Lullaby Town Page 16

  "Maybe." Maybe. Did Eliot Ness say maybe? "Tell me about the big car. He here often?"

  "Two, three times a week."

  "There any pattern to when he comes around?"

  Luther gave me pained. "Man, all these questions grinding my brain, you know?"

  "Uh-huh."

  I dug out a twenty and passed it to him. He didn't look impressed. "Tha's pretty thin pickin's."

  "It's the budget crunch, Luther."

  "I hear that." He made the twenty disappear. "He came around twice last week. On Tuesday, then again Friday. Usually a Friday." He looked at his friend and the friend nodded.

  I said, "What do the bodyguards do while he's with Gloria?"

  "Shee-it, he ain't had his posse around in three months."

  I looked at him. "He's been seeing Gloria Uribe for three months?"

  "Hell, he been coming around longer than that." Luther squinted at his friend again. "What, four, five months now?"

  The friend nodded, uh-huh.

  Luther looked back at me.

  I said, "He's been seeing Gloria Uribe for maybe five months, and when he comes, he comes alone?"

  Luther frowned and gave me the heavy-eyelid treatment. "How many times I gotta say it, a lousy twenty bucks."

  Luther's friend yawned and stared at something down the street.

  I thought about it. In my business, you look for things that are out of the ordinary because out of the ordinary things usually mean clues. Sarah Lewis had said that Charlie DeLuca never stayed with a woman for longer than three weeks and that he never went anywhere without bodyguards. Of course, that was a long time ago and maybe Charlie had changed his ways. Maybe Charlie and Gloria were in love and all the getting together without bodyguards was to discuss wedding plans. Then again, maybe not.

  I said, "Luther, Gloria just a streetwalker, or does she do outcall?"

  "She walkin' when times are hard. Things looking better, she be strictly outcall. You can tell when she outcall, 'cause her nose in the air."

  Luther's friend laughed like hell.

  A white Caddie DeVille pulled to the curb and a slender, mocha-colored young woman in a tight dress and black-and-white cowboy boots got out. The Caddie's driver was an Asian guy in his fifties. She said something to him, then glanced at Luther and went into Clyde's. Luther frowned after her. "I got business to tend to."

  "Thanks for the help, Luther. I appreciate it."

  "Just don't say nuthin' round that wop gangster. I don't wanna wind up on no pizza."

  "Sure, Luther. Count on it."

  Luther and his buddy disappeared into Clyde's.

  I walked up the two flights to the third floor and down a short hall to 304 and knocked. No answer. Somewhere at the other end of the hall a baby was crying, and somewhere else a rapper was banging out a gangster line. Ice-T. Drama. No sounds came from within Gloria Uribe's apartment. I knocked again, then took out the wires I keep in my wallet and let myself in.

  Gloria Uribe had a one-bedroom with a bath and a tiny kitchenette. The walls were discolored and paint was peeling from the ceiling, but it wasn't an unclean place. A tattersall sofa with a beaded slipcover sat opposite a Victorian china cabinet that had been polished a deep, purple mahogany. The kitchenette and the bath were neat and clean, and the bedroom was a spotless vision in pink: pink satin comforter, pink Princess telephone, pink lace pillows, pink walls and ceiling. She had even found a pink clock-radio, which sat next to the bed on a nightstand. The nightstand was brown.

  I wanted to find her trick book. Streetwalkers don't keep them because they don't have regular customers, but call girls do. They use the book to keep track of their appointments and such details of their trade as client preference and past fees. If I found Gloria's trick book, I would know when Charlie DeLuca was with her and when he wasn't and what they did when they were together. I might even learn what was going on.

  I started with the nightstand, then looked behind and beneath the bed and between the mattress and the box springs. I found two boxes of Softique tissues, one open, the other not, and a box of Trojan prophylactics, ribbed. I went through her vanity and a small chest of drawers with a forest of little knickknacks on top. Bottom drawer of the chest, there were a black snakeskin whip, a black vinyl body harness, two pairs of police-issue handcuffs, and a black rubber mask with a couple of little holes that I guess you were supposed to breathe through. Nice.

