In Plain Sight (16 page)

“I know I would if I were her,” I said glumly.

George drained his Rolling Rock and signaled Connie to bring him another one. “Maybe she's not you.”

I grunted a response.

“Sounds as if you've had a lousy day,” George commented as he fed a handful of peanuts to Zsa Zsa one at a time.

“It was a frustrating day.”

“Mine was, too.” He threw a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “I'm thinking of quitting the program.”

I looked at him with consternation. “You can't do that. You just started.”

George glared at me. “I can do whatever the hell I want. The truth is I don't belong in grad school. I was stupid to think I would.”

I ran my finger around the rim of my glass. “You know, stuff like research is difficult in the beginning.”

“Oh, I can do the research fine,” George said bitterly. “It's the writing I'm having problems with. I think one thing and it comes out on the paper another way.”

“I told you I'd be glad to help.”

“I don't want anyone's help,” George snapped.

“If you just—”

“I mean it.”

“Fine.” I finished my drink and moved down to talk to Connie. Zsa Zsa followed. When George got pissy it was better to stay away from him.

Connie looked up from the book she was reading. It was entitled,
How to Make 100, 000 Dollars In Six Months.

“Learn anything useful?” I asked.

“Not yet,” she replied and went back to her reading.

I looked around for someone else to talk to, but the only other people there were a couple who obviously didn't want to be disturbed. Great. I shredded part of my napkin, and then when I got tired of doing that I went into the kitchen to talk to Sal, the bar's resident cook and back-room bookie. I'd wanted to ask him some questions about Marsha and now seemed as good a time as any, but he didn't turn out to be too communicative.

“Yeah, I knew Marsha,” he said, looking up briefly from the hamburger he was cooking on the grill. He was a small walnut-colored man who'd lost his four front teeth somewhere along the way. It gave his speech a whistling sound. “What of it?”

“Nothing.” I leaned against the sink. “I just wondered if she ever placed any bets with you.”

He didn't say anything. I could hear the meat sizzling on the grill.

“I heard she was a big player.”

He snorted. “Who told you that?”

“Connie.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “There you have it, then.” He reached for a hamburger bun and set it on a plate. Then he put a couple of handfuls of potato chips next to it.

“You're saying Connie lied?”

“I'm saying she tends to exaggerate.”

“Then Marsha didn't place big bets with you?”

Sal's eyes narrowed slightly. “Listen, I don't place bets for people. I do favors for them.”

“My mistake.” I guess that was one way of putting it. I shifted my weight from one leg to another. “Does Fast Eddie just do favors for people, too?”

Sal flipped the hamburger and pressed it down with his spatula. The juices oozed out. “I wouldn't know. I've never talked to him.”

“I see.”

“I'm glad you do.” Sal put the burger onto the bun, added a limp slice of tomato, slid the plate through the serving window, and pushed the bell down with his hand. Then he began scraping the grease off the griddle with his spatula. His moves were slow and deliberate.

“You're not going to tell me anything, then?” I asked.

Sal didn't look up. “There's nothing to tell.”

“Could you call me if you do hear anything about Marsha?”

“Sure.” Sal put the spatula on the counter and wiped his hands on his apron. Somehow I had the distinct feeling he was wiping his hands of me. The gesture didn't improve my mood. “I got no problem with that.” But I didn't believe him.

“Do you think you could tear yourself away from that book long enough to get me another Scotch,” I snapped at Connie when I came back out.

“I guess.” She unenthusiastically put the book down and poured me a Black Label.

“So what have you learned?” I asked as she slid the drink along the bar.

“That it takes money to make money.”

“Well, that lets me out.”

“Me, too,” Connie said sadly.

“Then why are you reading it?”

“I got to do something.” Connie looked around. “I'm sure not going to make any cash here. This place gets any deader we'll have to hold a memorial service. Speaking of which, how was Marsha's funeral? I was thinking of going but... I don't know . . . I just didn't.”

