Part 23 (1/2)

It all felt too familiar. Hot, covered with a slick of sweat, the plankton coating of grime on my tongue, standing at a door, ready to knock, the sickly smell of pig s.h.i.+t wafting through the air. Only this time I wasn't trying to make money, I was trying to get information-information wanted by an a.s.sa.s.sin, not me.

I stood on the stoop of the trailer several doors down from b.a.s.t.a.r.d and Karen's. I'd already had one no-answer, two suspicious doors closed hastily in my face, and one veiled threat from an exceptionally short and obese man in boxers and a sleeveless T-s.h.i.+rt. Then there was number five. The day before, it had been dark and empty when I'd pa.s.sed by. This afternoon, I could see lights on in the living room and hear the hum of the window-unit air conditioners. A woman in her sixties opened the front door but refused to open the screen, as though that would somehow protect her. Her hair, dyed to the color of yellow grapefruit, was cut short and permed into a dense jungle of cheerlessly fisted loops. She wore thin sea green sweatpants and a University of Florida T-s.h.i.+rt on which a saucily agitated gator charged forward.

”Hi. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about your neighbor over there, Karen.”

”I don't want to buy nothing,” the woman told me.

”I'm not selling anything, ma'am.” I said, noting how odd it felt to mean it this time. ”I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions for me. You'd be willing to do that, wouldn't you?”

”I told you, I ain't buying,” she said, and began to shut the door.

Part of me was content. I might go back to Melford and say that no one would talk to me, then we'd get into the Datsun and cruise out of Meadowbrook Grove forever. But that other part of me, that niggling part, knew that Melford would send me right back out, to another part of the trailer park, this one maybe closer to where Doe kept his police station.

So I said, ”Hold on.” A clever little lie occurred to me, and I figured I had nothing to lose. ”Ma'am, I'm really not selling anything. I'm a private detective.” Private detectives were on the brain, after all, following my conversation with Chris Denton. So why not?

She looked at me, this time more kindly. ”Really?” Her eyes were wide with wonder.

”Yes, ma'am.” It was incredible to me. This being a.s.sertive business actually paid off.

”Like Cannon?” she asked.

I nodded solemnly. ”Exactly like Cannon.”

”Not exactly. We'll have to fatten you up first.” She opened wide the screen door.

Her name was Vivian, and she sat me at a padded card table in her kitchen and served me a can of Tab and supermarket-brand frosted oatmeal cookies that she daintily placed on a layer of paper towels.

There were pictures of poodles everywhere-on the walls, in frames on the counter. I counted at least a dozen. But there didn't seem to be a dog around, though the place had the wet smell of dog hair.

”Oh, that girl was always a s.l.u.t,” Vivian said thoughtfully. ”Just like her mother. Wh.o.r.es, the two of them. And into drugs, too.”

”What sort of drugs?” I asked.

”I wouldn't know that, that,” she said with a cluck of her tongue. ”I hardly even know what people today take. In my day, we just drank, you know. The other things, like reefer and such, were for c.o.o.ns.”

”Racc.o.o.ns, ma'am?” I asked.

She giggled and waved a hand at me as if we were old joking pals. ”Oh, you stop.”

”What about the man she was seeing?” I ventured. I liked the way it came out, all TV and professional sounding. ”Are you familiar with him?”

”You mean that b.a.s.t.a.r.d fellow? Oh, yes. I didn't much care for him. Not a nice man. You could tell by his name. Not a proper nickname, I don't think.”

”That's right,” I agreed. ”Nice people have nicknames like Scooter or Chip.”

”That's right. I heard he was into drugs, too. And I heard he was selling them with-”

And then she stopped. She stopped, she looked around the trailer, and she flipped at the metal ring on the top of her can of Tab.

”Go on,” I urged.

”It don't matter. But she and her boyfriend were into drugs all right. And that's why her husband took her kids away, because she was hooked on something, and they say she was letting that b.a.s.t.a.r.d fellow have his way with one of the girls.”

”Ma'am,” I said evenly, ”tell me more about the business with the drugs. Does this have anything at all to do with the police chief, Jim Doe?”

Vivian looked down. ”Oh, no. Not that I heard nothing of. I got nothing bad to say about Jim Doe. He's always been nice to all of us. Except for the smell that comes over from his pigs there, he's done nothing but good here. I'll tell anyone that.”

”I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Just one more question.” I was beginning to feel my audience straining, and I wanted to get out before I frightened her too much.

She shook her head. ”I don't think so,” she said. ”I think we done enough questions today. I think maybe it's time for you to go.”

”Just one more,” I urged.

”No,” she said. Her face had grown pale and her skin slack.

”All right.” I stood up. ”Thanks for your time. I really appreciate it. I'm sorry if you feel like talking to me might get you in trouble with that policeman.”

The woman said nothing.

”I can promise you,” I continued, ”I would never do or say anything to let him know you'd helped me. But the thing is, if he knew you spoke to me, he wouldn't have to know what you said, would he? I mean, you might tell him that all you did was give me cookies and a drink and smile at my questions, right?”

”That's right,” she said slowly.

”That's all he would get from me, if it came down to that, though I'm sure it wouldn't. So, since I'm here, and he's not going to find out anything about what was said, there isn't anything wrong with answering just one more question, is there?”

”I guess not,” she said.

”You're absolutely right,” I told her, as though this argument had been hers all along. ”Do you know if there was a woman in her forties or early fifties who might be a regular visitor at Karen's trailer?”

Vivian nodded. ”Probably her mother,” she said. ”If it were anyone, it would be her mother, the wh.o.r.e. She sometimes comes for a visit. Karen says she comes without calling, just pops in without knocking, like she's trying to catch her daughter at something. That would probably be it. They're both wh.o.r.es,” she added thoughtfully.

”Okay,” I said. ”Thanks so much. You're really going to help me crack my case.” It sounded pathetic, but it seemed to soothe her.

”Well, you can come back anytime if you just want to talk, a polite young man like you. I'm happy for the company. Ever since my Rita went missing, I've been so lonely.”

My first thought was that there was another dead person in Meadowbrook Grove, but something told me I was wrong. ”Your poodle?” I asked.

Her eyes brightened. ”Do you know her?”

She sounded as though we were at a party and she mentioned someone who might run in the same circle I did.

”No, I just noticed all the poodle pictures.”

”Oh, yes. She disappeared a few months ago. I'm just so broken up about it. She was so beautiful. Not one of those tiny toy poodles, either, but a proper standard poodle. Black with a white patch on her head so she looked like she was wearing a hat. Such a sweet girl, my Rita. She always loved to play with the little children around here. And she loved fruit. You know, strawberries and grapes and bananas. All the kids knew it and would bring her fruit to eat. She was so happy and fat. I just wish I knew what happened to her, where she is now.”

Her eyes were watering, and I turned away. ”I'm very sorry she's disappeared,” I offered.