People rarely question a police badge, the gal at the reception desk didn't when I flashed my tin and said, “Peace Officer. I'd like Miss Endin's home address.”
“This is something, the police phoned yesterday and this morning asking for her. She lives in End Harbor.”
“I know that, but she hasn't been home,” I said, thinking I was wrong not to have tried her house instead of taking the boy-cop's word for it. “Did she have any address here in Hampton? You know, some place to call in an emergency?”
“No sir, we only have the Harbor address for her.”
“I see. Can I speak to whoever worked next to her, any close pal she has among the girls here?”
“I suppose it's about that murder in the Harbor. Gee whiz, we never have nothing here but hot-rod jerks wrecking themselves.” She phoned in to somebody, then told me, “Girl be out in a second. This Jane in trouble?”
“No.”
A young girl in a tight red turtleneck sweater, and tighter jeans showing off her round basketball rear, walked up to me. When she walked the basketball was far from still. “You the detective? See, I work next to Jane. Is she in a jam? When I saw her this morning she didn't act like....”
“Where did you see her?”
“On the Dunes Road. I can't, sleep much when it's muggy and my old man is too cheap to get air conditioning, so I was up early this morning. I drove around and she passed in her old struggle-buggy. She didn't stop, just waved at me. Jane looked bad, like she'd been up all night.” The girl had a jerky way of talking—and thinking, for she reached up to brush her close-cut dark hair with her fingertips... and to make sure I saw her tiny pointed breasts.
“Did Miss Endin ever mention any friends in Hampton? Say, some place where she might go on her lunch hour, or after work?”
“Naw. She didn't talk much. Even though I've worked beside her for over a year now, Jane ain't the buddy-buddy type. You see, she's old, and an Indian. Last....”
“Old?”
“For crying out tears, I bet she's thirty if she's a day. Last summer I suggested we might take in the pow-wow at the reservation. I figured her being Indian and all. Man, she near flipped, told me off. You can't figure a woman like—”
“What reservation?”
She brushed her hair again, with both hands this time, to give me the full view. It wasn't much of a view. “Mister, you don't know a little about this end of the Island. Guess you must be a big-time dick brought in special for the murder. I know that's what it's about.” She gave me a cute wink.
“Where is the reservation?”
“Outside Qotaque there's this Indian reservation. Every summer all the Indians living in Brooklyn and the other cities, they're supposed to return and hold dances, and all this old square stuff. I went once. It was from hunger, strictly tourist bait jive.” She glanced at the wall clock. “You know I'm losing time, this is a piece-work deal. Anything else?”
“That's all. Thank you.”
“What they want Jane for, witness against this old Greek?”
“No, I'm merely checking.”
She winked again. “You wouldn't tell me anyway. Yon know, you ain't what I pictured a dick looking like.”
“Sorry, I left my muscles home,” I said, heading for the door.
The rain was coming down harder and my back started to ache. Twenty minutes later I was in Qotaque, which was even smaller than the Harbor. A stiff wind was driving the rain and it was almost dark enough to be night. I stopped for coffee and a hamburger, got directions on finding the reservation. I followed the directions and when I reached the Shinnecock Canal I knew I'd passed the turn-off.
I drove back slowly, the windshield wiper fighting a losing battle, and found it—not a road but a country lane with a faded wooden sign. The rain had made the dirt road into a mud rut. I inched along, not seeing any houses.
If I'd been going faster I might have made it: the car slid into a hole, or some damn thing, and stuck. My right rear wheel raced like a runaway prop, sending up a shower of mud. The car skidded a few inches from side to side, sank back into the hole. I tried backing out; it was a waste of time.
I sloshed over to the bushes on the side of the “road” to pull out a handful of branches; nothing gave except my skin. I took out my penknife and hacked away like a cub scout. By the time I was thoroughly soaked, the rain chilling the remains of yesterday's sunburn, I had an armful of small branches. I packed these in front of the rear wheels and the car went a big fat two feet, then slid back into the mud. Locking the ignition, I started walking in the rain, cursing myself for not having the sense to stay in my comfortable New York flat.
After I walked a few hundred yards there was a turn in the mud and I came upon a couple of shacks and a store. I felt as if I'd stumbled on some forgotten Tobacco Road. There was a light in the store. I tracked in mud. The guy behind the counter looked more like a Negro than an Indian, although he had long white brushed hair reaching his shoulders. He was wearing a worn beaded vest over a faded shrimp-colored sport shirt. He was short and wide.
“Come for souvenirs? Fall in the mud, mister?” His voice was a rough croak and his wide mouth toothless.
“My car is stuck. Can you...?”
“Ah, you need gas. I have a pump behind the store.”
“I'm stuck in the mud. Can you help me?” The light was one small bulb and the few cans and boxes on the shadowy shelves seemed terribly stale-looking. In a separate showcase he had some dusty toy tom-toms, beaded belts and feathered hats, left over from the last tourist invasion.
“Ah, the mud. Washington still robs the Indian, for years we have asked for a paved road. I'm Chief Tom. I have a truck if you want a tow. Ten bucks.”
“Ten bucks! That mud ambush out there your work?”
“You want tow or not?” There was an evil gleam in his bloodshot eyes. “You're blocking the road so I'll have to tow your car out of the way. Still cost you ten bucks.” He pulled back his vest with a proud movement to show me a large, highly polished gold badge. “I'm a deputy, in charge of traffic here.”
“Thanks for going through the motions of asking if I wanted a tow.” I felt tired, no longer the super-detective. I dried my face with my handkerchief, pulled out my pipe. It was wet. “This the reservation?”
He nodded. “Indians dumb. Government give them land and a house here for free, but the young bucks, they leave. Maybe go into army, never come back here. Live in lousy tenements in Brooklyn.”
“Sure, they're crazy to leave this paradise. You know a Miss Jane Endin?”
His eyes became cagey. “I know her. That's what I mean. She has house and land in End Harbor, but if she was smart she would sell it and come live here for nothing. She's not smart.”
“I know, she isn't a customer of yours. Where can I find her?”
“What you want to see her for?”
I flashed my buzzer but he grabbed my hand and pulled back his vest—held my badge against his. He gave me a grin full of purple gums; his badge was bigger. “What she done?”