Pocket-47 (A Nicholas Colt Thriller) (19 page)

I stepped off the elevator and walked past the courthouse cafeteria. Bacon and sausage and sweet rolls and fried eggs buttered the air. I thought about the food and the stiffs being prepared in such close proximity. I hoped there weren’t occasional mix-ups.

I walked down a long corridor. Rubber tiles that had probably once been white were now a dingy shade of yellow from age and wax buildup. The same pale green paint that used to be the standard for hospital interiors covered the walls. The color always reminded me of sickness and death.

The greasy smell of a southern breakfast gradually faded, replaced by the acrid odors of antiseptic and formaldehyde. I wondered who had it worse down here, the cooks or the doctors. All-day nausea or all-day headache. Some choice.

I reached a set of steel doors and pressed the
FOR HELP PRESS HERE
button. A buzzer buzzed on the other side, and a voice came over the intercom.

“May I help you?”

“My name’s Nicholas Colt. Is Chloe Robinson working today?”

“One minute please.”

Approximately one minute later, I heard a click and the doors opened automatically. Chloe stood on the other side of the threshold with her hands in her lab coat pockets.

“Hey there, stranger,” she said. She had put on a few pounds since last time I saw her, but she still looked good. Long red hair, green eyes, fair skin.

“Hi Chloe. I need a favor. Can I come in?”

“I only have a few minutes. We’re doing a John Doe at ten forty-five, possible homicide.”

I entered the anteroom and followed her through a narrow hallway to her office.

Chloe and I had been romantically involved for a while before I met Juliet. Everything was going along fine, and then one day I just stopped calling her. I really didn’t know why. I think The Righteous Brothers might have said it best. I’d lost that lovin’ feeling. When that happens there’s nothing you can do but move on. I should have at least called her, though. I felt bad about that.

“How have you been?” I said.

“Okay. You?”

“Good. I was wondering if you could access a file from about seven months ago.”

She sat at her computer desk. “Name?”

“Tony Beeler. He was a prisoner here at the jail. Apparent suicide.”

“Anthony Beeler. I remember that case,” Chloe said. She typed in some information, and a picture of Beeler’s head came up on the screen. “What are you looking for?”

“Any hint of foul play,” I said. I had my doubts that Beeler’s death was a suicide. He had known something about the plane crash, and he had been at least peripherally involved with Massengill in the car theft ring. It just seemed a little too convenient for him to kill himself in the county lockup.

It took Chloe a few minutes to search through the file. Finally, a close-up of Beeler’s left hand appeared.

“There was this, but it happened at least forty-eight hours before he died.”

“What is it?”

“Slight trauma to the tissue under his left thumb and pinky, consistent with injuries commonly caused by wood splinters. The thumb nail had been penetrated approximately—”

“Maybe he unloaded some two-by-fours before he was arrested,” I said.

“Sure,” Chloe said. She looked at her watch. “I have to gown up. You can click through the slides if you want.”

“Thanks. I think I will.”

She stood. “You still seeing that nurse?”

“Juliet. Yeah.”

“You still have my number?”

“I think I probably have it somewhere.”

“Burn it,” she said. “I don’t ever want to see you or hear from you ever again. I hate you, and I’m going to keep hating you until you’re dead. Got it? Good.”

She slammed the door on her way out.

I’m going to write a book some day:
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Hell.
Nice as pie one minute, fiery tornadoes of rage the next. I’ll never figure them out. I stopped trying a long time ago. Then again, I probably deserved her scorn. I shouldn’t have ditched her like I did.

I sat in her chair at the computer desk. I didn’t find anything interesting until I clicked on the photograph of Beeler’s upper right arm and shoulder. He had a number of tattoos, most of them probably India ink stabbed on in a jail cell.

But he had one that was obviously the work of a master. It was the Chain of Light angel, the same tattoo that was on Roy Massengill’s arm.

Instead of using the elevator, I took the stairs to the sixth floor. I wanted to give myself a little fitness test. I failed. I almost barfed on Fleming’s office door. My lungs felt as though they had been injected with Silly Putty. Black blotches pulsated six inches in front of my eyes.

