The Scent of Murder (6 page)

“Good.” I reached for the notebook and pen sitting by the side of the register. “I want you to tell me everything you can about Amy.”

“Everything?” He didn't sound happy at the idea, but then I had the impression he wasn't happy about most things.

I shrugged. “It's up to you. Only I think it's fair to warn you that the more I know about her, the easier she'll be to find.”

Charlie Richmond talked for the next half an hour. Once he got started, he had a lot to say. Most of it had to do with drugs and alcohol. It seemed as if Amy had been keeping close company with both of them.

I
was reading over my notes from my interview with Charles Richmond when Manuel walked in the door. He was wearing a black Raiders baseball hat, a faded black and red checked shirt, and black, baggy pants. Real baggy. As in the crotch of his pants hung down to just above his knees. He was not a thing of sartorial beauty. Except, perhaps, to himself.

“You got a minute?” he asked, as he pimp-rolled his way over to the counter.

I sighed and closed my notebook. “What do you want?”

“Who says I want anything?”

“Because you always do.”

“For your information I was gonna do you a favor. See, I got someone over on Oak Street that wants to sell his pit vipers...”

“And you thought you'd give me first crack?”

He pulled his pants up. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Manuel, do you want a lift to the North Side?”

He put on an injured look. “I'm just trying to help you out.”

“Right.” In my experience the only person that ever benefitted from Manuel's favors was Manuel. I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a little after eleven. “Shouldn't you be in school?”

“I got the day off.”

And I was going to win the lottery tomorrow and retire to Maui. “What if I called your mother and asked?”

“She ain't home.”

“How about your social worker?” I knew I was doing knee jerk responsible adult but I couldn't help myself. Manuel was currently on probation, after having broken into one car too many. According to the court, he was supposed to be in school.

“She's probably out.”

I reached for the phone. “Let's find out.”

He shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“I should.” But I put my hand down. What was the point? Nothing was going to happen if I made the call. There wasn't enough money or personnel to enforce what the courts mandated. I knew it and, more importantly, so did Manuel.

He grinned. He had a nice smile. It would be even nicer if his mother had the money to send him to an orthodontist. “I knew you wouldn't. You and me are buds, right?”

“I wouldn't go that far,” I told him. But Manuel just kept on grinning because he knew I was lying. He and I had a history. We'd gotten to know each other in the hospital when we were both recuperating. The same person had tried to kill us both. Manuel might be a punk, but he was my punk.

“What's that? Some kind of rat?” He pointed to Mr. Bones. I glanced over at the ferret. He was standing on his hind legs with his nose pressed to the glass, watching Manuel approach.

I laughed. “No. It's a ferret.”

“It looks like a rat.”

“It belongs to the mink family. Rodents have long front teeth that constantly grow. Ferrets don't.”

“Whatever. I heard they bite real bad.”

“Not usually. Do you want to hold him?”

“Naw.” He changed the subject. “So what's happening?”

I told him about Amy. Actually, his coming in saved me a call. Manuel was one of my sources. Given his age, he knew a surprising number of people.

“What's she look like?” he asked, when I was done.

“She's got blue hair and a nose ring. She wears black eye makeup and white lipstick. Does a lot of drugs.”

“You mean she's a burn-out.”

“If that's what you want to call her. Have you seen her?”

“Maybe.” A cagey look crept across his face. “Do I get a finder's fee?”

“Yeah. I don't turn you in to your probation officer.”

He snorted. “Okay. Be like that.”

“I intend to. Now, where did you spot her?”

Manuel took off his hat and began bending in the sides of the brim.

It was a riveting performance, but it began to pall after about thirty seconds. “So?” I said, after another ten seconds or so had gone by. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

Manuel stopped what he was doing and looked up. “I can't tell you, I got to show you, 'cause you ain't gonna find this place by yourself.”

“Why not?”

“ 'Cause it's out of the way. You still carrying your box cutter?”

I patted my front pocket. “Why? Am I going to need it?”

