There are parts of Bradenton into which one does not venture alone at night. Wayne Lee lived in one of those areas. I took Logan and my nine millimeter along for company.
"What are we doing?" he asked. "I wouldn't even come here in the daytime."
"We're looking for a guy."
"What guy?"
"Wayne Lee."
"Who's lie."
"Just a guy."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"It will," I said.
"Why are we looking for this guy?"
"He may know something about Peggy."
"Okay. I give up. What?"
"Varn used to hang out at a dive called Hutch's on Cortez Road. He was usually with a guy named Wayne Lee, a deckhand on fishing boats out of Cortez. I know Lee. The bartender at Hutch's said he lives up here. On this street. In this block. I don't know which house, but you can always count on Lee being drunk by ten and stumbling home from somewhere. Maybe we'll get lucky."
"What if we don't?"
"We'll come back tomorrow night."
"Wow. I can't wait."
The neighborhood was quiet and dark. No streetlights, although the fixtures were still present. The city had stopped replacing the lights when some bureaucrat determined that his department couldn't stay ahead of the street thugs shooting the lights out. It's easier to deal drugs in the dark.
We sat. The street was lined with bungalows built for returning servicemen at the end of World War II. A neighborhood built on the G.I. bill. It was once a pleasant place to raise a family, but it was now a testament to urban blight; a warren of drug dealers and dope addicts, a decaying ruin that would continue to deteriorate until the city bulldozed the whole damn place.
We watched a car approach the corner, blink its lights twice, and pull to the curb. A hooded figure darted from an alley, passed a small package through the window of the car, took a wad of cash in return, and slithered back into the darkness. The late-model Mercedes sped off.
Over the next hour, several more cars stopped, made their buys and left. The kid in the hooded sweatshirt was doing okay.
I saw the lone figure walking up the sidewalk, weaving a little as drunks do, staying upright by sheer will. He was not tall, about five eight, and skinny. I'd met him at Tiny's a couple of times, brought there by Nestor Cobol, a fishing boat captain who had married one of the local girls. Lee was affable, if quiet, and took his drinking seriously. His tattooed arms were ropes of muscle, his hands calloused and scarred, the result of working the nets on the fishing boats. He was missing several teeth, and his blond hair was cropped short; a buzz cut that grew out over the weeks until he could afford another haircut. He was in his early thirties and looked fifty.
I turned in my seat. "We're going to take him when he gets to us," I said. "He's strong, so don't get careless."
"You're the lawyer," Logan said, "but wouldn't this come under some kind of kidnapping statute?"
"Probably. But he won't know who we are, and we'll let him go as soon as he tells us what we want to know"
"Okay. Give the word."
Lee was at the back bumper of the Explorer.
"Now," I said.
We both opened our doors. I ran around the rear of the car as Logan confronted Lee. The specter of two men jumping out of a car at him didn't seem to cause any great surprise to Lee. He stopped when he saw Logan, and then turned to face me. He must have heard me coming.
"Matt," Lee said. "What're you doing here?"
"So much for anonymity," said Logan.
I stopped, stuck out my hand to shake. "Hey, Wayne. Got a minute?"
"Sure. You got anything to drink?" he asked, shaking my hand.
"Get in," I said, motioning to the front passenger door. "We'll find a bar."
Logan got into the backseat, and we drove two blocks to Tamiami Trail and turned south toward Sarasota. No one spoke. It was as if Lee was used to people picking him up in the middle of the night and taking him for a beer.
In the second block, on the right, I saw a small concrete block structure with a blinking neon sign advertising Budweiser beer. I pulled into the gravel parking lot and we entered the building.
The air was permeated with the smell of stale beer and unclean airconditioning filters. A faint hint of urine floated out of the open restroom door. There was a bar along one side of the room with three men sitting on stools, hunched over their drinks, not talking. They all turned as we entered, and then returned to staring into their glasses.
The bartender sat on a stool, smiling at a girlie magazine. "Help you gents?" he asked reluctantly, raising his head.
"Beer all around," I said, making a circular motion with my index finger. We sat at one of the tables.
Lee looked at me and smiled. "I ain't got no money, Matt."
"Beer's on Logan," I said.
Logan raised his head, a resigned look on his face. "What the hell. I'll uy.
The bartender brought three bottles of Bud and placed them on coasters on the scarred tabletop. "That'll be nine bucks," he said.
Logan dropped a ten on the table, and said, "Keep the change."
"Wayne," I said. "Do you know a Clyde Varn?"
Lee chugged half his beer, set the bottle down on the coaster, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Nope."
I showed him the picture of Varn.
"Sure. That's Jake Yardley. He's an old buddy."
"From where?"
"I don't know. Just around."
"Around where?"
"Around here." His voice was taking on a whiny quality. "I don't remember a lot sometimes."
"Wayne," I said, "it's important that you remember where you first met Yardley."
"Oh, I first met him at his house."
"In Tampa?"
"No. At the trailer park on Cortez Road, out near the fish houses."
"He lived there?"
"Yeah, with some young girls."
"Girls? How many? How old?"
"There was two of them. Probably twenty or so. Well developed, if you know what I mean." He held his hands in front of his chest and tried for a leer, but didn't quite make it.
"Who were they?"
"I don't know. He never said."
Talking to drunks is difficult. Logan often complains about it after I've had too many.
"How did you meet Yardley?" I asked.
"I help out in the trailer park sometimes, raking stuff up when the boats ain't running. I was working out there one day last summer, and Jake invited me in and offered me a beer."
"And the girls were there?"
"Yeah, but they didn't stay long. They was gone within a couple of weeks."
"Do you know where they went?"
Wayne took another long swallow of his beer, shook the bottle, and held it up to the sparse light from the bar. He stared pointedly at its emptiness.
"No. He never said. I figured they got tired of hanging out with an old man and took off."
"I heard that you and Yardley go out drinking together a lot."
"Yeah, when he's around. Which ain't much anymore. He moved out of the trailer park. Can I get another beer, Matt?"
"When?"
"Now"
Logan stood. "I'll get it," he said, and walked toward the bar.
"What I meant," I said, "is when did Yardley move out of the trailer park?"
"Months ago."
"Where'd he move to?"
"Don't know. But he shows up sometimes and buys me beer."
"How does he know where to find you?"
"Don't know. He just comes into the bars where I like to go:'
Logan returned with another beer for Lee. Mine was still untouched.
"Who'd want to kill Yardley?" I asked.
"Nobody. He's a nice guy."
"Somebody killed him yesterday. Planted him in Durante Park."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. He was shot."
"Wow."
"And his name's not Yardley. It's Clyde Varn."
"Son of a bitch," Lee said, taking another long pull on his beer.
"What else do you know about him?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"Did he ever say where he was from?"
"Not really. South Florida, I think. Maybe the Keys. He used to talk about the fishing down there."
"Did he ever say anything about the girls who were living with him?"
"No. But they were sisters."
"How do you know that?"
"Because they always called each other `sister."'
"And you don't know where they went?"
"No," he said. "One day they just weren't there anymore."