West Seattle Blues (10 page)

Seven

I drove up Denny Way. In the rearview I could see the view down the hill, the buildings and the road stretching away beyond. Beyond them, the waters of Puget Sound rolled out to the Peninsula and the Olympics. It was a classic postcard scene. There was beauty in it, both the modern and the timeless. I followed cars through the stop and start of traffic signals to Fifteenth. I knew exactly where Rick lived. He’d been in the same place for as long as I could remember, renting a room in Sheila’s big old house. Some tenants came and went in a matter of months. Others, like Rick, stuck around forever, until they became part of the furniture. The money helped her pay the mortgage.

I parked on Mercer and walked back along the sidewalk. The Five-O was just down the street. I’d gone there so often in the late Eighties, when Terry Lee Hale booked the bands and appeared onstage himself sometimes. The Walkabouts were regulars, and other names I’d forgotten now. It was like glimpsing a tiny splinter of my past. Good days; they’d been fun: Some of them, anyway.

Sheila had a large corner lot, with rhododendrons of all kinds forming a big hedge to shield her garden from the road. I’d known a few people who’d roomed here over the years, so I knew the technique. I went straight to the back door and knocked; the front door was purely for official business, and often ignored. A battered Ford F150 pickup stood on the gravel driveway, outside a shed that was in danger of toppling over. Rick’s vehicle, so he was probably at home. I still hoped I was doing the right thing. When I got home, I was going to owe Dustin five bucks.

The door opened and I took a breath. Rick was still large and intimidating, a little bigger around the belly, blond hair cut unfashionably short - almost a buzz cut - and eyes bleary, as if he hadn’t been up too long. If he was still working in clubs, he’d have to keep late hours.

“Hello, Rick,” I said. He squinted for a brief moment, then his face relaxed.

“Laura, right?” He tried to place me. “Is that it? Laura?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Laura Benton. It’s been a while. I think the last place I saw you was the Crocodile.”

He threw his head back and laughed. It was an open, big-hearted sound. Honest. He seemed different from the man I’d once known. He seemed…happier.

“Shit, man, I’d forgotten I worked at that place. It only lasted a couple of weeks. Then I went to the Off-Ramp.” He stared at me again. “You looking for someone?”

“For you, actually,” I answered. “I wanted to ask you about someone you used to know.”

“Who’s that?”

“James Clark.”

He frowned and held the door wider. “I guess you’d better come in.”

We sat on the same brown couch that had been in the living room the first time I’d visited this house, fifteen years before. A couple of ratty afghans had been thrown over the back, their colors faded, the wool nubby. Rick sat in a chair, holding a can of Coke in his large fist.

“Man, James?” he began. “I haven’t thought about him in a few years.”

“It’s four years since he died,” I said.

“Is it?” He did the calculations. “Yeah, I guess that’s right. So why are you asking about him. The cops never found out who did it.”

“His father asked me.”

Rick nodded as if that made all the sense in the world. “He asked you ‘cause of that Craig Adler thing?”

“No, nothing like that,” I lied. “I’m just doing a favor for a friend who’s laid up right now.”

“Okay, that’s cool,” he agreed.

“So you knew James Clark pretty well?”

“Pretty well?” He mulled over the idea, then shook his head. “Not really. I knew him, that’s all. It’s not like we were best buddies or anything. He lived up in Everett, and I only saw him sometimes when he came down to Seattle. Not always, though. I’d often be working, you know.”

“You still on the door somewhere?”

“Over in Bellevue,” he replied dismissively. “It’s a gig, pays the bills, and they’re a bunch of pussies over there. Easy money.”

“I don’t even know what easy money’s like,” I laughed.

“It’s like East side frat boys trying to use fake IDs on a Friday night.” He chuckled. “You know, I thought James said he’d never known his daddy.”

“No, he didn’t. It’s one of those weird things. His father only found out a few days ago that James was dead. He wants to find out what his son was like.”

“Yeah, I guess I can see that.”

“So anything you can tell me would be good.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything you can tell me.”

He let out a long sigh and ran a hand over the pale stubble on his chin. “Like I said, I didn’t know him too well.”

