Читать книгу Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Lee Lamothe - Страница 24

Ray Tate wanted to explore Djuna Brown’s faux lesbianism. He found he was excited. As she piloted the red Intrepid away from Willy Wong’s warehouse and headed back towards the Interstate to swing downtown, he said, “So, you, like, ah, do guys, huh?”

“Not white guys, no.” She shook her head gravely. “So, anyway, how’d Topper get the name? He’s a funny fuck.”

“How about artists? Artists aren’t black or white. We’re just, ah, I dunno … artsy.” He inflated his chest. “We’re all colours. We are, Djun’, men of the people. Of all people.”

“I never saw myself as an artist’s moll. Do I, like, sit on a stool and get painted or sketched or something? Spend my evenings in cafés and rundown bars? Sorry, Morrie, no can do, buckaroo.” She didn’t look at him and he could see by the edge of her cat smile she was having a good time. She bumpered up and beeped a car out of her way. “So, Topper?”

“You don’t have a husband or something, tucked away?”

“I bet it’s because old Topper tops everybody. They tell a joke, he tells a better one. They got a story, he tops them with a better one.”

Ray Tate thought about it. The rover called out to him and he was directed to call in on a hard line. He gave a ten-four.

“Topper. Topper was a uniformed sergeant downtown. He was assigned to an anti-Nazi demo and it was cold so he had a nip or two, deployed his guys around, daydreamed about retirement. A reporter from Chicago came up to him and asked for a crowd estimate. Topper said, I dunno, a thousand or something, who cared? The reporter said numbers were important and he pointed at a sign that said, Six Million Dead. Never Again. Topper says, Nah, four million, tops. The reporter is miked and Topper ends up on the news.”

“Pretty funny guy, Topper.”

“Well, there’s a disciplinary hearing at the Swamp and as he’s coming out, docked two weeks’ pay, another reporter asks if he’s anti-Semitic. He says, No way, hey my wife’s a fucking Hebe.”

She laughed. “I can see that. I liked him. Nice guy. That’s what you want to be, isn’t it, Ray? A Topper.”

* * *

While Djuna Brown was undergoing a complex, odiferous treatment at a Stonetown hair spa, Ray Tate used the reception desk console and called the Chem office. Gloria came on and said the F-250 came back to an address in a town up towards Indian country, registered to Franklin Chase. Frankie Chase came back as twenty-four years old, biker associate, convictions for possession, possession, intent to traffic, possession, extortion, assault, possession, and several traffic violations. “They’re sending his mug over.”

“Sounds like a bad boy, our boy, Gloria. Thanks.”

Behind him a hair dryer was activated. “Where are you? What’s that?”

“Ah, hair dryer. Djuna’s getting some work done.”

“She went already? Good.” She was quiet a moment. “The other name you gave me, Agatha Burns, with a U? I put it through and I got a call from Homicide asking why I was asking about a missing.” She paused and said Goodbye to someone in the background. “I didn’t know Homicide handled missing persons.”

“Yep. So, what’d you tell them?”

“I said I’d have to have the skipper call them.”

“She came back from the system, though, right?”

“She’s a missing person from last year. I looked around. Her old man was a politician, lived up on the lake. He came home one night and she’d gone, clothing and some personal effects. He’s got tons of dough and he thought she’d been kidnapped but no ransom call ever came in. There was some media stuff, a reward offered, but nothing ever turned up. Because the clothes and stuff was missing with her, it looked like she’d taken off. I asked the missing person guy for a picture but he said not until they’re in the loop. So I’m getting one from Public Affairs. It’ll be here in an hour. Oh, and that guy, the Chinese man shot last night? He passed away.” She sounded sad.

“Thanks.” He didn’t hang up. Djuna Brown was having something massaged into her hair. “Ah, this thing. For Djuna. The hair place …”

“It’s okay. She needed it.”

