Private Eye Four-Pack, page 57
“Might be interesting,” I said. “We haven’t checked it out, yet. About the last place to look. If nothing else, maybe Prescott is there.”
“What if he’s not?”
“We could hang around and be annoying.”
“Okay with me. I have an inborn talent for being annoying.”
“Yes. I know.”
TWENTY-NINE
The Truck Hangar sat at the junction of Interstate 50 and U.S. Highway 61, eleven miles north of Paradise, where it sprawled across the county line into Ford County. Good location. It was a huge complex—restaurant, bar, gift shop, clothing shop, showers for truckers, six-lane bowling alley, thirty-six fuel pumps, twenty-four of which were for eighteen-wheelers, and a ten-unit motel located on the Ford County side, where goodwill was for rent. The motel interested me the most.
We stood momentarily, after getting out of the Bronco, and scanned the mammoth truck stop. “Where’s the rest of it?” said Chick.
“Jill said they run prostitutes here. Motel makes it easier. What do you think?”
“Let’s grab a road chippie and make her bark like a dog.”
“You know which unit Prescott’s in?”
“No. Can’t ask, either. They’ll be watching for me now. I doubt he’s still here. But it’s worth a look. We could go into the gift shop and buy a T-shirt that says Truckers Do It for the Long Haul. Go native.”
“Or,” I said, “we could hang around outside the motel and give hard Puritan stares to the truckers as they bring the snuff queens over to the motel.”
“Can we cluck our tongues and shake our heads when they walk past?”
“Part of the fun.”
We went into the truck stop’s restaurant-lounge. It was stainless steel and clean gingham tablecloths and waitresses in white nursing shoes. I bought a cup of coffee, black, to go. They poured it into a large Styrofoam cup; no concern for the environment. A Hank Williams, Jr., song belched from the lounge. Like I said, no concern for the environment. Chick walked into the darkened bar, was gone for several minutes, and reappeared with a long-neck Budweiser, which he stuck under his shirt as we left.
“There’s an open-container law in this county,” he explained.
“There’s beer in the truck,” I said.
“Where’s your sense of adventure? I don’t have to sneak those.”
“Very childish.”
“Keeps me young.”
We walked to the motel and took up positions in front. In order to get a room, Chick explained, the john had to get a key in the bar. “The connection is made there,” he said. “But no money changes hands. The girls hang around the bar waiting for the truckers to come in. The girls try to get the truckers to buy them a drink and then maneuver them to the motel to do the ultimate naughty. Either way, commerce occurs.”
The motel was blue cinder block and clean. Willie Boy was no fool. The nicer it looked, the less likely people were to hassle you. A family could pull into the restaurant, have dinner, bowl a few lines, and be on their way, without disturbance. I sat down on a brick planter and peeled the lid from the coffee cup, tasted its contents. It was fresh and delicious. Roberts was a good businessman. Smart. But he had a wire jammed in his brain. He could make it legitimately, but that wasn’t enough for him. Something drove him, whipsawed him to do things in a dark, unnatural way.
We’d only been there a few minutes when an overweight trucker in a well-worn camouflage down vest and a Peterbilt baseball cap walked in our direction, his arm around a nubile miss in a short skirt and a pair of strapless high-heeled shoes. I thought down vests and strapless heels were out of style, along with promiscuous sex. Chick and I stood when they came our way. The girl looked much better than I had expected. Much better.
“Outstanding talent,” Chick said. “I may have to get me a Ken-worth and pull in here.”
As the amorous couple neared, we moved to block the walkway. They slowed and stopped in front of us.
“We don’t want any trouble,” the trucker said. He looked uncertain. I noticed a ring on his left hand. Probably had a wife and kids. I didn’t like scaring him, but he shouldn’t avail himself of the road chippy. The girl was less uncertain.
“What do you guys want?” she said. She looked maybe nineteen, blond, with the kind of slim legs teenagers have, but with a great jawline and lovely sea-green eyes, slim waist.
