Stories (2011)

  The interior was unexpectedly slick. All new equipment, all shiny to the eye. Never judge a gym by its cover, Slater thought.

  There were Nautilus weight machines, speed bags, heavy bags, racks of jump ropes and lots of people scuttling about making shadow moves and noises like boxers. On a raised platform, between the ropes, a stylish boxer Slater recognized as Anibal Martinez was slamming the hell, left and right, out of his puffing sparring partner.

  No doubt about it the kid had the moves. There was champ written all over him. A half dozen men were gathered about the ring, hanging on the ropes. One of them was Yank. Slater went over and stood by him.

  "Ain't he somethin'!" Yank said after shaking hands with Slater. The big detective agreed that he was in fact something all right. A real hell of a boxer.

  "That's enough," Yank yelled to Anibal, and the grateful sparring partner dropped his tired hands for a rest.

  Anibal spit his mouthpiece into a gloved hand. A short man wearing a grey sweatshirt and sweat pants slid through the ropes and untied his gloves, took off the head protector. That done he made his way over to the sparring partner. Anibal slid between the ropes, flopped down next to Slater and Yank.

  "You the detective Yank hired to find Krim?" The boxer asked with just the slightest trace of a Mexican accent.

  "That's me," Slater said.

  "If I was you, I'd do my looking in the bars. Under some bar stool preferably."

  "Something serious could have happened," Yank cut in. "For goodness sake..."

  Anibal tossed Yank a cold stare. "Could be the best thing that ever happened to us," he said slowly. With that he went over to the speed bag and put his taped knuckles to work.

  Nice fellow," Slater said.

  "Foolish pride, Slater," Yank said. "He won't admit it, but without Jason he just ain't the same."

  "Could have fooled me."

  "I tell you, Slater, it's pride. The kid's got a chip on his shoulder for some reason and Jason is his prime target. Got some fool notion Jason's pushing him too fast."

  "Is he?"

  "No way. Won all his fights. He just can't stand the fact that he has to depend on the man so much. Likes to think he can do it all by himself."

  "He doesn't have him to depend on now."

  Yank nodded. "And it shows."

  "Yeah, he's all torn up."

  "Just believe me, Slater. I know him."

  "All right," Slater said, "you know him." With that he took the folded contract from his pocket. "Shall we fill this out, and then I've got a few questions."

  "Let's go back to the office."

  The office, unlike the interior of the gym, was not the Ritz. It was so small that the two big men were almost enough to overload the straining air conditioner.

  When the contract was completed and Slater had folded it away in his coat pocket, he asked for a list of the people who worked with Jason. None of the names, other than Anibal and Yank, were familiar to him. He gave Slater a newspaper clipping with Anibal and Krim's picture. They were both smiling.

  Krim was a fiftyish black man with a once-muscular body now coated with fat. Even in the picture he maintained a certain air of reserve and capability. Slater put the clipping in his pocket with the contract. Last, but not least, Slater had Yank write out a list of Jason's hangouts. He could only think of three.

  Yank and Slater shook hands, expressed hopes that Krim would be found soon and Slater left the office.

  On the way out he stopped by the speed bag that Anibal was flogging. The bag thumped to a stop. Anibal looked at the burly detective with flat, brown eyes.

  "Yank says you need Krim," Slater said, not trying to be the least bit cagey, watching carefully for the fighter's reaction.

  "I don't need nothing but time. Krim don't give a damn about me and the feeling's mutual. He treats me like a side of beef. He only wants me to do well so he can pat his own goddamn self on the back. To hell with that! To hell with him!" Scowling, Anibal turned to the bag and slammed it a hard one.

  "I don't need Krim," he snapped, looking back at Slater's impassive face.

  "See you later," Slater said and moved away.

  When he reached the door Anibal yelled, "If you find that sonofabitch, tell him not to come back. I don't need him. I don't want him."

  Slater nodded in a disinterested way, pushed out the door. Behind him, even through the closed door, he could hear the speed bag. Anibal Martinez was going at it to kill.

