Windy street corner
A patrolman chafes cold hands
A hooker shudders-–Szan
I’m surprised Grady didn’t jump at the chance to pursue this possible lead to Shrike, but he’s right; there’s just so much that a two-man squad can handle. With a fresh homicide, I doubt he’ll be able to tackle anything else anytime soon. Damn it, by the time he gets around to Hector, the trail will be cold.
Without a case number, much less a tag number, there’s no use trying MVD for help finding the Eterniti so it’s back to the Miracle Mile to nose around. The Mercy Mission can’t be the only place Hector hung his hat, assuming he had a hat. Surely someone else around there has seen him.
I ask about the man at every establishment he might have frequented. Yes, they know him at the massage parlor and the liquor store, but by first name only. The plasma bank technician and the front desk man at the Algonquian simply shake their head.
In the musty pawnshop, I nose around the musical instruments and sports equipment before reaching the rear of the store. There the pawnbroker guards shelves of electronics, cameras, and jewelry, once treasured items whose worth paled in the light of some greater need. In answer to my question he grunts, “Don’t know him.”
In the King Philip as elsewhere on the Mile, Hector has done an admirable job of being simultaneously well known and anonymous.
Daylight thins to dusk. I stop being selective and knock on any door that shows signs of life, even the one on which hangs a ragged sheet of cardboard with the single word “Tattoos.” For all the sign’s crudeness, the hand-painted letters are artistic. A little bell overhead tinkles when I pull open the door and I step into a smog of dust, old cigarette smoke, stale sweat, sharp tarry ink fumes, and over it all, aromatic incense.
“Yeah?” asks a throaty voice.
Her back to the door, the tattoo artist stands in the center of the room under a suspended task lamp. Light shines in jet black wavy hair that brushes the ruffled collar of a dingy, gray satin blouse. Narrow shoulders hunch in a short, stiff ivory brocade vest that comes to the slim waist of black leather pants. A long drink of water.
“I’m looking for Hector,” I say.
“He ain’t here,” the tattoo artist replies without turning around.
“He ain’t here,” not “Don’t know him.” Encouraged, I step farther into the room, peer over her shoulder. Her client lounges like an odalisque in a dilapidated barber’s chair. She is topless and has an arm tucked under a head of fluffy blonde hair. With latex-gloved fingers, the tattooer positions the needle on the woman’s breast, applies some color, lifts the needle, and wipes off the excess with a paper towel. The beginning of a pastel scallop hugs the edge of the aureole, embellishing a full creamy breast.
The tattooer applies the needle again. I wince with vicarious pain but the woman has a small smile on her face. She opens her eyes and her pupils are huge and dark. Stoned.
“Where can I find him?” I ask.
When the tattooer turns half toward me, I see with a start that she is not a woman but a man, albeit a small one with delicate features. The hair, the ruffled shirt, the slim shiny pants bring to mind Gainsborough’s The Blue Boy. Shadowed eyelids fringed with thick curly lashes curtain dark glittering eyes that regard me out of a pinched heart-shaped face. Porcelain-pale skin stretches over high cheekbones and a sculpted jaw. Shiny rings pierce neat earlobes, an arched eyebrow, and one nostril. Full, lustrous dark lips form a perfect Cupid’s bow.
Those lips are not smiling.
“Why should I tell you, cop?” she, no, he asks.
“Not a cop. Just a friend of a friend.” For now, at least.
“Sure you are.” He shows me his back, picks up his needle, and spreads his fingers out on the woman’s breast again.
I find myself staring at it and force myself to look away at the walls instead. The unpainted gypsum, water-spotted and chipped in places, displays sample tattoos. Flowers, butterflies, death’s heads, bike logos, nymphs, sword-pierced hearts, thorn-laced crosses, mandalas, dragons, snakes. They look mass-produced, like stencils, but there are also color photographs and pencil sketches. Custom work, I presume.
