Marine Corpse (17 page)

“Well,” she said. Then she hesitated. “Well, okay.” She paused again. “You really do know me, don’t you?”

“All too well. Come on, Gloria. What’s wrong?”

“It’s Billy.”

“That’s no surprise.”

She sighed. “He wants to quit school.”

“And?”

“And? What do you mean, ‘and’? That’s it. Our number one son, the kid with that one-hundred-forty-something IQ who could’ve gone to Harvard or any place but decided to go to UMass because he didn’t want his friends to think he was a snob, and who refused to apply for scholarships because his old man was loaded, and who started growing a beard and used his first shot at the franchise to vote Socialist Labor—he says college isn’t real. That’s what he’s saying, Brady. ‘College isn’t real.’ Actually, if you can believe it, he said, ‘College
ain’t
real.’” Gloria took a deep breath. “I thought you’d be furious,” she finished in a small voice.

“Hmm,” I observed.

“You think I’m overreacting?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you do, don’t you?”

“Come on, Gloria.”

“You think I should say to him, ‘Well, that’s just fine, dear. That’s your decision, and we respect your decision. You’re a big boy. It’s your life.’ You think I should say that?”

“Exactly,” I said.

I heard her snort, an abrupt, mirthless laugh. “Well, it’s too late.”

“That’s not what you said to him.”

“No.”

“Funny, but that doesn’t surprise me. So what
did
you say to him?”

“I said, ‘Your father will be furious.’”

I laughed. “You are truly a piece of work, Gloria.”

“We make a good pair, don’t we?”

“We did.”

“We still do, you know.”

I found myself smiling and nodding as I sat there in my apartment staring out into the night. “Okay, Gloria. I’ll talk to him.”

“What will you say?”

“I’ll be furious.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Hey, I’ll give it my best shot.”

“Look, if you don’t think…”

“Hey, I’ll work on conjuring up some fury. I can do it.”

“He shouldn’t quit, Brady. You always taught the boys never to quit. Remember when Joey was playing Little League?”

“Okay. I’m getting furious. I think I’ve got a handle on it now.”

“The way that awful man never put him into the games, and yelled at the kids when they made errors? Remember? And you told Joey to tough it out, to prove who was the best man? Tough it out, you said.”

“Sure, I remember. You were all for slicing off the guy’s testicles with something dull and rusty, as I recall. Not that this is the same thing.”

“Close enough,” she said. “Listen. You interested in home-made lemon meringue pie sometime?”

“Sounds like a bribe to me.”

“It is a bribe, and you know it,” she said softly.

“Yes, I do know that.”

“Let’s get together.”

“We should do that,” I said. And we said good-bye and disconnected, leaving it that way, with a vague promise that fell short of a commitment.

Snowflakes the size of dimes sifted and swirled in my headlights the next night when I picked up Zerk at his place in North Cambridge and pointed my BMW toward the city.

“Lookin’ like a big storm,” he observed.

“Big flakes, little storm,” I said. “Old Yankee adage.”

I took the Mass Ave bridge across the Charles. When we passed Symphony Hall a few minutes later, Zerk said, “Where you takin’ me?”

“For a drink, like I said.”

“I figured the Ritz, or Copley Plaza. Something befitting two successful young attorneys with business to transact.
I’m
young, anyway. And you do have business you want to transact, I assume?”

“More or less.”

“We gonna iron out Ms. Kriegel’s condominium? Your client prepared to submit an offer? A buyout, maybe? ’Cause if that’s the case, you can ply me with good booze till I pee my pants and it won’t change a thing. She ain’t movin’, man.”

“Is that your negotiating posture, Zerk?”

“Hey, I learned how to do all this shit from you, my man. But, just because it’s you, old mentor, I’ll tell you straight out that the lady has every right to keep her pad, and the only way she’ll lose it is if I fuck up. Which I ain’t gonna do.”

“The fact is, I quit the case. Thought Heather might’ve told you.”

“You quit? Damn! I was lookin’ forward to some good hardass headknocking.”

“That’s a fascinating mixture of metaphors, Zerk.”

“Ms. Kriegel didn’t mention anything to me about you quitting.”

“And the Woodhouse clan hasn’t had their new attorney rapping on your window?”

“Nope. Maybe they decided to drop it.”

“That,” I said, “I doubt. That was my advice. They didn’t like it. That’s why I quit.”

