My office building seemed especially dusty and seedy in the bright morning light, although damn little sunshine managed to filter in. Down the hall on the first floor, a door opened and a fat, balding man with thick glasses and khaki pants pulled up to his sternum looked out into the hallway. From under his right armpit, a shoulder holster with a Smith amp; Wesson .38 dangled loosely.
“Hi, Mr. Porter,” I said as I passed.
“Hello,” he said, ducking back into his office and closing the door. Mr. Porter was a gem dealer, had been in the building since the late Forties, and had seen life evolve from Ozzie and Harriet days until the time when he had to carry a pistol inside his own office. I’d seen him maybe three times since I’d rented my office. He never seemed to have any customers, never seemed to leave the place. I wondered if he lived there.
I trotted up the stairs to the second floor and turned the corner toward my office, then stopped. I reversed direction and went down to the end of the hallway and rapped on Slim and Ray’s office door.
There was no answer, no sound from inside, so I went back to my office. Occupancy in the building had dropped off lately, with our two offices the only ones rented on the second floor. Maybe I should move, I thought. This old building wasn’t exactly the most prestigious address in the city. On the other hand, it was one of the most affordable.
I unlocked my door and went in. The red light on my answering machine was blinking away. I pulled my coat off and hit the playback button, then grabbed a pencil to write down numbers.
Six messages; what a pain.
Lonnie was number one. “Just checking in,” he said, followed by a message from Marsha saying she’d tried to reach me at home last night and was I okay? Ray was number three, asking me to call him at home. Number four was a hang-up. Five was Mrs. Hawkins saying she hadn’t seen me home in a couple of days and was I okay?
Blast, I thought, I could use a message from Phil Anderson about my check from the insurance company, not to mention a new client every now and then.
Message number six began with silence and I thought it was another hang-up, then an old familiar voice came on.
“Nice place you stayed at last night, you son of a bitch. Trying to hide from me? That it? Well, you keep right on trying, bubba, ’cause there ain’t nowhere you gonna hide from me. You got that? Nowhere.”
I felt myself turning cold from the inside out, and like a kneecapped figure skater training for the Olympics, I found myself asking the age-old question.
Why me?
I began working my way down the list, first with an answering-machine message to Mrs. Hawkins to reassure her I was still around. I resisted the urge to think she was only keeping track of a tenant. She was a genuinely sweet old lady who seemed to consider me more of an adopted son than a paying customer. Then I tried Lonnie’s number, with no luck there, either, and left a quick message telling him I’d drop by that night on my way home if he was around.
I tried once again to get Phil Anderson on the phone at the insurance company, but this time even the secretary got a little smart with me.
“I’m sorry, he’s not available,” she said as soon as I identified myself. I felt her unspoken at least not to you.
“When will he be available?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, just the slightest little teaspoon of screw you in her voice.
“Would you mind checking?”
“I can’t disturb him. He’s in conference. If you’d like to leave a message …”
Yeah, I thought, I’d like to leave him a message. How about: Fuck you, Phil. Strong letter to follow.
“If you’d just tell him I called,” I said.
“I’ll give him the message.” Click.
I growled out loud, then dialed Ray’s number at home. It rang four times and an answering machine came on. Impatient and tired of having the phone glued to my ear, I started to hang up, then decided to at least leave a courtesy message.
“Ray,” I said after the tone, “it’s me, Harry. Just returning your-”
“Harry!” he burst in, yelling so loud it hurt my ears. “Don’t hang up!”
“Screening our calls, are we?” I said.
“Have to. It’s these damn reporters. They’re still calling two or three an hour. Damn pain in the ass.”
I decided not to remind him that I used to be one of those pain-in-the-ass reporters. “No problem. What’s up?”
“Well, we think we might have found Slim a lawyer. You know a Herman Reid?”
I quickly ran through my mental database of lawyers. “Yeah, saw him in court once. Top-notch fellow.”
“I talked to him this morning. He’ll take the case, but he wants ten grand up front.”
I whistled. “Justice ain’t cheap, is it? Can you raise that kind of money.”
“I cleaned out my savings account and maxxed out the cash advances off my credit cards. I’m close. Few hundred more ought to do it.”
I marveled at the lengths Ray was willing to go to help out his partner. “He’s lucky to have you,” I said. “I wish I had the cash to help you out, Ray. But I’m kind of strapped.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re doing more to help this way. Slim’s innocent and we’ve got work to do,” Ray said. “Have you had any luck?”
“Not much,” I answered. “I’ve been snooping around, just seeing where it leads. I need to get in touch with a couple of guys, if you’ve got addresses and phone numbers.”
“Let me get my black book,” he said, his voice fading as he pulled the phone away from his ear. I heard a rustling in the background, then: “Okay, shoot.”
“That other singer in the roundtable Sunday night, Dwight Parmenter.”
“The current boyfriend …”
“You got it.”
“He lives in an old house with a couple of other guys down off Music Row.” I copied down the address and phone number as Ray read it off.
“The other guy, that fellow Rebecca fired a couple weeks ago. Pinkleton, Mike Pinkleton.”
“Oh, Jesus, Harry, be careful. That guy’s rough as a corncob. Last I heard, he was living in a motel up on Dickerson Pike. You know where the Sam’s Club is near I-65?”
“Yeah, great part of town.”
“Okay, it’s down Dickerson Pike from there, toward town. On the right, the big motel with the neon American flag out front. I think it’s called the College Inn or something like that.”
“Like one of those motels down on Murfreesboro Road? You know, the ones where the rooms rent by the week?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Hookers, transients, outlaws on the run. Human garbage.”
“C’mon, Ray, human garbage has feelings, too.”