At last, the tattooer puts down his needle. “You’re done, babe,” he says to the woman on the chair.
She sits up, leans into him, and kisses him on the cheek. “Thanks, Lix.” She hops down, struts over to me on high-heeled ankle boots, and swings her breasts. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” I gasp.
“Come on, babe, the job’s not finished ‘till the paperwork’s done,” the tattooer says. He spreads clear gel on the fresh tattoo, tapes a folded sheet of paper towel over it, and pats it. “There ya go.”
“He’s the best,” she tells me. She pulls on a fake fur jacket, zips it halfway up, and sashays to the door. “Till next time, Lix.”
“See ya, babe.”
I saunter over to a rolling supply cart and pick up a bottle of color. “So, ‘Lex,’ you want to tell me where Hector is?”
The needle man stops, leans toward me. “Put that down, man, that stuff’s expensive.”
“Is it?” If he knows something about Hector, he’s going to tell me. I suspend the bottle over the floor and release it. Liquid spreads in a hot pink puddle. “Oops, I’m sorry.”
“Ah, man, you don’t gotta do that.”
“Where is Hector?”
The tattooer glowers. I let a bottle of purple go next.
“Come on, man, cut it out,” he says. “What are you planning to do, bust up the whole place?”
“If I have to.” I pick up a bright lime green. “Look I’ve got no beef with you, Lex, I’m just trying to find somebody.”
His glossy lips twist in a moue. “It’s not Lex, it’s Lix.”
“Lix what?”
“Gemini.”
“Lix Gemini. That your street name or your real name?”
“Sure you’re not a cop? You ask questions like a cop.”
“You dodge ‘em like a man with something to hide. Now where can I find Hector?”
“I don’t know. Around.”
“Ah, hell.” I drop the bottle of green. The pool at my feet becomes a psychedelic omelet.
“I’m telling you, man, I don’t know! Honest.”
Same old song. Seems everyone on the Miracle Mile is suffering from lip lock. “OK, have it your way, Lix Gemini. Be seeing you.”
Gemini snatches up the roll of paper towels and kneels beside the spreading ink. “Damn, I hope not.”
The night air is clammy after the suffocating warmth of the tattoo parlor. I button my coat and scan the street for unturned stones.
“Hey, Good Lookin’. Want a date?”
The voice belongs to a woman on the corner, the freshly illustrated blonde from the tattoo parlor. With her fleecy hair, fluffy white jacket, and pale bare legs, she looks like a dandelion swaying in the cold breeze. Since I’m the only other person within earshot, she must mean me. Not too long ago, I would have busted her for soliciting. Tonight, I simply say, “Sorry. I’m busy.”
“Looking for Hector, huh?” she asks.
“Yeah. If you tell me where I can find him, that might free up my evening if you know what I mean.”
She looks up at the starless sky. “Well, I can’t do that, exactly. Been a long time since I’ve seen him. Too bad, too, he was one of my favorites. Till I met you, that is.”
“I’d have an easier time finding him if I knew what name he was using these days.”
“You mean, Waltann isn’t his real name?”
Waltann? Hector Waltann? “Probably not any more than Smith or Jones,” I reply, trying to keep my excitement out of my voice. “Thanks anyway.”
“No problem. Now hurry up and find him so you can come back and take me someplace where we can crank up the heat.”
I slip her a ten and tell her to go ahead without me.
Hector Waltann. Could he possibly be listed in the phone directory? Miracle Mile’s lone phone booth doesn’t have one—it doesn’t have a phone either—but the desk man at the Algonquian lets me look at his. A Hector Waltann is listed on Columbus. Country Club Estates, a ritzy address. It’s a straight shot down South Hope Street and across Mill Valley Lane. I could be there in under half an hour, easily.
I turn off Mill Valley into a subdivision illuminated by white street lamps. The houses’ front windows glow yellow. Once, I was certain I’d have a house like this someday, along with a wife and kids, when I’d made the grade in the P.D., when I’d found a girl I could trust.