“Probably not.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“You just never know who's going to be there.”

“There?”

“In the place.”

“Great.” This was not the kind of news I wanted to hear. But I wasn't surprised. The world Manuel moved in was definitely on the scummier side of the scale. It wasn't full of heavy duty drugs and guns, but it was full of edgy kids carrying box cutters and baseball bats. I watched as he went back to work on his hat brim again. “Why are you doing that?” I finally asked.

Manuel looked at me as if I were stupid. “I'm breaking it in. You got to do this when you get a new hat.”

Of course. How could I not have known? We made arrangements to meet when I got off from work. Manuel hung around for a little bit longer, hoping for a lift, then drifted out the door when it was obvious he wasn't going to get one. I spent the next hour or so calling around, trying to locate a Brazilian rainbow boa for a customer. I finally found one down in Fort Myers. Unfortunately it was on the pricey side. Four hundred dollars for a baby. I tapped my pen against my front teeth. Joe had said price was no object, but I decided I'd better call him up and make sure, before I finalized the order. I didn't want to be stuck with something I'd have trouble unloading.

Next, I ordered a dozen dog sweaters in small sizes from a local woman who knits them, fed the fish, checked the pH balance in their tanks, and waited on customers. It's amazing how they always come in clumps. I wondered if someone in an MBA program had ever done a study on the phenomenon. It's true, though. Your store can be empty for the entire day, then bam! Suddenly you got eight people in there, and everybody is in a rush, and then they start to walk out because you can't wait on all of them at once.

Naturally, George had to call during one of those periods. That's another law of retailing: You never get personal calls during slow time. I offered to call him back, but he told me he was talking from a pay phone down at the Bronx County Courthouse.

“Your cousin really messed up, huh?”

“That's one way of putting it,” George said. He sounded angry and sad. I could hear someone in the background yelling for him to get off the phone.

“When are you coming back?”

“As soon as I can.” Then he hung up, leaving me feeling bad that I hadn't been able to talk longer.

The feeling lingered as I worked. I was wondering what his family expected George to do, when Tim walked in. The heels on his cowboy boots made a clicking sound as he crossed the floor.

“He still here?” He pointed to Mr. Bones.

“I think we're going to be stuck with him for awhile.”

“One of my friends has a ferret cage he's not using. I'll bring it in later tonight.”

“Great. I'm sure Mr. Bones will be most appreciative.”

Tim grunted, took off his black leather jacket, and went into the back room to hang it up. It's a good thing I wasn't hungry for conversation, because with Tim I would have starved to death—although he does okay with the customers. When I left at five, he was trying to explain to a woman and her son why their pet corn snake wasn't eating cooked chicken. Better him than me, I thought, as I whistled for Zsa Zsa. Since I've stopped smoking, my tolerance for stupidity has gone down to zero. Not that it was ever very high to begin with. On the way home, Zsa Zsa and I stopped at Burger King and got four hamburgers and two orders of fries. Zsa Zsa finished hers first and snagged some of my french fries when I wasn't paying attention. She had begun to shred the takeout bag, as I pulled into the driveway. I took it away and got out of the cab.

James was waiting at the door, meowing impatiently. For an outdoor cat, he'd certainly gotten soft in his old age. I let both of them in, glanced through the mail, and fed James half a can of cat food. Then I went upstairs and changed into a black turtleneck, dark blue jeans, and sneakers. As I passed the phone, I thought about calling Gerri Richmond and having a little chat, but decided to wait. I didn't want to do anything that would make looking for Amy any more complicated than it already was. Both Zsa Zsa and James were asleep on the sofa when I came back down. I felt like joining them, but I called Manuel and told him I was coming by to get him instead.