“We’re from the militant branch of the Moral Majority,” I said. “And we’re here to advise you that paying for sex is a nopey-no and a health hazard.”
“Fuck you guys,” she said. Charming girl.
“No thanks,” Chick said. “I do that and you’ll follow me the rest of my life. Besides, I’m all out of penicillin.”
“Forget it, Bernice,” said the trucker. He was frightened. “Let’s just go back to the bar.”
“You assholes are screwin’ up big time,” she said, a fist jammed against a cantilevered hip.
“You shouldn’t talk like that,” I said. “It’s indelicate.”
“Bastards,” she spat. “We’ll see what Large Michael has to say about this.”
“Oh, please,” Chick said. “Anything but that.”
“Fuck you,” she said, turning on her heels to stomp away, Down Vest trailing her.
“Girl needs to expand her vocabulary,” Chick said.
“I want a master key,” I said. I wanted to see the inside of the units.
“Maybe Large What’s-his-name will bring us one.”
“He also serves who sits and waits.”
I drank more coffee. We talked about the Kansas City Chiefs’ chances of making the playoffs, talked about whether Clapton was a better guitarist than Hendrix. We both agreed Larry Bird had been the greatest to ever pull on a pair of sneakers, but Jordan might soon prove to be. “Bird, Russell, Jordan, and two warm bodies can whip anyone else,” Chick said.
I’d just mentioned Havlicek and Jerry West, my all-time fave, to complete the squad, when a contingent of well-wishers from the Truck Hangar walked in our direction. There were four of them.
“Lookit this,” said Chick. “Clubs ’n’ everything.”
“It’s because they think you’re Frankenstein.”
“Oh yeah? Where’re the torches, then?”
The sun had set when they moved into the pale light of the motel sign. I recognized the largest guy from the parking lot of the Silver Spur Lounge.
“Who the hell you guys think—” started Large Michael, then he recognized us. “Aw, shit. You guys again.” The other men were carrying short staves and tire irons. No match for two men with goodness as their shield.
“What’s happening, guys?” I said, conversational. Always nice to meet new people.
“The fuck you think you’re doing here?” asked Large Michael.
“Everybody says that,” said Chick.
“No imagination,” I said.
Large Michael began rapping his baton in his hand, rhythmically. “You guys are trespassing.”
“This from a guy who pimps for teenyboppers,” Chick said.
“We want a master key to these units,” I said. “Unless you want to tell me which room is Campbell’s.” They knew Prescott as Campbell.
Large Michael threw back his head and laughed. He turned to the other three and said, “They want a master key.” The rest of the all-goon revue laughed with him. Chortled actually. It’d been a long time since I’d heard a good group chortle. They obviously didn’t realize we had them surrounded.
I turned to Chick. “I tried polite.”
“Nobody can say you didn’t do your best.”
“So now what?”
“How about Randolph Scott and John Wayne?”
“Sounds good to me.”
I pulled the 9-millimeter Browning automatic from its shoulder holster and Chick pulled the .380 Colt about a beat and a half before me. He was so quick I was beginning to suspect he had done this sort of thing before.
“Grab some sky, gents,” said Chick.
“Shit!” said Large Michael.
“Of course,” said Chick.
“The key,” I said. I held a hand out, palm up.
“You don’t know who you’re messing with,” said Large Michael, ever the bearer of news, good and otherwise.
“Neither do you,” said Chick, his gun hand seeming to point at nothing in particular, yet everywhere at once. “You got three seconds to put down your little sticks or you get to find out. Ready? One…two…”
Four batons rattled on the asphalt.
“Damn,” said Chick. “I never get to shoot anybody anymore.”
“Maybe we call the cops,” said Large Michael.
“That’s even funnier than me not shooting you, you calling the cops. Go ahead. It’s a slow night.”
“The key,” I said, my teeth starting to clench as I thought about Tempestt, left alone in a dirty motel, abused, and pumped full of chemicals. Sheriff Kennedy, father of two, honest lawman, killed for that honesty. I was way past my acceptable limit of crap like that.
