Playtime (20 page)

Dandylions isn't open this time of morning, but
there are a number of cars in the lot when Blaine pulls in a half-hour later.
None of them look familiar, but he's betting one of them is Doug's. The lot has
litter from the night crowd scattered all over it, and a guy is outside with a
bag picking cups and wrappers, and probably condoms, off the ground.   

 The drive up the highway had been fairly
pleasant, morning rush hour over, traffic not really heavy, and Blaine had
remembered the way he scoffed at the idea of I-45 being a sinister place,
scoffed at the idea of a serial killer killing all those girls.   

 He's not scoffing now. 

 He wonders if that is what they have in Sketch.
He has no proof, hell, he has no proof he even has Renee. But a guy like that
didn't start out at his age. No matter how little proof Blaine had, he knew he
was behind this thing. He'd done some reading on these guys. They started out
young, usually. Torturing animals, setting fire to things. Killing girls.   

 This stuff happens all over the place these days.
There had been a story on the news, not too long ago, about three brothers
someplace up north. A girl had come to the door screaming, and a neighbor had
answered her pleas for help. They had found two other girls in the house when
the police finally got there. The girls had been locked up in rooms upstairs
for the better part of a
decade
. The brothers allegedly raped them and
abused them as they pleased during that time. They had suffered numerous
miscarriages. 

 
A decade
. Blaine thinks about that. Ten
years of your life. But even the concept of that length of time didn't grasp
what a crime like that took. The three women would never be what they were. It
wasn't just the years. It was the toll the abuse had taken. How could you
return to any semblance of normalcy after a time like that? And Sketch was much
worse than those guys, if such a thing was possible. He was more like Ted Bundy
than the brothers. Bundy had liked the killing part of it. Bundy had that
amazing ability to appear like a normal citizen. But he had finally let the
mask drop and shown the crazed animal behind it. When Blaine had been at his
house, and Sketch thought he was at his mercy, he had let the mask drop. The everyday
mask of civility and humanity that we take so much for granted. That was when
Blaine had known he was the one. He may not ever have admitted it, but he was.
Blaine could smell the stench of death upon him. He had shown the slavering
beast. It had been the most frightening thing he had ever seen. 

 God only knew how many had fallen to him. When
Blaine passed some of the spots on the highway this morning where he remembered
girls' bodies had been found, a chill had run through him. For the first time,
he had felt the whiff of the sinister the press had wallowed in. He finally
understood evil. After all the talk, all the intellectualizing, he had met it
face to face. It has changed him. 

 The front door is open, and he walks into
Dandylions. 

 A black girl is pushing a vacuum around the
carpet in the front area, and she glances at Blaine, but goes back to her work.
Otherwise, the place seems empty. Nobody at the bar or any of the tables
scattered about, or in the room next to the raised wooden platform where the
girls perform. He finally finds Doug at a desk in a small office at the rear,
counting money. A lot of money. He doesn't seem particularly surprised to see
Blaine. An old-fashioned, blue steel Colt revolver, a .38 Detective Special, is
sitting next to his right hand. Nice gun. Blaine takes a seat in an old wooden
chair across the desk from him. 

 That long hair is hanging loose again this
morning, and he brushes it back from his face as he looks up at Blaine. 

 "Yeah, what can I do for you, man?" he
says. "Make yourself comfortable." 

 "You were in the bar the other night up on
the beach," Blaine says. 

 "That's right. I took my gal Mandy up there
for drinks. I heard about your girl. Sorry to hear that." He shakes his
head. He is still counting, money in neat piles all over the desk. Blaine can't
even imagine what this place brings in a night. It is packed every time he
passes by. He doesn't look real sorry to hear about Renee. He looks about the
same way he looked when Blaine complained about his motorcycle. Like he could
give a rat's ass. 

 Blaine describes Sketch. Asks if he'd seen him.
Thinks he sees a flicker of something pass across his face, but can't read it. 

 "No, man. I don't remember seeing anybody
that looked like that. I did see your gal." He smiles an evil grin. "She
is smoking hot." He acts like he is remembering what the situation is,
wipes the grin off and says, "I hope you find her." Not convincingly
sincere. 

 To Blaine it rings so false it grates on him like
a dentist's drill. 

 "Anything else I can help you with man? You
can see I'm pretty busy here."   

 "Yeah," Blaine says. "I can see
you are. This place must be a gold mine. You own it?" 

 "Minority partner," Doug says. 

 "Really? Who owns the rest of it?" 