“That’s okay,” I told him. “Just whatever you can remember.”

“He was a cool guy, once you got to know him. He was the kind who’d have your back without even saying anything, you know?” I nodded and waited for him to continue. “He could be pretty funny when he was in the mood. After we’d smoked some weed he’d get these riffs going, just cracked everyone up. Same when
we’d had a couple pitchers of beers.”

Everything seemed funny when you were either stoned or a little drunk. That was how I remembered it, anyway. The world would take on a whole new shine.

“How’d you end up becoming friends, anyway?”

“Oh man.” He scratched his head and laughed. “I don’t even remember. I must have known him for about ten years before he died.” That would put it at 1980. “Just felt like I’d always known him.”

“Was he living in Everett back then?”

“Yeah. He was married.” He paused and shook his head. “Well, he told me he was, but I don’t think he lived with her any more. He liked it up there. Cheaper than Seattle, he said.”

That was certainly true. But I’d rather live in Seattle.

“What did he do? Did he have a job?”

Rick made a wobbling motion with his hand. “Hey, you know how it is. He sold a little weed, fenced some shit. Pretty much whatever he could do to get by, I guess. It’s not like we even talked about it that much. Sometimes he had money.” He finished his drink and put the empty can on the coffee table, staring at it as if it offered some deep knowledge. “There were times he was broke and I’d loan him a few bucks. That’s just how it goes.”

It didn’t sound as if there’d been a whole lot to James David Clark. The more I heard, the more insubstantial he seemed. I felt as if I was chasing ghosts and never catching more than passing glimpses.

“Were you there the night he died?”

“Yeah,” he answered slowly. “Me and another guy.”

“Who was that?”

“A guy called Kyle. We’d hang out together sometimes when James was around.”

Kyle Adams. The other name Carson had given me.

“I know it’s not easy,” I asked, “but would you tell me what happened? It’s so I can tell his father.”

“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, squinting as he tried to dredge up the memory. “There’s not a whole lot to tell. We met up where we always did, down at Pike Place Market, right by the pig statue there. You know where I mean? It was…I don’t know, six maybe, or seven. I know it was already dark.”

“What did you do?”

“Went off to the Mirror Tavern. Drank some Bud, shot a little pool, bullshitted. Jimmy hadn’t been down here for a couple of months, so we caught up.” He stopped. “I told all this to the cops already.”

“Come, on, I’m not a cop, Rick,” I said. “You know that.”

“I had to head off to work around eight-thirty, you know - drive across the bridge and park in Bellevue, so I’d be there by nine.”

“You left the pair of them there?”

“Yeah, and I didn’t know anything had happened. First I heard was when the cops came around the next day. I couldn’t believe it.”

“Did James seem worried or anxious?”

“Not really. I mean, he was usually kind of on edge, but nothing different that night. I’ve thought about it ever since, but there was nothing unusual.”

“What do you mean, he was he often on edge?” I pressed.

“About the last year I knew him, he used to figure people were after him.”

“Any idea why?”

“I thought he’d been smoking too much pot and it had just made him paranoid.”

“So what do you think? It might have been for real and someone caught up with him on Capitol Hill?”

“Who knows?” he said. “He’d started talking about all kinds of things. Like music. He’d started playing music.”

“I knew he had a guitar. His son has it now.”

“That’s cool,” he said. “He told me he had a boy. Must be tough to lose your pops that way.”

“James had been gone from home a long time. His son didn’t even really know him. What was with the music?”

“He had this idea he could do something with it,” Rick said. “He called me up a couple times, asking for advice. You remember how I used to be in those bands?”

“I do.” They’d been awful, a mess. Sloppy and uninspiring. They might even have been the first hardcore bands not to have started a mosh pit.

“He was looking to get into country music. Writing songs.”

The fruit maybe hadn’t fallen far from the tree, but I wondered how much James Clark actually knew about his absent father. Nothing more than Darlene Clark ever told him, that was certain.

“Was he any good?”

“I never heard him. He wouldn’t play for us.”

“Gigs?”

“He said he did a couple things up near Lynwood.”

“You didn’t go?” I asked. If it had been me, I’d have made time to support a friend who was performing.

