The Past Never Ends, page 18
"A stranger?" Morgan said.
Hubbard nodded towards Marylin.
"I don't mind --" Marylin began as she started to stand.
"She stays," Morgan said. "You've heard the tape, Don. Tell us what we know."
Hubbard stood and folded his hand behind his back. "I regret..." Hubbard's voice trailed off.
"You regret we found the tape?" Morgan said.
Hubbard nodded. Something glistened from the corner of his eye. "I regret those might have been the last words she heard me speak to her." He looked away and wiped his cheek.
"Tell us about Tanya," Marylin said.
The street preacher sat down. Tears fell from his eyes and hit the wooden desktop. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry." He wept. Marylin pulled a tissue from her purse and extended it across the desk. Hubbard waved his hand to decline and wiped his face with his hands.
"Tell us about Tanya," Marylin said.
"Have you ever felt so dead inside you wonder if you were ever alive?" Hubbard said. "Have you ever felt the opposite?" He stared at the statue of the Virgin Mary across the room. "I had a church once of pretty stones and green lawns. The major spiritual crisis? Who got the Mercedes in the divorce. That's not what I wanted, so I came here. I walked the streets. With God's grace, I opened this shelter. I gave everything I had, until one day I realized I had nothing left. What would happen to my people and where did my God go? I kept working and feeling nothing except this raw barrenness."
Morgan shifted in his chair and avoided looking at the minister. A rumble sounded and forced air began to wheeze through a vent overhead. Morgan looked up, started to speak, and then stopped.
"Then one day, you laugh or smile," Hubbard continued, "and you realize one little part of you is still alive. Tanya came in one hot July day -- problems with her mother. Tanya needed a place to stay for a few days. Perhaps you never grow so old or dead that you forget the scent of a young woman in the summer." Hubbard hesitated and looked at Marylin. "Or, of a young man, perhaps."
"Maybe you can finish the rest," Hubbard said. "But I lied to her on that tape. I didn't give her life." He paused. "She gave me life. And, the tape: my cry, my sin of idolatry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
Morgan waited. "What did you say to Tanya's mother when you called her after that last message?"
"What do you mean?" Hubbard asked. He sat up in this chair and put his hands outstretched on his desk.
"You know what I mean," Morgan said. "Marylin, play the rest of the tape."
The legal secretary pushed the button on the answering machine. A raspy female voice spoke: "You little slut. Make sure your fat little cheeks are at the Lodge tonight. Ten-thirty. You got business there tonight. Important business." Click. "Thursday. September Third. Three-o-six p.m."
"Five minutes after you left your last message, preacher," Morgan said. "What did you say to Tanya's mother, Tamar White?"
"I never spoke to that woman that day," Hubbard said, his words crisp, definitive.
"And you never went to the Bunkhouse Lodge that night either," Morgan said.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm asking," Morgan replied. "My client has hired me to learn the truth about Tanya Everly's death. That's why we're here."
Hubbard stood up, but the lawyer and his secretary didn't move. "The truth is I made an ass of myself on that tape and then caught a plane to Kansas City with your friend, Martin Bollant. We went to a conference together, even shared a room." Hubbard picked up the telephone and lifted the receiver. He pushed it towards Morgan. "Call and ask. Martin Bollant speaks the truth, doesn't he?"
Don Hubbard pushed the button pad on the telephone as Chester Morgan called off Bollant's number. Morgan took the receiver and placed it to his ear. When he got through to the attorney, Morgan spoke: "I have one question for you today, Marty. When were you in Kansas City last?"
"What?"
"Martin, it's a simple question: when have you been in Kansas City recently?"
"Easy enough, Chesterfield. Around Labor Day -- the Third, Fourth, and Fifth of September, I believe. Went up there with Don Hubbard for this meeting, to find out what is evolving with other services for the dispossessed. You remember Don. The Corpus Christi Project? Have you been out there to his place? You really ought to go." Bollant paused. "Who do I bill for this call? Why did you call and ask me this?"
"Let's just say I'm playing a game of truth or dare and I just lost. I thought your friend Don Hubbard was some place other than Kansas City."
