Dead on the Island (8 page)

The lighting was dim, but not too bad. I
could see all I wanted to see. Amyl and the boys were on stage,
flanked by amplifiers the size of the car I had just parked. There
were two guitars, a bass, a drummer, and someone on keyboards. The
lead singer, or screamer, was at the microphone yelling something
about poison and death. He was wearing a leather vest, ripped
jeans, and a survival knife strapped to his right calf. Except for
his head, which was covered with very long black hair, he was
hairless as a snake and just about as skinny. He had the bass. The
other members of the band were just as fashionably dressed, and all
of them sported tattoos--skulls, dragons, tigers--that sort of
thing.

I forced my way through the wall of sound up
to the bar. The bartender looked at me, and I pointed to the Lone
Star sign at his back. He went away and came back with a bottle of
beer and a glass. I didn't need the glass.

I took a swallow of beer from the bottle and
turned to look around. I drink beer only when I can't get Big Red,
and the taste didn't improve my outlook. The crowd was about half
punkers and half headbangers. I felt momentarily disoriented, as if
I'd wandered onto the set of some B-grade rip-off of the Mad Max
movies. One of the punks had hair that looked like Tina Turner's
might, if Tina had stuck her finger in a light socket. Another had
nothing but five pink spikes running down the middle of his
skull.

I looked around a little more. It wasn't
easy to see because I could almost feel my eyeballs being pushed
back into their sockets by the sonic force of the music that was
blasting at me from the stage. It was almost as if the bass player
were strumming my right and left ventricles along with the strings
of his guitar.

The headbangers went in for spandex tank
tops and heavy leather wrist bands studded with metal. They also
wore fingerless gloves with even more metal studs. Many of them
wore thick leather belts that seemed to be strictly decorative,
since they didn't fit through any visible loops. Some of the belts
held what looked like M-I cartridges, and some had dangling loops
of brass. One woman had on an outfit that was made entirely of
small metal spangles, most of them smaller than a dime. She was
wearing black boots that came almost to her knees and had a skull
blazoned on the fronts. Nearly everyone had tattoos.

Everyone was a lot younger than I was, and I
looked very much out of place in my sweatshirt and jeans, but no
one seemed to mind.

Amyl and the gang finished up in a frenzy of
reverb and feedback. When the music stopped, it was several seconds
before I could hear anything at all. Then the dull rumble of
conversation, the click of beer bottles, and the scraping of chairs
became audible, even though there was still a distant roaring in my
ears.

I didn't see anyone who looked like the
owner, so I continued to survey the crowd. I was looking for the
narc. I figured that in any place like this there were lots of
funny-smelling cigarettes to be smoked, and maybe even a line or
two of Bolivian happy dust to be inhaled. Therefore there would be
an undercover cop in every now and then just in case any of the
boys or gals got together enough money to make a really heavy
buy.

Of course the heavy buy would never take
place because by the time he walked in from the door to a seat,
everyone in the place would have the narc spotted for exactly what
he was. It's a knack they have.

I didn't have the knack, though, it not
being really necessary to my survival, but it still didn't take me
too long at that. He was sitting at a table with a girl in electric
blue spandex, the tank top scarcely concealing her generous
breasts. I was afraid that if she stood up and shook, the shimmer
would blind half the patrons despite the low level of light in the
club.

I made my way over to the table, carrying my
half-full beer bottle. "Mind if I join you?" I said.

The guy didn't look too happy, but he
growled what I took to be an affirmative answer. I hooked an empty
chair with my foot, pulled it out, and sat.

If anyone asked me, I couldn't really
explain how I knew he was a cop. The hairstyle was a little too
studied, maybe, the clothes a little too carefully cared for, the
eyes a little too secretive and hard.

"Great band, huh?" I said.

"Damn straight," the girl said. She was
drinking Lone Star, too, out of a bottle. She took a pull and set
it down solidly on the table to emphasize her remark. The cop
didn't say anything.

