay, I was motivated by revenge, pure and simple. I fantasized about the day he'd get slaughtered in divorce court—the look on his face when he realized it was me who got the goods on him! Even so, watching Frank wasn't supposed to be the kind of case where you bumped into the object of your observation. Just some subtle snooping, a few photos, and a report to the Mrs.

Now I wondered who was following who.

The other man was Frank's sidekick Sergeant Zivon. It said something about how fast I must have been going that I'd managed to knock over the mountainous Marvin Zivon.

I scrambled to my feet. I decided it would not be a good idea to stick around and explain myself to Frank and Marvin, so I took off down the hall before they could get up. Whole thing took seconds.

“Stop! Police!” Frank yelled, but I didn't even slow down.

Down the stairs but not all the way down. It would be stupid to go all the way down and run right into the arms of whoever Frank would call on his walkie-talkie. I stopped in at the second floor men's room. Ducked into a stall just in case someone was sharp and fast enough to be checking the cans already. Off with Scarface's ponytail. Off with the scar. Tie-dye not so good now. Quick, strip it off and wad it up. Short sleeve wrinkle-free white shirt from the fanny pack. Fanny pack itself shifted to the side. New hair. I didn't want to be Sky. Frank and Marvin knew Sky. I became Tag, “the Average Guy.” Tag was probably my most subtle disguise. He was a guy you'd look at and never notice. If I could join a crowd or even a small group of people, I would be virtually invisible.

I stepped out of the stall and checked myself in the mirror. Looking good. Just the right touch. I'd get back to being Sky after I slipped away from the cops.

I walked out of the men's room and joined a small group of people standing around the door to the Downtown Realty office.

“You hear what all the hubbub's about?” I asked a pretty blond woman in a tan business suit and really big glasses. I love the way downtown businesswomen still wear dresses.

“Who knows what wandered in off the mall,” she said.

“I heard that,” I said.

A couple of uniformed policeman came by on their way to the elevator. They gave us a glance but it was hard to tell if they'd even be able to report how big our little group was, much less that they'd seen me.

After they'd gotten in the elevator, I looked at my watch and said, “Looks like quitting time to me.”

Everyone else seemed to think so, too. The group broke up and went back inside. I considered following along but it turned out not to be necessary. A moment later, the woman and a man in a tie but no coat came out and walked toward the elevator. I followed along just close enough to seem to be with them if you weren't looking too closely. We took the elevator to the lobby, then walked out of the building. We walked right past Sergeant Zivon and he glanced up, checked us out but didn't make eye contact, turned away.

I saw Frank at the corner of the building apparently scanning the downtown mall for Scarface. I was nearly overcome by the need to do a little victory dance right there on the spot, but fought it off and turned away before someone spotted the huge grin on my face and maybe put two and two together.

A couple of blocks later I stopped in the men's room on the mall with its metal urinals and sour smell. I looked in all the doorless stalls to make sure I was alone and then peeled off Tag and became Sky once again. Checked myself out in the metal mirror. Rubbed my hand over my blond crewcut. Not quite thirty-eight and looking okay, maybe better than okay, maybe good enough to do a little dancing.

Push that thought out of your mind.

Once the thought arrives in that devil-may-care who gives a flying rat's ass let's go dancing, dudes, there's only one outcome, and it always comes even when it takes a few days. And I could tell this wasn't going to be one of those days when it would take a few days.

You can feel it inside like steam in a boiler. It's got to get out, got to get out, click your heels and tap your toes. When I'm about to do something stupid, it's like I'm watching myself from on high. There I go heading for the west side, not because I've got any business on the west side, but because there's this place I know, draws me back, makes me homesick for spilled beer and smoke and that old gang of mine. The music. The open floor. It's like anyone can get up on that stage and dance and anyone does, but when I do, I don't stop. If I ever get trapped in there, it'll be really really hard to get out again. I won't go in. Simple. If you don't go in, you won't have to bust out.

I outlined all the reasons why it would be stupid to get trapped in my addiction again, but I kept walking. I thought about the morning after, the embarrassment of having to go confess another fall to my home group, if I ever even got far enough back into the real light of day to make that confession. I hadn't been to a meeting in a long time. Now would be a good time to go to a meeting. Going to a meeting would be a good reason to turn aside, but I kept on walking.

Down Broadway. Took a turn south somewhere past Willamette, hit Eleventh and turned west again. I would walk on by. Maybe just peek in and see who was who and what was what.

I had cases to deal with and I couldn't afford to go off on a dancing jag. I would waltz on by, take the long way home, or maybe find a regular bar, have a few drinks, watch some TV, think about the cases, think about what Frank was doing there outside of GP Ink for me to run into him anyway. That's what really threw me. He was so out of context. It wasn't his turn. I'd planned on following him later from a very safe distance. And who was the big guy tossing the office? Pablo himself? I didn't think so.

Maybe it would rain. If it rained, I could run for shelter, could run right by the wounded sign ahead, half orange neon and half dead glass, an advertisement for doom.

GOTTA DANCE!

And in smaller painted letters:

Karaoke Tap 24 hours a day!

I kept rational thought at bay by humming. Some part of me hoped I wouldn't notice what I was up to. I got to the door of the Gotta Dance and walked right on in.

For most people, tap dancing is safe and even beneficial. It is, in fact, tai chi for western sensibilities. It's not so good for me.

I am a problem dancer. There, I've said it.

When I start dancing, I dance the night away. I lose myself.

“Hey!” Someone called from the gloom, “It's the Sky-man!”

I watched myself walk confidently up to the bar. Mick put a pair of shiny black patent leather dance shoes on the bar and grinned at me.

I raised an eyebrow at him. It wasn't standard operating procedure for the bartender to hold your spare shoes.

“Been saving them,” Mick said. “I knew you'd be back. You get cold feet on the way home?”

He seemed to think that was pretty funny and spent a few minutes laughing.

I gave him a world-weary shrug, rolled my eyes. I had no idea what he was talking about. Blackout at the Gotta Dance. Nothing new. Nothing to think about. Thinking about things like that can be really depressing. “Pour me a scotch, Mick,” I said. “Neat.”

He poured my drink and put it down in front of me. I threw it down in a single gulp, said thanks, gave him some money, waited for him to fill my glass again and walked backstage with my shoes.

Where someone handed me my top hat.

And helped me on with my tails.

Handed me my walking stick.

Said, here's your music!

Said, okay, you're on!

Putting on the Ritz.

three

When I opened my eyes, I could see the day was pretty much over. I could pretend it was the start of a new day, but I knew it wasn't. I'd blacked out dancing too many times before to fool myself about it. I recognized the way the late afternoon sunlight looked tired after a long day on the job. The traffic was making heading-home sounds—altogether different from going-to-work sounds. I had my cheek on my desk, giving me a bug's eye view of a rainbow stain my coffee cup had left in some earlier geological era. I pushed up and my pretzel back snapped. I groaned.