"No, it was Kansas City. He was with me practically the entire time. Is that of help?"
"Yeah. You share a room with him?"
"Yes."
"Was Hubbard with you the night of September Third and the morning of September Fourth?"
"I went to get some Rolaids at the news stand. I don't think Hubbard sleep walks. What's this about?"
"Reverend Hubbard can tell you later."
"Chesterfield, we need to get together on that Rufus Daupin case sometime."
"Later, Martin. Thanks."
Morgan handed the telephone back to Hubbard. "Tanya was murdered the night of September Third or the morning of the Fourth. I apologize. I had to ask, though."
Hubbard relaxed back into his worn leather chair. "I wonder what happened to Tanya, too," Hubbard said. "Beautiful Tanya." He folded his hands together as if to pray. "If I'm forgiven, you are, too."
Morgan adjusted his suit jacket and began to stand. Marylin reached for the answering machine and frowned at her boss. Morgan eased back and waited.
"Don, you didn't tell us the rest of the story," Marylin said quietly, as she touched her ankles together and leaned forward. "Something else happened, didn't it? Something that made you feel that Tanya no longer needed you?"
Hubbard hesitated.
"It might help us," Marylin said.
"Do you think you will find out what happened to Tanya?"
"That's my pledge, pastor," Morgan said.
The street preacher stared as if recalling an event from long ago and in another life. He waited, then spoke. "About six or seven months ago, she started talking about a young man -- I assume a young man -- named Billy. He had some money apparently. He rented a place for her. She grew distant and..." Hubbard shrugged.
"What's his last name?" Morgan asked.
"I don't know."
"Where can I find him?" Morgan said.
"I do not know. I thought I might discover his identity at the funeral, but I had no indication he was there."
"Anything else?" Marylin asked softly.
"His name was Billy. That's all I know."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Chester Morgan eased his car into a narrow parking place. He turned off the ignition and waited. For what? Pink and gold neon light flashed from the sign above and made the black night a carnival of strange color. Morgan told himself he had come to this place because he had not learned the truth about Tanya Everly's death. He had more information, of course, but no explaining cause. Without that, what had he accomplished? He had other cases to work on, but this one compelled. Morgan had confronted Don Hubbard with his most incriminating evidence and Hubbard had as easily exculpated himself. He had followed Jack Middlebrooks, the old street cop who had worked this beat, into the mountains of eastern Oklahoma, only to become convinced of the improbability of Tanya's employer causing her death. Morgan told himself he had come to this place to talk with his last secure source, to find out who Billy was -- this boyfriend spoken of by Don Hubbard and Murle Mueller. Morgan told himself these things, but he knew he had come to see the beautiful black-haired woman who reminded him of life. He got out of his car and walked towards the front door of Vixens.
Chester Morgan glanced across the street and saw the boarded-up Key Petroleum gas station. Weeds had grown tall in the concrete cracks and the building looked forlorn. He remembered what Martin Bollant had told him about William Harrison: The owner of the oil company considered it a disgrace to lay off employees and a dishonor to close a gas station. Harrison himself went to any Key Petroleum site that had to be shut down to make sure his workers had means to continue their lives.
The image seared and would not fade.
Chester stopped. Had Harrison visited this service station in months past? A humid night breeze blew and rustled far off into the dark. The lawyer shook his head, told himself he had to find his witness, and walked through the front door of Vixens.
Morgan faced the smokey-glassed window where the bouncer took money for cover and made patrons sign in. The attorney started to ask whether Candy, his witness and his intrigue, worked this evening, but didn't, remembering the paranoid stare of the manager and the "fuck you" reaction of the fashion-model-perfect dancer when he had asked about Star, Tanya. Morgan slid cash to the bouncer who pushed a beat-up notebook towards the attorney. He looked at the sign-in sheet and saw illegible scribbles. To hell with them, he thought as he signed his name in big, clear letters.
Morgan walked into the club. He passed empty tables and sat down. On the stage in front of him, a baby-faced stripper with soft curves and small pointed breasts tried to dance a seductive take, but vacant seats outnumbered the occupied, and her efforts became self-parody. Morgan nodded and grinned. He had argued losing cases, too. He ordered a drink and glanced around the room. He didn't see his witness -- his Maria -- or as she was known here: Candy. He could wait. Perhaps she was in the dressing room or making small talk in a dark corner with someone as lonely as he.