Over on the bandstand, the lead singer was
announcing that it was time for the band to take a break. That was
a break for me, too, since I would be able to hear what the two at
the table had to tell me.

If they told me anything at all.

We sat there for a few seconds, looking at
one another. "I was wondering if maybe you two could do me a
favor," I said. If the cop had come there often, he might have seen
Sharon Matthews, or Terry, and he might come closer than anyone
else in the place to admitting it.

"Maybe," he said. He sounded like he might
have gravel in his throat.

I took the picture of Sharon out of my back
pocket and slipped it onto the table. It was no longer in its
folder. "Ever seen this girl?"

The girl's eyes flickered, but the cop's
didn't.

Another few seconds of silence passed.
"Well?" I said.

"Maybe," the cop said.

I took out my billfold and, trying not to
let everyone in the place see what I was doing, showed him my
license.

"She's been in here a few times," the cop
said. The girl in the spandex nodded agreement.

"She come in with anybody in particular?" I
put my billfold away and slipped the photo off the table.

"Some guy. Harry? Terry?"

"That's the one. They have any friends?"

"Look," the cop said. "I can't afford to say
too much."

"There's not a soul in here who doesn't know
you work for the city," I said. "You aren't going to sully your
reputation."

The girl smiled and leaned back in her
chair. The spandex shimmered.

"You're probably right," the cop said. "But
that doesn't mean I'm going to just give up the game for you." His
eyes were as gray as oysters on the half-shell.

"The girl's been missing for three days," I
said. "I'm just trying to make a buck and find her. Her mother's
worried." I decided not to mention what had happened to Terry. I
didn't even like to think about it.

"Give the guy a break, Stan," the girl said.
Obviously I had charmed her.

"All right," Stan said, but I could see he
wasn't too happy about it. "The kid's been in here a few times,
like I said. With this Terry. They don't seem to have too many
friends, mostly sit by themselves. But every now and then they talk
to Chuck. He'd sit with them sometimes.

"Chuck?"

"Ferguson," the girl said. "Chuck Ferguson.
He owns the place."

I thanked them for the information and got
up, leaving most of my beer. Then I went over to the bar and asked
the bartender where I could find Ferguson.

"Who's looking?" he said.

"Truman Smith," I said. "He's probably
expecting me."

"Yeah, he got a call. See that door?" He
pointed to a door near the bandstand. I noticed that Amyl Nitrate
and the Whippets were picking up their instruments and getting
ready for another set.

"I see it," I said.

"Goes up to the second floor. There's a
hall. Office is the first door on the right."

"Thanks," I said. I was eager to get up
there before the band got cranked up again. I wasn't sure my
eardrums were up to it.

I walked down to the door and went on
through. There was a narrow wooden stairway, and I followed it up.
The hall was paneled with rough plywood. No one was much interested
in putting up a front here. I tapped on the first door on my
right.

"It's not locked," someone called, so I went
on in.

The room was small, about ten by ten. There
was a run-down gray couch that looked even worse than mine, a
wooden chair, and an old desk that was covered in layers of black
varnish.

The man sitting at the desk stood up. He was
at least six inches taller than I was, maybe six-six or -seven, and
around fifty-five years old. He was thin, like an aging basketball
player. He wore glasses, and his hair was completely white, what
there was of it. It was fairly thick on the sides and back, but
there were only a few stands combed across the top. He had a white
beard as well. Quite a change from the crowd downstairs. He was
wearing a white Western shirt with pearlized buttons and a pair of
brown double-knit jeans. He would have looked more at home at
Willie Nelson's new place across town than where he was.

Below us the band was hammering out a song.
The floor began to jiggle slightly.

Ferguson stuck out his hand, and I shook it.
"Truman Smith," I said.

"Chuck Ferguson. I heard you might be by,
but I was expecting you a little earlier."

"I got tied up."

"Doesn't matter. Have a seat." He sat back
down in his desk chair. I sat on the couch and immediately sank
down about a foot and a half.

"Not much support," I said, struggling to
keep myself from disappearing completely from view.