I waited until my heart rate slowed and then knocked on Fleming’s door. No answer. I guessed he was still in the meeting. I tried the knob. The door wasn’t locked. I walked in and sat down and wondered if I was having a stroke. I looked at the coffeepot, decided on a cup of water instead. Maybe it was time to think about some lifestyle changes.

I looked at a magazine for a few minutes, an old copy of
Florida Design.
I got a sense of déjà vu on page 129, and it took me a minute to realize I had actually once owned the house featured there.

Fleming walked in a few minutes later. “What are you doing here?” he said.

“Beeler was a member too.”

“What?”

“I saw his autopsy pictures. He had the angel tattoo. He was a member of Chain of Light.”

“You’re starting to get on my nerves, Colt. What does any of this have to do with you?”

“Pocket forty-seven.”

“What?”

“It’s gangland slang for sabotage. I interrogated Beeler for a few minutes when he was first apprehended. Beeler told me I should have died in the crash with the others, and then he said, ‘pocket forty-seven.’ Beeler knew something about the plane crash that killed my wife and daughter, and I have a hunch that knowledge got him killed.”

Fleming’s expression fluctuated between doubtful and irritated as he filled his coffee mug. “Prisoners say all kinds of crazy stuff. They try to manipulate the situation by playing your emotions. Sometimes they even succeed. Beeler was just spouting bullshit in the back of a police car. It doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

“You weren’t there,” I said. “I can tell when I’m being played, and it wasn’t like that.”

“I think maybe you need a vacation, Colt. Get out of town for a month or two. I suggest you and your girlfriend take off to a place you’ve never been and let time and liquor and the ocean cleanse this crap out of your head.”

“You remember the day you landed in the hot tub?” I said. “Right now I feel like throwing your ass out that window.”

He said something, but I was already out the door and walking toward the elevator.

Juliet and I had started patching things up soon after my trip to California. It had been touch-and-go for a while, but we were back in full swing now. I’d been staying at her house more and more, and we were seriously discussing getting married.

I drove to her house at seven that evening. She cooked pancit with shrimp and we sat at the dining room table and ate it and drank some wine. I told her about seeing Massengill on the motorcycle, about Tony Beeler and the tattoos and Chain of Light.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You think Massengill is still alive?”

“The guy on the Harley was a dead ringer. I’m just saying it’s possible.”

“Maybe your mind was playing tricks.”

“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”

Juliet sighed. “You knew Roy Massengill for, what, twenty years or so? Don’t you think you would have known if he was involved in a hate group like Chain of Light?”

“It’s not like we were bosom buddies, Jules. He was a roadie, an employee of the band. Then he joined the Navy, and after that went to the police academy. We drank together sometimes and all, but I never pried very deeply into his personal life or his ideological beliefs. He had the angel tattoo, though, so he was definitely involved with Chain of Light. No doubt about that.”

“But maybe he wasn’t the guy on the motorcycle. Maybe it was someone else. You told all this stuff to Fleming?”

“More or less.”

“And?”

“He thinks we should take a vacation.”

“Not be a bad idea.”

I helped her clear the table, and then we sat on the couch and watched a movie. M. Night Shyamalan’s
The Happening.
My mind kept wandering and I didn’t enjoy the film much. I was thinking about my own apocalyptic thriller, and mine was more thrilling than M. Night’s.

“I’m going in there,” I said, as the closing credits rolled.

“What?”

“To the Chain of Light ranch.”

“You, a born-again Christian?”

“I’m serious,” I said.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going in there. I don’t know. I’m going to pretend to join up, train to be a missionary or a revolutionary or whatever it is they do in there. I’m almost a hundred percent certain that the guy I followed to the gate was Massengill. I’m going to go in there and find him and burn his ass.”

“If Massengill really is there, aren’t you worried he will recognize you?”

“I’m going to shave.”

“Your beard?”

“And my head. Even you won’t recognize me.” I had been wearing a full beard and shoulder-length hair since my southern rock days. Shaving it all off would be the perfect disguise. I’d been thinking it might be time for a change anyway.

“And while you’re doing all that, I suppose our plans get put on hold, huh?”

“It’s something I have to do, Jules. Your blessing would mean a lot to me.”

