Finding Shady wouldn’t be hard. He was predictable, always hung out at the same place on Bailey Avenue with the same group of badasses, lowlife’s that would turn in their own granny for a buck, gangbangers with little or no respect for anyone or anything, especially an ex-cop. But what they did have was information about who was moving what on the street. People talk, and if you know who’s listening, you can usually find out what you need to know; Shady Tree was a good listener.
I pulled up in the front of the house, a once imposing three-story structure built around the turn of the century but had seen better days. Sure enough, a half-dozen members of the gang were hanging around on the steps, just waiting for any kind of trouble that might happen by.
Shady, seated on the top step like some kind of urban warlord, looked the other way when he saw me. I figured it was one of those, “you don’t see me if I don’t see you” kind of things.
“Hey, Shady. You got a minute? Yeah, of course you do. It’s not like you wahoos have work to do, is it?”
Shady looked down at me, his eyes half closed, head cocked to one side, the corners of his mouth twisted into what I’m sure he thought was a fearsome sneer. The dreads under the do-rag looked nasty and maybe full of critters. It was that same old tough guy persona he effected whenever he thought he had something to prove, which was always.
Why do these guys think that kind of crap scares people?
“Piss off, before you gets hurt, man,” he growled.
“Now is that any way to treat an old pal, Shady? I just want to have a little talk.”
“You ain’t welcome here,” a guy sitting two steps down from Shady said, playing with a butterfly knife.
I pulled back my jacket to show him my weapon, and he looked away, eyes down.
“You think you can pull that mother before we take you down?” The voice came from behind me. I turned to see that I was surrounded.
“You want to try me?” I asked, resting my hand on the grip.
“You ain’t worth it, old man,” the smallest of them said.
“Sit d’hell down an’ shut d’hell up,” Shady snarled at them.
They sat, looked away.
“Sorry about your kid, Shady,” I said. “I’m trying to find out who killed him and was kind of hoping you might help me.”
Shady looked uncomfortable like I’ve never seen him before. His eyes rolled as he looked at each of his friends like he was considering it, but daren’t show any weakness in front of them. He shifted, stood up, shoved his hands into his pants pockets, sauntered slowly down the steps, stopped in front of me, his face so close to mine I could smell his breath; surprisingly, it smelled quite sweet.
“He dead becuz o’ you, shithead.” He turned his head sideways and without losing eye contact with me, spit on the ground then turned and walked away.
There was something about that look he’d given me that told me he wanted me to follow him, but to be discrete about it.
“You punks have a nice day,” I said as I pushed past the crowd and got in my car and drove away in the opposite direction.
I made a left around the block and then left again onto a narrow access lane that ran behind the houses. Sure enough, there he was, and he didn’t look happy.
I pulled up next to him, rolled down the window, and before I could yell for him to get in, he was in, slammed the car door closed and ducked down so he couldn’t be seen. I took off down the street and out of the neighborhood.
“I only be here for Stitch,” he said, sitting up in the seat. “I don’t want nuttin’ to do wich you.”
“Got it. What do you know about what happened to him?”
“I know you ain’t gonna touch ’em. They be way outa your league.”
“What do you mean?”
“We talkin’ heavy metal here, man. The big league. Ain’t nobody gonna touch ’em. Not you, not the Feds. Look, man. I gotta go, befo’ somebody see me. Pull over.”
I did as he asked, and he opened the car door while it was still moving.
“Hold on, Shady. At least tell me who’s running things or what it is they’re running. Guns, drugs, what?”
He shook his and said, “You ain’t even close… Just be careful, man,” and then he turned and walked away.
What the hell was that supposed to mean, I thought, not even close? Sheesh, that was a waste of time.
All I knew now was that the operation was big and not some rinky-dink local gig. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
I called Kate; no answer. I left her a message to call me. In the meantime, I had something else on my mind: Penelope and the Rose café. What the hell did they have to do with this mess? I needed answers, so that’s where I headed.
I arrived there fifteen minutes later, all of my senses on high alert. That being so, the first thing I did as I parked the car was took a good look around. One thing that I hadn’t noticed before really stuck out—all of the buildings around and next door to the restaurant were abandoned, boarded up. The café was a jewel in a pig pen. How come?
Hmm, I wonder... Maybe we should take a peek inside some of those. I’ll check with Kate, see what she thinks.
I found a spot on the street in front of the café and parked the car. It was then I noticed something else: the Rose Café sign had been replaced by another that proclaimed the establishment to be Lucky’s Diner.
I thought at first that the place was closed, but then I could see there were lights on inside, so I exited the car, pushed in through the front doors, looked around and…
“Hi! I’m Amber. Welcome to Lucky’s Diner. You want a table?”
“Whoa! Where did you come from?” I was startled. I hadn’t heard her coming.