“What do you mean how was it? It was depressing. How else could it be?”

Connie shrugged. “I don't know. I just figured if her boyfriend showed up things might get a little interesting.”

“Her boyfriend?”

“I told you about him.”

“No you didn't.”

“Well, I thought I had,” Connie said.

“So who is it?” I asked impatiently.

“You know. The guy with the funny last name.”

“What guy?” I realized I was talking through gritted teeth.

“The one that works at Wellington as a janitor.”

I thought for a minute. “You mean Brandon Funk?”

Connie smiled. “Yeah. That's who I mean.”

“S
o how do you know this?” I asked.

Connie ran her fingers through her hair. “How do you think I know? They used to come in together.”

“Did they act like that?” I pointed to the couple necking at the far end of the bar.

“No. But I could tell anyway.”

“How?”

“I could just tell, that's all.”

Knowing Connie I was sure that she could. God knows she'd had enough experience in this particular field. I tapped my fingers against my teeth.

No wonder Brandon had been so touchy when I'd been in Marsha's room at Wellington.

No wonder he'd seemed so lost at her funeral.

Who would have thought it?

Maybe that's why Marsha had been so anxious to get a divorce.

Maybe that's why Merlin had been so vindicative to the dogs.

Things were beginning to make a little more sense. I was just about to go and tell George my latest discovery when a blonde came through the door and made a beeline for him. It was obvious from the way George was smiling he wasn't sorry to see her.

“Who's that?” I hissed at Connie.

“Nadine. She works at the video store down the street.”

“Why didn't you tell me about her?”

“There's nothing to tell. Go over there and introduce yourself.”

“I can't. I have to leave,” I lied. Suddenly the only thing I wanted to do was get out of there. I called for Zsa Zsa and headed for the door.

George glanced up as I passed. A puzzled expression crossed his face, but he didn't say anything. Neither did I.

I wanted to kick myself when I got outside. I'd acted as if I was fourteen. I should have stayed, but I hadn't and it was too late to go back in now. So I went home, but I was fidgety. I couldn't sit still. Even walking Zsa Zsa didn't help. I had to do something and that something, I decided, was going to see Brandon Funk.

I looked up his number and called. Funk must have been sitting by the phone because he picked up right away. When I told him I wanted to talk about Marsha he told me to come right over. I said I would and hung up. The wind was picking up when I stepped outside. Zsa Zsa's nose started twitching and she gave an alarmed little bark. Nights like this make her uneasy. As I drove down Colvin the swaying branches of the trees looked ghostly under the street lamps. We were in for another storm.

Brandon Funk lived on Ruth Street in the smallest house I'd ever seen. It was square, built of cinder blocks, and looked for all the world as if a giant toddler had been playing with Legos and then just wandered off and left his creation sitting in the middle of a building lot. As I walked up the path to the front door two pink flamingos and a small ceramic bear marked my progress. Before I could ring the bell the door flew open.

“You're here,” Funk said and he motioned me inside.

When I crossed the threshold I stopped in amazement. Every available inch that wasn't taken up with furniture or clothes or photographs was covered with stuffed animals, and I don't mean the toy kind either. There were deer and moose heads, bats set in picture frames hanging on the walls, and a family of raccoons standing on the top of the bureau. The faint odors of rotting flesh, formaldehyde, and varnish mixed with a floral air freshener hung in the air. I was glad I'd left Zsa Zsa in the car. Somehow I didn't think she'd do well with this stuff. I know I didn't.

“Did you shoot these?” I asked.

Funk shook his head. “People just give them to me. Taxidermy is my hobby. Marsha and I . . .” He clenched his fists. A spurt of anger flashed across his face. “Sit down,” he said when it passed. “You want a beer?”

“That would be nice.”