  He had driven two blocks when he decided that the late-model grey Plymouth was following him. Not too close. Not too far away. Just about right. Coincidence, maybe.

  Slater took a few quick lefts, a right, then gassed it till he hit Earl Street.

  He eased up to a YIELD sign and waited.

  He didn't see the Plymouth.

  Deciding maybe that he was becoming paranoid in his old age-too much TV and Watergate-he chalked it up to stupidity. Feeling like a Junior G-Man, he drove the 25 miles from GulfCity to Pasadena and his office on Strawberry Street.

  III

  Slater sat in his office, heels on desk, looking at the paint-peeling walls till four o'clock, then locked up and drove back to GulfCity and one of Jason's hangouts, Happy's Good Time Bar.

  Happy's was an ugly building with more beer and wine advertisements splattered on the outside than the off-white paint that showed between them. Red neon curlicue writing in a large, dirty window announced that there was live entertainment inside. Strippers.

  Inside, it was the usual seedy little honkytonk with sticky tables, an unpolished bar, rows of bottles, a beer tap, a huge mirror that looked as if someone had deliberately wiped it with a greasy rag, and a small stage for the strippers.

  The place stank of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol.

  Behind the bar was a bored bartender with black curly hair, a lantern jaw and eyes like a lynx. It was too early for the strip show, and only one die-hard drunk was present. He sat at the table in the back, contemplating the empty glass before him.

  Slater went up to the bar, perched on a stool and ordered a beer. The bored bartender squeezed one out of the tap and slammed it down hard enough for some to slosh out on Slater's hand. The bartender saw it happen, but if it bothered him he didn't let on.

  Slater showed him his grillwork. "You look kind of bored, Curly. Maybe you'd like to talk."

  He gave Slater a sour look. "The name's not Curly and talk from drunks I don't need. It's that that makes me bored."

  Touchy, Slater thought. He showed him the nice smile again. "I haven't even had a beer yet, so how come I'm a drunk. Maybe I could even salt up the conversation some." Slater took out his wallet, removed a one, put it on the counter.

  The bartender gave it the experienced eye. "Nothing but the big time, huh, Charlie?"

  Slater pursed his lips, took a fin from his wallet, put it with the single, kept his fingers on them, but just lightly. "Nice job you got here," Slater said. "Bet you even make some money. But not off the joint."

  He gave Slater a sigh and a smile. Neither was exactly first rate. "Something I can do for you, Charlie?"

  Slater took his fingers off the bills and watched the bartender palm them with the professional ease of a sleight-of-hand artist. The bills disappeared into his shirt pocket. He looked at Slater out of the corner of his eye.

  He said, "You just giving them away or have you got questions?"

  Slater drank some of his beer. It was bad enough to spit out, but the big detective restrained himself. "I've got questions," Slater said, a bit tired of the cat and mouse. "Ever hear of a guy named Jason Krim?"

  The bartender lifted his eye brows, wiggled his mouth from side to side, said, "Nope. Sorry."

  "For six bucks you didn't give the question a whole lot of thought."

  "Don't know any Jason Krim. It's as simple as that."

  "Maybe I can refresh your memory. He's been in here quite a lot. Trains fighters, Anibal Martinez in particular. Krim's a big black guy about
fifty. Here."

  Slater got the clipping out of his pocket and laid it on the bar.

  The bartender picked up a glass and a rag, made like he was polishing the glass, looked down at the clipping.

  "Maybe I've seen him," he said.

  Slater let out a sigh. "Either you've seen him or you haven't. Which is it?"

  Very carefully, as if it were fine china, the bartender set down the glass, put the rag away beneath the counter, kept his left hand there. "You a cop or something?"

  "Private investigator. I'm looking for Krim," Slater said, all the while watching the hidden hand. "How about it? You seen him?"

  The bartender brought his hand from beneath the counter. It was empty. He picked up the clipping and looked at it. "Okay. Yeah, I've seen him. Used to come in here a couple of times a week, drink himself bananas and watch the strip show."

  "You told the cops about this?"

  "Now why should I do that?"

  "Surely they've been around asking. He's on the missing persons list."

