The Ties That Bind, page 11
part #2 of Max Plank Mystery Series
“Yup.”
“Likely it’ll turn into a total omnishambles.”
“Omni-what?”
“Clusterfuck. Bo’s a trooper for going along with it.”
“I’ll owe him big-time. Thanks, by the way, for covering the expenses.”
“You owe me big time.”
“I expected to forfeit a pound of flesh.”
“Your flesh is not what I’m after.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. But whatever favor Marsh ended up wanting was the least of my worries. I knew there was a better than average risk that by Sunday night I’d be locked behind bars, waiting impatiently for my friend’s attorney to bail me out.
Nineteen
I didn’t gamble much, but when I did, Blackjack was my game, and I usually did okay.
Except when I didn’t.
Sometimes, mostly, the dealer has the advantage and sitting down for more than a few minutes is a recipe for flushing hard-earned cash down the loo.
But I wasn’t here to gamble.
It was the first time I’d been back to Poe’s Pirate Cove Casino on Treasure Island in San Francisco Bay since the tawdry events that led to Frankie coming into my and Alexandra’s life. It was the only good thing that had come out of that sordid case.
I imagined that Poe knew I was here. One of his eyes in the sky above me had probably spotted me the moment I entered and identified me as the thorn in the side I’d sometimes been to Poe.
Perhaps I had delusions of grandeur or and inflated sense of importance.
Or a paranoia justified by experience.
I turned to look at the reason I’d driven out here.
Speed Weed looked a bit like one of the dazed, aging hippies you see on College Avenue near the university in Berkeley. Lost in a haze of pot and memories of the halcyon days of flower power and righteous protest and unlimited guilt-free sex.
But while those trippy wanderers were now in their 60s and 70s, Speed was twenty years younger, but possessing that subtle not-quite-all-there affect that had you searching around him for where he’d mislaid his joint.
He was short and paunchy, with a little bouffant hairstyle—a blond, gray-tinged, pitched-forward semi-mohawk, which made an interesting contrast with the bald spot featured at the back of his head. Thick Elvis Costello style black-framed glasses sloped down his pug nose, accentuating pudgy cheeks.
He wore black loafers, slacks, and a white shirt with a purple vest festooned with exploding fireworks.
His eyes, a light green, had a surprised quality, as if he was having a hard time believing the reality of the world around him.
Q had told me where to find him and said his gambling problem was an open secret among local music professionals. He’d also mentioned that, according to his friends at bars and clubs throughout the city, Speed had been acting even more erratically than usual. There was talk of increased drug usage, probably cocaine, and gambling losses piling up with money he couldn’t afford to lose.
I was biding my time, observing his actions, trying to figure out how deep in the dump he was.
His surprised eyes skipped around the table like a hummingbird looking for just the right dose of nectar. HIs fingers twitched constantly, as if he both couldn’t wait to pick up his cards and, at the same time, was deathly fearful of finding out what fate had in store for him.
He was losing.
In the fifteen minutes that I’d sat beside him, playing two hands with an average bet of fifty dollars per, he’d given Poe’s house almost a thousand dollars.
In the same time, playing ten dollars a hand, I was down thirty bucks.
He wasn’t a terrible player, but he had a tendency to push his luck when doubling down on soft hands when the dealer showed a seven or eight.
A sign of desperation. I didn’t think it was a lack of experience or skill. There was a needy quality about the man, and that was never a good characteristic in a Blackjack player.
I felt for him. I’ve been around addicts of all sorts, some of them family and friends. Some hit bottom and get better, some don’t. It’s never pretty, for the addict or those close to him.
But I wasn’t there to help Speed deal with his life problems, and I was afraid he wasn’t going to run out of money as fast as I was going to run out of patience.
My chance came when the dealer, a grandmotherly black woman with sturdy features and a ready smile, pulled her third blackjack.
Speed muttered, “God damn,” and his palm slapped the table.
“Would that he would,” I said.
“Huh,” his eyebrows raised, and his quicksilver eyes took a close look at me for the first time.
“God,” I said.
He nose-lifted his Costello frames, his eyes narrowed. “God?” he repeated, as if he’d never heard the word before.
Oh ye of little faith.
“Damn it.”
Speed was now profoundly puzzled. His whole body kind of swayed away from me, and he looked down at the two cards face down on the table in front of him, perhaps deciding whether glancing at the cards or me were the more dangerous option.
“I need a break. Can I buy you a drink?” I tried.
He looked up at me, still mystified. “I’m playing cards. My luck is about to change.”
“I don’t doubt it, Speed. But have a drink anyway. They’ll still be waiting for you when you get back.”
“How’d you know my name?”
“Come with me and I’ll tell you.”
I led him to the Pirate’s Cove Taverna, a bar dimly lit with fake candles and strings of Christmas tree lights centered on a bar in a lagoon fronted by a gangplank. We sat at a booth in a dark corner of the room with a large, half-melted candle in the shape of Captain Hook’s hook in the center of a craggy walnut table scrawled with pirate words like Yarr!!, Arg!!, Dungpie, Hornswaggle, and of course, Savvy?
It was so realistic I felt like I was about to get seasick.