As he went to the refrigerator to get it I looked around. The house seemed to consist of one large room, maybe fifteen by twenty feet at the most, that functioned as a combination living room, dining room, and kitchen. From where I was sitting I could see a small sleeping alcove off to the right and what I assumed to be a bathroom off to the left. The furniture was dark-wooded, carved Victorian and there was enough of it to furnish three rooms. A variety of framed photographs sat on one of the chests. I walked over and took a look. Most of the pictures were of bats flying in and out of a barn at dusk. Only one was of a person, a man. His hair was unkempt and so was his beard. His clothes looked as if they'd been slept in. He was the kind of person you'd go out of your way to avoid if you saw him on the street.

Funk came back with the beer. “That's Porter,” he said as he handed me the can. “He was my best friend. He taught me how to do this.” Brandon gestured toward the stuffed animals. “We started on bats 'cause they were easy and there were always lots of them in the barn. Then we went on to snakes. He was gonna show me how to do a raccoon, but he went away. He didn't even say goodbye or nuthing.”

“Bats.” Something rang a bell. “Did Porter ever write a book about bats?”

Funk's eyes widened. “How did you know that?”

“One of the curators at the zoo mentioned it. I don't suppose you happen to have a copy?”

Funk nodded.

“Can I see it?”

“All right.” His tone was reluctant, but he went over to his bookcase, got it out, and handed it to me.

I turned the book over in my hand. It looked as if it were a vanity press job. Whoever had printed it had done it as cheaply as possible. I was about to open it when Funk took it out of my hands.

“I don't like people handling it,” he explained. “It rips too easy.”

So much for looking at it, I thought. “Whatever happened to Porter?”

Funk shook his head. “I already told you. He went away.”

“Do you know where?”

His eyes turned mournful. “No,” he said. “And I don't want to talk about it no more either.”

“All right.” As far as I could see there was nothing more about Porter to discuss anyway.

Funk pointed to the can of beer he'd given me. “Are you going to drink that?”

“Absolutely.” I popped the tab off my Schlitz and took a sip. It was terrible. I tried not to make a face.

“My mother owns this place,” Brandon confided to me. “She owns lots of places. My uncle gave them to her.” He went rambling on the way a person will when they're lonely and have no one to talk to. “She lets me live here. She lives next door with my grandmother. They don't like all my animals.” Brandon gestured around the room. “Or the chemicals. That's why I stay here. Only it's warmer over there.” His face clouded over. “I don't like being cold. That's why I don't like the country. It's cold out there.” He took another sip of his beer, then put it down on the coffee table. “You know, I'm glad you did what you did with the dogs,” he confided.

“How do you know it was me?”

“I heard Merlin talking to somebody. He mentioned your name.”

I repressed a smile.

Brandon glanced away. “What he did, that was wrong.” For a minute I thought he was going to cry.

“I agree.”

“He had no call to do that. None. You know, Marsha and me were going to open up a little shop.” Brandon stared down at his hands. Like everything else about him they were big and pink. “We had the place all picked out. We even had a name—Porter.” Brandon pointed to the man in the picture. “I was gonna name the place after him, but now I guess that ain't going to happen, 'cause there ain't gonna be no place.”

“What kind of store were you planning on opening?” I asked gently. I realized I was talking to him the way I would a child.

He gave me an incredulous look. “Taxidermy of course. You can make lots of money doing that. I sent for this book that tells you how.” He got up. “Here, let me show you.” The next thing I knew I had a pamphlet entitled
Taxidermy For Fun And Profit
sitting in my lap. “Do you know how many people hunt each year?”

I shook my head.

“Thousands. See, that's what Marsha and I were going to do.”

“Maybe you can do it with someone else?” I suggested.

“It wouldn't be the same.” His face grew hard. I took another sip of my beer to be polite and put the can down on the table.

“Did Merlin know about you two?”

“I don't care if he did.”

“That's not what I'm asking.”

Brandon scratched the side of his cheek. “He didn't say anything to me at the funeral.”

“Would he have cared if he had known?”