 "A man who wishes to remain private,"
Doug says. "I usually just say I'm the owner. It saves all the nosy
questions. He's just an investor, anyway. Not even from around here. You
wouldn't know him." 

 "Try me." 

 "You know," Doug says, "I have had
this feeling that you and I were going to butt heads since that day you got out
of the hospital and came to get your bike." 

 "Why?" Blaine asks. "Have I ever
been anything but nice?" 

 The big man leans back, pile of money still in
his hands, but count forgotten. He looks at Blaine with those half-dead,
junkie-looking eyes. "No, you've always been nice," he says.
"Spookily nice. What you look like to me is one of those guys that just
won't let things go." 

 "Well," says Blaine, shrugs, "Got
to do what you got to do, I guess." 

 "Well," Doug says. "Like I say,
I'm busy. You know how you came in." 

 "One more thing," Blaine says. He
hasn't moved an inch from where he sits. "I went down and saw Mandy, and
she didn't look that good to me. She looked like maybe she's picking up a bad
habit or two." 

 "Oh, really," Doug says, kicks one of
his boots up on the corner of the desk. 

 "I don't know how you run your business,
Doug, but I'm going to be checking on Mandy, and if I hear that she is working
down here, or if her new habit keeps up, I'm gonna rain some fire into your
life, man. I will make it not worthwhile to do business here." Blaine
jerks his head at the place around them. He hasn't raised his voice, but Dougie
has gone all still and quiet looking at him. 

 "You seem to have forgotten who has the gun
here, my friend," he says, staring at Blaine, hand about an inch from it.
"Not good form to threaten an armed man in his place of business." 

 Blaine stands up, raises his Hawaiian shirt up, shows
the butt of his .357, and says, "You think you got the only gun in Texas,
Dougie? You'd better think again. That wasn't a threat I just made. You know
what it was. I don't care what you do in this place, but you leave that girl
alone." 

 The black girl who was vacuuming appears suddenly
at the door, asking for more cleaning towels, and Blaine takes that opportunity
to turn and make his exit. 

 "I don't care
yet
," he calls
back over his shoulder. "But that could change." 

Blaine guns the Dodge out of the lot and gets back
on the highway. His cell remains silent, no texts or calls. He feels dirty after
being around Doug. Pimp Doug. How could a guy like that paint so well? Just
emphasizes that talent doesn't always equal morality. He tries to get his head
back in the game, think about Renee. Wishes Haney would call back with some
info. Decides to go by and see Nielson, pump him for what's going on. He's
probably sick of me by now, he thinks …. What's he going to do, send me to
jail? 

 He decides to use discretion, and leaves the guns
in the truck. No use tempting fate. They had taken his license and, technically,
he is not supposed to be carrying them. Nielson is at his desk. 

 "I don't see how you solve crime sitting in
here all the time," Blaine says, poking his head through the doorway, but
not coming in. He's actually not sure what manner of welcome he'll get since
Sketch's house and his last session in jail. 

 "Where'd you get the idea I solve
anything?" Nielson says, waves him in. He had been staring out the window.
"Set you free, huh?" 

 "Overcrowded system and all that,"
Blaine says. 

 "Look, no hard feelings," Nielson says.
"You know they record all that stuff in the interrogation room. I had to
say and do certain things to cover my ass." 

 "Your honesty is refreshing." 

 "Well," Nielson says, gnawing on his
glasses again, "It won't help you if anything else happens. Matter of
fact, I never said that last." 

 "Right, so what's happening with
Sketch?" 

 "We're covering him around the clock,"
the detective says. "Full-court press. So don't worry. If your girl is
still alive, he will take us right to her.
If
he's got her." 

 "What if he just waits you out?" 

 "What if it's not him?" 

 "C'mon Nielson," Blaine says. "Do
you really think that guy is innocent?" 

 Nielson leans back in his chair, rocks back and
forth, studies the view out the window. "You know, he's a smart guy, can
be sort of charming when he wants. He fielded questions real well when we had
him down here." 

 "Then why are you guys following him?" 

 "Well, for one thing, after your little show
over there, if it does turn out to be him, and we just ignore you, we are going
to look like total assholes." 

 Blaine says: "C'mon man. That's not a good
reason unless you have
some
kind of suspicions of this guy." 

 "Something about him gives me the fucking
creeps," Nielson says. "I had to really push to get him covered. He
does know some people …" His voice trails off. He is looking out the
window once more. "The fucking creeps," the detective says again. 

 Blaine looks at him. Someone else who might see
what he sees. Maybe he's not loony as a bedbug. "In the house, he said
something about this not being his first dance. I think he's been taking girls
for a while." 