In Country Club Estates, mini villas with Spanish tile roofs and Mediterranean facades fringe the golf course. We’ve never had much trouble with this area. Domestic violence is waged discretely behind custom window coverings and there aren’t even many burglaries. The pickings are good but the homes are too well protected. There are easier marks elsewhere in the city.
Manicured lawns devoid of toys say this is not a neighborhood of growing families. Children raised, corporate ladders climbed, these homeowners belong to the club, have home theater systems, vacation at summer cottages on the Cape, drink single malt scotch. Drive Eternitis. Could be the car is legitimately Waltann’s.
Hector Waltann’s house is as upscale as its neighbors, but weeds stubble the brown lawn. The birdbath is dry, the rose bushes are brambles. Shrubs have overgrown the windows.
At my knock, the yellow light that fills the front door peephole blinks out momentarily. The sneak-peek won’t help whoever’s behind the door; I’m standing off to the side. The door opens a crack and I glimpse a short middle-aged woman.
“Hector Waltann, please,” I say.
“He’s not here,” she replies but doesn’t close the door.
“When might he return?”
“I don’t know,” she says, and closes the door.
“So he is missing,” I call out.
The door cracks open again. “Missing? What do you mean?”
“Ma’am, I’m happy to explain if I could have a few moments.”
She opens the door as wide as the safety chain will allow and paints me from head to toe with her gaze. A kid in a toy store couldn’t look more agog. As often as I get this reaction from women, it still makes me uneasy.
She asks, “You’re not a bill collector, are you?”
“I assure you, I’m no threat to your husband or you.”
After a moment, she slides the chain off. “Come in.”
She’s plainer than I imagined the wife of an Eterniti owner would be. Her navy slacks and sweater are the casual, at-home attire of a woman who wasn’t expecting company. Her thin lips are pale, nails are unpolished, and graying hair is done in short slack curls. In contrast, huge earrings weigh down her earlobes and hunky ornate rings choke fingers that clasp a highball glass and a cigarette. The red, green, and crystal gemstones that glitter confidently in the foyer light are so large I wonder if they’re genuine, though they probably are.
“Mrs. Waltann?”
“Yes.”
She leads me into an unlighted living room. Overstuffed forms of furniture crouch in the gloom. Crystal vases and glazed porcelain figurines crowd the tables and shelves. Their shiny surfaces gleam in what little street light filters in through the front window’s sheer curtains. I lean in close to examine the paintings on the walls: still lifes and landscapes, scenes from someone else’s life. I’m no connoisseur but I doubt they are paint-by-number. There is a noticeable absence of family photos. The jewelry, the furnishings, the house and neighborhood all speak of money, even if the front yard’s condition and Hector’s presence at the Mercy Mission hint at a recent reversal of fortune.
“I don’t know you. Are you a friend of my husband’s?” Mrs. Waltann asks.
“A friend of a friend,” I reply. “My name is Mansion.”
“I see. Please, have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”
I choose the couch and struggle to get secure on slippery satin. “Thank you.”
Without pausing to turn on a lamp she crosses to a wet bar, pours dark liquid from a crystal decanter that sparkles in the low light, and hands me a glass. It has the warm mellow aroma of fine whiskey. I don’t plan to drink it but fingers that used to grip a cigarette appreciate having something to hold.
With the overly-precise movements of the inebriated, Mrs. Waltann settles into a dainty chair in a corner. “Feel free to smoke. There’s an ashtray ... “ She gestures vaguely at the cocktail table.
“Thank you but I quit.” If I say it often enough, maybe even I’ll believe it.
“Goody for you,” she says. “Why do you think Hector is missing?”
“So you know where he is?”
