“Just tattoo enthusiasts,” Z said.
“Yeah, right,” the bartender said.
“I was talking business with this guy,” I said. “He seemed like a real straight shooter. I misplaced his phone number. We were going to take in a movie sometime.”
“You guys suck for cops,” the girl said.
“Do I look like a cop?” Z said.
“No,” the bartender said. “But he looks cop enough for both of you.”
I gave a modest shrug.
“We just need to speak to him,” Z said.
“No drugs here,” she said. “No way.”
“He told me his life was the seminary,” I said.
The bartender scrunched her mouth into a knot and shook her head. “You two are the worst cops I ever seen. You look like you should be pro wrestlers. Grow a mustache and you could be Pancho Villa.”
“Not Mexican,” Z said. “Cree Indian.”
“Prove it,” the bartender said. She crossed her arms across her smallish chest and raised her artful eyebrows. Her face had been dusted with a lot of makeup. She looked sort of like a Kewpie doll.
“You want to test my DNA?” Z said.
“Say something in your language,” she said.
He shrugged and said something in what I assumed was perfect Cree.
“What the hell does that mean?” she said.
“I asked, ‘What is your name?’”
“Kym with a y.”
“Kym with a y,” Z said. He smiled. She smiled back. I let my apprentice take the lead. No reason to double-team her with charisma and charm. “We just need to talk to this man.”
“About drugs.”
“No,” I said. “A woman he knows is missing. We need to find her.”
“So you are cops.”
“We are private investigators,” Z said. He smiled. I could tell he liked saying it.
“C’mon.” The bartender laughed and walked away. “That is so corny. C’mon.”
“It’s the best we got,” Z said.
I drank some more Tsingtao. Rain hammered on the big bank of windows facing Fenway. Insignificant trees bent and shook in the wind. The day had grown dark, and no light shone from the stadium. I ordered a couple of spring rolls and glanced up at the television. More news about Weinberg’s death on Fox 25. The room smelled of Asian spices and cigarettes.
“You want another beer?” Z said.
“I’m good.”
“What if I ordered another?”
“You’re a grown man,” I said.
Z took a long breath. He stared straight ahead and glanced at his bruised reflection in the mirror. He shook his head. “I’m good, too.”
I nodded.
“How long do we wait?” Z said.
“Long as it takes.”
“You know I lied before?”
“About what?”
“What I said to that woman in Cree.”
I waited.
“I told her she had the ass of a young elk.”
“Is that complimentary?” I said.
“To a Cree woman. Very.”
We both finished the last of our single beers. We waited. We watched more of the news crawl about Weinberg’s death. He had been in town to meet with casino investors. Police have not given official cause of death but were treating it as a homicide.
When I turned from the bar to the entrance, the black man Z had fought walked into the room. He smiled and pointed at Kym with his index finger. Mr. Popular. She stood motionless, mouth open, slowly shaking her head. Z stiffened and removed a boot from the railing. He set it down on the floor. His eyes met the man’s. Z braced the edge of the bar with the flat of his one hand.
The man stopped mid-stride, looked at Z, and closed his mouth. Z took a step toward him.
The man ran. Even on the injured leg, Z was quick. I left some cash with a nice tip and followed. The man had disappeared from the front lot. Z darted for one corner of the motel, and I ran around the other. When I got to the back parking lot, the man was trying unsuccessfully to scale a chain-link fence topped in concertina wire. Even without a hard rain, this would have been a difficult task. But the rain had made the metal slick and unstable, and the slugger had found himself trapped in the razor wire, one foot hanging over the HoJo property and the other on Van Ness Street and the back of Fenway.
Z yanked him from the fence, flesh and clothes ripping, and knocked him to the wet ground. The man tried to stand, but Z hit him hard in the throat, sending him to his knees. I kept running. Z kicked the man in the face, and as the man tried to regain his footing, Z punched him in the face. There was a flurry of rights and lefts, and then the man toppled to his back. Z was on him, pinning him to the ground, fists pummeling until I pulled him off. The man was bleeding badly.
“Fuck,” the man said. “Fuck.”
He had curled into a ball, waiting for more. I reached for his gun, a cheap .45, and his wallet. The man had a New York driver’s license issued in the name of Bryant Crowder. Bryant had given up trying to escape. He had the word MISUNDERSTOOD tattooed across his neck.
I stared down at him. “Ain’t it the truth,” I said.
Z had his hands on top of his head and was catching his breath. He looked like he wanted me out of the way. I held up a hand and shook my head.
“We’re looking for your friend, Jemma Fraser,” I said. “Where is she?”
Bryant wiped the blood from his lip. “Who the hell’s that?”
A lot of rain trailed off the brim of my cap. I shook my head. “See, sluggers like Bryant here will always answer with ignorance. Obviously, they come by this trait naturally.”
“Jesus,” Bryant said. “He broke my fucking ribs.”
Z looked at him. “Easier to fight with a gun on me.”
Bryant grinned a little. Z stepped up and kicked him again.
“Where is Jemma?” I said.
“Don’t know the bitch.”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Such a mouth.”
“Woman hired you to shake down those old people in Revere,” Z said.
“Damn. It wasn’t no woman,” Bryant said. He was breathing heavily. “She just told us where to go and what to do.”
“Okay,” I said. “Who hired you?”
Bryant tried to push himself up off the ground. Z moved in closer, his face an inch from Bryant’s. Z did not wear a pleasant expression.
Bryant shook his head. “Mr. Weatherwax.”
I nodded. “Come on, Z.”
“Not finished.”
“You are for now.”
Bryant smiled a bit. “Got you once,” Bryant said. “Get you again.”
Z nodded but punched him hard in the throat before standing. Bryant curled into a ball, choking. I walked back to my car in the rain. Z followed.
“You know who he’s talking about?”
“Jacky Wax,” I said.
“Who is he?”
“Dope dealer, pornographer, killer, extortionist.”
“Man of many talents,” Z said.
We got into the Explorer and headed out. The windshield wipers worked overtime.
“You good?” I said.
“Better,” Z said.
32
I WONDERED if Jacky Wax still remembered me. I wondered if some people still called him Jacky or if he used John Weatherwax. I hoped he was still Jacky Wax, a name befitting the manager of a Boston landmark such as the Purple Banana. The strip club was in the South End, not far from Tufts medical school. An artfully drawn neon banana shined under dark skies as Z and I trod through a few puddles to the front door.
“Used to work a club like this in L.A.,” Z said.
“Lots of job satisfaction?”
“Nice for the first week,” Z said. “Strippers are all crazy. Hooked on drugs. The boyfriends are usually losers who either sit at home all day or deal. A man can only look at naked women for so long.”
“I am willing to test that theory.”
“Trust me,” Z said. “Music is bad. Dancing is bad. Places always smell like smoke and puke.”