* * *

He sat in a wood and leather armchair, gazing out onto the street of boutiques, dozing his way through pristine copies of hip magazines from the cosmopolitan cosmos. He wondered if people actually lived that way or if it was just magazine life. There was an article on lofts in Paris, vast spaces populated by narrow men and women in black clothing who seemed to do nothing all day except sit by vast windows and contemplate the meaning of art. To Ray Tate, whose original life inclination had been towards paints and pots and brushes, Paris was a resurrected dream from childhood. He was thinking if things went into the toilet with the job he could grab a reduced pension and jump onto a plane. How hard could it be?

He was calculating the cost of living in the daydream of Paris and examining his pleasure that Djuna Brown had outed herself as a hetero when a young woman came over and told him his friend would be quite a while.

“She’s getting the full treatment,” the woman said. “You know, while you wait, we could clean you up a little bit. A little less … sixties?”

* * *

Afterwards he drove the Intrepid because she thought her nails might still be tacky. The car smelled of perfumed hair products and emollients. Ray Tate tried not to stare over at her. The bleached hair was gone, replaced by a helmet of spiky-looking jet black. Exhaustion was painted from her face. She’d been plucked and buffed. She’d somehow lost the mean pierce of her green eyes and they seemed wider and longer, more sly and Asian than he recalled. Her nails were still very short, but they were shiny and the traces of the chewing butchery gone. She looked cool and fun, as though some real person locked away inside her had been freed and given air.

She caught him looking. “Nice, eh, Ray? You don’t clean up too bad, either.”

His hair was still longish but neatly trimmed and swept back from his face. The beard was gone. She saw he had a strong jaw line and actual hollows under his cheekbones. The paint stains had been removed from his fingertips and fingernails. She kept glancing over to make sure it was him and not some Paris hipster.

He kept his eyes on the road. “Anyway. Anyway, two things: our F-250 from last month at Phil Harvey’s condo comes back to a guy named Frank Chase, up north. He’s a biker type, runs the badlands, doper. The usual. Agatha Burns, your pal, though, she’s pretty interesting. She’s a missing person. Took off from her family last year, hasn’t been seen since. Gloria’s getting pictures of both of them.”

He slipped the car into a reserved parking spot at the Chem Squad offices. He went to get out but saw she was smiling.

“Djun’? What?”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I don’t have anyone hidden away. No hubby. No boy toy.”

He made a wide smile.

“We’re gonna do something, aren’t we, Ray?”

“I think. I don’t know, but I think maybe, yeah. We be maybe gonna.”

“You ever make it with a black chick, Ray?”

“No,” he said, “but I never shot one, either.”

* * *

Gloria had the photos ready at the reception desk. She smiled at them but didn’t comment on their new personae. Ray Tate noticed she wore a subtle silver crucifix.

Djuna Brown looked at the missing persons photo and said the Agatha Burns in the flyer was her Agatha Burns. The mug of Frankie Chase was, Ray Tate was pretty sure, the same blond guy who drove the black F-250 into Phil Harvey’s parking lot. Gloria said an inspector from the Homicide Squad was in with the skipper and a dep from the Swamp.

When they made their way to their desks the skipper called out and waved them into his office.

“The fuck’s going on, here, Ray? You had Gloria put through some missing person?”

“Yep. Agatha Burns. You remember her, skip. She left the note on the fridge at the stash house, up in the projects. The girl Djuna was working back into Captain Cook.”

The skipper skipped his eyes around. “Her. Ah …” He’d let the mystery of the girl go by the board. “Refresh me.”

Djuna Brown said to the dep, “We were going to work her, but you guys at headquarters took the case back, gave it to the Federales. Before we could do dick we had to shut ’er down, send everything down to those smart guys.” She shrugged. “Skipper had us all over her, but … phhhitt, the Feds bigfooted us before we could do anything.”

The skipper looked relieved. He stared at her.

The dep said, “But you sent it over, right? In the investigative files? They fucked it up, right? They had it and they fucked it.”