“He never told me about it until later. I’d have gone if I’d known.”

I leaned back on the couch, feeling the wool of the afghans tickling my neck. I knew more than when I arrived, but I didn’t think Rick had too much more to tell me. There were just a couple last questions to ask.

“So why did someone kill him, then? You must have thought about it.”

“Back then, yeah, I thought about it a lot. But I never managed to work it out. Maybe someone was after him because he’d burned them or something. Maybe he owed some money he didn’t have. I don’t know.”

“You never heard anything?” I wondered.

Rick smiled. “It ain’t like that, Laura. Just because I did a little time doesn’t mean I know all the criminals. It’s all in the past, anyway. I do my job, spend a lot of time here, hang out with some friends sometimes. I don’t even drink or do anything like that these days. Fifteen months clean and sober.”

“Really? I’m impressed.” When I’d first known him, Rick Deal would gobble speed like the days didn’t have enough hours for everything he wanted to do. He’d always be drunk, too. This was quite a change. It showed in his face, the skin clearer, the expression happier.

“It was part of the probation deal. Worked, too. I still go to plenty of meetings.”

“Good for you,” I told him, and meant it. Giving up was difficult. “So you and this guy Kyle both knew James. Anyone else down here?”

“I think we were pretty much it,” he answered after some reflection. “Like I said, he lived up in Everett. I never went up there, so I didn’t meet any of those guys.”

“If you think of anything else, can you leave me a message at
The Rocket
?” Rick might have changed for the better, but I didn’t want him to have my home number. I was unlisted for a reason.

Before I left, I took down Kyle’s address. Just in case.

It was enough for one day. Far more than enough. I tried to take the easy route home, back along Denny, through the side streets and on to 99 by the Battery Street tunnel. But the viaduct was jammed. Slow going, but time to play some music. I listened to Carson’s album again, and then, when that was done, I dug an old Crowded House cassette out of the glove box. I knew the songs well enough to sing along. There was no one to hear me and it passed the time.

Pulling up outside the house felt like sweet relief. I stretched, feeling my back creak with deep pleasure, and went in. There were small noises as Ian crawled around the corner and into the kitchen. He saw me and a huge grin crossed his face. It was the best homecoming I could imagine. I crouched and he sped along the floor toward me.

I swung him into my arms, kissing him and smelling that unique baby smell, so fresh, so young, so wonderful. In the living room, Dustin was putting pieces of plastic roadway away in a container. About twenty little die-cast cars were scattered across the floor.

“Looks like you two have had a busy day.”

“I’ve put this stuff together in so many ways I probably qualify for a degree in urban planning,” he said, pushing himself to his feet before kissing me. “How did it go? You were gone a long time.”

“Yeah.” I lowered Ian to the floor and watched as he scooted back to his cars. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a five-spot.

“I see.” He slid it from my hand and stuck it in his pocket. “So..?”

“I ended up talking to one of the guys who’d been with Carson’s son the night he died.”

“Laura…” he began.

“It’s okay,” I told him. “It’s someone I used to see around a lot. I’ve kind of known him for years. That’s the only reason I did it.”

“Did he help at all?”

“Not really.” I bent down and started picking up toy cars, dropping them into a box.

“What are you going to tell Carson?” he asked later. We were lying in bed, his arm around my shoulders. I was wearing an old tee shirt and sweat pants, cuddled up against his chest.

“Just what I found.”

“It won’t be enough for him, you know.”

He was right, of course. Carson would nod and agree, then give me that hangdog expression. He wouldn’t come out and ask, but the question would always be there, lurking.

“That’s all,” I said. Carson was sitting with his bad leg up on a stool in front of him, smoking a Marlboro and drinking a cup of coffee with a slug of bourbon in it. He’d listened without interruption as I told him about Rick Deal.

“And he doesn’t know what happened?” he asked finally.

“No one does,” I said patiently. “Remember, the cops would have cleared it all up by now if they did.”

“What about this other guy?”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah. He might know something he hasn’t told them.”

“Probably not. Even if he did, why would he tell you?”

“Because I’m James’s daddy, not the police.”