The Twenty-Year Death (36 page)

I locked up behind me and leaned against the wall. Behind my door the telephone was still ringing. That was an awfully long time to let a phone ring. Maybe it was important after all.

But getting out of there was important too. Whoever it was could call back.

I went down the hall, took the automatic elevator, and found my car just like a man who had all of his organs in the right place.

Market Street in Harbor City meant Market Street between Fifth and Sixth, a rundown block of seedy bars that had been glamorous at some time but no one could remember when. Among the fairies it was known simply as The Market. If you were a pretty boy on the prowl, The Market would be one of the first places you would go. In its heyday, neon signs and flashing lights had gone up all along the length of the block, and the signs had survived the block’s decline, making for a rather bright underworld now. All the light didn’t make it look any better than the rest of the neighborhood. It just made it easier to see how shabby everything was.

I parked three blocks away on Second Street, where the storefronts were mostly covered with yellowing newsprint or plywood. As I walked up Market, the stores began to look like they had some daytime trade, even if there were bars on most of the windows. One doorway was being used as a bedroom by a man wearing paint-spattered overalls and no shirt. He was laid out on a cardboard mat he’d made by cutting open a batch of fruit cartons, and he slept like a corpse at a wake.

The Blacklight was on the corner of Market and Fifth. To distinguish itself from its competitors, the front was completely dark. No neon. No lights. The windows had been painted over black. The only sign was an unlit naked light bulb over the door. This unassuming front, coupled with its location at the end of the block, helped make the Blacklight the favorite
of S.A. queens who wanted to go slumming but be discreet about it.

Inside, the lighting wasn’t much better. After passing through a second door, I found myself at one end of a fifteen-foot bar, which ran along the close wall all the way to the back. The bar top was painted red but had been scuffed to white in some places. A padded black leather armrest lined the side of the bar where the drinkers sat. On the bartender’s side there was a door with a brightly lit square posing as a diamond that must have let into the kitchen. Next to an out-of-order phone, another door led to the toilets. They were still marked ‘M’ and ‘F.’ On the opposite wall was a row of booths with black leather cushions, some of which were intact, some of which had been repaired with tire patches, and some of which had bits of their yellow stuffing spilling out. A narrow row of two-top tables divided the bar from the booths. There were maybe a dozen patrons spread out across the room. I sat down at the closest stool.

The bartender came over with his arms crossed over his apron. They were big arms and tattooed, and they went with the rest of his physique. He looked like a boxer who no longer fought in the ring but stayed in shape because it was all he knew how to do. They come in all sizes, I guessed, but maybe he wasn’t like that and just worked there. Maybe he had been here from before it turned into a queer joint. Maybe he couldn’t stand his job but it was a job and who could argue with that? Right now his brow was pulled into an angry V. He hated somebody.

I put a five-dollar bill on the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. His look grew nastier, but he made the drink and set it on a paper napkin in front of me with a scowl. He didn’t touch the
five-dollar bill. He watched me sip my drink. Then he said, “We’re paid up for the month.”

“I’m not a cop,” I said.

“You sure look like a cop. And we’re all paid.”

“I’m not a cop,” I said again, and took another sip of my gin and tonic. Just a sip, because I didn’t know how many drinks I was going to have to order in how many bars before I got something. “I’m looking for Greg Taylor. Does he come in here?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the man said, his arms crossed again. There was a nervous quiet among the other patrons, but I didn’t look to see if they were watching.

“Would you know the names of any of your regulars?”

“No. I’m not too good with names.”

I leaned in, pressing myself against the bar, ignoring the complaint from my bruised ribs. “Look, I’m not a cop, I’m a private detective. The man’s family is worried about him. I’m just trying to find where he is and if he’s okey.”

“I don’t know any Greg Taylor.”

“I thought you weren’t good with names. You remembered that one all right.”

He didn’t have an answer to that other than to shift his weight from one foot to the other.