“Oh, yeah, everything went. Including the report about the burned female body the Staties found up north in Indian country about the same time. I guess they didn’t think it was important.” She smiled and shrugged. “Feds, what’re you gonna do?”

The dep stood up. “Okay, it’s back to us now. This Burns’s old man is out of state politics now, but he’s still a big shooter with the Democrats. What’s her status, far as you know?”

Ray Tate shrugged “Well, like Djuna said, we think she’s dead. That that might’ve been her in the lab truck fire up north. She was in with some cookers, this Captain Cook guy and a guy named Phil Harvey. Maybe they knew Djuna was scoping her out, buddying her up. We got a wit saw her leaving her pad with Phil Harvey about a month ago. We go in and there’s a note on the fridge that if she disappears, ask Phil.”

“You got that and you don’t call us?” The dep shook his head. “What the fuck are you doing here, Gord? You got a half a fucking homicide and you, what? Hit the bars? A month old crime scene, that’ll be just fucking pristine right about now.”

Ray Tate patted the air in front of his chest. “Whoa. We got a team in, we did a forensic just in case. Like Djuna said, before we could move you told us to fuck off, so we fucked off.”

The dep took it but didn’t like it. He turned his guns on Tate. “And how’s it going for you, Ray? You still in counselling, Ray? Getting the twitch taken out of your finger? I hear your wife kicked you out. Gee, I hope things are okay otherwise, buddy.”

Tate gave him an even stare. “Well, I’m working on it, dep.” He turned to the hammer from Homicide. “This might be your lucky day, Sam.”

The hammer was bored. “How’s that?”

“You might solve a homicide, right about now, before the body hits the floor.”

The skipper said, “Ray …”

“Cool-ee-oh,” Djuna Brown said gaily. “I’m wet. City guys are so butch.”

* * *

The dep kicked everyone out of the office and went at the skipper. The Homicide guy stood talking with Ray Tate and Djuna Brown. Through the glass it looked like the dep was fist fighting bumblebees. His mouth ratcheted. He pointed out the window towards the lake, he pointed up to heaven, he jammed his thumb down.

“Nice shot there, Ray, pardon the expression. Your partner here’s got some fucking mouth.” But the Homicide guy was smiling. “Where’s the forensics on the apartment the chick went missing from? Who’s the wit?”

“The Federales got the file, I guess. I don’t know. We just did the work and got it in the ass. The wit is a dopey guy shuffling bags in front of the building Burns was staying at.”

“We’re going to take the Burns case. The old man’s a good member of the big machine and he’s always treated us okay before that fucking mayor got elected. We’ll get the old guy some closure. What have you got on this Harvey guy?”

“Not much.” Ray Tate gave him the address of the Beach condo, a précis of Phil Harvey’s pedigree, and the description of the black Camaro. “I had him in a box the other night, but he evaded. He was pushing a rental. He’s our lead to a guy named Captain Cook, some big fat fuck who runs a chemistry set. Your guys are doing that Chinaman murder out at Willy Wong’s place? We think Phil was out there leading the charge.”

“Okay, we’ll take the Burns case. We gotta. When we look for Harvey we’ll pass on any bits to you, especially if we see a fat guy. That sound cool?”

“I don’t give a shit, Sam. The way this is going we’re going to wind up with nothing anyway, the way it looks in there.”

Inside the office the dep had his hand on the doorknob. He let go of it and rounded again on the skipper. When he left he slammed the door behind him and boiled out without looking at anyone.

The Homicide hammer left after him and the skipper waved Ray Tate and Djuna Brown in. He was pale and had sweat on his forehead. His hands shook. “Those fucking cocksuckers, oh, fuck.” He sat down and shivered the vibrations of a boozer too far from a bottle. He looked at his desk drawer.

“We’ll be back in a couple of minutes, skip. Do what you got to do.” Ray Tate led Djuna Brown out of the office and down to reception. Gloria had fresh coffee going and Tate poured three cups. He added two inches of sugar to one and they went back in.

