Authors: John Carenen
“Funny guy,” Mike said. He turned to poke at my food and came back after flipping the burgers and shaking the wire basket of fries before dropping them into the bubbling grease again. I wondered how long the vat of grease had been there. “So that’s how you remember them?
Seems like I’d want to forget about ’
em
.”
“I do want to forget,” I said, “but remembering their names helps remind me not to get married again.
How ’bout you?”
I asked. “You divorced, too?”
“Just once.”
He retrieved my food and brought it to me. I was surprised. It looked and smelled good.
Hard to improve on greasy burgers and fries.
“I think everyone’s allowed a mulligan. Good wife now.
Works at the casino, dealing blackjack.”
“You’re a lucky man,” I said, digging into the first burger. Not as good as Moon’s, but not bad, considering it wasn’t very big or thick. Still, it was fuel.
“
Very
lucky,” he said.
“Got this bar, which I keep from fixing up on purpose.
The décor brings in a dependable clientele. My wife and I make do. What’s your work?”
“Oh, this and that,” I said. “Semi-retired, disability check.”
Mike nodded and looked down at the men at the end of the bar. One of them had called his name and held up his empty glass.
“Send them a pitcher of whatever they’re drinking. On me,” I said.
Mike nodded and produced a clean pitcher, then filled it with Budweiser from the tap and took it down to them. He said something and they looked at me. I nodded and they nodded back, overjoyed. It’s fun being a philanthropist. Mike came back.
“
You
headin
’
over to the casino today? Not much else to do here in
Chalaka
. It’s a nice place,” he said.
“And I’ll bet they have outstanding blackjack dealers.”
“That’s true. If you do go over to play blackjack, look for the redhead with
Clarice
on her nametag. Tell her I said hello, but you won’t get any special cards. She’s honest. In fact, I’m pretty sure the casino is honest, too.
A good thing for the Indians and a good thing for other businesses, including me.”
“I guess in a town this size, everyone knows everyone else, right?”
“Pretty much that way with most small towns.
You
lookin
’
for someone?”
“How did you know that?”
“You’re not the type to come into a place like this unless you’re after more than food. I’m guessing information. What do you want to know?”
“I’m looking for a gentleman named Martin Rodman.”
A small smile flitted across Mike’s face. He said, “You don’t look like someone who’d have to pay for it.”
“I don’t.
I’m just wanting
to talk to the man.”
“Marty’s not a bad guy for a pimp. He’s a pimp, he admits it, and that’s that.”
“Does he work out of the casino?”
“Oh, hell no.
They wouldn’t allow it. But he does operate on the fringe, if you get my drift. He has links with a couple of the scuzzy motels, you know, the ones that rent rooms by the hour, and he has a cathouse north of here. I understand it’s pretty much on the up and up, like one of those legal places in Nevada, which is where he came from about eight years ago.”
“What’s the cathouse like?”
“I’ve never been there. Paul Newman once said, when asked about how he’d stayed married to Joanne Woodward for so long despite all the temptations of Hollywood, ‘Why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home.’
Course, that
reduces women to meat, a product, and dehumanizes the fairer sex.”
“But he had a point.”
“Yes. And that’s why I have never been to his place of business. I’m one of the few.”
“If everybody knows about his business, why hasn’t he been busted and shut down?” I asked.
Mike smiled and raised his eyebrows.
I said, “Oh.”
“Now, I’m not saying he’s never been in the casino, but they don’t encourage him unless he’s actually gambling. They keep a close eye on him. Still, it’s possible for him to acquire clients inside the casino, but when he’s caught, they make him leave and stay away for a couple of weeks.”
I finished my burger and some of my fries and drained my pint glass. I poured myself another from the pitcher.
“So I need to go out to his emporium of negotiable affections to talk to him?” I asked.
Mike laughed. “No, sometimes he comes in here to relax about this time of day. We’re friends, actually.” Mike looked toward the door and waved. “In fact, he’s here now. Like I said, he’s pretty regular. I’ll introduce you.”
I turned sideways to see a man, probably in his 50s, dressed in slacks and a heavy sweater, glide through the front door. He came up to Mike at the bar and ordered “the usual.” Mike set to work on the ingredients for a Philly cheesesteak, dabbing at the meat and onions with his spatula. Once he returned from the grill, he poured
a double
vodka and said, “Marty, I want you to meet someone who wants to talk to you. Marty, this is,
wait
, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Ryne Duren.” I reached across and to my left. We shook hands.
“I’m Marty Rodman. What kind of questions?”
“Let’s go over to that booth.” I gestured toward a booth in a corner of the room, not near anyone. He agreed, and so I took my food and pint glass and he took his vodka and we sat down. I left my pitcher behind.
Once we were situated, he said, “Are you interested in companionship?”
“No, just questions about something that happened in the neighborhood a few days ago.”
