Blood Foam: A Lewis Cole Mystery (Lewis Cole series) (14 page)

The past hour had been a long one, driving here from the seacoast, and it was good to hear the tone of Paula’s voice. “If we’re lucky,” I said, opening the door, “the next place will be even better.”

“Oh, you’re such a smooth talker,” she said.

“Still, it might make sense for you to stay in the car,” I said. “In case we run into Reeve Langley, he’ll spot you right away.”

She got out with us. “Oh, and who was shooting at him this morning? The Invisible Man? He’ll spot you as well.”

Good point, and I didn’t say anything else.

We walked up as a group to the front, as country-western music thumped from inside. The windows were darkened and Felix led the way, opening the door. The smell of tobacco, stale beer, and greasy food rolled out, and Paula said, raising her voice over the music, “Wait, smoking isn’t allowed in restaurants anymore.”

Felix said “Didn’t you see the sign? This isn’t a restaurant. This is a private club. We’re just guests.”

Which was true. There was a small foyer guarded by a heavy-set woman wearing leather pants, a black Harley-Davidson tank top, and a large, blonde bouffant hairstyle. She pointed to an open ledger on a stand, where we all had to sign in as guests and then pay her five dollars as a cover charge. She seemed friendly enough. On her left hand she had
JESUS
tattooed, and on the right hand, she had
LOVES
inked in as well. Felix leaned over to her and said, “Tell Phil that Felix and a friend are here to see him.”

She nodded and got off her stool, and we followed her in, past a beaded curtain. Hanging from the ceiling were three flatscreen televisions, showing football, basketball, and hockey. To the left were three pool tables, with large rectangular lamps hanging overhead, the yellow lights hazy in the tobacco smoke. A grill was to the rear, next to a large bar, and there were booths and wooden tables and chairs, and the place was mostly packed with men and women in biker gear, with a fair sprinkling of what I would guess would be called civilians. A couple of waitresses wandered by, young women in very tight blue jeans and wearing skimpy Harley-Davidson tank tops.

A tall, gawky-looking guy came over, with jeans and a Harley-Davidson sweatshirt, wearing a scraggly beard that was made famous back in the 1960s by a man called Ho Chi Minh. There wasn’t much hair on his head but he did his best, pulling it back in a thin ponytail. He went up to Felix and said something, and Felix said something back, and Felix came over to Paula and me and said “All right, meet is on. Paula?”

She rolled her eyes. “I know the drill. Hang down here while you big boys go in the secret clubhouse and have all the fun. Go right ahead. Christ, I might even get myself a beer.”

I asked her “Are you going to be all right?”

Even with the loud music blaring out, I could sense her mocking tone. “Why, Lewis, I’m a proud, upstanding member of the Fourth Estate. Who would dare touch me?”

Well, I couldn’t argue with that, and Ho Chi Minh’s very distant cousin took us back beyond the bar and the grill, to a narrow set of stairs. He just pointed and Felix went up, and I followed, but I made it a point to make sure we were going up by ourselves, which we were. At the top of the stairs were two doors, one that was open, showing it was a bathroom. I couldn’t tell much about the details of the bathroom, because a bulky man weighing about three hundred pounds, it seemed, was on his knees inside, apparently vomiting spectacularly.

The door to the left was marked with black marker, stating
YEAH, ITS GODDAMN PRIVATE
, but Felix just spun the doorknob and we walked in. I closed the door, stunned at how thick and soundproofed the door was, because the sounds of the man having gastric distress and the music from downstairs were instantly lessened.

A squat man stood up from behind a wooden desk, smiling. His hair and beard were a deep brown, the beard closely trimmed, a short ponytail wrapped up at the rear. He had on clean blue jeans and a blue Oxford buttoned-down shirt, the collar open. He looked friendly enough, but his eyes were sharp and suspicious. There was a bookcase, a computer on his desk, and framed posters highlighting motorcycle rallies in Sturgis and Laconia. The floor was carpeted in light green, but it wasn’t one of those industrial-strength carpets built to withstand spills of beer or blood. On a coat rack in the far corner, a leather coat hung next to a denim motorcycle vest. The vest had a large patch showing a mountain peak, and lettering said
CRAWFORD NOTCH BOYS MC
.

He held out his hand and Felix instantly grabbed it. “Felix . . . good to see you, bro. Was glad I could be here, see what I can do to help you.”