“Look, I’m not trying to stir up any trouble. My client doesn’t want that either. Could you just give me a yes or a no if he comes in here? He’s a pretty man, about my height, tan skin, light hair, small, feminine features, couldn’t weigh more than one-thirty, probably less.”

His face grew even emptier. “I don’t know,” he said pointedly, giving each word its own time in the spotlight.

I did look around at the other patrons then. Greg Taylor wasn’t among them. No one appeared to be giving our conversation
too much attention. Just a group of men enjoying their beer. To anyone who didn’t know better it looked like a regular crowd of steady drinkers. I brought my eyes back to the bartender, but I said in a louder voice, “If you hear anything about Greg Taylor, you let me know.”

I left the rest of my drink when I got up and put my card on the five-dollar bill. The money hadn’t bought anything but you never knew when a five was going to be remembered at the right time. I glanced over the patrons again, but no one seemed to have reacted to my announcement. “Don’t think too hard,” I said.

“Don’t come back,” the bartender said.

“You must get a lot of repeat business talking that way,” I said. He didn’t care to respond. I went out through both of the doors and back into the glare of the street.

There was a group of three streetwalkers on the opposite corner now. I crossed and they saw me coming and started in with their propositions until they got a good look at me and turned away as though they were waiting for a bus. They all looked young, no more than twenty-five but probably younger. One of them was dressed in women’s clothing, a long, slinky kimono wrap with matching slippers that weren’t meant for wearing out of the house. His makeup made it almost hard to tell he wasn’t a she, but only almost. The other two wore suit pants that were too tight on their already thin frames and untucked white shirts with the top three buttons left open and shoes that needed polishing. One had sunken cheeks and pallid skin with a slight sheen to it in the streetlight. I made him for a junky. None of them had hats.

“Can I buy anyone a drink?” I said. All three heads turned studiously away from me, doing what they could to catch the
shadows from the next block. “I just have a few questions. The people on the block don’t seem very friendly.”

“We got nothing to say to you, copper,” the he-she said, still with his head turned.

“I’m not a cop,” I said. I was starting to wonder if I was, I had to say it so much. “I’m just looking for someone who I was told comes down here. For his folks.”

The he-she turned then. “Peeper, huh?” he said. There was a reedy lilt to his voice and a softness around the edges, but it wasn’t fooling anyone. “We’ve got nothing to say to peepers either. Unless you’re looking for a good time.”

I ignored that, took out my wallet and brought out another five. I held it where they could see it. “All I’m looking for is the whereabouts of a particular person. Easy money.” I waited, but none of them made a move for the money. The two dressed in regular clothes shifted on their feet and looked up and down the block. They couldn’t talk. Most of their customers had a wife and kids and a whole ordinary life in the city. The boys who worked in The Market were partially paid for confidentiality. I put the money away, and said, “Fine.” I started to turn around, and one of them spoke.

“What’s the name?” It was an unsteady voice. It came from the junky. His companions eyed him with upper lips curled in disgust.

I turned back and watched them as I said, “Greg Taylor.” There was no flash of recognition. Just the same shiftiness. I was making them nervous. “Fine,” I said again and went across the street and into the bar next to the Blacklight, a place called Jillian’s. Stark had mentioned only the Blacklight and Choices by name, but that was because those were the bars that someone of his caliber might know about. I had a feeling that
Taylor was just as likely to be known at any of the places along the block.

Jillian’s was no different than the Blacklight. The tables were up front and the bar was in back and the lighting was better and there was a small platform in one corner with a drum kit, a standup base, and a trumpet beside a stool, but it was the same anyway. The same eyes looked at me. The same eyes made sure to look away. The bartender gave me the same business. I looked around, but nobody dared a second glance in my direction. As I watched, three Negroes came out from the back and went to the stage, resuming their positions at the instruments. The trumpet player counted a beat with his foot, and they all started together, a fast number that the patrons shouted over to be heard. The band didn’t need the audience; they were making music. I left another five. No Greg Taylor. No anything. I didn’t even touch my drink.