  "Not to me, they haven't. Cops I don't need, Charlie. Look, I'm telling you, I used to see the guy a couple of times a week. Last time was a week ago, a Tuesday night, and that's the truth." He held up his hand. Slater had the feeling that if a stack of bibles had been available, he would have sworn an oath on them.

  "Seem awful nervous about cops. Wouldn't be running some kind of action out of this joint, would you?"

  "I just work here. As far as I know the joint's as straight as Robins arrow."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I'm not kiddin'. Anything that goes on illegal here, I don't know nothing about it."

  "Sure, the joint's a regular Sunday school." Slater looked at the bartender hard enough to crack an ice block. "Okay, preacher, wouldn't be more you'd want to tell me about this Krim fellow?"

  "Okay now, don't get sore. It's just that chatty bartenders don't do an establishment any good. Weather and dames is one thing but..."

  "I get the picture." Slater picked another five from his wallet, handed it to the bartender. It went, quickly, into the shirt pocket with the other bills.

  He licked his lips, leaned over the bar, said to Slater in an almost whisper, "This Krim fellow is a regular. Like I said, a couple of times a week."

  "That line's starting to sound like an echo."

  "Just listen. He sits over there." Slater turned to look where he was pointing. A corner table next to the stage. "He drinks like a fish and watches the strip show. Passes a lot of bills around to the girls."

  "The last time you saw him-leave with anybody?"

  The bartender put an elbow on the bar, leaned close to Slater. "Just between you, me and the wall, I did see him leave with someone, more or less."

  "How do you leave with someone more or less?"

  "This Mexican, the one here in the picture, came in and did some yelling at the old guy, finally jerks up the old dude by the shirt."

  "What were they yelling?"

  The bartender threw up his hands. "What am I, a tape recorder? This place was crowded and noisy. Ain't nothing worse than a bunch of noisy drunks."

  "So what else happens?"

  "Nothing. I go out back and empty the garbage, bottles and stuff. Out back I see the Mexican putting the old man in the back seat of a Lincoln. Can you believe that? The geezer's got a god-damned Lincoln! I drive a sixty-eight Ford. Well, anyway, the old man's as drunk as Cooter Brown, I reckon. The Mex puts him in the back, gets behind the wheel and drives off."

  "Anyone with the driver?"

  "Might have been. Wasn't paying that close attention."

  "I guess you see that sort of thing every day? Often enough not to bother with calling the police."

  "You see everything here after a while."

  "Customers make a habit of parking out back?"

  "They park anywhere the tires will set."

  "Think the Mexican could have clouted the old guy?"

  "Could have. A passed-out drunk and a punched-out one look a whole hell of a lot alike. If you know what I mean."

  "The old man talk to anyone else that night?"

  "Hell, I don't remember. I mean I wasn't keeping tabs on the guy."

  "Give it some real deep thought. I mean, I could have the cops start checking around."

  "Okay, okay, don't start with the cop talk. He did talk to Leona Blue some. She's a stripper here."

  "Blue her real name?"

  "No. Stage. I don't know what her real name is. What's it matter?"

  "Maybe it doesn't. She here now?"

  "No. Comes on at six-thirty, has her act at seven."

  "Thanks."

  The bartender didn't tell Slater he was welcome. The detective left Happy's and went to the other two places on his list. There was someone at both who had seen Jason, but not after Monday. It looked like Happy's was the last spot before his vanishing act.

  Slater made a phone call to Yank, and in as casual a manner as possible, confirmed that Anibal sometimes drove his Lincoln, and that it was quite possible that he drove it the night in question. With that information in tow, Slater ended the conversation by telling Yank not to worry and that things were shaping up.

  At six-thirty he drove back to Happy's.

  IV

  Leona Blue was not a movie queen, but she certainly had sex appeal. She was voluptuously built, and her costume, if you can call a G-string and a handful of sequins and gauze a costume, did nothing to conceal the fact.

  She had nice things to go with the body-shoulder-length brown hair, beautiful smoky blue eyes and a quick smile that showed just the slightest trace of wrinkles at the corners. Slater quickly deduced that she wasn't old, but she was certainly not as young as she appeared at first glance.