Morgan watched the women strip. Some he recognized from before; others were new; several appeared ambiguously present, triggering neither memories of the past nor new memories for the future. After several drinks and no sight of Maria, he thought about leaving, but didn't. He wondered why he stayed, but he knew.
A man, shorter than tall and skinnier than fat, walked quickly into the bar. He wore faded jeans and a tan corduroy jacket, smooth at the elbows. A red-haired stripper from across the room waved and smiled at him. He gave her a thumbs-up. Another dancer reached out and patted his arm as he passed. Another thumbs up. The man sat down at the table in front of Morgan, adjacent to the stage. As the man draped his jacket over his chair, Morgan read the words "Vixens Vexed" ironed on with crooked letters across the front of his pale blue T-shirt.
As soon as the man sat, a waitress placed a pitcher of beer on his table and gave the man a groping hug. The stripper on stage wiggled two or three fingers at him and smiled. He sloshed beer into a glass and moved it and the pitcher directly in front of his right hand. He pulled the cellophane and the tin foil corner off a pack of cigarettes and placed it, a stainless steel Zippo lighter, and an ashtray immediately in front of him. He unfolded a wad of dollar bills and arranged them in a neat stack to his left. The man stretched his arms and gave the naked woman on stage a thumbs up.
When the music stopped, the stripper leaned over the man's table and cuddled the man's face into her cleavage. He fumbled for a couple of bills and pushed them into her g-string. She jiggled and let him go. She smiled and waved two or three fingers as she left the stage. The man gulped beer and brushed back his thinning brown gray hair. He looked at the other tables next to the stage, all empty except for his. He turned and spoke to Morgan.
"Hey, you get a better show up here on perverts row." The man had a bass voice and a crooked smile. He pulled out a chair next to him. "Come on up!"
Morgan shook his head and said, "I'm fine where I am."
"They won't bite, you know," the man said.
"Your head would be gone if they did," Morgan replied.
"Wow! What a great headline! 'Man's Head Devoured by Ravenous Titties.' What would the funeral director tell my mother?" The man took a drink of his beer and noticed Morgan hadn't moved. "Suit yourself, but the view's better." He turned towards the stage once more.
The man lit another cigarette and placed the pack precisely where it had lain. A tall skinny black woman stood at the back of the platform and waited for the music to start. The man gave her a thumbs up, and she grinned a phony bedroom smile. The music started, a beat vibrated, and the dancer moved without enthusiasm. She slid in front of the man, yanked her top off, and dropped it on the man's head. "Yes!" the man exclaimed as he stuck a dollar bill between the woman's chocolate skin and her lime colored thong. The dancer pivoted and the man slid another bill under the thin garment on the other side. She turned backside to the audience, shook her narrow hips at the man, and collected a third green bill. She sauntered to the other side of the stage and turned. The man took a slug of beer and gave her a triumphant thumbs up.
Morgan looked at the dressing room door and wondered how many dollar bills the man had placed against Maria's bare skin. He remembered her laugh and a sound in her voice that reminded him of something like hope. He remembered her sweet spice scent and her full curves. Morgan looked at the man with the pile of money. Morgan's jaw tightened, and then loosened. That was her job: dancing nude and collecting stares and tips. Maybe the man had put thousands of dollars in Maria's flimsy lingerie. Morgan wanted to hope so, but didn't. Maria had told him to come here to find her. Was he different than the man with the pile of bills and the "Vixens Vexed" T-shirt? He rolled his empty beer glass from one hand to the other and then stood up to join him.
"You must be one of their best customers," Morgan said as he took a seat next to the man.
"Not one of the best," the man said, smiled. "The best! Yes!" He held his right hand out inviting a high five. Morgan shook it instead and introduced himself.