The skipper had some colour back and he looked embarrassed. Ray Tate could smell Canadian rye in the air. He passed around coffees and he and Djuna Brown sat.

“So, Ray, what’s with this new look on you guys. You look like a horny college prof and she looks almost … Anyway.” He shook his head.

“You get two new guys this way, skip. The bad guys are used to a beatnik and a bleached dyke. Instead … the new improved Chem Squad.”

Djuna Brown nodded, “Ace detectives, masters of disguise.”

“Okay, the deal is this, you guys. We leave off the Burns thing, give anything we turn up to the hammers. On Captain Cook, we gotta get out there, root him out. That’s the way it looks, anyway. The only thing that’ll save any of us is we stack up a mountain of pills for a press conference and pin this Captain Cook to the wall. Tie him to the overdoses, the brandings in Chinatown, then whip him through the streets for the chief. We got a week then we’re all fucked.” He looked at Djuna Brown and seemed about to say something but didn’t. “So, Ray, what next?”

“Well … we got a lead. Nothing we want to tell the Swamp about, but we maybe got a guy into Phil Harvey. The F-250 from the Willy Wong thing last night comes back to a guy we think is hooked to Harvey. He’s from up north, so we’re going to head up there, strap him to the truth machine.”

Djuna Brown wrinkled her brow. “That up north thing. It seems a lot of stuff is up north. Harvey gets a speeding ticket, he’s heading up. The F-250 is from up there. The camper fire that we think was Agatha Burns is up there. This super lab’s gotta be out in the boondocks: it stinks and if anyone else was around, there might be complaints.” She nodded to herself. “Indian country or the badlands.”

Ray Tate nodded. “Yeah. This fishing gear Phil was buying, the sleeping bag, points north.”

“Okay, go to it. Keep track of your overtime and I’ll get it for you later, somehow. You need anything else?”

“Just a good fucking leaving alone.”

“Done.”

Djuna Brown looked up from her coffee. “There’s got to be something between Agatha Burns and Phil Harvey. Like, how’d they meet? How’d this fat Captain get his hands on her? How come she stayed in the stash house and when she could get out, she didn’t go home or call the cops?”

“We’re not going to worry about that, Djuna.” The skipper was startled that he’d used her first name. “Don’t even fucking go there. Focus on Phil Harvey, focus on the Captain motherfucker, and my mountain of pills.”

They went to leave. The skipper said, “Ray, stay a minute, okay?”

* * *

Through the glass they could see Djuna Brown working the phones.

“What’s with this makeover madness, Ray? She looks almost fuckable and you look … Well, Gloria better look out. For the both of you.”

“New faces for old places. We’re going to need a new car. The Intrepid’s burned off. And not some fucking Taurus either.”

But the skipper wasn’t listening. “Why’d she do that? When the dep reamed me? She could’ve put me in the deep shit, letting the Burns thing go by. What’s her game?”

Ray Tate shrugged. “We’re just working the case, skip. It’s our case. Right now, we’re all in the same gang. Your problem with her? Her with you? That’s something else.”

“Fucking weird.” The skipper glanced out the window and fished his bottle from the drawer. He topped an inch into his coffee. “Let me talk a minute, okay?” He held up the bottle and raised his eyebrows.

Ray Tate put his palm over his cup and shook his head.

“Back before I got on the rocket I was part of a search party, looking for a missing little girl. She —”

“Sheila Battersby.” Ray Tate shook his head. “Don’t go there, skip. I know the story. Everybody knows the story. Let it go.” He nodded at the skipper’s cup. “You could let that go, too.”

“It’s hard. You know it’s hard. This fucking job.”

“This is the best fucking job in the world, skipper. You know why? Because you’re never alone. You need help you don’t even got to ask.”

The skipper drained his cup anyway. “Yeah.” He looked embarrassed and smiled. “So, the dyke, Ray. How’s that going? You going to spike her in the ground for me?”

“Oh yeah, skip. Head first, so hard you’ll see maybe just the bottom of her tiny little slippers.”

“Good man.”