  I looked through the rest of her bedroom and her closet and then I went into her bathroom. The trick book was wrapped in a freezer-strength Baggie and taped to the underside of her lavatory, along with a little vial of crack cocaine. It had taken me exactly eight minutes and forty seconds to find it. Cops probably do it in less.

  I took the book out into the living room, sat on the couch, and looked through it. There were entries dating back ten months to the beginning of the year, and sure enough, exactly five months and one week ago, there was the first mention of Charlie DeLuca. He had seen Gloria on three consecutive days the first week they had met, then five times the following week. The notes were mostly abbreviations, but the abbreviations were obvious. I read them and tried to feel detached and professional, but all I managed was smarmy and embarrassed. None of the notes related to Charlie's business or to anything Charlie might've said about his business.

  I looked through every day of every week up until the present and noticed that starting in the fifth week, whenever Charlie's name appeared, another name appeared, too. Santiago.

  Hmm.

  I flipped back to the beginning of the book again and this time went through looking for Santiago. His first mention was during that fifth week, with Charlie. Maybe Charlie had brought him along. I kept looking. Sometimes Gloria wrote the full name, sometimes she just wrote S. For the next few weeks, every time there was an S, there was also Charlie's name, but after that sometimes there was just the S. Luther had said that Charlie had been around last Tuesday and Friday, but there was no mention of him on those days in the book, just Santiago. Maybe Charlie didn't come around to see Gloria anymore and maybe that's why she didn't list him. Maybe he came to see Santiago.

  Hmm, again.

  Santiago was penciled in for tomorrow at four-thirty in the afternoon. A Friday. Hmm. Charlie wasn't scheduled, but that was okay. Neither was I.

  I closed the trick book, put it back in its plastic bag, then retaped it beneath the lavatory in Gloria Uribe's bathroom and let myself out. When I got down to the street, Luther and his friend were back leaning against the Pontiac. Luther grinned when he saw me, flashing more of the Mike Tyson teeth. I said, "Luther, you know a guy named Santiago, comes around here sometime?"

  Luther stopped grinning and shook his head. "I don't want no part of that." He pushed off the Pontiac and walked past me into Clyde's.

  I looked after him, and then I looked at Luther's friend. Luther's friend shrugged.

  I said, "What was that all about?"

  Luther's friend said, "Santiago's her pimp. Few years ago, when she come here, Luther try to get her in his stable and Luther and Santiago have a thing. Santiago 'bout kill Luther. Stick him with an ice pick."

  "Oh." Great. "He run any other girls around here?"

  "Nah. He been moving up. He some kind of Jamaican gangster now, and he doin' real well. Drives a nice car, wears a fine cut of clothes. I think Luther feelin' jealous."

  "Huh."

  Luther's friend pushed off the Pontiac. "I better see about Luther. You don't see about him when he get like this, he sulks."

  "Right. Thanks for the help."

  Luther's friend went into Clyde's.

  It was two-forty-five. Still plenty of time to get back to Karen's by four.

  I took my time walking back to the Taurus, remembering what Roland George had told me about the Italian mafia hating the Jamaicans and the Cubans and the Asians. Maybe I was on to something. Maybe this was a clue. Maybe if I could ferret out its true and hidden meaning, Karen Lloyd and Toby Lloyd and Peter Al
an Nelsen could all live happily ever after. Just like in a movie.

  For all of the drive back to Chelam, I wondered what Charlie DeLuca might be doing with a Jamaican gangster named Santiago. All I had to do was find out what.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  I got back to Karen Lloyd's home at twenty minutes before four that afternoon. Karen's LeBaron sat in the drive, but Toby's red Schwinn mountain bike wasn't leaning in its spot against the garage. I parked on the street to leave room for Peter. Karen answered the door in a long beige skirt and a sea-green top with a large ornate necklace that looked like something a Zulu chieftain might wear. Her makeup was freshly applied. She said, "Thank God you're not Peter."

  "Yes. I've often thought that myself."

  "I'm trying to get the place straight."

