Tourist Trap (Rebecca Schwartz #3) (A Rebecca Schwartz Mystery) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series) (23 page)

She said, “The guy must have come back.”

I nodded. “He could be slashing Rob’s throat right now—Jesus! Maybe it’s Les.”

“I think we have to call the cops. This is pretty bad, Rebecca.” Her voice was frighteningly serious.

“What’s the point? If we can’t tell them where to go, they can’t go.”

“Wait a minute. I’ve got the glimmerings of an idea. Let’s do what Rob did—go to the Tenderloin.”

“Like this?” I gestured at our business suits. “We’d get killed.”

“I mean let’s do it like Rob did—we can dress like bag ladies.”

“There’s no time. Les could be killing him now.”

“Well, what do you suggest, then? Finish off the bottle and let him tackle Les alone?”

That did it. Chris doesn’t often speak sharply; the fact that she did then woke me up. She was right; if Rob was alive, it was up to us to find him—the cops wouldn’t have a chance even if they were willing to try. “Not bag ladies,” I said. “Too hard to pull off.”

“Whores?”

“Just burnouts. We can pose as friends of Miranda’s.” But I looked at Chris’s fancy haircut and felt my nerve slipping.

She caught me at it: “Don’t worry about the hair. I’ve got some platinum spray I used last Halloween. Not only transforms the hair into instant shredded wheat, also turns the complexion a splendid chartreuse.”

We went first to Merrill’s to buy some cheap cosmetics, made a stop for some Thunderbird, got some burgers and fries, picked up some clothes at my house, then headed for Chris’s, home of the platinum spray.

We wet our hair to destroy all semblance of style, put a little cold cream on it to make it look dirty, and then turned Chris blonde. The platinum, as she’d promised, brought out yellow tones in her pink and white skin you couldn’t have imagined. By the time we applied some truly revolting foundation, the combination of her natural skinniness and artificial jaundice made her look as if she’d be dead of cirrhosis within a month. A little black eyebrow pencil on her light brown brows and fuchsia lipstick completed the picture.

I looked more or less a fright in red lipstick and dead-white foundation, but still rather like a nice Jewish girl with awful taste. Chris held up the spray can, but I stopped her: “I have to be in court tomorrow.”

“It washes out—see?” She pointed to instructions on the can.

“Okay. Leave lots of dark roots.” She sprayed and in minutes my mother wouldn’t have known me. Would have disowned me at any rate.

Our clothes were easy—beat-up jeans and T-shirts; America is still in some ways a Democratic country.

Since we might need money and—God forbid—I.D.s, Chris put hers in my old black Sportsac, the more disreputable of our two bags; we could trade off carrying it.

The final touch was the Thunderbird, which we put in Chris’s plant mister and sprayed all over each other—hair, neck, arms, T-shirts, everywhere—as if it were the latest designer delight, guaranteed to liquefy strong men. When I thought about it, the Thunderbird would do that, too—but women and children weren’t safe, either.

Finally, we each helped ourselves to a stick of chewing gum. Then, at 11:30, we hit the streets. Once on them, though, a logical question occurred. “Where,” I asked the author of the outing, “do we start?”

“Believe it or not, I’ve got an idea. What’s the one thing we know about whizbang’s habits?”

“Miranda’s? That she drinks too much.”

“Right. Probably Thunderbird—or beer. Actually, we know she drinks beer—that’s what she had when Sanchez was killed. She has to get it from some place, doesn’t she?”

“Liquor stores! And corner markets.”

“Right again.”

“Let’s start near the Bonaventure Arms.”

There was a market right across the street. We decided I’d go in and do the talking, with Chris outside as backup, in case I needed rescuing. An old black woman who looked as if she could hold her own with the neighborhood thugs sat behind the counter on a high wooden stool. I said: “You seen Miranda around?”

“Don’t know no Miranda.”

“She used to live across the street. Medium height. Skinny. Brown hair.”

“Could be anybody. You want anything?”

“Oh. Yeah.” I found a Diet Coke and paid for it. Then I cracked it open and began to sip.

“That’s all you want?”

“Miranda’s my best friend.” I reached in the Sportsac for a five-dollar bill. “She hasn’t been around lately. I’m a little worried about her.” I handed over the five.

She took it, folded it, and placed it safely in her pocket. “Honey, you wasting your money. I wouldn’t remember no white girl. All look alike to me.”

“All look alike? You think I look like, say, Dolly Parton?”

