CHAPTER 18

Imitating drunks I have known, I turned right when I came out the door, hesitated, then veered left as if I couldn’t make up my mind which way to go. A teenager in a T-shirt and jeans hurried by, clutching a white paper bag. I stumbled twenty paces and peered down a dismal alley. The man in the raincoat had disappeared. He must have had a car waiting nearby.

I shivered and zipped my vest against the wind. It had picked up, whirling the Styrofoam fast-food cartons down the gutter, stinging my ears. I stuck my hands in my pockets, fumbled for the car keys, and made my way back to the loading zone. No ticket. No broken windows. No dented fenders.

Was the Blue Note a regular cop watering hole? Was the guy in wire-rims keeping the place under surveillance? Did the bartender know the guy was a cop, or just that he drank Johnny Walker doubles on the rocks?

And what was this pouring-liquor-on-the-floor routine? Not the best way to stay incognito.

I decided on a few more passes. Closing time is a good time to circulate. When the bars shut down, the hookers come out.

I was letting my questions stew, driving on automatic pilot, when I saw Marla.

Marla’s a regular, a lady I used to arrest maybe once every three months. She’s got four kids in state care, and a drug habit that keeps her working the streets. A detox veteran, she never seems to take the cure for long. I keep hoping she’ll change, but I guess she’s doing the best she can.

In a red mini topped by a shiny black jacket, she must have been freezing. Her high heels were sprained-ankle specials. I have no idea of Marla’s age. Her oldest kid must be fifteen.

I blocked the crosswalk and she hollered nasty things about me and my ancestors until I stuck my head out the window and waved.

“Hop in,” I said.

“How come?” She is, like most hookers, suspicious.

I brandished the cash my last fare had donated.

“Who you supposed to be tonight, girl?” she said, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat. “Turn up the heater, for Christ’s sake.”

The last time I saw Marla I was decked out as a sister hooker. She could have killed my cover, but she kept quiet.

“I’m looking for somebody,” I said.

“Where we going?”

“Just cruising. I’ll put you down wherever you say.”

“Looking for somebody,” she repeated. “Down here.”

“Right.”

“Honey, down here is where you come not to be somebody,” she said. “Ain’t got no somebodies ’round here.” She chuckled and nodded and I wondered what she was using to get high. I wanted to launch into a speech about AIDS and clean needles, but figured she was in no shape to pay me any mind.

“Remember Janine, with the tattoos?” I asked.

“The tattooed lady?” Marla stared out the side window. Her voice was low, the words slurred. “I think she gone away from here. Is this all the heat this junk heap puts out?”

“I saw her last night,” I said.

Marla shook her head. “Lots of gals look like Janine. Seems to me I heard she got sick or something.”

“Remember who you heard that from?” I asked.

“Nah.”

“Remember when?”

“Nah.”

I sighed and said, “How about a new one? A real young white chickie, brown hair, brown eyes, five-four?”

“She a somebody?”

“Family in Lincoln,” I said.

“You ever try kicking that heater?” Marla asked.

I passed over my picture of Valerie. It was getting a handled look to it, edged curved and worn. I flicked on the dome light so she could see better. The streets were empty and the driving easy. Most of the boys and girls had scored for the night or given up and found shelter. There was a little action in front of the bus depot, but the bitter wind was an effective crackdown on prostitution.

Dead time, the cops used to call it.

Marla stared at the picture so long I thought she’d nodded off. Then she said, “I think I could have seen her—for what it’s worth.”

“If it’s true, it’s worth. If it’s not, it’s not.”

“Honey, I don’t tell lies to no ex-policewoman. I expect you got friends.”

“A couple,” I said.

“I know you ain’t gonna sic ’em on me. But I do think maybe I saw this child. She wearing shoes like you wear to the senior fucking prom. White silky stuff, and I think they ain’t gonna stay that color long, girl.”

“Where was she?”

“Corner,” Marla said. “Under some lamppost. I tell you I wasn’t takin’ too much note exactly where I was.”

“She alone?”

“A couple gals with her. Rhonda, I think, maybe. You remember Rhonda? She talking to some dude, your girl.”

“Pimp?”

“A john, maybe. White boy. Maybe a hustler. Maybe chickenhawk. Prettiest dude I ever seen. Gold hair like a picture in a church.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“Dunno,” she said. “Days, you know, they go on by.”

“Prettiest dude I ever seen” sounded like Geoffrey Reardon to me.

“It wasn’t tonight, was it?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. I remember tonight okay, I think,” she said.

So Reardon had lied. If it was Reardon.

“Tell me more about this guy,” I said.

“Honey, I got to be going. You can let me off at the bus station, okay?”

“This guy with the blonde hair,” I said.

“Yeah? So what about him?”

“Seen him around?”

“Just the once. Kind of boy you remember.”

We haggled a little for old times’ sake, and then I gave her a twenty and dropped her at the corner of St. James. I spent the next hour holed up near my alleyway, trying to keep warm and awake. The lights never went on at Renney’s. No Valerie. No Caprice. No Janine. No unnamed cop in a bulky raincoat.

On the bright side, I didn’t even put a ding in the cab.