“So you’re off the case.”

“Actually, I’m off all Woodhouse cases.”

“Hey, no shit! Good for you. I didn’t think you had that much integrity, my man.”

“I often wondered, myself,” I said.

I had taken several back roads I knew, and we now were on Washington Street, headed in town toward the Combat Zone. It had stopped snowing. I slowed down and began studying the signs over the establishments along the way.

“Look for the Sow’s Ear,” I told Zerk.

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“That’s where I’m getting my drink? The Sow’s Ear? You know what that place is?”

“A dive,” I answered, quoting Al Santis.

“That’s a quaint way to put it.”

“You’ve been there, then?”

“I’ve heard of it, that’s all,” said Zerk. “It’s got a certain reputation. Unsavory.”

“There it is,” I said. The sign, in winking red and blue neon, spelled out “The Sow’s Ear.” It had a blank brick front decorated with peeling old posters and spraypainted graffiti. It was flanked by Buddy’s on the left, and the Midnight Lounge on the right.

“We have arrived at the very cultural hub of the universe,” I said.

A block up the street I found a parking lot. I gave the attendant a twenty-dollar bill and asked him to keep an eye on my BMW. Then Zerk and I headed back towards the Sow’s Ear. “This is probably a wild goose chase,” I told him. “Stu Carver had a matchbook from this place on him when he died. Maybe he was here that night.”

“You’re still into crime-bustin’, I see,” grinned Zerk. “Woulda been thoughtful of old Stu to have gone to Locke Ober’s if he was gonna leave these clues around when he got himself killed.”

“I got a photo of him from Heather. Let’s see if anyone recognizes it.”

“A long shot.”

“Granted.”

“And you need me for protection?” Zerk’s face broke into a broad smile.

I tapped him on the shoulder with my fist. “You’re my main man.”

“You bring your weapon?” His smile widened.

“I’ve learned some lessons. The weapon is locked in my safe. Where it shall remain.”

We pushed open the door and went inside. An L-shaped bar extended along the left and rear walls. On the right was a low stage where five scruffy guys and one definitely un-scruffy girl were singing and sawing, plunking, and strumming at a variety of stringed instruments, making country and western noises. The male musicians all wore dirty blue jeans, flannel shirts, and baseball caps bearing the logos of breweries and heavy farm equipment manufacturers. The girl was young and blonde. She had a wholesome smile, a tight little leather skirt that stopped halfway down her thighs, and a surprisingly good singing voice.

Her lyrics were filthy.

In front of the band was a small open area where a skinny black man wearing a red bandanna around his head clutched a much larger white girl. They swayed back and forth, more or less in sync with the music. Each of the man’s hands had a firm grip on one of the girl’s ample buttocks.

The rest of the floor was cluttered with small tables and chairs. Across the other wall was a row of high-backed booths.

The lights in the place were dim and pink, the music loud, and the few patrons clad mostly in denim and leather. When the band finished its number, no one bothered to applaud. The girl said into the microphone, “Well, thank y’all very much. Thank you very kindly. I know you wanna hear more, but we’re gonna take a little break here, so y’all just sit tight.” She gave a mock curtsy, and one of the band members gave the finger to the sparse audience.

Zerk and I sat at the bar.

“Man,” he said, “if I’d known you were takin’ me to a real fancy place I woulda dressed for the occasion.”

I surveyed his natty gray three-piece suit. “You look fine to me,” I said.

“Fine for the Ritz. Fine for the Copley Plaza. Not good enough for the Sow’s Ear.”

“Loosen your tie. You’ll fit right in.”

The bartender was a red-headed woman whose stained white blouse was tolerating considerable stress as it stretched across her ample front. The red smear of lipstick on her mouth clashed with the orange of her hair.

She made a pass in front of us with her rag. “Help ya, boys?”

“Beer,” said Zerk.

“We got Miller’s on tap, Bud, and Löwenbräu…”

“What’ve you got in bottles?”

She cocked her head at him. “Why dontcha tell me what you want, I’ll tell you if we got it.”

“Beck’s.”

“Try again.”

“Heineken.”

“You want fancy beer, you came to the wrong place, mister.”

“Schlitz, then.”

“Two Schlitz?”

“I don’t—” I began.

“Two. Yes,” interrupted Zerk.

