The Bleeding Season (29 page)

I shook Chris Bentley’s hand again, and thanked him for his help.

“Wish I could tell you more, help you find this broad, but Bernard never really dealt much in specifics—you know what I mean?  That’s just the way he was, at least around me.  I worked with him for a couple years, spent hours talking with the guy, and most days even now I feel like I never really knew him at all.”    

“I know what you mean.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I get the feeling you do.”

“Thanks again for your help.”  I offered him his business card.  “You want this back?”

“You hang onto it.”  He selected the sincerest smile in his arsenal and pasted it on for me.  “The next time you’re in the market for a quality used car or truck, you come see me, OK?”

*   *   *

Given Bernard’s consistent lack of success with women, and the problems he clearly had—many of which we were still uncovering—none of us were particularly surprised to learn he had sought out prostitutes.  At a minimum, he had sought out one, and a sense of sadness more than anything else permeated the Jeep as we headed away from the car lot and Chris Bentley’s eternal smile.  Like so much else with Bernard, it seemed impossible for us to have missed it previously, yet once out in the open, it made perfect sense.  Had I assumed him to be a monk?  Where else would he have gone for sex?  Had I ever really given it any thought at all—and if not, then
why not
—hadn’t it even once occurred to me what he might be doing when out of my sight?  I couldn’t help but feel as though I had let him down as a friend.  Here he was, a rapist, a butcher and killer of young women, and I was the one feeling remorse.  Memories of him at our apartment flashed through my mind, memories of how he’d sometimes come for dinner and never know enough to go home, lingering and making excuses and small talk until Toni finally had enough and I was left with no choice but to tell him we needed to go to bed and work the next day and it was time for him to leave.  I knew then how lonely he was.  We all did.  Had he gone home after those nights at our apartment, or had he cruised these same streets in that rundown old car, searching for prostitutes—maybe victims—to sate his needs, however twisted and dark?  Had I gone to bed and snuggled into the warmth and loving arms of my wife while one of my best friends snuggled into the underbelly of the city?
Had
 I known?  Deep down, had I?  And would it have mattered even if I had?

Ten minutes after leaving the lot we were cruising along the waterfront looking for
The Captain’s Hook
.  Rick had heard of it but wasn’t precisely sure where it was, so we had to cover a few different avenues until we finally found it on a desolate side street across from a fish processing plant.  A small building sandwiched between a vacant commercial property on the corner and an insurance office, it was set back a bit from the sidewalk, receded farther than the buildings on either side of it.  A large door that had been painted black but that was nicked and gouged rather badly marked the entrance, and two narrow windows on either side of it housed neon beer signs.  Cheap curtains had been slapped up in each window to block what little might be seen through them rather than to serve any cosmetic purpose, and above the door a sign shaped like the bow of a pirate ship protruded from the face of the building.  Painted in chipped blood-red letters across the faux bow was the name of the establishment.

The neighborhood was one of great history, home to some of the literal “dreary streets” Melville had written about.  A few blocks over, near the famous, (or infamous) whaling museum, where renovations and several nice retail and dining establishments had moved in, several years earlier the city had converted a few streets to their original cobblestone in an attempt to lend a sense of quaint historical authenticity to the area.  But even now, under the haze of imminent darkness, this lesser-traveled street still radiated the same ominous level Melville had discovered more than a century before.  

A few older cars were parked on the street, including one rundown Chevy that occupied the space directly in front of the bar, but otherwise, the area was deserted.

Rick slowed the Cherokee, and from the backseat Donald said, “Have I mentioned what a bad idea I think this is?”

“About twelve times now.”

“You walk in there asking questions,” Rick said, “you better be a cop.”

I motioned to an empty space a bit farther up the street.  “Park it.”

He mumbled an objection but pulled over anyway.  “Fine,” he said, slamming the shift into Park, “but I’m going with you.”

“I’m just gonna go in and have a quick look around, relax.”  I knew Rick meant well, and I knew I’d be safer with him by my side, but I also knew that outside a controlled setting like the club his temper would more than likely get the better of him.  “Let me go scope the place out a little, see what I can see.”