Felix said: “Phil Tasker, this is Lewis Cole, an associate of mine.”

I shook his hand as well, and it was a gentle touch, but I knew there was muscle and steel tendons back there. “Nice to meet you, Lewis,” he said, going back to his desk. “Guys, look, have a seat. Can I get you anything? Tonic? Beer? Mixed drink? Cheeseburger?”

The chairs were wood and leather, and quite comfortable. Felix stretched out his legs, put his folded hands across his flat stomach, and asked, “How’s business, Phil?”

“Eh, can’t really complain,” Phil said, picking up a letter opener, spinning it with his fingers. “When the snow and ice finally get here, that’s when we’re gonna take a hit . . . but like anything else in life, you just plan for it and go on.”

“Nice,” Felix said.

Felix stayed quiet and so did I. Phil smiled but clearly looked uncomfortable, like we were from the state Department of Revenue, getting ready to do an audit covering ten years, as well as an underwear and sock inventory.

“Well,” Phil said.

More time passed. I felt the vibration from the music downstairs against my feet.

Felix made a motion of sighing, rubbing his hands together. “The Stonecold Falcons.”

Phil was relieved, like finally he could talk about something. “That western bastard. . . . I wish they’d never come here. Goddamn it. All they’ve caused me is a lot of grief, a lot of shit I don’t need.”

“Have you heard from them lately?”

“Nope.”

“Your guys still helping them, looking for that lawyer?”

Phil’s hand went back to the letter opener, making it spin again on his desk. “Felix . . . c’mon, we’ve done favors for each other in the past . . . I really don’t want to talk about what we’re doing for that creep.”

“Really?” Felix asked, sounding like an altar boy asking directions to the boy’s room. “Why’s that, Phil?”

“Because that Reeve is a psycho.”

“I see.”

I kept quiet, admiring how Felix was going about his business. I wasn’t sure how he was approaching this, but even sitting here next to him, as an ally and friend, I felt the tension in the air, heavy and threatening.

Felix rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, then suddenly leaned forward. “Hey. I really like that shirt you’ve got on. It’s an Oxford, right?”

Phil blinked his eyes, ran a finger around the collar. “I . . . I guess so.”

“Even from here, I can tell it’s high quality. Must be a high thread count. Tell me, Phil, is it Egyptian cotton or American cotton?”

“Hunh?”

Felix raised his voice. “Phil, c’mon, you’re wasting my time. Egyptian or American cotton, what is it?”

“I . . . I’m not sure . . . I—”

“Check the damn label, Phil.”

Phil’s face was red and he squirmed in his seat, and Felix leaned forward, eyes hard. “Jesus, Phil, do I have to draw you a schematic? It’s on the shirt label, on your neck. Get your shirt off. C’mon.”

Phil looked at me, maybe hoping I could intervene on his behalf, but I kept my face as blank as possible.

“Ah. . . .”

“Phil.”

His fingers fumbled some as he undid the buttons, opening up his shirt. His chest was flabby, some chest hair and faded tattoos of American flags and eagles, and there were two furrowed scars running across his belly. He tugged the shirt off, examined the collar. Both arms were covered with tattoos as well.

“American,” he said, almost a whisper.

“Here, toss it over.”

It looked like Phil was going to toss the shirt and then thought better of it. He stood up and handed the shirt to Felix, and then Felix said, “Hey, nice khakis. Where did you get them?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Then give ’em over,” Felix said, patiently. “I want to see the label.”

“Felix . . . please. . . .”

“Yes, please,” he said. “I forgot to say please.”

Phil stood there, like he was made of wood, and said something I’ve rarely heard men say in Felix’s presence. “No.”

“Phil. . . .”

He returned behind his desk, face flushed, sat down heavily. “No. That’s enough, Felix. Word gets out that you made me take off my shirt, how many days would I last, running this outfit?”

“Word still could get around,” Felix said, his voice in a low timbre that I’d never heard. “Unless you tell me what I want to know.”

Phil nodded. “That’s because the two of you know,” he said slowly. “But word getting out would depend on the two of you leaving my office, am I right?”

Felix shifted in his seat and I instantly knew what was happening: he was moving around so he could get quick access to his pistol. “Phil, my friend, we’ve scratched each other’s backs for a very long time, and it pains me to say this: but right now I’m observing both of your hands. If either one of them moves, then that nice Sturgis poster behind your head is going to get splattered with blood and brain matter.”