  The carpet had been vacuumed and the magazines on the hearth tidied and the pictures on the mantel dusted and arranged symmetrically according to size, the largest frames centered around the Early American electric clock, the smallest at the ends. Pike was sitting at the table, sipping tea and staring at the world through his dark, expressionless glasses. I said, "Where's Toby?"

  Karen said, "School. He wanted to stay home, but I said no."

  "Okay."

  "I told him that our lives weren't going to stop because of this. I said that we're still going to be the same people and live here and that he would go to the same school and still have basketball practice."

  I looked at Pike and Pike raised his eyebrows. I guess it had been like this all afternoon. I said, "Consistency is important."

  "That's right. It is."

  She stood in the center of the room, left hand on her left hip and right hand under her chin, inspecting plant location and knickknack placement.

  "Are you nervous?"

  "Certainly not. I'm tense. That's different." She glanced at the Early American electric, then at her watch. Whatever she saw there didn't agree, so she went to the mantel and added two minutes to the Early American. She straightened a copy of Good Housekeeping that was on an end table next to the couch, picked up a piece of thread from the rug, then went down the hall and into her bedroom. There was a quality of tension to the way she moved that I hadn't seen before.

  Pike said, "News crew came to the bank, sniffing around about what she was doing at the Ho Jo with Peter Alan Nelsen. She had the guard throw them out."

  "Ah."

  "She left early and came home. She's been cleaning all day."

  "She's scared. Someone who threatens her sense of identity is about to invade her home."

  "Awful lot of cleaning for someone about to invade your home."

  "The zen of housecleaning allows one to reach inner peace."

  Pike nodded again and sipped more tea. "I've always found that to be true."

  I went into the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, then went back into the dining room and sat down with Pike. Karen came out of the hall, stared at the living room for thirty seconds, then went back down the hall. Zen.

  I said, "Charlie make contact today?"

  Pike shook his head.

  "I don't like it. Guys like Charlie don't let it go. They freak out and try to teach you a lesson. He must be working something."

  Pike nodded. "You get anything?"

  I told him about Gloria Uribe and the Jamaican. Pike said, "The mob doesn't mix with those guys."

  I shook my head. "Nope."

  Pike said, "Hmm."

  At eight minutes before four a black stretch limo came roaring up the street and pulled into the drive. I said, "They're here."

  Karen came back down the hall and went to the window. The sea-green top had been replaced by an elegant black sweater and a small but tasteful string of pearls.

  Car doors slammed and Karen stepped away from the window. She drew herself up and placed her hands at her sides. "Damnit, I was hoping Toby would get here early." She seemed pale, but maybe it was the light.

  I said, "Let's hide and pretend no one's home."

  "Very funny."

  I'm a riot, you get me going.

  She stood in the center of the room and did not move until the doorbell rang. Then she looked at me and said, "I will bet you twenty-five million dollars that the first thing he says will mark him as an asshole."

  "Why be defeatist?"

  The doorbell, rang again, and she walked to the door and opened it. Peter stalked in with Dani behind him. Nick and T. J. had been left at home. Peter said, "Jesus Christ, you really live out in the goddamn sticks, don't you?"

  Karen gave me the flat eyes. "You see?"

  The room felt smaller with them in it and the ceiling no longer felt high and peaked. Peter looked around like he was thinking of buying the place, and Dani stood to the side, sort of out of the way, one hand holding the other.

  Karen said, "Would either of you care for something? I have soft drinks and beer and I made iced tea." The corners of her mouth were tight.

  Dani said, "No, thank you."

  Peter said, "I'll take a brewski. You got a Bud?"

  Karen went into the kitchen without saving anything.

  Peter winked at me and smiled. "She's doing okay, isn't she? If you'd known her back in L.A., you'd never believe it."

  I said, "Peter. Go easy on that."

  He looked confused. "What?"

  Karen came back with a bottle of St. Pauli Girl and a glass and a napkin on a Dansk tray. Peter took the bottle but not the glass. "You know I never use a glass."

  Karen said, "I forgot."