He stared at me, his jaw clenching then releasing then clenching again.  “You got five minutes,” he said.  “Then I’m coming in looking for you.  Donny, go with him.”

With a sigh, Donald rolled a cigarette between his lips.  “I was
so
 hoping I could.”

“Hey,” Rick said, “no smoking in the vehicle, ass-wipe.”

Donald ignored him and slipped out onto the street with an irritable grunt.

I really didn’t want him with me either but the sun had almost completely set and night was slowly closing in around us, there wasn’t time for arguments.

I pulled my sunglasses free, tossed them on the dashboard then turned back to Rick.  “Keep this fucking thing running.”

CHAPTER 22

The door was heavy and scraped the base of the frame as I pulled it open, making a subtle entrance all but impossible.  As we moved into the bar I said, “Let me do the talking,” but I wasn’t sure Donald heard me because he didn’t respond.  The only answer was metal grinding metal as he closed the door behind us, the grating sound still resonating as I focused on the saloon.  The lighting was sparse, and the place could’ve used a fan or two.  The air hung stagnant and sour, and a colossal cloud of cigarette smoke filled the room like a dense fog.  I smelled stale booze and sweat, cigarettes, a trace of marijuana, and the faint aroma of urine.  To make matters worse, the lack of air circulation made the already high humidity nearly unbearable within the confined space, and I wondered how anyone stood it in here for any length of time.

The room was narrow and deep, and the building seemed to go back farther than the exterior had suggested it might.  The ceiling, low and stained with years of abuse, gave off a claustrophobic feel, and an oak bar—large, long and battle-scarred—dominated the left-hand wall.   Opposite the bar were a few small tables bolted to the filthy tile floor, rickety chairs scattered about, and an aged, silent jukebox.

Neither the tables nor any of the stools at the bar were occupied.

The bartender was tall, lanky, decked out in jeans and a leather vest with no shirt, and sported thinning but frizzy hair he had grown nearly to his waist.  He turned and glanced at us with disinterest, undersized, rodent-like eyes blinking behind a pair of blue-tinted granny glasses.  Without a word he returned his attention to a television over the bar.    

The unfinished wood walls were decorated with an array of nautical effects—buoys, lobster pots, harpoons, fishing nets and the like—a couple dart boards, various neon beer signs and posters of scantily clad women draped over motorcycles, racing cars, or posing suggestively with various name brand beers or alcoholic beverages.  Perched over the center of the bar, a wall clock that advertised Harley Davidson motorcycles blinked on and off in timed intervals.

Through the smoke and haze I noticed an open doorway beyond the tables that led to a back room of sorts.  I was able to make out the corner of a pool table and could hear an old Zeppelin tune playing, distorted and tinny, like it was coming from an inexpensive boom box that had been turned up too loud.  Some dark forms were moving around back there too, and a burst of laughter spilled out into the bar area, though I was relatively sure it hadn’t been directed at us.  From where we stood, I couldn’t be sure they even knew we were there.

Donald remained close to the exit, leaned against the jukebox and pretended to read the song list.  The bartender had his back to me, so I slid onto a stool closest to the door and said, “Can we get a couple beers over here?”

He finally looked at me.  “All out of beer,” he mumbled.

I keyed on a full bottle of Jack Daniels displayed among a bevy of others behind him.  “How about a couple shots of J.D. then?”

“All out of that, too.”

I refused to break eye contact, and so did he.  “Well, then what do you recommend?”

He put his hands on the bar between us.  “That you and your boyfriend go find someplace else to drink.”

I could feel Donald behind me, but he remained quiet.  “Is Claudia around?” I asked.

“Who?”

“She waitresses here, or at least she used to.”

“This look like the kind of place that has
waitresses
?”

Donald was suddenly by my side.  He put out his cigarette in an ashtray on the bar then lightly touched my arm.  “Come on, Alan, let’s just go.”