“Dolly Parton?” She laughed. “Dolly Parton? You ain’t even in the same class.”

“So we don’t all look alike.”

“Sure you do. Just some’s ugly and some’s halfway fit to look at.”

“Wait a minute. I didn’t pay five dollars to be insulted.” She laughed again, evilly. “Sure you did, honey. You’re a loser, just like everybody else comes in here.”

I left, internally questioning the wisdom of our brilliant disguises. “Any luck?” asked Chris.

“She didn’t like my demographics. On the other hand, she was a greedy old trout—if she’d had any information, I think she’d have sold it. Here’s the thing—assuming Miranda’s alive and trying to stay out of the line of fire, she wouldn’t go to her old haunts.”

“True. Let’s branch out.”

Chris did the talking next time. While I was standing outside, a kid who looked about twelve sauntered by, casually grabbed the Sportsac, and tugged. With his free hand he hit me in the stomach. I shoved him in the chest, learning in the process he was a she and well over twelve. The effect of the blow was to dislodge the bag, still firmly in the girl’s hand, and give her a slight advantage. She tugged again, pulling me over on top of her. We were rolling on the sidewalk before Chris could catch on and race out the door. A crowd started to gather. Chris shouted at the kid: “Jackie, you let go of that lady’s bag right now. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times—” As she spoke she picked the kid up by the arm and began to shake her loose. “Now get on home!” The kid took off as if pursued by a SWAT team; I had a feeling Chris had unwittingly done a fair imitation of the girl’s mother. Amid good-natured chuckles, the crowd dispersed. “Nice neighborhood,” I said.

“I’m starting to like it.” Chris was so pleased with herself she was practically ready to move in.

As for me, I wasn’t sure I could take the excitement. And I was nearly crazy with worry. But we were left almost completely alone for the next hour or so—unless you count the man who propositioned Chris with a handful of hundred-dollar bills. Or the store owner who mistook me for a customer who owed him sixty dollars. That was no fun; after about fifteen minutes of shouting—fifteen minutes we couldn’t afford—Chris finally sighed and said, “Tell him the truth.”

It was a crowded store so I spoke in a whisper: “I don’t even live in the neighborhood. Here’s my driver’s license.”

The guy didn’t take the hint. “Rebecca Schwartz,” he shouted. “Oh sure. Anyone can pick a pocket. Or write a bad check, either. Sure you’re Rebecca Schwartz of Green Street. Yeah, and I’m Perry Mason.”

I was astounded, and not a little appalled that he was shouting my name up and down Leavenworth Street. “You know who I am.” Still whispering.

Now he whispered, too. “Yeah. I know who you are. You’re Marilyn Martin who hasn’t been in here for four months and for good reason. You picked the wrong pocket, you know that? Because Rebecca Schwartz happens to be somebody I just read about in the
Chronicle
. She’s going to be mighty interested to know who has her license. I’m calling her first thing in the morning. I’m calling the cops right now.” Chris shouted, “Run, Rebecca!” and blocked his way. “Get her!” the guy yelled. I ran out of the store and halfway down the block, but not a single person followed. I figured the guy wasn’t too popular even in his own neighborhood. I waited for Chris, wondering if our cover was blown. But Les no doubt had about as many friends as the store owner; unless he’d actually been in the store, we were probably all right.

By now, though, it was 1:15. The bars would close at 2:00 and so would everything else. After that, there’d be nothing to do—no way to help Rob, no hope. I was frankly terrified; we still had ten or twelve more stores to cover.

A lot of store owners were Chinese who pretended they couldn’t speak English when asked anything other than a price; but they probably wouldn’t have known Miranda anyway—or any of their customers. The great majority were Arabs. Arabs owned corner groceries all over the city and were usually extremely solicitous. But they treated Chris and me, in our bumout suits, like warty toads. The only people who were nice to us were old people so lonely they’d pass the time of day with the likes of us—and young guys who wanted to flirt. It was one of these who finally said at 1:52 A.M., “Miranda? Sure. Comes in all the time. I know why you ain’t seen her around, too.”

“Why?”

“She’s with Mean-Mouth now. Treats all his girls like prisoners. I mean, live and let live, you know? But Mean-Mouth’s something else.”

“He’s a pimp?”

“You ain’t heard of him?”

I shook my head.

“Yeah. He’s a pimp. Never has more than two girls at a time; but, man, do they work.”

“Poor Miranda.”

“Lotta turnover. Sooner or later they all run away or he stops ’em runnin’ away—if you know what I mean. Something tells me Miranda’s going to be mighty glad to see you.”

