Chapter 15
Sunny went back to her office. I told her we could meet for dinner, but she had a ton of essays to grade and told me I wouldn’t see her until the next day. I caught a cab back to Tidal Refuge. I fooled around on the boat, went to the computer and reviewed some of the info we’d managed to assemble. It could be incriminating, but in reality it was all circumstantial. Several questions danced in my head. No particular order. Nothing that made rational sense, but they kept on coming like an assault weapon rattling off rounds.
When would I hear from Panko again? Was it possible that I had just shaken hands with the Boss Lady? What was Talent Pro’s angle for their insistence that HIGH FLYER sign with them? There had to be money involved, but where was it coming from and where was it going? Exactly how sharp was Lurch’s blade and when could I expect to find out?
About 6 P.M. the phone rang. I thought maybe Sunny had finished and reconsidered my dinner offer. I picked up the cell and panic poured out of it.
“T.K. They broke his hand.”
“Whose hand? Who broke it, Pam?”
“Shorty’s. The big one you call Lurch, and his sidekick came by the duplex. Lurch held Shorty’s hand over the kitchen table. The little thick one picked up Shorty’s Gibson and slammed it down on his fingers. They’re all twisted and bloody. I got a towel on them.”
She was trying to hold it together, but her voice quivered.
“Did you call the cops?”
“The big one, Lawrence, Lurch, whatever, told me, ‘you don’t want to fuck with the police. They might want to search your place. And no telling what they might find.’ Then the sonovabitch leered at me, puckered his razor thin lips and said, ‘Sing pretty, little lady. You’re good at it. Maybe it’ll make the pain go away.’ I’m scared shitless. I don’t know what to do. Help us, T.K.”
I grabbed the .38 and got over there as quick as I could. I didn’t know . . . they might be waiting. Pam’s description of the hand was on the money. It was mangled and the towel was dripping crimson. Shorty wouldn’t be picking any guitars for a while, if ever. He was still sitting at the kitchen table. He managed a tight grin.
“The bastard ruined my Gibson,” he said, “You handle her right, she’d talk to you.”
“How about the hand?”
“I was able to straighten the fingers. I can still move them. If there’s nothing crushed, it’ll heal. I been meaning to learn to play slide.” He forced a laugh. “I gotta get to the hospital, get ‘em set. But you stay, just in case. Give the place a once over. No cops . . . at least not yet.”
Shorty needed to be at the hospital A.S.A.P. I told Pam to take him. I felt odd going through their place, but I didn’t want to tell the brave man no. I started in the back of the house. It was a wreck. Old albums, books, magazines, several more guitars, a Yamaha acoustic, an Epiphone, even a Silvertone that probably qualified as an antique. There was a small keyboard shoved against the wall and tons of plain old junk. I couldn’t empty every box and crate in the place and I doubted Panko’s boys had that kind of time, especially since they had entered illegally, and I was sure they had. I had just started when I heard a fist thudding against the door. I pulled the Taurus from my belt, pointed the barrel toward the ceiling, and approached at an angle from the left. I waited for a moment and the pounding grew more insistent. There was no eyehole in the door, and anyway I didn’t want to be standing in front of it in case a shotgun blast splintered the wood. I heard a voice.
“Pam, Shorty . . . it’s me, Glen. Open up.”
I did. I lowered the .38 and cracked the door slightly. It was him. He slid in.
“T.K. what the hell are you doing here? Where’re Shorty and Pam? How come tonight’s gig was canceled?”
We settled at the kitchen table and I told him about the call. There was still blood pooled on the formica. He avoided it and sat with his muscular hands in his lap. His jaw was set in granite. I could see his teeth grinding and the lines in his forehead deepened like gray concrete hardening into a final form.
“So I told you I would help. I guess we need to case the house, try to find out what our pal Lurch was talking about.”
“Okay,” I said, “You start in the garage. I already did the bedrooms. Be careful out there. They may be watching. Yell if you need me. I’ve got a friend.”
I laid the Taurus on the table for a moment. He nodded and went out the rear entrance. I went back to the bedrooms for a few minutes to see if I had missed anything, but somehow it didn’t feel right. Any burglar with a good eye would be smart enough scan and drag through the clutter. It’s no place to hide anything of value. Better to have a yard sale.
Suddenly I remembered Poe’s story of “The Purloined Letter.” C. August Dupin was the forerunner of Sherlock Holmes and a host of other clever sleuths. Where was the mysterious missive hidden? It didn’t escape the master of deduction. In the most obvious place.
I went back into the living room. There were several amplifiers, both large and small. Next to a dusty Crate 2000 I saw a large indentation crushed into the worn carpet, possibly made by a man kneeling. There were a few flecks of metal covered in black paint. When I examined the back, I could see the prints where the dust had been disturbed. The screws that held the rear cover had recently been removed. I looked around for a Phillips head screwdriver. A kitchen drawer yielded my prize. It didn’t take long. The cabinet was empty of any speakers and the wiring had been yanked out. They’d been replaced with four bricks of what I suspected was heroin, stacked and wrapped neatly in painter’s plastic drop cloth. Try to explain that one to the cops. I hollered for Glen.
He came into the living room and knelt behind the amp.
“Christmas comes early this year,” he said.
“So what do we do with this shit?” I asked.
“I got an 18 foot Scout, Merc 40 outboard. The horse goes in the bay. Might be a few stoned fish, but no smack in Pam and Shorty’s duplex.”
We searched the rest of the amp cases, but as far as we could tell, there was no trace of other drugs in the place. We loaded the Crate into Glen’s Explorer and he drove to a deserted dock on the river. I punched a hole in each of the plastic bags with a filet knife. In an hour or so, our mission was complete. I felt sorry for the fish.