Phil didn’t reply, but I knew he was evaluating his options. “True enough, you damn wop,” he said. “But then it’ll be the two of you against the club downstairs.”

“If they hear anything through this soundproofing,” Felix pointed out. “And if they did, that’s one narrow staircase coming up to your office. It’d take a minute or two to see how brave your boys would be, in looking for revenge.”

With the tension and mistrust thick in the air, I felt like tiny Belgium in 1914, caught between the marauding empires of France and Germany. I spoke up. “If he’s been a pain in the ass and is a psycho, why did you help him out?”

Phil looked relieved to talk to me. “Street cred, what else?”

“Go on.”

He said, “We go to Laconia or Phoenix or anywhere else next summer, if we ride with the Stonecold Falcons, then it shows everybody we’re together. It gives us points. Tells other clubs that we’re not to be fucked with. That’s why.”

“Oh, there’s more to that, Phil, right?” Felix asked. “Along with the street cred comes more contacts, more friends, more opportunities for your cigarette smuggling, your weed growing, and your meth manufacturing.”

A slight smile. “Yeah, there is that.”

“Good enough,” I said. “Street cred. Go on. Why is he here, and what are you doing to help him out?”

The tension had lessened, and Phil spoke to me like I was an ignorant bystander who had to have things explained to him. And I admired his strategy. He wasn’t losing face or backing down with Felix, he was merely
talking to me, a nobody, and if Felix were to overhear, well, them’s the breaks.

“Reeve came here a few days ago, saying he was looking for Mark Spencer, that Tyler lawyer. I lent him two of my crew, and that’s it. Haven’t heard or seen him since then.”

I asked: “He say why he’s looking for Mark?”

“Shit, no,” Phil said. “Fact is, Reeve Langley made a request. He could have been looking for a nun, a shoemaker, a carpenter, I could give a shit. Why do I care?”

“Not curious?” I asked.

“Not enough curiosity in the world to ask Reeve anything more than I have to.”

Felix glanced at me, I gave a slight shrug, and Felix said, “All right, then. But if you get any more information, anything at all, about where Reeve is and why he’s looking for Mark Spencer, you’ll let me know? Right? As a favor?”

Phil nodded, got up and started putting his shirt back on. “All right. As a favor. But . . . Felix?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t ever push me like that, ever again.”

Felix got up. “I’ll certainly take that under consideration.”

On the stairs, I said “I thought that was quite the insult, calling you a wop.”

“Didn’t bother me,” Felix said, raising his voice some. “I’m only a half wop.”

We went back downstairs into the bar, and I had a brief flash of panic looking for Paula. She wasn’t sitting at the bar, and she wasn’t sitting at one of the booths or tables, and I started toward the women’s bathroom, but Felix gently grasped my upper arm, pointed.

Over at the pool tables, Paula was there with a pool cue, playing with two bikers, heavyset, thick beards, tattoos up and down both arms, wearing the dungaree vests of the Crawford Notch Boys. I was going to start over there, but Felix spoke into my ear. “What’s the rush? Let the girl have her fun. God knows she hasn’t had much fun this past week.”

A good point. I led Felix over to the bar and we sat down, and we slowly sipped bottles of Sam Adams, while I watched Paula work her magic at the pool cue. Felix was right. She was enjoying herself. It was sweet to see.

And then she was done. She put her cue stick back on the rack, shook hands with both of the bikers, some money was passed over to Paula, and, still laughing, she wended her way through the crowded pub floor and came up to us, slapped our shoulders, and said, “Well, fellas, you do what had to be done?”

“We did,” I said.

She looked back to the pool tables. “Roy and Henry over there just challenged me to another game, but I’d rather head out with you two, if you’ll hurry up and finish your beers.”

Felix asked, “How much did you take them for?”

“Enough,” she said.

“Didn’t know you were a pool shark,” I said.

Eyes alive, she leaned in so I could hear her better. “Back in college, when I was working on the school paper in the student union building, there was a game room on the same floor with a couple of pool tables.”

Paula squeezed my shoulder. “What, you think I spent all my spare time writing news stories?”

Outside, the crisp November night air was brisk as we went over to the Tahoe. I was suddenly tired, from a long, long day, and not feeling good about where we were. We didn’t know much more than we had when this day started, and the day had also ended with the death of Carl Lessard—and, chances were, Reeve and his boys were closing in fast on wherever Mark Spencer was hiding.