“Why should he?” Brandon drained his beer can and squeezed it till it collapsed.

“Some men might object,” I observed dryly.

“He has Shirley,” he added, giving the name an ugly twist. “You ask me, she was the one that put him up to the stuff with the dogs. If you ask me, she probably killed them herself.”

“I don't know.” I thought back to what Shirley had told me. “She seemed pretty upset to me.”

“Yeah, right.” Brandon got up, walked over to the refrigerator and took another beer. “She likes killing things. Don't let her tell you no different. Ask her what she did to the cat that was peeing on her front door.”

“I will,” I said. “You seem to know a lot about her.”

“I should. We lived together for a while. Mom said I shouldn't, but I wouldn't pay her no mind. Well, she was right. Let me tell you the only reason Shirley took up with Merlin was to get back at me.” He opened his second beer and downed it. “You ask me those two make a good pair. She says it and he does it. You know, Merlin didn't even preserve them right. Porter woulda whopped him one with a strap for doin' that kind of job. The first rainy day those dogs would have started stinkin'.” Brandon balled up his hands into fists again. “It's a good thing I didn't see Po and Pooh till after you left. Otherwise I would have done something real bad to Merlin. Real bad,” he repeated.

For a moment I almost felt sorry for Merlin. Almost, but not quite. I put the taxidermy pamphlet down on the table.

“But I don't do stuff like that no more,” Brandon told me.

“What kind of stuff?”

He looked down at his hands. “I used to have a bad temper.” He began chewing on the inside of his lip.

Somehow I had the feeling that he still did—but I didn't say that. “Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked instead.

“Can't. Too many chemicals in here. That's another reason my mother don't like this place. She smokes like a chimney.”

Brandon ran his tongue over his lips. They were so chapped they were almost bright red. “You know, Marsha and me were going to get married after she got divorced. We were gonna open a store together, too,” Brandon murmured.

“I know. You already told me.”

“Did I tell you I was gonna paint it red and white. And then we were gonna rent a house. We had it all picked out. It was on Fellows Avenue.”

“All of that would cost a lot,” I observed, thinking of the money Marsha owed.

“Yeah. Well.” Brandon picked at his fingernail. “Marsha said not to worry about it. She said she'd get the money when she got divorced. She was gonna make Merlin sell the business. She said she could do it because she owned most of it.” Interesting, I thought as I watched Brandon grin. “Boy, Shirley got mad when she heard about it. She went over to Marsha's and she was yelling and screaming and carrying on.”

I took a deep breath. “I was told Marsha owed a great deal of money to bookies.”

Funk flushed. “Who told you that?”

“I forget.” The last thing I was going to do was give him Connie's name.

Funk's face turned redder. “I bet it was Shirley, wasn't it? Wasn't it? She was always saying bad things like that.”

“Why would she want to do something like that?”

“I told you. Because she hated Marsha and me. She was jealous. She wanted me back. She told me so.”

“Then why was she going out with Merlin?”

“To get back at me. And because he has money. Shirley likes money.” Brandon jutted his chin out, balled his hands into fists, and slammed them down on the coffee table. Everything on it bounced up and down. Then he started to cry. “It's all my fault,” he got out between sobs. “My fault. Everything is my fault.” A low, keening moan escaped from his lips. He began plucking at his clothes.

“Brandon,” I said.

He didn't pay any attention.

“Brandon,” I repeated. He didn't respond. His eyes seemed to be focused on something far away. He'd gone into his own world. I reached over and shook him. He moaned louder and began pulling at the buttons on his shirt. I heard the fabric rip as they flew off. Then Brandon moved his hands up to his face and began scratching at himself. A small drop of blood ran down his cheek.

“Stop it,” I yelled, and then when that didn't work I did the only other thing I could think of: I slapped him across the face.

He paused for a second, then went back to what he'd been doing before. By now there were large welts across his nose and cheeks.

I ran to get his mother.