  After he made it clear that he wasn't a cop or one of the local lechers, Leona agreed to talk to him. She pulled a man's shirt over her "outfit" and sat with Slater at the table the bartender had said was Jason's usual spot.

  After taking in the view for a period that Slater felt was just within being polite, he said, "How long have you known Jason?"

  "Almost a year," she said. Her voice was soft and musical, the sort that could whisper sweet passion in the dark.

  "Last saw him when?"

  Her full lips quivered slightly. She leaned forward and said in a low voice. "He's not in some kind of trouble, is he?"

  "None that I know of," Slater said. "I'm a private detective. His employer, Yank, hired me to find him. He's a little worried, that's all."

  Leona nodded, bobbed her brown hair in a manner Slater thought was sensual. "I know about Yank. Jason speaks highly of him." She picked a pack of cigarettes out of her shirt pocket, shook one out. Slater took out his lighter and lit it for her, lit one of his own.

  "To tell the truth," she said, "I'm a little worried myself."

  "That right?"

  "Uh-huh. He's done this sort of thing before, going off for awhile without letting anyone know-but somehow, I'm really worried this time. I've called his place and even went by. Nothing. Locked, and the landlady claims she hasn't seen him. Not that she'd care to help anyway."

  "I take it you and Jason are better than friends."

  She rested her elbow on the table top, her head in her palm. The cigarette drooped languidly from her fingers, soft, grey ash floated down across the table.

  "That's right," she said. "Much better than friends. I suppose you don't approve?"

  Slater shrugged his shoulders. "Why should I approve or disapprove. What's it to you, anyway? It's your business, not mine."

  She lifted her head from her palm, stretched both arms out on the table top. "Sorry. I get to hear so many lectures about how nice, white girls ought not to run around with the niggers, I'm a little touchy. Bitter, too, I guess."

  "You won't be hearing that from me."

  "I can believe that," she said. "I'm just a little touchy, that's all."

  "I can see how you would be. GulfCity isn't exactly the culture spot of the wor
ld, and the work you do doesn't cater to the upper crust. No offense intended."

  "Nor your work."

  "Touche. Right you are, present company excluded, of course."

  They laughed, then Leona became solemn. She said, "Do you think Jason's all right?"

  "I don't know what to think," Slater said truthfully. "From the way you talk, I take it no policemen have been around to ask you questions."

  She wrinkled up her pretty face with concern. "Police? I thought you said he wasn't in any kind of trouble."

  "I did. The police have a missing persons report on him. Yank hired me as insurance."

  "No police," she said. "I haven't talked to any cops and the only cops I know are the two that show up here regularly for their payoffs. They must have a racket with half the dives in this area and no telling what else."

  "Prostitution?"

  "No. Drugs is my suspicion, and it's just that, a suspicion. I think James, that's the bartender, and the owner deal a lot of stuff from this joint. The cops are in on it. Just guessing, mind you, but when you've been around these places enough, you get to be a pretty good guesser. As it is, I just keep my mouth shut." She took a hard look at Slater. "Do you think you can find him?"

  "If I didn't, I wouldn't be looking," Slater said, and for a rare moment his rugged face looked almost soft and vulnerable.

  Leona blew smoke out with a sigh. "You know," she began, and she didn't really seem to be talking to Slater in particular, just addressing gentle memories, "Jason's a very special kind of guy. Tough, but gentle. That means something to me. I don't go for the old fashioned make-it-or-break-it kind of guy.

  "You know what he likes to do?" She smiled briefly. "He likes to have me drive him down by the gulf. He has a special spot there. It's just an old ragged stretch with a little pier that sticks out in some oily junk-filled water. But that's where he has me take him.

  "We always take my car because Jason doesn't drive, takes a taxi wherever he goes, one of his quirks. Anyway, he has me drive him out there and we park and look out over that ugly stretch of water and talk. He tells me that he used to go there as a kid to sort out his problems and he has a lot of childhood memories about that place.