She turned away, and I said to Zerk, “I don’t want beer. It’s cold outside and I want bourbon. What’d you do that for?”

“You come to a place like this,” he said, “you want something out of a bottle. Then you know what you’re getting. Hey, if you took me to the Ritz you could have had Wild Turkey.”

“I don’t want beer,” I mumbled.

The redhead slid our beers in front of us, each bottle with a glass overturned on top. “Twelve bucks,” she said.

“Jesus,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

“Look,” she said, “we got no cover, no minimum here, so you just sip away, take your time, look around, see what you like, okay? Just don’t piss and moan about the prices.”

I took two twenty-dollar bills from my wallet and laid them on the bar. She picked up one of them. “I’ll get your change.”

“Take them both. Keep the change.”

“A big-timer, huh?”

“Wonder if you might be able to help me out?”

She put her thick forearms on the bar and leaned toward me, grinning and nodding her head. “I thought when you first came in. Then I said, ‘Nah. They’d know better than to dress that way.’ Then I figured maybe private eyes, not cops. So, one or the other, anyway. Probably not cops. Cops don’t like to pay. Anyway, don’t tell me. Let me guess. You’re gonna show me a picture. A girl, probably, right? Young one. Runaway. See if I ever saw her before, maybe few nights ago. Right? Am I right?”

“Well…”

“Forget it,” she said. “I’ll get your change.” She pivoted around, leaving one of the twenties on the bar.

“Wait a minute,” I said. I glanced at Zerk, who was smiling and drinking his beer from the bottle. “We’re not police or private investigators. You’re right, though. I do have a photo.” I took out the picture of Stu Carver and put it on the bar. “Please look at it.”

She turned back to face us. “What the hell are you, then, anyway?”

“Just private citizens like you, ma’am,” I said.

“Private citizens,” she said, as if it were a curse.

“New Year’s Eve,” I said. “Was this man in here? That’s all I want to know.”

She barely glanced at the picture. “I didn’t work New Year’s. I was home New Year’s.”

“Is there anybody here who might’ve worked that night?”

She stared at me for a moment, then glanced down the bar. I followed her gaze to a black-haired girl who was smoking a cigarette and studying the row of bottles lined up behind the bar.

“Her?” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Would you ask her if I could buy her a drink?”

She shrugged. “Sure. You’re the guy who’s giving me the big tip.”

She moved to where the girl was sitting. I saw them exchange a few words.

“It ain’t gonna work,” said Zerk.

“Why not?”

“Watch,” he said.

The bartender came back. “Trixie says no thank you.”

“Trixie?” said Zerk. “That her name?”

The redhead smirked. “Trix. Yeah.”

She took the two twenties and walked away.

“Wait here,” said Zerk.

He took his beer bottle with him. He strolled down to where the black-haired girl was sitting, leaned over, and spoke into her ear. She glanced up at him, hesitated, shrugged, and shook her head. Zerk settled onto the stool beside her. A moment later he gestured to the bartender, who smiled and produced a bottle of champagne. Zerk and the girl huddled together, their heads close. Now and then I could see them laughing and smiling and rubbing shoulders. Zerk kept filling the girl’s champagne glass.

The band returned to the stage and began to play. The place was slowly filling up. It was a middle-aged crowd, more men than women. They slouched in wearing heavy shapeless coats and bland, defeated faces. They sat by themselves, most of them. They drank shots with draft beer chasers and drummed their fingertips on the tabletops to the beat of the music. A few of them danced. They didn’t seem to be having much fun. The Sow’s Ear didn’t appear to be the sort of place you brought a date to.

“You want another, or what?”

“Huh?” I spun around on my barstool. The bartender was going through the motions with her rag. “Okay. Sure. Another bottle of Schlitz.”

“Your friend’s makin’ out okay, huh?”

Zerk and Trixie were sitting facing each other, their knees touching. She was holding her champagne glass for him to drink from. “He’s got a way with women,” I said.

“There are plenty of other girls in here, you know.”

“That’s all right,” I said.

She fetched my beer for me, and I put a ten on the counter. “Where does a place like this get a name like the Sow’s Ear?” I said.

“Fella who owns it is lookin’ to get a fancy place down in Quincy Market. Wants to attract the tourists and the rich folks from the suburbs. That’s what he wants. This is what he’s got.” She shrugged. “Not real fancy, you know?”