She stared at the ceiling for about a million years. “I love you,” she said. “Whatever you decide, I’m behind you one hundred percent.
If you do this, maybe we can finally put the past behind us and move on with our lives.”

That’s what I needed to hear.

I lived the next two weeks as a recluse, practicing guitar and building calluses on my left hand. It had been a long time since I’d played. I had to go through a painful blister stage for a few days. My fingers were twenty years older and twenty years stiffer, and for a while I wondered if I would be able to pull it off. People who say it’s just like riding a bike are wrong. Your brain remembers, but your muscles forget.

I came out of my self-imposed isolation one day to do some shopping. It was a Wednesday, half-price day at the Salvation Army Thrift Store. The place was packed. Little old ladies wearing tremendous applications of little old lady perfume, cruising the bric-a-brac aisles and filling their buggies with sad-faced clowns and silver-plated crucifixes; kids running around coughing and sneezing and playing with plastic dinosaurs that probably harbored more germs than an isolation ward; fat guys with glasses loading up on paperback novels with cigarettes and guns and half-naked dames on the covers; women with one in diapers and one on the way, trying to stretch their meager budgets till payday.

And me. A skinny middle-aged private eye, searching for the perfect Lost Soul costume, as if the one I already wore wasn’t quite good enough.

The place was depressing, and I got out of there as soon as I could. I bought pants and a fishing vest and a pair of boots, all sturdy and road-worthy and ugly as hell. The grand total was eight dollars and thirty-four cents. I didn’t actually try anything on, thinking I better launder my purchases before wearing them. All I needed was a nice case of the crabs. Anyway, I figured the outfit would look more authentic if everything was a tad too big. As if I’d dropped some weight on my journey toward enlightenment.

My second stop was Shaky Jake’s Gun and Pawn. I wasn’t in the market for a gun, but I couldn’t help glancing at the display case as
I headed toward the musical instruments. I needed the kind of guitar a hobo would carry around. I found a Kay, a poor man’s version of the classic Gibson archtop, hanging on the wall next to a tenor saxophone. The wood was dull and dark and had some grease stains on it, but the neck was true and the tone consistent and mellow. The price tag said forty bucks, probably twice what it cost brand new in the ‘54 Sear’s catalogue. It came with a hardshell case plastered with stickers from a variety of music festivals. Perfect.

Fred must have had the day off. Jake was manning the register himself.

“It’s me,” I said. “Nicholas Colt.”

“Holy guacamole. What happened to your hair, son?”

“I got bored and shaved it off.”

“Shit. I thought maybe you was getting radiation treatments or something.”

“Nothing like that. Anyway, it’s chemotherapy that makes your hair fall out, not radiation.”

He pressed a knuckle against his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “I see you found yourself a guitar. Nice one.”

“We both know it’s a piece of shit, Jake. I’ll give you thirty for it.”

“Shit. That’s a fucking antique, man. I been thinking about keeping it myself. But since you’re a friend and all, I’ll knock off ten percent. Thirty-six even and it’s yours.”

“I’ll give you thirty for it.”

“Thirty-four-fifty and I’ll throw in some picks and a strap.”

“I’ll give you thirty for it.”

“Damn it, Nicholas, you never was any fun to dicker with. All right, thirty fucking dollars. I ought to have my head examined.”

He pulled a silver flask from his back pocket, twisted the cap off, took a slug. He politely tilted the bottle in my direction.

I shook my head. “I need a favor.”

“Sure. You waltz in here and practically steal one of my fine musical instruments, and now you want a favor?” He rolled his eyes in a faux expression of disgust.

It’s always tricky with alcoholics, but I could tell I’d caught him in a good mood.

“I need a fake ID. Just a driver’s license and Social Security card, but it has to be something that’ll pass a background inspection.”

He took another belt of bourbon. “Ah. That’s why you shaved your head. You’re going incognito.”

“Nah, I did it because chicks dig bald guys. Can you help me or not?”

“That’s illegal.” But he was already flipping through his old Rolodex. He penciled a telephone number onto a greasy Chinese take-out menu that happened to be lying on the counter. I paid him the full forty bucks for the axe, and then left the store.