“What if I refuse?” said Large Michael.
I slapped the side of the Browning across his cheek. He tried to get his hands up, tried to duck away, but if I wasn’t quicker than some fat local tough then I was further past retirement than I thought. The gun whipcracked along his jowls and I felt the scratchy texture of his beard. The trio with him jumped, startled by the sudden violence. The blow staggered him, but he didn’t fall.
It didn’t suit me.
I followed the backhand with a left-hand swat. Large Michael’s eyes widened in amazement. It was the look rookie linemen had the first time one of the moat monsters head-slapped them. You either survived it or quit. Many quit. I stayed.
“The key. Now.”
He looked at me in disbelief. Like most bullies, he wasn’t used to this. Twice in one week. “Go to hell,” he said, trying to regain some of his lost face in front of his comrades.
I looked at Chick. “He’s not listening to me,” I said. I turned back to the bearded man. “You have no sense of my outrage, fatso. If I have to hospitalize you, I’ll do it. You don’t matter. Right now, only the key matters. I want it and I will get it, no matter what it takes.”
I kicked him between the legs. He dropped to his knees. When he reached for his private parts, I backhanded him. He fell over on the pavement. Not enough. The rage, exacerbated by fatigue and frustration, which had been gurgling beneath the black part of my soul, was rushing to the surface, fueled by adrenaline. Once again, I was startled by that part of me I could not control. The violence that had been so much a part of my life raised its ugly, red-eyed head—the beast within, long suppressed, yet not at bay. I holstered the gun, grabbed Large Michael by his jacket, jerked him erect, and slapped him on both ears with my hands. Then I chopped him on the neck with the side of a fist, followed by a blow from the heel of my hand against his eyebrows. I backhanded him again and saliva flew from his slack mouth.
“Stop,” said Large Michael.
“The key,” I said. I was panting. Anger, not exhaustion.
“They’ll kill me,” he said.
“And you think we won’t?” Chick said. He put the tip of his gun in Large Michael’s mouth. “Make a wish.”
Large Michael fumbled in the pocket of his jeans and handed us a ring of keys on a blue plastic tag. He was sweating heavily, and the sour aroma filled my nostrils. I took the key ring from him. “Which room is he in?”
“Seven,” he answered, his eyes searching the ground.
“Anybody in number one?”
He shook his head.
“Take them into number one,” I said to Chick, “while I see if Prescott is home.” Chick nodded, and we hustled the quartet into the room, using one of the keys to open the door.
Chick had them sit down, then asked, “Anybody know any ghost stories? Any songs?”
I pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves so I’d feel like Cary Grant and also so I wouldn’t leave any prints. Cary would’ve been proud, but Bogart would’ve been smart enough to put them on before roughing up Large Michael. The backs of my hands were sore but were not swelling. The big trucks chugged and droned like metal dinosaurs in the background as I walked to number 7. There were two locks on the door, one on the knob and another one a little higher, probably a dead bolt. None of my keys fit the upper keyhole. I knocked on the door. No answer. I walked back to the first unit. I didn’t know how much time we had before somebody called the cops. Now would be a bad time for Baxter to show.
When I opened the door to unit 1, Chick still had the four men sitting on the floor. Their pants were unbuckled and pulled down around their ankles. Their shoes were in a heap by one wall, leaving them barefoot and chagrined.
“Which one you think has the best legs?” asked Chick.
“I need the dead bolt key to number seven,” I said, to Large Michael.
“People in hell need ice water, too,” said Michael.
“He’s such a wit,” said Chick.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “Who around here said, ‘Grab some sky’?”
“A classic. How about, ‘No sense of my outrage’?”
“Okay, Michael,” I said. “What’s it gonna be? You give me the key, or do I take it from you?”
“I don’t have it. Honest. Only the guy, Campbell, and Roberts himself have keys.”