A waitress wearing a red bandana, billowy black pants, and a white peasant blouse, took our order. Speed had a Manhattan, and I ordered a coffee.
After our beverages were served and we were alone, Speed said, “You know me?”
“Of you. About you. But not the real you.”
“What the hell are you—”
“Tell me about Sarah Swan.”
“Who are you?” He sniffed, wiped his nose. Sniffed again.
“Max Plank. I’m looking into Sarah’s shooting.”
“You a cop?”
“Nope. Hired by somebody close to Sarah to investigate.”
Speed twirled the cocktail glass around in his hand, took a sip, eyed me over the lip of the glass. “Don’t have to talk with you.”
“No, you don’t. But I don’t see why you wouldn’t. I understand you had a relationship with Sarah. You were her manager and her boyfriend. Even if you broke up, I assume you don’t harbor any ill will toward her.” I picked up my coffee mug and took a sip of the black brew. It was strong, which I liked, but it had been sitting in the pot too long, leaving a bitter taste.
“She screwed me.” He paused, chewed his lower lip with his teeth reflectively. Sniffed again. Wiped his nose with the back of his wrist. “Upset me. Sorry to see what happened to her. How’s she doin’?”
“Improving. It’ll take some time, but it looks like she’s going to be okay.”
“Good.” He didn’t sound overjoyed, but some people have a hard time expressing their emotions.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
He twisted his mouth to one side, his eyes glancing up toward the ceiling. His fingers drummed the table top. “Don’t know. Maybe six months ago. The Black Canary. Checking out an act and she came in with her boyfriend. A young kid way out of her league.”
“Red hair?”
“You got it. Anyway, we exchanged pleasantries for a few seconds. That was it.”
“How about before then?”
“Hadn’t seen her since the trouble we had. No reason to. Wasn’t managing her career. She wasn’t in my bed anymore.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath through his nose. “Hard on me for a while. Hurt being betrayed like that. On both fronts.”
I couldn’t really see what Sarah had seen in him. If Christopher was out of her league, Speed shouldn’t have been in the same solar system.
“I understand that you sued her.”
“Bullshit.”
“But you threatened to.”
“You know how it goes when you breakup. Everybody says things. Never sued her, but maybe should have. She owed me. In more ways than one.”
I tapped the table with my forefinger. “It sounds like you had plenty to be angry about. Are you sure that the last time you saw her was six months ago?”
“Fuck yes. Sure as shit.” He sniffed. Sniffed again. Wiped his nose again. He drained his glass, grabbed hold of the table with both hands, and started to rise.
“I’ve got a few more questions—”
He reached his feet, stepped out from the booth, turned back to me. “Plum out of answers.”
“Too bad. I was hoping to keep your name away from the police for a while longer.”
He stopped mid-stride, did a quick one-eighty, and followed up with an unfriendly glare. “What are you saying?”
“Simple. You’re right, you don’t have to talk with me. I can’t force you. But you will have to talk to the cops. At the moment, far as I can tell, you’re not on their radar. Eventually, they’ll get to you, unless they solve the case first. Maybe it’s worth it to delay that moment of reckoning for a little while. That’s up to you. All I can say is that I have Detective Marley on speed dial. Before you reach that Blackjack table, he’ll hear the name Speed Weed for probably the first time in his life, not to discount the fact of your fame in certain circles.”
“Got nuthin’ to hide.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
He sighed big time, making sure I realized what a total pain in the ass I was. “How many more questions?”
“A few.”
He slumped back down into the booth and put his hands flat on the table. Immediately they started twitching. I stared into his eyes. His pupils looked dilated. He sniffed a couple more times. Rubbed the back of his hand across his nose vigorously.
Maybe he had a cold. Either that, or a deep affinity for sucking white powder up his nose.
“Hurry up,” he mumbled.
“You’re sure anxious to throw more of your money away.”
“None of your business. Ask your questions.”
“Where were you the night that Sarah was shot?”
His hands calmed. He glanced over my shoulder. Sniffed a half-dozen times, wiped his nose, squeezed his nostrils between his thumb and forefinger. “With a woman.”
“All night?”
“Don’t know. Don’t know when she was shot or when she left the stage. Guess it was soon after she finished her show?”
I nodded.
“Doesn’t matter. We had drinks. Dinner. Went back to her place. Didn’t leave till morning.”
“Who was she?”
He shook his head. Shrugged his shoulders. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Will she verify?”
“Sure.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“Nuh-uh.” He clenched his fingers into his palms. Relaxed them. Clenched again. “Save her for the cops if they come. Trust me. She will.”
I had little doubt that if there wasn’t a woman, there would probably be one when the time came.
“Okay, Speed. I’ve got one more question or, really, comment.” I paused, trying to phrase it as delicately as I could. “I don’t think you’re telling me the truth. It’s obvious that you were furious with Sarah for what you considered to be her double betrayal. You lost a stream of income and the possibility of much more if she makes it, which we both know, if there's any justice in the world, she will. And you lost her as your girlfriend. That’s gotta hurt. So maybe this was eating away at you. The unfairness of it all. Sarah owed you. You weren’t going to let her get away with it…”
I talked slowly, watching his reaction. He was staring at his hands, brooding. His fists stayed clenched tight.