  "Sure."

  Karen offered Dani a seat on the couch, then took one of the wingback chairs. I sat at the dining-room table with Joe Pike. Peter had some of the beer and went over to the mantel and looked at the pictures. It was five minutes to four and we were having just a fine ole time.

  Peter said, "Guess it was too much to hope you'd have a couple shots of me up here."

  Karen made her lips into a small hard rosebud.

  "You know, for the boy."

  She looked out the window, then checked her watch.

  Peter crossed the living room and sat on the other wing chair. He spread his legs under the coffee table and held the beer without drinking it. He said, "I'm not trying to create a problem for you."

  Karen said, "Of course."

  "I just want to know my son."

  "He should be here anytime."

  Peter nodded and drank some of the beer and didn't say anything. Karen stared out of the window. Dani stared at the floor. Pike sat immobile, safely hidden behind the dark glasses. Maybe if I asked he would loan the glasses to me and I could pretend I wasn't here, either. I made a little face at him to see if he was looking, but he didn't react, so maybe he wasn't. Of course, he might be pretending that he wasn't. You never know with Pike.

  At ten minutes after four Peter said, "I thought the kid was supposed to be here at four."

  Karen leaned forward a fraction of an inch. "Don't call him 'the kid.' His name is Toby."

  Peter spread his hands and nodded and stared off into space some more.

  At fourteen minutes after four Karen's orange and white cat came out of the hall, walked across the living room, and sniffed at Peter. Peter reached down to pet it, then thought better of it and drew back his hand. Guess the scratches hadn't healed from before.

  At twenty-two minutes after four Karen looked at her watch, then at the Early American clock, then frowned. Toby should've been home.

  At twenty-eight minutes after four Peter put his hands on his knees and stood up and said, "What the hell is this? Is the boy coming or not?"

  Karen stood up with him and her nostrils were tight. "He's having a hard time, Peter. He was nervous about meeting you. He didn't sleep well and he's scared."

  "What'd you tell him about me, that I eat rat turds?"

  Karen made a hissing sound and went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. "I'll call the school."

  Peter walked around in a little circle, then sat down again.
Dani put a hand on his shoulder.

  Six minutes later Karen came out, worried. 'They said he left forty-five minutes ago."

  I said, "How long is the ride from school?"

  "No more than ten minutes."

  Peter said, "Jesus Christ, you think he ran away?"

  Karen got her purse and her keys from the hutch in the dining room and went to the front door without saying anything. I got up with her, looking at Pike. "I'll go with her. You hang here."

  Pike nodded, the black lenses moving just enough to catch the light.

  Peter said, "Hey, I'll come, too."

  Karen said, "No," and when Peter started to get up, Pike gently pushed him back down. "Not this time."

  Peter said, "Hey," and tried to get up again, but Pike kept him in the chair, standing so close that Peter couldn't get the leverage to rise. Peter said, "What in hell you doing?"

  Dani stood and took a step forward, but I shook my head once and she stopped. Pike leaned down close to Peter, Pike's face maybe six inches from his, letting Peter stare into the glasses, and said, "It's better if she goes without you." Pike's voice was soft and even.

  Peter squinted into the dark and stopped trying to get up. "Sure."

  Karen was already climbing into the LeBaron when I got out the front door. Her back was stiff and her jaw was tight and she overcranked the engine, grinding the starter gears.

  We drove to the school and circled the campus twice and then went into town and back out to the school. We took a shortcut that Karen thought Toby might've taken, but he wasn't there, either. We drove for over an hour and we saw no sign of him until we were heading back toward her house on a part of the road that was between two wide, flat fields overgrown with a heavy wild rye that was dying from the cold.

  I said, "Stop the car."

  She said, "What?"

  When the car was stopped, I got out and walked off the road to Toby Lloyd's red Schwinn mountain bike. Its rear wheel was broken and its frame was crushed and the handlebars were bent backward and together so that the handgrips were touching and it looked the way a bike looks when it's been run over by a car.

  I researched for Toby Lloyd in the high grass around the bike, but I couldn't find him.