Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Afternoon
Wilde found out something interesting from one of the waitresses at the Down Towner where Alexa Blank worked, namely that Alexa suddenly left halfway through her shift on Tuesday with a Tarzan-like man who had long black hair. Before she left she said, “If I die, he’s the one who killed me,” or words to that effect. She hadn’t been seen or heard from since.
There was only one man in town who fit that description.
He was a guy who frequented the Bokaray.
Wilde had seen him there on several occasions.
They’d never talked, not once.
They didn’t like each other.
They didn’t look at each other.
They didn’t acknowledge each other’s existence.
Each was too much of a competitor of the other, especially when it came to the ladies. They were like two lions in the same cage, that much Wilde knew. Other than that he knew nothing about the man, not his name, not where he lived, not a thing.
He hopped in Blondie and headed for the Bokaray.
The front door was locked but the back one was open.
He headed in and shouted “Anyone home?”
“Back here.”
The words were feminine and faint, from somewhere back near the restrooms. Wilde headed that way. The mysterious black door at the end of the hall was ajar. Inside, a woman sat behind a desk working on papers. Wilde knew her by sight as one of the co-owners of the place but didn’t know her name.
“You’re the drummer,” she said.
“Bryson Wilde.”
“Bryson Wilde, ladies man,” she said. “I’m Mia Lace. There, we’ve finally been formally introduced. Have a seat.”
Wilde complied, tapped out two cigarettes, lit them up and handed her one.
“Thanks,” she said.
He nodded.
“That woman you brought up on stage, she’s got quite the voice.”
“She does.”
“She could be a star.”
“I agree,” he said. “The reason I’m here though is because I need to get in touch with that guy with the long hair who hangs out here, the Tarzan guy.”
“Dayton River.”
“Is that his name?”
She blew smoke and nodded.
“You two don’t like each other,” she said.
Wilde wrinkled his forehead.
“What makes you say that?”
She smiled.
“What do you want him for?”
“It’s personal. Where does he live?”
“You look like you’re going to kill him.”
“That’s not my plan.”
“Are you sure?”
He shrugged.
“He might have something that doesn’t belong to him.”
“Something of yours?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“A woman.”
“A woman?”
“Right, a woman.”
“He has a woman who doesn’t belong to him?”
“He might. I don’t know yet, one way or the other.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“What’s her name?”
“Alexa Blank,” Wilde said. “She’s a waitress.”
“I never heard of her,” Lace said.
“No reason you would have,” Wilde said. “So where does Tarzan live?”
The woman studied him.
Then she told him.
Wilde stood up.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Do you want some advice?”
“No.”
“Too bad because here it is,” Lace said. “If you screw with him, you better be prepared because he’ll rip your head off and piss in the hole.”
“My head doesn’t come off that easy.”
Lace blew smoke.
“You might be surprised.”
Twenty minutes later Wilde skidded Blondie to a stop in dusty gravel at the far end of the BNSF railroad yard. He pulled his gun out of the glove box, stepped out and shouted, “Tarzan, you got company.”
No one answered.
Nothing moved.
There were several boxcars converted to living quarters and some kind of tent canopy stretched between them. At the north end of it all was a car, a battered car that looked like it had been hit a hundred times by a freight train.
Wilde felt the hood.
It was cold.
“Tarzan, come out, come out, wherever you are.”
The noise of colliding couplers and straining steel came from up the tracks. Other than that, though, silence ruled the world.
Alexa Blank was here somewhere.
It was the perfect place.
Wilde cocked the trigger and headed for the closest boxcar with a pounding heart.