The man looked at his hand and then said, "I'm Mark Stevens." He fished a beat-up business card out of his billfold and slid it to Morgan. "You're going to enjoy being on perverts row. Betcha five!" He nodded at the black woman on the stage and tossed her lime green bikini top from the crown of his head. "Her name's Zoë. She's been here about two months." He leaned towards the attorney and whispered, "She's not going to make it. She's bored, and if a dancer is bored, the audience is bored."
"Unless the stripper's a good actress?" Morgan asked.
The man frowned and his deep black eyes looked pained. "You don't call them 'strippers.' They're dancers. 'Strippers' sounds cheesy and amateurish. These women are professionals." The man sipped his beer and glanced at Zoë. "And, you don't call them booger bars or strip joints, for the same reason."
Morgan glanced around the room. "I'll be damned if I call it a 'gentlemen's club.'"
"Yeah. Yeah," the man said. "I know. I always try to be."
"Is that why you slipped three bills to that last dancer?" Morgan said. "You didn't find her -- what? Inspiring?"
"It's money." Mark Stevens shrugged. "I'd rather give it to curvy young women struggling to make it, than to the cyclopes of the global economy. Wouldn't you?" Stevens leaned towards Morgan and made an indistinguishable sound, then said: "Besides, I have a reputation to keep up." He pounded the ironed-on letters of his T-shirt with his thumb.
"I know," Morgan replied. "You're their best customer."
The man motioned to the waitress. "I'm ordering you another beer," he said. "You need to get out of the Dragnet mode and have some fun. That's why there's a perverts row! It means to forget about things and to have a good time! Slip the girls a few dollars." He picked up some bills from his stack and put them on the table in front of Morgan. "It might give them, and you, some life."
Morgan looked at the bills in front of him and at the man in the sky-blue T-shirt. He had learned never to deprive another of a blessing by refusing a gift. A few bills in a strip bar a blessing? He had been in enough pool halls and honky tonks to know that practical safety and barroom etiquette required the same thing: acceptance. Still...
"You don't need to," Morgan said, pushing the three dollars back towards Stevens.
"That's yours," the man said, refusing the bills. He raised his arm to catch the eye of the waitress and pointed his finger repeatedly at Morgan's head. "I'm getting you the beer, too." When the waitress nodded, Mark Stevens gave her a thumbs up.
A guitar rift and a two-step beat introduced a chart-topping country music tune. Computerized, too clean, and without heart, Morgan thought when he heard the sound. He looked up. A bleached blonde, her face pudgy with baby fat, looked at the ceiling, concentrating on the rhythm of the song as she began to move across the stage. Morgan had guessed her to be sixteen on his last visit. She looked down and smiled a tender smile, but it was to no one, simply a gesture in the dark night.
"Misty!" Mark Stevens called out. "Wild child!" He flipped back some of his grayish brown hair and picked up a dollar from his pile. The young woman moved in front of him and tugged at her blue bikini bottom allowing him to lay the bill against her fleshy hip. She paused in front of him and shook her finger at him. "Do you know you're beautiful?" he moaned as she danced away from him.
Morgan looked at the money Stevens had given him. Perverts row, he thought. Across the room, Morgan saw the manager -- the man Maria called Bruce -- standing next to the bar, his arms crossed. He stared into space, not at Morgan. No inquisitive glare tonight. A few feet away, Misty moved and shook in the rose-tinted light of the stage, a girl-woman who might be the next Tanya. What the hell, Morgan thought. He placed one of Stevens' greenbacks on the stage. The dancer stepped in front of the attorney and grinned. She turned and let her royal blue fabric of her top fall to the floor.
"You aren't disappointed, are you?" she asked, looking at Morgan over her fleshy bosom.
Morgan shook his head. "No."
Mark Stevens leaned over and tugged at Morgan's shirt. He whispered, "Heck, you don't even know how to do it."
"What?"
"You don't just put the dollar bill on the stage like you don't give a fuck. You hold it up with some panache, some grace, and the dancer, she'll let you know where she wants you to put it." Stevens knocked a cigarette from its pack and lit it.
"I bet," Morgan said.
Stevens exhaled gray smoke. "Well, Misty likes you anyway. She's world class, isn't she? Life's grand on perverts row." He made a thumbs up gesture and poured beer into his glass. "Isn't it grand?"
