It worked.
I found out Melissa started in treatment earlier in the week, that she was driven by her significant other, a large man with a shaved head who didn’t leave the car, and that she was placed on Bowerman’s case load. Apparently, according to Katy, Bowerman fancies herself an expert in women’s issues.
I took my chances and asked if she had any contact with a client named Tyrone whose last name I just couldn’t remember but who Michelin wanted me to find out about. I explained that the file was way over in the chart room and I didn’t feel like getting it.
She bought all of it and gave me the entire deal on Tyrone. I guess my man Tyrone had been thrown out of treatment a long time ago for inappropriate sexual advances on the female clients.
Imagine that.
27
I took some time to process what I had just learned and started strategizing what to do about it. As I had guessed, my bald biker friend had something to do with the evil babes from jail, probably was the same guy who used to pick up Walanda, and almost assuredly was the guy that paid me and Al a visit at the Moody Blue. I wasn’t sure what I had, but I had a piece of thread to start pulling at. If Stephanie was due out tomorrow and headed for the Eagle Heights clinic, then I had a pretty good guess who might be taking her. I was guessing that if I hung out around the clinic long enough, I’d see a white pickup truck with a bald bastard behind the wheel who had something coming to him. As this ran through my mind, I glanced down at Al. He was uncomfortable and continued to struggle with his breathing.
The county jail discharged prisoners at 12:01 a.m., which was one of the classic strokes of incredible bureaucratic idiocy. A very high percentage of the people who wound up in county jail got there because of drugs, drinking, or other nocturnal happenings. The jail was located at the bottom of South Hill in Crawford’s worst ghetto. The inmates only had to walk out the door and head a block up the hill to get their first hit of crack or heroin. There was even a scum subset of dealers who waited on that block at 12:02 every night. Some women would leave the county lockup and wait for the first john to cruise by. There would be a $10 or $15 transaction and then the usual sexual procedure. That payment got them a couple of bumpies, as they were sometimes called, and a briefly interrupted crack addiction was reignited.
I had a couple of hours to kill before midnight and I was starving, so I headed over to AJ’s. Al was going to have to come in with me and AJ was probably going to give me shit for it, but I didn’t care. I parked right out in front, lifted Al off his seat, and carried him in the front door.
“Hey,” TC said. “Meat deliveries in the back.”
“Duffy-get the hell out of here with him. It’s against health laws,” AJ said.
“He’s a seeing-eye dog,” I said.
“For who?” Rocco said. “Midgets?”
“Look, AJ, he’s hurtin’ and I can’t leave him alone. Give me a break this time, will ya?”
AJ shook his head and muttered something and walked to the other end of the bar. He acted disgusted, but that was predictable and he didn’t put us out.
“Hey Duff, he’s one of those basket hounds, isn’t he?” Jerry Number One asked.
“That’s bassoon hound, jerkoff,” said Rocco. “They were originally bred to accompany the soldiers in the French and Indian War. The bassoonist called the men to battle.”
“I think it’s bastard hound, because they drool so much,” TC said.
“What the hell would drooling have to do with bastards?” Rocco said.
“It pisses everyone off and so that’s what they called them,” TC said. “God damn bastard hounds.”
“Fellas, he’s a basset hound,” I said. “They’re originally from France, and they’re bred to trail small game for hunting.” My Dogs For Dummies reading was paying off.
“That too,” Rocco grumbled.
Eventually they got around to asking me about the bumps and bruises Al and I had. I mentioned something about a fender bender and a bad day at the gym. That was enough for the Foursome because they were already on to their next discussion/argument-something about a choking dog spitting up a burglar’s fingers.
I decided to talk with Kelley.
“Hey-Kel.”
“What’s going on, Duff. Tough sparring session?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“That’s not from the ring.” Kelley didn’t ask-he was making a statement.
“Well…”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
Before I could answer, Rocco interrupted us.
“God damn bastard hound!”
I spun around on my stool to see Al chomping through Rocco’s cheeseburger. He had ketchup on his nose.
“Shoo, shoo!” Rocco yelled.
“Rocco-he’s not a pigeon,” TC said. “What the hell are you telling him to shoo for?”
Al finished the cheeseburger and was sampling Rocco’s fries.
“Shoo, you bastard!” Rocco said.
I grabbed Al and gingerly carried him away from the bar and to one of the tables. Everyone thought it was hysterical, that is, everyone but Rocco.
“Sorry, Rock,” I said. “AJ-can you make Rocco another burger and get him a beer on me?”
“Bastard hound,” Rocco muttered.
“Certainly seems more fitting than bassoon hound now, doesn’t it, Rock?” Jerry Number Two said.
Rudy came in sweating up a storm, sat on the other side of the Foursome, and ordered a Foster’s and a sidecar of Hennessy. Poor Rudy looked like he was getting fatter as he sat there. The back of his neck looked like a pack of hotdogs and the fabric on his clothes looked as stressed as he did.
“Hey, Rude. What’s happening?” I asked.
“Bullshit, Duff. Nothin’ but bullshit,” he said, taking a pull off the Hennessy and leaving just about a sip left in his rocks glass.
“Gabbibb found cancer in two more of the park-beating victims.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “Something weird is happening and I don’t know what. Either these guys are all eating something bad or the park is radioactive or something,” he said.
“How could all of these guys have such bad luck?” I asked.
“Well, it’s possible, just not very likely.”
“Hey Rude-why would Gabbibb have money in an offshore account?” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“He was on the computer before me and I saw that he was on the Bank of Canary website.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, Duff.” He swallowed the rest of the Hennessy. “He might be doing something shady with that electronic business he does with his cousin.”
“He was also on some Pakistani extremist site.”
“Duffy, what the fuck are you doing?” He wiped sweat from his brow. “You think he’s some sort of money-laundering political extremist trying to take over Crawford, New York?”
“I think he’s a shady asshole,” I said.
“I think there’s a lot of shady assholes around, but that doesn’t mean they’re all doing it on a giant scale.”
“Hey, how’s that shit going at work?”
“They’ve called a meeting with the hospital board of directors to decide whether they rescind my privileges.”
“I’m sorry, Rudy,” I said.
“Yeah, me too, Duff,” he said.
I finished off my third Schlitz and realized I’d better head out if I wanted to catch the 12:01 jail releases. I bid my farewells to the boys, scooped up Al, who winced a bit when I put pressure on his ribs, and walked to the Eldorado.
I slid in a compilation eight-track I made years ago of some of Elvis’s stuff. Colonel Parker, Elvis’s manager and guru, was one of the stupidest music people ever. He had a tendency of burying some of Elvis’s greatest songs on albums that really sucked. “Burning Love,” for instance, was on an album with movie hits. I decided I would create my own compilations of my favorites and tell the Colonel to stick his marketing plan.