I believed him. “We need a crowbar,” I said. “Wait here.” I left them and walked back to the truck stop and bought a crowbar in the parts store. It was silver and heavy. I hefted it and it felt nice and solid. I walked back to unit 7. The door was hollow-core metal. It took some effort, but I was able to peel the dead bolt. That done, I used the key on the doorknob lock and pushed in. Inside, the room looked like number 1, with the exception of a VCR on the television, a kitchenette, a collection of technical notebooks, and a dead body in the bathtub.
It was Prescott. He hadn’t been dead long. There was an open quart bottle of Jack Daniel’s black-label bourbon on the floor next to the tub, along with a profusion of pills, caplets, and powders. There were no cuts or bruises on the body. The Magical Mystery Medicine Sleep. Looked like an overdose or a suicide. But I wasn’t buying it. Not when the guy was on the brink of the biggest money he’d ever see.
There was the stench of death in the room, but without the rot of long-term death. His face was blotchy, and his arms had begun to stiffen with rigor mortis. His skin was water-puckered. The eyes, glassy, stared at eternity. Died within the last couple of hours. Probably wouldn’t have been found for several days if I hadn’t gone looking for him.
I walked back into the bedroom, checking under the bed, in the drawers of the cheap veneer nightstand and dresser. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I looked. I searched behind the commode tank in the bathroom. Behind the Kmart pictures on the wall. Under the mattress. In the mattress. Nothing. I rummaged through the collection of videotapes, none of which were hollow. As I was going through them, I knocked one to the floor. It fell and bounced on its edge toward the dresser. When I reached down to pick it up, I noticed an irregularity in the grain of the carpeting. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking directly at it. I shoved the dresser aside and saw that someone had apparently cut a two-foot square in the carpet, removed it, and then set it back in. I plucked at a corner of the square, which was glued to a thin metal plate. I lifted it out to reveal a sunken safe with a combination dial on top.
I searched the room again and found what I was looking for taped to the back of the nightstand drawer. Written in blue ink were the numbers 17-75-36-12.
I got the safe open on the second attempt. The handle clicked as I twisted it and the mouth of the safe gaped. Inside were some papers, folded into an envelope and bound with a thick rubber band, a thousand dollars in various denominations, and a short plastic tube containing two dozen rocks of dreamsicle.
Jackpot.
Willie Boy had finally made a mistake.
I rummaged through the papers. It was the dreamsicle formula. Had to be. There were chemical symbols and instructions on how to combine them, along with proper temperatures, cooling time, and measurements. I removed a couple of rocks from the plastic tube and put the tube back in the safe. I pocketed the papers and put the money in my wallet. Prescott wouldn’t need it anymore and Chick deserved remuneration for being cheated out of his reward money. The Andy Jacksons, U.S. Grants, and Ben Franklins made a fat bulge in my wallet. I retaped the combination number to the back of the nightstand drawer, returned the carpet square to the correct position, and pushed the dresser back in place over it.
That done, I picked up the phone and dialed the highway patrol to report the murder to Sam Browne.
THIRTY
I called Troop A headquarters in Lee’s Summit. Told the dispatcher it was an emergency and I would speak with Browne only. I gave the number on Prescott’s phone, hung up, and waited. I knew Chick was alone in the room with our four playmates, but he could handle it. I didn’t know how much time we had before other people took an interest in us. But the business of the motel, which was monkey business, probably gave us a good deal of isolation.
Within two minutes the phone jangled. I picked it up and said, “Jerry’s Jiggle Joint, where your every dream comes true.”
“Cut the shit, Storme,” Browne said. “What have you got?”
“A dead body, a safe full of illegal drugs, and a smile that’ll make your sister swoon.”
“You’d joke at your own funeral.”
“I’ll send you an invitation.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Where are you?” I told him. “The Truck Hangar, huh? Good. You finally did something positive. I’d love to walk through their operation with probable cause. I’ll make sergeant by the end of the week.”
“Got another problem,” I said. “We may have used unique methods to find the dead man.”
“Like what?”
“Breaking and entering.”
“You crazy—”
“Also assault with a deadly weapon.”
“You shoot anybody?”