I pulled the photograph from my pocket and held it up for the bartender.  “This is Claudia.  She and I had a mutual friend.  He died.  He left something to her and wanted me to get it to her, only I don’t know how to find her.  All I know is she used to work here or hang out here or whatever.  I really don’t give a shit, I only need to find her to—”

“Dude, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, OK?  Why you coming around here hassling me?  I don’t know you and I don’t know nobody named Claudia.”

“I’m not looking to hassle you.”  I waved the photo at him.  “I just need to talk to this girl, figured you might be able to help me out.”

“Well, I can’t.”  He leaned closer for emphasis.  “So fuck off.”

This time Donald gave my arm a tug.  “
Now
.”

“Thanks, appreciate all your help,” I quipped.

The bartender smirked, and as I turned to leave I realized the three of us were no longer alone.

A man from the backroom had filtered out into the bar and now stood staring at us.  Another person had remained behind him in back, but was almost entirely concealed in shadow and smoke.  It wasn’t until I casually slid the photograph back into my pocket and dropped from the stool that I saw there was a second man who had circled behind us and was now leaning against the exit.  Donald was a few feet to my right, pale and nervous.

The one close to us, a stocky man with a beard and greasy hair dangling from beneath an equally greasy red bandana, stepped closer.  In his hands he held a pool stick.  He seemed roughly our age, maybe a few years younger, but there was a lot of mileage on him so it was difficult to tell for sure.  His jaw was set at an odd angle, his lips thrust forward to indicate that he was no longer in possession of a full set of teeth.  “Everything OK, Mick?”  Though his question had been directed at the bartender he never took his eyes from me.  It was clear these guys had been ingesting more than alcohol in that backroom.

“They were just leaving, Tooley,” the bartender told him.

“Yes,” Donald blurted, “we were just—just leaving, actually.”

The man continued to stare at me as if I’d spoken instead of Donald.  “They giving you a hard time, Mick?”

“Look,” I said, “I—”

“I wasn’t talking to you, boy.”  The man came closer still.

I held my ground but said nothing.

An awkward silence fell over the room and I realized then that even the music from the back had stopped.  Images blinked across the TV over the bar, but it too was silent.  Donald’s discomfort was palpable, and he seemed unable to determine exactly what he should do with his hands.  I was as nervous as he was, but knew if I showed it, we’d be in even worse trouble.  The one called Tooley held my equally intense stare for what seemed forever, then slowly nodded and allowed a slight smile to tickle his upper lip.  “What are you doing in here, boy?”

Call me boy one more fucking time
, I thought.

The man by the door—who was considerably younger, taller, and had his hair pulled back into a ponytail—chuckled as if he’d read my mind.  Although he was in his late twenties, from the look on his face I guessed he probably possessed the intellect of a dimwitted teenager.  He wore jeans and a grimy
Ozzy Osbourne
t-shirt that was sleeveless and showcased an array of tattoos that stretched from his shoulders to his wrists.  On his feet he wore jackboots.  When he smiled I noticed a tiny black tattoo in the shape of an upside down cross just below his left eye.  Among the coiled serpents, grim reapers, death masks and other odd symbols painted across his arms, I saw the words:
Hell Bound
.

“I’m looking for someone,” I said finally.

“He was asking questions about some whore used to come in here,” the bartender said.

“Which one?”

The men laughed.

“Claudia,” I said.

“But obviously this was a mistake,” Donald added suddenly, “and now we’re leaving.”

I wanted to tell Donald to shut his mouth, to just be quiet and let me handle it, but I maintained my composure.

“I know Claudia.”  The tall one with the tattoos looked me over.  He was flying on something and having a hard time keeping his eyes in one spot.

“You know where I can find her?” I asked.

“What you want with her?”

“I need to talk to her about a mutual friend who—”

“You got any money?” He shuffled his feet, his movements jerky and spasm-like.

“That depends,” I said.  “You got any information?”

Tooley stepped forward.  “You even know where the
fuck
 you are?”

I gave a smart-ass smile right back to him.  “A toilet?”  If we were going to make a move for the door, I figured this was as good a time as any.  “Whatever—forget it.”

I turned to leave and Donald did the same, but the man at the door didn’t move.