“…and with all the coke you were doing, you weren’t exactly thinking straight, you—”
His right fist shot out suddenly. I jumped back reflexively, his knuckles grazing my cheek. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, steadied my grip with my right, twisted his arm upside down. He yelped, groaned, swore. I twisted a little further.
“Ouch, man! Hurts,” he whined.
“You going to behave?” I held his upper arm in a vise.
He nodded vigorously, his eyes closed in pain. I let go of his arm, and it plopped hard against the table. He groaned and cradled it against his chest, rubbing the wrist with his other hand.
I let him have a few seconds to consider the state of the world. “You weren’t thinking straight, and the anger kept building. Maybe you got high or had too much to drink and decided to confront her and, at the last second, not thinking, you took along a gun. You waited for her at the back of the club, and somehow, being there, hearing her great performance, her gorgeous voice, made you realize how much you’d lost and you wanted to make sure no one else, especially a young kid way out of her league, was going to benefit, so you burst in the room and shot her.”
I waited, letting my words sink in. He was hunched into himself, gritting his teeth, in pain or anger or panic or some combination.
“That pretty much how it went? Tell me and you can take off. I won’t even tell the cops. As I said, they’ll find you sooner or later.” I wasn’t being honest with him but didn’t feel any compunction to.
He dropped his hands to the upholstery, bolstering his body up and out of the booth. He turned away, stopped, turned back to me. “Making any calls?”
I let the question hang in the air between us for a while, suffering his angry eyes. “No. Are you going to answer me?”
“Don’t like you. Everything you said is bullshit.” And with that, he went off to make Poe an even richer man.
I sat there for a little while, sipping my coffee, and musing on if I really thought all the stuff I’d made up about Speed had any basis in reality.
Twenty
The rain battered the already beat-up, peeling, grapevine-wrapped window frame. The glass itself was cracked, the panes foggy with failed insulation.
The rain sounded like the flapping wings of angry birds.
Q was making coffee in the little galley kitchen next to the breakfast room where I sat with a plate of blueberry scones he’d whipped up that morning.
The cottage he rented was small but immensely charming in its late ramshackle life. It was decorated with old, not to say antique, furniture salvaged most probably from garage sales or local dumps. Still, everything was neat and clean and orderly, not like the typical bachelor pad, although you’d never refer to Q as a typical anything.
He was telling me about his name and his mother.
“My mother was white, Irish. She named me Quentin Quincy Quinn. My father, a black man I never met, had no say in the matter. Oona, my mother,” he turned to me, waving the French press in his hand, “was a fan of alliteration, although she couldn’t have defined or identified the word. She liked poetry, Doctor Seuss especially, and e. e. cummings. She couldn’t understand much of what old e. e. meant, but she loved the way the words and symbols were arranged, liked the way they bounced up against each other on the page.”
He poured two Black Canary mugs full of the dark brew, put them on a tray along with matching red containers of sugar and milk and brought them over to the table. He put one mug in front of me, along with the sugar and milk. I nodded, added a small dollop of milk, and took my first sip. I smacked my lips and smiled at him.
He sat down across from me and continued, “You ever see The Quiet Man?”
“John Wayne.”
“Maureen O’Hara,” he said.
“Beautiful woman.”
“Oona looked quite a bit like her. Her heart was almost as pure as Maureen’s too.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“She was. For a long time. I gathered she really loved my father and missed him terribly. They’d been together for about five years before I came along. I was an accident, she said. He’d always made it clear he didn’t want to be nobody’s father. That he wished he’d never had one himself. A week before I was born, Frederick, Oona told me he was named after Frederick Douglas, told her that he was going to do me a favor and disappear. Far as I know, she never saw him again.”
The angry birds kept battering the window. Q held my eyes over the coffee cup. I didn’t think there was much to say, so I didn’t.
“He was her one and only. But she wouldn’t even show me his picture. Because she respected his wishes. He didn’t want me to know him. But course, being a stupid kid, I was desperate to find him. I needed to know what he looked like. When she left me alone, I searched every inch of her room, every damn inch of that little run-down house. Found nothing. She always kept her purse with her, though, and hid it so’s I couldn’t find it when I had the chance. Till one day when I was about thirteen and she was really sick with the flu, half out of her mind with a fever. I found her purse and found the photo in her wallet. He was wearing a Marine’s uniform. He was black as coal, much darker than me. I studied his face. I didn’t know what I was looking for. He looked fine. He had a sly smile, like he had a secret.”
Q’s eyes had a faraway quality, seeing that photo in his mind’s eye.
“I memorized that picture. For a long time afterward, I’d search the faces of men on the street wherever I went, hoping to find him. But I never did. Whatever secret he had went to his grave with him.”
“Is your mom still alive?”
“She been gone for a long time. Later on, when I was a little older and pretty much impossible to control, she got involved with a drinker. She started drinking herself, trying to be something she wasn’t. It got pretty bad. Before she died, she went to AA and stopped. Went back to Jesus. She got a little crazy about that, too. But we were okay by the end.”