“Where do I find her?”

“Right across the street.” He pointed out a run-down flophouse about on a par with the Bonaventure Arms. “But I wouldn’t go in unarmed.”

“You wouldn’t know Mean-Mouth’s other name, would you?”

“Nope. Nobody does. But you ain’t thinking of asking for him by name, are you? Take my advice and don’t.”

We went outside and conferred. Clearly, we needed reinforcements. We could have called the cops then—and in retrospect, certainly should have—but we decided not to until we knew whether Rob was really in the building. Our judgment, frankly, was somewhat impaired by excess adrenaline.

We crossed the street and went into the flophouse. There was no lobby—nothing but a filthy corridor with a lot of forbidding doors on it. We walked up and down the corridor until we saw one partly open. I knocked, Chris standing slightly out of the way to back me up. “Yeah? Come in.” A gruff voice.

Stepping in somewhat gingerly, I saw that it belonged to an unshaven black man, probably about three hundred pounds, lying on a bed in his underwear. He was sipping a beer and poring, by the light from an unshaded bulb, over a racing form. “Are you Mean-Mouth?”

“Look what the Good Lord’s gone and sent me. Come in, sweet thing.”

“I’m looking for Mean-Mouth.”

“I’ll tell you where he is if you’ll give old Ralph a little sugar.”

“I’ll give you ten dollars.” I took out a ten-dollar bill and moved in close enough to make the offer seem serious.

“Ten dollars and a little lovin’.”

“Twenty dollars.” I produced another ten.

“What you want with Mean-Mouth?”

“I owe him some money.”

Old Ralph guffawed. “You payin’
me
to find Mean-Mouth so
you
can pay
him?
Sweet thing, you a cop?”

“Do I smell like a cop?”

“Come closer and I’ll tell you.”

“Do you want the twenty or not?”

“Yeah. I’ll take the twenty.” He did, starting something like an earthquake in the bed just by sitting up.

“I’ll give you another ten to tell me what he looks like.”

“I thought you knew him.”

I sighed. “Okay, I’m a cop.”

“You ain’t no cop.”

“Okay, I’m not. Another ten or not?”

“Twenty.”

“First tell me where he lives.”

“Third floor, fourth door on the left. Okay?”

I handed over another twenty.

“Mean-Mouth looks like me.”

“Are you related or something?”

“Brothers, in a manner of speaking. Mean-Mouth’s the biggest, blackest, meanest dude I ever saw in my life.” We made Chris the lookout. Here was the plan: I’d go up and explore while Chris stood on the second floor. If I got in trouble, I’d whistle and she’d scream, run for help, whatever seemed appropriate. If Mean-Mouth came up the stairs, she’d whistle. Not a bad plan at all. If I got assaulted, then we’d certainly call the police. And hope they got there before Mean-Mouth turned me into fertilizer.

I found the right door and knocked. No answer. I knocked again and heard a noise from inside. Something like: “MMmmf.” I heard it in stereo—a male “mmf” and a female one.

I said, “Is anyone home, please?”

The male noises got louder. I opened the door to full light—and the sight of my sweetie in a double bed with Miranda. They were fully clothed, tied to the bed, and gagged. Quickly, I removed Rob’s gag: “You recognized my voice.”

“Voice! I recognized your knock.” He looked at me in a way he never had before. I liked to think that sometimes he looked as if he loved me, even admired me for my mind. But this look had a new respect in it; and gratitude as well. It came to me that I was rescuing him—and that if I weren’t, he had a good chance of dying. On impulse, I bent to kiss him. “Watch out,” he whispered.

I turned around quickly, heard footsteps, saw a man come into view. With relief, I noted that it wasn’t a giant black dude, but a scrawny, wiry white one—not Mean-Mouth at all. So why was Rob shouting another warning? “It’s Mean-Mouth!”

It hit me suddenly: I’d been had. Old Ralph’s description was his idea of a joke; if ever anyone didn’t look an iota like him, it was Mean-Mouth. But Ralph, I suspected, had been accurate in one particular—if Mean-Mouth wasn’t the meanest dude in the Tenderloin, you couldn’t tell it by his face. He had no lips to speak of and no chin—just a nasty little point bereft of jaws for backup. His eyes were so small you couldn’t tell what color they were. His nose would have been normal except that it was red—like the rest of his face.

I froze, as one does in a nightmare. Mean-Mouth came in quickly, slammed the door, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a switchblade.