West Seattle Blues (7 page)

“I still bet you five dollars you end up looking into it.”

I stared at him, feeling something between love and anger.

“Deal,” I said. “And there’s no way you’ll win.” I waited a moment and then changed the subject. “Have you decided about that job with Elliott Bay?”

“He’s going to give me more details soon. Then you and I can talk about it. It’s your decision, too.”

I stopped by to say hi to Monica, then went through to the microfiche department, pulling out the films for both the
Seattle Times
and the
P-I
covering February and March 1990. The first mention came on February 8th, a report of a man shot and killed on Pike Street, printed the day after the murder. There was more the following day, although it merited nothing larger than two paragraphs on the front page of the local news section. Not even a picture. Even in death James David Clark didn’t warrant much attention.

The police had discovered the body about ten in the evening after answering a ‘shots fired’ call. James David Clark was already dead when they arrived, lying on the sidewalk outside a parking garage. He still had his wallet and there was cash in his pocket. His address was in Everett. Reading between the lines, there were no immediate suspects.

The story continued over the next couple of days, but there was little new information. The cops found Clark’s car in a parking lot on Harvard Avenue, behind Seattle Central Community College, just a few blocks away. But that seemed to be as far as it went.

With no results and nothing breaking, there was less and less about the killing in print. At first there was a gap of a day, then two, then a week. The cops had talked to Clark’s associates and neighbors, but they’d come up with nothing. There was also a mention of his criminal record. By early March the thin trickle of coverage stopped altogether, as if it had just been placed in a pile to forget.

But it was what the papers didn’t say that interested me. Nothing about a job, or any family left behind. There was no sense of outrage at the killing, no image painted of the late James David Clark as a good, upright citizen. Just someone who’d gotten what he deserved. Between the two dailies, there was scant coverage for me to put together. Less than twelve photocopied pages. It didn’t seem like much for someone shot down in cold blood. No real memorial. I searched for an obituary, anything else I could deliver to Carson, but there was nothing I could find. I went through once more, just in case I’d missed anything, but the haul still remained pathetically low for a murder. It was as if no one had really cared about the truth, or that the priority had been so low. That seemed strange, since the cops liked to get those murders off the books.

I wondered what had happened to let the killing of James David Clark slip through the cracks. Maybe it had been as simple as finding no evidence, no motive. But, from the coverage, it looked as if they’d never worked it too hard.

Four years had passed since then and I doubted much more had happened since. I put everything away and wandered back to consult Monica. She checked the database, but there were no more mentions of Carson’s son. I already had it all.

From the library I drove up to Harborview Hospital. It was perched on a hill and looking down on the city, too beautiful a building to be filled with illness and death. The coroner’s office was there, and looked exactly as I remembered it from six years before. The air conditioning was cold, the décor sterile. The last time
I’d been here, I’d been looking into Craig Adler’s death, believing he’d simply overdosed.

I had to wait almost an hour. They weren’t that busy, but someone had to go down to the basement to dig out the investigator’s report. Then I paid my ten dollars and walked away with the photocopy. One more item for the pile. Outside I mingled with the patients enjoying a smoke in the fresh air, and read it. James David Clark had been shot three times. Twice in the chest, and finally once more in the head. The first shot had been the fatal one, the rest simply making sure.

He’d been a quarter inch short of six feet and weighed one hundred eighty pounds, with three scars on his arms and another on his calf. A jailhouse tattoo of a star was inked on his forearm. He’d died wearing a pair of Levi’s, a tee shirt and an old Carhartt blanket jacket.

There were just three sparse paragraphs: everything pared down to the essence. Someone had done a poor job of scratching through Clark’s address in Everett, because it was still perfectly legible. At least Carson would have something for his money. I added the piece of paper to the others I’d gathered at the library. Not a single one of them offered any of the answers to the questions he would want to ask.

Driving back along the viaduct, eyeing the long, empty plane of grey sky, I felt a sadness weighing down on me. All I was taking to Carson was some pain, and I was in no rush to do that. Instead I stopped at Alaska Junction. Easy Street Records was there, an independent store right on the corner. It was a place to spend half an hour, scuffing through the used albums and rarities. Then on to Husky Deli. It was still chilly out, but I couldn’t resist their chocolate-orange milkshakes.

I was killing time and I knew it. Trying to put off the moment when I handed it all over and saw the look in his eyes. I walked along the street, past the Indian restaurant and the florist, the little shop with the dusty windows and crappy antiques. I finished up the drink. I had to do it.

“There’s not a whole lot,” I told him as I handed the papers over. He glanced through them, pausing to read a sentence here and there.

“Thanks,” he said after a short while and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“Call it thirty.”

He counted out the bills and looked up at me.

“Listen…” he began.

“No,” I said. I knew what he was going to ask, and I wasn’t about to do it - exactly as I’d told Dustin. It scared me way too much. There were plenty of other people who could do that work.

He nodded and shrugged. “Okay.” He brightened. “That guy Dan from the Tractor called me back this morning. I got a definite gig there next month. April fifth.”

“That’s great.” It was the same day as Ian’s birthday. That made it easy to remember.

“Top of the bill, too,” he said proudly. I knew that quite a few years had passed since he’d last enjoyed that status. At least it softened the sparseness of the news that I had brought.

“That’s pretty cool. I’ll be there.” I was curious to hear what he’d sound like now, my memory of his music being faint. I’d kept some of the 45s that had belonged to my parents, but there was nothing of his
among them. The best place to find anything now would probably be in a thrift store. Then it struck me. “That article about you in
The Rocket
will be out by then. I’ll make sure they tag it. That should bring a few people in.”