"Chair's more comfortable, even if it
doesn't look it," Ferguson said.

I fought my way clear of the couch and sat
in the chair. He was right. I took the photo of Sharon Matthews out
of my pocket and passed it over to him. "Ever seen her around
here?"

He looked at the picture carefully, as if he
were trying to memorize every feature of the girl's face. "Could
be," he said. "I'm not really sure."

Well, well, I thought. "She was probably
with a boy," I said. "Terry Shelton."

He held the picture between his thumb and
forefinger and tapped it against his knee. "Shelton. Shelton. Can't
say it rings a bell."

"You'd notice them for sure," I said. "They
don't look like your regular customers down there." I could feel
the vibrations from the bass working its way though the floor, into
my legs, and into my heartbeat again.

"You can't tell by the way they look down
there," Ferguson said. "Why, some of those people are probably car
salesmen. Insurance peddlers. Postmen. Housewives. Most of those
tattoos wash off, the hair combs out, the clothes change. You'd be
surprised."

I said that I probably would. A particularly
thunderous bass line rippled up the walls from below.

"Great little band, isn't it?" Ferguson
said. "Those kids are destined for big things."

"I can tell," I said. "You own this
place?"

"Sure do. Lock, stock, and rain barrel."

"You should do something about that
extension cord running across the parking lot," I said. I reached
and took the photo from between his thumb and finger. "Sure you've
never seen her before?"

"If I did, she didn't look like that. What's
your interest, anyway?"

"She's missing. Her mother hired me to find
her."

"That was her mother who called saying you'd
be around to see me?"

"That was a friend of the family."

He nodded. "Uh-huh."

I stood up. "Well," I said, "thanks for your
time and for taking a look. I heard she'd been in here a time or
two. Just thought I'd better check it out."

Ferguson stood, too, sticking out his hand
again. Everyone in Texas likes to shake hands. I shook.

"Sorry I couldn't help you more," he
said.

"Just one stop on a long road," I said.
"I'll find her sooner or later."
Unless she's like Jan
, I
thought.
Jan
.
Without a trace
.

"Good luck, then," he said, easing me toward
the door.

"See you," I said as I left.

"Sure," he said.

The door closed behind me.

~ * ~

The fact that Ferguson was lying didn't
especially bother me. I'd dealt with liars before. Of course it
could have been Stan the Cop who was the liar, but I didn't think
so. My money was on Ferguson.

Now wasn't the time to press him, however.
He was on his home ground. Besides, I didn't know a thing about
him. He may have thought my "See you" was a casual good-bye, but it
wasn't. I'd find out things, learn which buttons I could press, and
then for sure I'd be seeing him again. He might not tell me the
truth then, either, but at least I'd have some kind of handle. I
was sure Dino could help me find one.

I went out through the downstairs, past the
blasting sound of Amyl Nitrate, past the drinkers, past the few
dancers. The night was chilly, and the humidity hung in the air
like a wet sheet. I was almost to where I'd parked the Subaru
before I noticed that it was gone.

One reason that I drove a '79 Subaru was
that it was cheap and it got me where I wanted to go. But another
reason was that while Houston and Dallas probably average something
like one stolen car a minute, no one would ever want to steal an
old Subaru with dead paint and a dented back bumper. The thieves go
in for things like Camaros and Suburbans, never faded little
Japanese jobs that look about ready for the scrap heap.

There was a black Ford parked where my car
had been. I looked at it and then looked around the parking lot.
Sure enough, there was the Subaru, pushed off to one side, about
twenty yards away. I never bothered to lock the doors. There was
nothing inside worth stealing.

I thought for a second about going back
inside, rousting the owner of the Ford, and telling him what I
thought of him. If he'd wanted a close parking spot, he could have
waited for one. He didn't have to roll my car away.

But the confrontation wouldn't be worth the
effort. It might make me feel better, but then again it might not.
The owner might be bigger than me and decide that he'd like to hit
me with his bicycle chain. I wasn't up to it.