I went outside. It was getting later and there were more men on the street now. Different music could be heard coming from a few of the joints, clashing in the night. A faint breeze stirred the air, carrying the briny smell of the Pacific from only a block away, but it didn’t make the night any cooler. As people passed me they hardly noticed I was there. They didn’t like my look and I didn’t like theirs. Only two of the whores were standing on their corner. I was probably wasting my time out there, but I didn’t have a better idea, and the thought of going home to lick my wounds made me feel sorry for myself, and I didn’t like feeling sorry for myself.

At the third bar, after going through the same routine with a blond-haired bartender wearing a too-tight shirt, my eyes caught on a face as I made my quick survey of the place. It was the junky from outside. He drew a few knowing glances from some
of the men at the tables but he kept his eyes on the back of the bar, heading for the toilets. As I watched him, his eyes flicked at me and then away just for a moment. He went into the bathroom. I nursed my gin and tonic. The bartender had gone to the other end of the bar, finished with me. After ten minutes the junky still hadn’t come out of the bathroom. I pushed off of the bar and went to the front door. If the junky wanted to find me, he would find me once he had worked up his nerve. For all I knew, he was just getting high.

The storefront next door was an all-night liquor store without any customers. I skipped that because Greg Taylor had not looked like the kind of man who ever bought his own liquor, and because when you go out at night to get back at your lover, you don’t do it with a bottle bought at a liquor store.

The next bar was Choices. It was more of a dance hall than the other places. A five-piece band was playing fast numbers in a corner under a palm tree in a pot. The dance floor took up the center of the room, lit with spotlights recessed into the ceiling that made white shiny spots on the wooden boards. There were several couples dancing and I wondered how they knew who should lead. The tables nearest the dance floor were filled, but the ones further out were empty. The bar was a classy thing with a gilt framed mirror along the back and lights under the glass shelves where the liquor was kept so that the various bottles shone and were reflected and shone some more. I didn’t bother to try my line on the bartender over the sound of the band. Instead, I waited at the bar and watched the dancers. They could really dance.

After a minute or two, the junky streetwalker came in through the front door. He saw me looking at him and I smiled and he immediately looked away. A man at a nearby table called to him
and he went over and let the man hold his hand, all the while looking at a spot on the table that was a thousand miles away. I watched them for a moment, the seated man pulling on the junky’s arm, waving at the chair across the table from him, the junky just standing there with his head bowed and no expression on his face. I didn’t want to watch anymore. There was no reason I had to. I turned my back and drank my drink all the way down. The liquor spread out in my body, reminding me that life was just life and it wasn’t good or bad. I turned around again and the junky was now sitting at the table. He wouldn’t stay long. I needed some fresh air. It was getting stuffy in there.

Outside, I smoked a cigarette, and when I’d finished with that one I lit another. Down at the end of the block, only the man dressed in pants and the unbuttoned shirt was standing under the streetlight. Maybe the getup with the kimono was good for business. I had started my third cigarette when the junky came out of the club. He stopped short when he saw me standing there. “You can follow me around all night and not get anywhere or we can just talk now,” I said.

He looked down the block where his companion was standing watching him back.

“We can go somewhere else,” I said.

“Meet me on Seaside at Sixth,” he said without looking at me.

“You’ve got something to tell me?”

He didn’t answer, already walking back down towards his street corner.

I turned in the other direction, making it quick to get to the end of the block and turned right on Sixth towards the ocean.

He came up on Seaside walking along the closed-up shops, well out of the glow of the streetlamps. He kept his head down, shooting occasional glances behind him as though he were afraid of being followed. When he was three feet away, he stopped, glanced up at me once, and then back down at the sidewalk. He was even younger than I had first thought, probably no more than eighteen. He looked sickly and every half a minute he would shiver as though it wasn’t seventy-five degrees out. He was a real nervous one. I wondered how he got any business.