“That’s cool.” He still wanted to try and persuade me to find out what had happened to his son; that was obvious in his eyes. But I’d refused and he was too much of a gentleman to push it.

“Okay. I don’t know if any of what I found helps, but it’ll give a detective somewhere to start.” It was the best thing to say, to try and prod him on to using someone else. I liked Carson but I wasn’t going to risk my mental health for him. I was ready to go home and see my baby again. To remind myself of what was really important.

He smiled and nodded. We said our goodbyes, and that was it.

Six

For the next week and a half I stayed busy. One thing about being a mom: it didn’t leave much free time. Ian kept me crazy, wanting attention from waking until he slept. Nap time was an oasis, a chance for me to sit and catch my breath. I loved it all but it was wearing. We spent part of the time completing the raised beds in the backyard. Dustin had ordered some topsoil and I passed a morning hauling it from the parking strip and into its new home. Ian was out there with me. The weather was typical for Seattle: long grey days that hovered somewhere between winter and spring. Not too cold but no heart in the temperature. Wrapped up warm, he was fine, and I didn’t mind if he guzzled a little dirt. Kids had been doing that for centuries without any problem. By the time we finished, there was a sense of satisfaction. Everything ready for planting as soon as it warmed up. At the same time, I felt as if there was a burr rubbing against my skin. I wasn’t writing. And that meant I wasn’t earning.

Dustin was working locally, so he was home for dinner every night. There was still no more on the possible job. I started to wonder if it had been nothing more than idle talk, that he’d read too much into it. Life trundled along until March decided to go out like a lion. The weather turned wet again, trapping us indoors. When we’d gone through all his toys and put them away again, Ian and I worked on his walking. He could pull himself up, reach for the coffee table and lift himself onto his legs. Then he’d fall down again and crawl away. I helped him take two or three tottering steps at a time, holding and encouraging him. I wanted to give him the idea of having two legs even though I knew he wouldn’t really walk until he was ready. All the tiny crumbs of independence slowly coming together to make one big cake. Once he began walking…how long before he didn’t need us anymore?

I wrote a small article for
The Rocket
, a few reviews for
Alternative Press
and something for
B-Side
. It wasn’t much, but it kept the bank account ticking over. Carson Mack disappeared to the back of my mind. I was done with that story.

The phone rang a little after nine one morning. Rain trickled down the windows in narrow rivulets. Ian had finished breakfast and was playing on a mat in the living room, moving cars around. Soon enough he’d become bored and I’d need to find something else to capture his attention. We’d just gone through one tantrum as he ate his toast and my eardrums were already weary. How could people enjoy having two or three children?

“Hello?” I said.

“Is this Laura Benton?”

“Yeah,” I answered hesitantly. I seemed to have heard that voice somewhere before but I couldn’t place it.

“This is Jim Clark.” For a moment I blanked. Then I realized: of course, James David Clark, Carson’s grandson.

“Hi, Jim. What’s up?”

“It’s my grandfather.” He sounded serious, his voice tense and wound up tight. “Someone shot him last night.”

“What?” For a moment I couldn’t believe what he’d just told me. “Is he…?” I didn’t want to say the word. I liked Carson and I didn’t want him dead, like his son.

“He’s going to be okay,” Jim assured me. “It just went through his thigh. He’s in Providence, up in Everett. They’re going to let him out today. He asked me to call and let you know.”

“Everett? What the hell was he doing up there?” But as soon as I said the words, I knew why. Carson had gone searching for his son’s killer. He hadn’t employed a private detective; he’d decided to do the job himself. From the sound of it, he’d come close to finding him. “What happened, exactly?”

“He wants to tell you himself,” Jim replied, after a moment’s awkward hesitation. “He said he’ll be home later, if you want to stop by. I’m going to pick him up in a while.”

I weighed my words very carefully before answering. If I went along, I was in deeper. But Carson had been shot, and he was a friend. How could I stay away?

“Yeah, of course I will. It’ll have to be tonight, though. He’s really going to be okay?”

“That’s what he said. But I haven’t seen him yet.”

“The two of you have gotten pretty close?” I asked.

“I’ve been over to his place a few times and he came and met my mom. So yeah, I guess we have,” he said happily. “He’s a great guy. It’s just weird discovering someone that you’d always been told didn’t exist.”

“I bet. And the pair of you have music in common.”

“Yeah. I got to tell you, I was scared when he called me from the hospital. He’d decided to find out about my dad’s death.”

“I figured that.”

“I’m going to tell him that he needs to stop. It’s not like my father was even any good. From everything my mom told me, he always had little scams going even when he was supposed to be working. But he never really had a regular job. He’d just go off for days on a card game or a bender. Didn’t tell her where he was headed.”

I glanced over at Ian, absorbed in moving a toy car back and forth. “Yeah, but he was still Carson’s son. I can understand why he’d want to know.”

“You know the only thing my dad left me?” Jim asked

“What?”

“A guitar.”

“He played?” The idea surprised me, but perhaps it shouldn’t. It was probably there in his genes.

“I don’t know. I never heard him play but I never really saw him, either. My mom said he never owned one when they were together. After he died I went over to his place and it was just there in his closet. But it’s a cool instrument. A Gibson J200.” Those were expensive. So at some point the man had some money to spare.
Or perhaps he’d simply stolen the guitar. “You know the fret markers? They’re usually mother-of-pearl?”

“Yes.”

“These ones are blue. I don’t know what stuff it is. Plastic, maybe. But they shine and there’s some inlay like that around the soundhole as well.”