Читать книгу Campbell Young Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - J.D. Carpenter - Страница 15

When the alarm woke him, Young was in rough shape. His cheek was throbbing where the crowbar had struck him, he was badly hung over, and his stomach felt as if talons were dug into it. He phoned HQ.

“Sick?” Gallagher said. “You’re never sick.”

“I’ll be in tomorrow. I’m going to let the dog out and then I’m going back to bed.”

He took three ibuprofens and slept until noon. When he got up the headache was gone and the pain in his face had subsided, but his gut hurt so much he could barely stand up.

At 2:00 p.m., he parked his minivan outside McCully’s. Inside, as he approached the bar, he could see that Jessy was talking to a man sitting on one of the stools. The man was wearing a floral shirt, white jeans, and a New York Yankees ballcap turned backwards. A magazine was open in front of him, and Jessy was pointing something out.

When Young was close she looked up and said, “Jesus and Mary, what happened to you?”

“Nothing. Cut myself shaving.” He nodded at the magazine. “What’s so interesting?”

“I was just showing this gentleman my tattoo catalogue. Another rye and ginger, sir?”

“No, thanks,” the man said.

Something about his voice. And his clothes. Young looked at the back of the man’s head. Black frizzy hair poking out from under the ballcap. Then the man turned and smiled up at him. “Detective Sergeant,” he said, “how are you?”

Doug Buckley.

Without taking his eyes off of him, Young said to Jessy, “Since when are you getting a tattoo?”

Jessy said, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”

“What kind you going to get?” Young was still staring at Doug, whose smile was slowly fading.

“A mermaid, I think. Or maybe a tarantula.”

Out of the corner of his eye Young could see her touch her hair. “Where you going to get it?”

“There’s this place on Queen Street. One of my girlfriends, her brother—”

“No. Where on you are you going to get it?” Young still hadn’t taken his eyes off Doug.

“Oh. Well, I was thinking maybe the middle of my back.”

“Who’s going to see it there? You won’t even see it.”

“Or maybe on the back of my leg,” she said quietly.

“The back of your leg?”

She pointed to the magazine. “There’s one in there of Willie Nelson I would just love to have on my calf. It’s so good you’d swear it was a photograph.”

“Maybe you should get your name tattooed on your arm,” Young said, “like the basketball players do. You know why they do that, don’t you?”

Jessy shook her head. “Why do they do that?”

“In case they forget their name they can look at their arm and, as long as they can read upside down, they can say, ‘Oh, that’s right, I’m Tyrone.’”

Jessy said, “Why are you acting like this?”

It was a fair question. Young thought about it for a moment. “I guess it’s because you’re chumming up to this piece of shit.” Doug started to climb down off his stool, but Young laid a hand on his shoulder. “Has he asked you to go out with him yet? ’Cause if he hasn’t, he will. And before you decide yes or no, you might want to know a few things about him. Like how he abandoned his family. Like how he lies to officers of the law. Isn’t that right, you piece of shit?”

Doug trembled under Young’s hand, but said nothing. Just then, Vinny appeared in the doorway of the kitchen and called Jessy’s name, and she moved off down the bar.

“So, shitbird,” Young said, “why did you move out of the Hilton?”

Doug lowered his head. “I had a little problem there. It had nothing to do with the murder investigation.”

“What kind of little problem?”

Doug swallowed. “A masseuse. Things got a wee bit out of hand with one of the masseuses. It was best I leave. No-trace camping, if you know what I mean.” He smiled up at Young.

“Where you living now?”

“The King Eddy.”

Young raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never been there myself, but I’m told it’s pretty snazzy.”

Doug shrugged. “You have to pay for quality.”

“So what’s someone who can afford the King Eddy doing in a joint like McCully’s?”

“The last time I saw you, you asked me if I would be around. I’m just checking in with you. Like with a parole officer.”

“How’d you know where to find me?”

“I asked your daughter when I was out at the track the other day. I told her I had something for you, that it was important I see you. She refused to tell me your phone number or where you lived. All she would give me was the name of this bar.”

“So what’ve you got that’s so important?”

Doug looked around. Down the bar, Vinny was talking to two drinkers, and Jessy was at the beer taps, filling a pitcher. Doug took a quick, shaky sip of his rye and ginger, looked up at Young, and said, “I know who killed Shorty Rogers.”

Young narrowed his eyes. “You do.”

Doug nodded. “Yes, indeedy.” He slurped at his drink.

“I’m all ears.”

Doug was sucking on an ice cube. “It was the bird guy. The birdman of King County. The saviour of birds. I can’t remember his name.”

“I can. Stirling Smith-Gower.”

Doug said “Bull’s eye!” and the ice cube he was sucking jumped out of his mouth and slid across the bar.