 "But you told me he didn't admit anything
specific." 

 Blaine shakes his head. "No," he says,
"nothing specific." 

 "The guys that work those cases are combing
their files for anything that might tie him to any of them. So far, they
haven't found anything." 

 The familiar refrain from "The Good, the
Bad, and the Ugly" fills the room and Blaine checks his phone. Marge from
Haney's office. He puts it on silence, lets it go to voice mail. He doesn't
want to discuss that stuff here. Nielson is watching him like a hawk, wondering
why he let the call go. He can tell that. 

 "You ever think about being a cop?"
Nielson asks. 

 "Too much bad history now," Blaine
says. "Hell, I'm facing felony charges from you guys." 

 "Jail is an ugly place, isn't it? Go on
home, Blaine, and let us handle this." But he is saying it more from habit
than any real feeling it will have an effect on Blaine. Blaine sees it in his
eyes. "It's not us who put you in jail, it's you. We will get this guy. It
may take us a while, but we'll get him." He realizes his mistake as soon
as the words leave his mouth. Blaine can tell. 

 "I don't have a while," Blaine says,
nods and gets up and leaves the room.   

As soon as he's outside headed for the truck, he
dials Marge back. He skips the message. He will get it from her live. 

 "Hi," she says, answering on the first
ring. Though phones don't necessarily ring anymore, and of course he hadn't
really dialed. 

 "Blaine Hadrock," he says. "You
have some info for me, Marge?" 

 "Yes," she says. "Sorry it took so
long." 

 "No problem," he says, chafing inside,
but running through the niceties. "What have you got?" 

 "This Irons owns a few things, but most of
them are under the corporate name of Steel Capital," she says.   

 Steel and iron, Blaine thinks. Cute. 

 "He has three of the large parking buildings
on the island," she says. "Part owner of a restaurant." 

 "No strip club?" He doesn't know why he
asks. It just pops into his head. Maybe because Sketch and Doug are both such
creeps that his mind wants to connect them. 

 "No." 

 "How about an auto impound yard?" 

 She pauses, shuffles some things. "I don't
show anything like that. Mr. Haney did say that time was of the essence, and I
could have missed …" 

 "Probably not," Blaine says. "I
just had a hunch, that's all. Can you give me some addresses?" 

 "Sure," she replies, and in a moment he
hears the message ding he has turned back on, and thumbing to his mail he sees
them. Modern tech is unbelievable. Can do almost anything. 

 "Okay, I got them. Anything else that might
help?" 

 "I still have one query in," she says.
"I will call you if I get a response on that. But that's all I have so
far." 

 "This has been a big help," he says,
wanting her to feel good, though he has no idea if any of it will help at all.
It is what you say to people when they put themselves out for you. He hangs up
and thinks about the info. Parking garages are big money on an island where the
main industry is tourism. No wonder Sketch is rolling in it. Of course, it is
the restaurant that leaps out at him but he is sure the police have this
information. They have probably been all over the place. If they could find
legal means to get inside. He thinks about that. The thing about Nielson is
that he always has that building a case mentality going on. He can't help it.
He doesn't want to see a big fish get away. Blaine can see that. He wants to do
it up legal and proper, button all the hatches. What Nielson is probably
thinking is that if Renee is alive, she will be alive for a while longer, and
they have Sketch under watch. Probably what he's figuring is she is dead
already. Then it doesn't make any difference. It sounds cold when he puts it
like that, but really it is just the way the law is. Rights are nondiscriminatory.
They protect the guilty as well as the innocent. Blaine should probably feel
blessed that they have surveillance on Sketch at all. He thinks that if Nielson
hadn't felt that same creepy feeling about Sketch that would not be happening
either. They actually had no evidence. The only reason that they had been able
to search Sketch's house was Blaine's alleged break-in. 

 He is driving through the bright Galveston
sunshine once again, through the streets of the playground of the south. The
beaches are packed. Traffic is stop-and-go. He is scanning the terrain as he
rolls. For … what? He doesn't know. Anything, he guesses. His signature method. 

 He reexamines his chain of logic about the police
and the investigation and shrugs mentally. How do you second-guess yourself?
How much trust can you put into checking a process with the same process? It is
a problem that writers face all the time. They are like mothers with newborn
children. Their work looks beautiful to them, though it may seem ugly to
others. It's almost impossible to get the cold objectivity of an outsider. 

 Still you try. What else can you do? It is the
reason he loves science, but everything cannot be cold facts and cut and dried.
Of course, he doesn't need everything to be. He just needs one thing to be.