Manuel lived on the west side of town. The drive over took me about twenty minutes, and I spent it thinking about how odd it was that I should now be looking for the daughter I never knew Murphy had—a daughter I would have given anything to have had—and about how maybe everything in the universe does interconnect after all, a fact that argues for the existence of God. Then a nicotine fit hit me, saving me from my bout of metaphysical speculation, and I began thinking about how much I wanted a cigarette instead. I could buy a pack, smoke one, and throw the rest of them out. George wouldn't know. I spotted a grocery store at the corner of Oswego and Clark and started slowing down. At the last minute, though, my conscience got the better of me, and I sped back up. I was still muttering when I turned onto Manuel's street.

Despite the cold, he was waiting for me in front of his mom's place. Nestled in between two other nondescript houses, the yellow, run-down, two-story colonial always housed a changing parade of aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends. The porch sagged and the postage stamp-sized front yard was filled with discarded Big Wheels, jump ropes, and balls. Two large carved pumpkins signified the holiday to come.

“It took you long enough,” he groused, as he got in and slammed the cab door shut. “I'm freezing my ass off out here.”

“You could have waited inside.”

He muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” He slumped down in his seat and began tapping his fingers on the door handle.

I took another look at him. He was wearing an expression I recognized all too well. “Your father kicked you out again, didn't he?”

He corrected me angrily. “Fucking Walter isn't my father.”

“Sorry.”

“I don't know why my mother ever married that jerk.” Manuel fingered the edge of his Windbreaker. It was too thin for a night like this, but then, he was never dressed for the weather. I haven't been able to figure out whether he can't afford to, or he's too stubborn to. “I wish he'd stay drunk. He's worse when he's sober,” Manuel said angrily.

“So where are you going to go?”

“I'll crash at Rabbit's. I could use a change anyway.” The bravado he was trying for was betrayed by the slight trembling of his lower lip. To hide it, he turned and looked out the side window.

I patted his shoulder, but he shrugged my hand off. I sighed and started up the car. I felt bad for Manuel, but there was nothing I could do. I tried talking to him about his stepfather before, but it hadn't worked. In fact, it had just made things worse. Hoping to find some candy, he leaned over and opened up the glove compartment. There was no candy, but his face lit up when he saw the cell phone. He took it out.

“This is new,” he observed.

“I got it a month ago. It's for emergencies. Now please put it back.”

“Let me make one call.”

“No. Now put it away.”

“All right,” he grumped, returning it to its place.

“So where are we going?” I asked, after a minute had gone by.

It turned out we were heading for an industrial area over by the Carousel Mall. It was drizzling as we drove through the city. The streets were quiet. The streetlights reflected off the wet roads. Crepe paper skeletons and cardboard witches leeringly marked our progress. When we got to Wolf Street, Manuel indicated I should take a right. Halfway down the block, he told me to stop.

“Are you sure this is the place?” I asked.

The building I was parked in front of was a one-story brick structure. The sidewalk in front of it was cracked. The front door had been boarded up with plywood, as had the two front windows. A weathered sign hung above the door. I managed to make out the first word, “Syracuse,” but the next two were too faded to read.

“Of course I'm sure,” Manuel told me. He sounded annoyed. He didn't like having his expertise questioned.

I questioned it anyway. “How do you know?”

“Because I've seen her here.” Manuel started playing with the zipper of his Windbreaker. “She was at a party I went to.”

“You went to a party here?”

“What's wrong with that?” he demanded.

“Nothing, I guess.” I'd done stuff like this when I was his age, too. I turned off the ignition and pocketed the keys. “Who lives here, anyway?”

Manuel shrugged. That and tugging up his pants seemed to be his favorite gestures. “Different people. Right now it's two girls.”

“Runaways?” I guessed.

“They're doing okay.” Manuel's voice was defiant. “Anyway,” he added, when I didn't say anything, “they got no other place to go.”

I didn't state the obvious. Instead, I surveyed the street. The buildings—some square, some rectangular—one-, two-, and three-story structures, housed a variety of small industrial companies and warehouses. In the background, a lit up Carousel Mall loomed off to the left like a deranged blue and white spaceship ready to take off into the evening sky. Silhouettes of oil storage tanks sat off to the right.