Mrs. Waltann smokes silently for a minute or two. She sits with her shoulders squared, face-forward as if she were studying me though she can hardly see well in the grainy darkness. Finally she says, “Not exactly.” She raises her glass to her lips and sips, follows it with a puff of cigarette. Just when I’ve decided she’s slipped into a whiskey dream she says, “My husband and I are separated.”
“I see. An acquaintance of his hasn’t seen him lately and she’s worried about him.”
“She,” Mrs. Waltann echoes.
Another moment of palpable silence passes. If a TV is on somewhere in the house, or a radio or stereo, I don’t hear it. No appliances run. The phone doesn’t ring. No children shout, no dogs bark. It is quiet as a museum. In the motionless air I smell no cooking aromas, no flowers, no perfume, only cigarettes and booze.
“You’re not concerned about him, Mrs. Waltann?”
“Not anymore.” She twists the glass in her hand. “I was at first, when he started acting strangely.”
Oh? Maybe he’s recently had a stroke or breakdown, is wandering around in some kind of dementia. Could be he’s not as lucid as Sister Clyde made him out to be. “When was this?”
“About a year ago.” Mrs. Waltann turns her head to glance out the front window. “One day, his clothes were suddenly too old and plain. Fine, get custom suits, custom shirts. And yes, they did look nice.” She pauses. Thinking she’s stalled, I’m about to prompt her when she restarts herself. “I didn’t even tease him when he started using Rogaine, though even with hair he was still going to be Hector. You’re young, handsome ... “ She gives me a long look. “You wouldn’t understand.
“Then the house was too shabby. It wasn’t, but fine, get the house painted, get new carpeting, furniture, the home theater. I certainly didn’t object. Then it was new golf clubs, a motorized cart .... I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” She tilts her head but she is too old and too drunk to pull off coquettish.
I know why. It’s because I’m listening. “Would a new car have been part of the package?” I ask.
“The Eterniti?” she says. “Yes, he had to have that, too. Just walked into the dealership one day and bought it for cash—”
“Cash?”
“You’d think he was buying a new tie. It didn’t scratch whatever was itching him. It wasn’t good enough. Nothing was good enough.”
She sips again. The clink of ice cubes against her glass is loud as a glacier cracking.
She sighs. “It got ... obsessive. I thought whatever was bothering him, he’d eventually get it out of his system. When he moved out, I left the door open. I held out hope.” She drifts off again. When she resumes speaking, her voice is low, her tone spiteful. “But it only got worse. Stories got back to me: he was out partying all night. Drunk, crazy drunk.” Her voice drops lower yet. “Involved with a woman.” She smokes and sips some more.
“What about drugs?” I ask. She shrugs.
Not a stroke then, at least not to her knowledge. While she has described a man who’s been living the high life, it’s nothing that would explain his presence in a soup kitchen.
“You said it’s a woman who wants him found?” she asks.
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate. I’m trying to obtain information, not give it.
She drains her drink, tips a cube into her mouth, and crunches down. It sounds like a floe yielding to an icebreaker. I ask her how to get in touch with her husband.
“Why would I try? He lost the business. Drained our finances, borrowed on the house and the insurance, then stopped paying on them. He’s taken everything. I hope the sonofabitch is dead.” She crushes another piece of ice. “You can tell his friend that.”
Whoa, now that’s harsh. This sounds more serious than a man trying to party away middle age. A bad drug habit, maybe. One that ran him into heavy debt. Owed to Shrike? Is that what the men at the mission hinted?
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind, I’d like to borrow a picture of Mr. Waltann.”
“I’ll see what I have.”
She leaves me alone in the unlit room. Time passes. More. Enough so I wonder what became of her. I set off down a hallway, slowly at first, more purposefully when I see light emanating from a doorway. In a classically-furnished study, Mrs. Waltann sits slumped over a writing desk, her head cradled in her right arm, snoring softly. So much for asking any more questions tonight.
Her left arm dangles at her side. Gently, I slip a card from her loose grasp.