“From the kitchen, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. So, a table, then?”
She was a perky little thing in her late twenties: dark hair, bobbed; twinkling eyes and a crooked smile with teeth that looked as if they’d been bleached one too many times. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans, a white top under a short-sleeved jacket that did little to hide the tattoos on both arms; Dragons, I thought.
“No! No table… Lucky’s Diner? What happened to the Rose Café?”
She shrugged. “The owners decided to make a change.” Her crooked smile turned to an evil grin. “So, if you don’t want a table, would you like something to go?”
I stared down at her. She didn’t flinch; stared right back at me, daring me to argue with her. I didn’t.
I looked around, over the top of her head, then said, “What about Penelope? Does she still work here?”
“Penelope? No, she doesn’t work here anymore.”
No shit, I thought sarcastically.
“Well,” she said. “Can I get you something or not?”
“Yeah, you can tell me who owns the place. I’d like to have a word with them.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t have that information. What are you, a cop?”
I didn’t answer. I stared at her.
She stared right back, then said, “Okay, I have work to do. So, if you’re finished…”
“Yeah, I’m finished,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” she said and with a swish of her hips, she turned and hurried away into the kitchen.
I checked my watch. It was almost two o’clock. I stepped outside and looked around. The street was quiet. I decided to check out the vacant buildings on either side of the restaurant.
The red brick building to the right had several broken windows, faded and grimy, too high off the ground to look through. The front door was solid wood with several latches and locks. There was no way to get through them without an ax or electric saw.
I walked around the side of the building looking for another entrance or even a crack to see through, but there were none. I turned the corner at the rear of the building and found myself in a back alley that ran parallel to the two streets. It was littered with garbage cans, stacks of cardboard boxes, even the skeleton of a stripped car, its wheels long gone, its hubs resting on blocks. A metal door at the rear of the building was also locked up tight, and there were no windows at all in the alley.
There was a half-size dumpster at the back of the café; the kind used by restaurants to dump uneaten food and other waste. I lifted one of the lids; it was full. On top of the pile were two Rose Café menus, one on top of the other. I took a transparent evidence baggie from my pocket, stuffed my hand inside it, turning it into a glove of sorts, then grabbed the two menus by the corner and lifted them out of the dumpster. My thought was that maybe we could get some useful prints off of them.
I lowered the lid and was startled yet again. Amber was standing on the other side of the dumpster, staring at me.
“If I’d known you were that hungry, I’d have made you a sandwich,” she said, but she wasn’t smiling. “What’s that you have in your hand?”
“Old menus,” I said. “I’m a collector. Always looking for interesting… things in the garbage.” I smiled my own evil smile.
My phone rang and my hand fumbled in my pocket to shut off the ringer. Amber was here for a reason, and I didn’t think it was to empty the trash from the bathroom; I wanted to know what it was.
“Well, time’s a-wastin’,” she said. “If you’re done collecting, you should go... Now!”
The smile was cold, the threat implicit, and she backed it up by brushing aside her jacket for me to see the grip of what looked suspiciously like a Ruger LCR .38 revolver.
“Well then,” I said, lightly. “I won’t waste any more of your time,” and started to turn and walk away. I figured it was a no-win situation, not worth the hassle.
“The menus,” she said quietly. “Put ’em back where you got ’em.”
I turned back, smiled at her, lifted the lid, and slid the two menus back inside the dumpster.
“If you want to stay healthy,” she said, leaning forward slightly, “you should keep your nose out of where it doesn’t belong. Don’t come back, y’hear?”
I didn’t answer. I turned away and walked on down the alley to the next building where I stopped and turned to look at her; she was gone.
That building was boarded up too, but there were a few broken slats that provided me with a look inside. It was dark with lots of cobwebs and dust. There was nothing in there except maybe a few rats and cockroaches.
I thought about what Amber had said. The bitch knew a whole lot more than she was telling me. She was packing. Since when did waitresses carry?
My phone rang again. I looked at the screen. It was Kate. I answered it.
“Hey,” she said. “Where are you?”
“I’m… It’s a long story. How about you meet me at my office in say, an hour, and I’ll tell you everything?”
“Okay, I’ll wrap up here and head back to town. What’s the address?”
I gave it to her and ended the call.
I rounded the corner back onto Third just in time to see a cop giving me a ticket.
“Hey, it’s a legal parking zone.”
She looked up from her pad and pushed back her hat a little. “Your license plate’s missing. Lemme see your ID.”
“Aw hell! Not again.” I handed her my driver’s license.
She walked back to her cruiser. Two minutes later she was back and handed me my license. “Get the license plate taken care of, Mr. Starke,” she said as she handed me the ticket. She tipped her hat at me, got into her cruiser, and drove away.
Damn!