“And that would be…?”
“Murder.”
Rodman’s face went from curious to
frightened
. “I had nothing to do with that.”
Mike brought Rodman’s cheese steak and another double shot of vodka and left.
“I had nothing to do with anything you’re asking about. I regret that I must leave right now. I’m not hungry anymore. Nice meeting you.”
He started to slide out of the booth, but I had my
Ka
-Bar out and pressed it gently against his right leg. He looked down as I drew the knife back a little, slicing open the material. My knife is very sharp. Rodman stopped. He slid back into the booth. I laid the side of the knife on his leg, leaning forward, telling myself that I just might be eye to eye with Cindy Stalking Wolf’s murderer, and the kidnapper and killer of the
Jarlssons
.
“I’m here for Cindy Stalking Wolf. You pulled her into prostitution and you, or someone under your direction, killed her when she wanted to get out of the life, and then you had her dumped in the Whitetail River. She ended up downstream, in
Rockbluff
. I’m the one who found her.”
“Who told you that crock of shit?”
“Ted
Hornung
.”
A string of rich epithets flowed smoothly from Rodman’s mouth. He knocked back his double vodka and gestured to Mike for another. Mike delivered and turned away after asking Rodman if he was okay. Rodman said he was, even though his face was contorted with anger. Mike gave me a look and left. I wondered if he had a shotgun under the bar.
“I run girls, I admit it,” Rodman began, “but I am small potatoes. I hire girls,
women
, who come to me for work. Some of them are out for a thrill before settling down in the suburbs with a husband and children. Some work for the money, and it’s good. I only take forty percent: they get the rest. And no one is forced to stay or do anything they don’t want to do. Understand? I sell straight sex between consenting adults. No threesomes, no lesbo shit, no underage crap. Ted
Hornung
is the one who pulls in damn children and sells them to creeps who come up here for gambling and sex. And that’s the truth. And
he
decides when they can leave the life—
they
don’t. I had nothing to do with Cindy’s murder, but I heard about it. You’d be better off talking to
Hornung
about that, the
sonuvabitch
. I hate his guts, man.”
“I already talked to him. He put your ass in the sling over Cindy’s murder.”
A look of realization came over Rodman’s face, then a smile. “You’re the dude!
The one who busted
Hornung’s
arm and kicked the butts of his boys.
Man, I’d kiss you if you wouldn’t think I was kinky.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“There you go,
lyin
’ again. You told me you were Ryne Duren, but I happen to know he was that wild fastball pitcher for the Yankees back in the 50s. Now, tell me what else you want to know about Ted
Hornung
.”
“Who killed Cindy Stalking Wolf? She was only fourteen, Marty. I don’t like that, and her family doesn’t like it.”
“My guess is
Hornung
did it. He definitely takes in underage girls and sells them to
weirdos
who come here to gamble and get some. Picks them up off the
rez
where they’re just kind of hanging around, or working in the fish processing plant, or school dropouts. He flatters them and gives them nice clothes and takes them to dinner and concerts and such, and then he eases them into drugs and talk of big money being ‘nice’ to older men.
Women, too.”
Martin downed his vodka and nodded at Mike. “God, he’s one sick mother. No conscience. Cold bastard, I can tell you that. But you can forget about going back to him. Since you and your buddy busted him up, he’s doubled down on personal protection. He’s hired a couple of shooters from Chicago to go with his usual boys.”
Mike delivered another double vodka and left.
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know. Honest. Might as well live at the Pony Club, but I’ve heard he’s got a place in Florida and another over the border in Wisconsin. And I heard there’s big syndicate money behind him. You’re messing with some serious shit, Ace.”
“So who can give me the truth about Cindy Stalking Wolf?” I asked.
Rodman looked thoughtful, twitching his mouth around, jumping a little when I removed the blade from his thigh and put it back in its sheath on my calf. I was okay with him, mostly from Mike’s introduction, and I liked Mike. Plus, Rodman just didn’t look the part of a killer. He relaxed a little once the
Ka
-bar was put away, then looked me straight in the eye and said, “I know who knows. One of
Hornung’s
best guys, Ivan something. I call him ‘Ivan the Terrible’ because he’s a bad dude.
A freak.
He’s a giant, man, shaved head, weird tats, mean streak. And he’s smart. I’ve heard that he reads books.
Weird.
But I heard he got busted up some when you and your buddy took them on.
Another reason to give you a kiss.”
“Lighten up on the affection,” I said. “I know the guy. So you think he might know what happened? Would he be willing to talk to me?”
“Ace, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t the one who wasted the girl. Sounds like something he’d do. But I don’t know how you’d get him to spill.”
“Leave that to me. Where could I find him?”
“As far as I know, he still hangs at the Pony Club. You might try there, but you’d better have some weapons grade backup. That place is like a fortress now, thanks to your previous visit. You’re going to need more than that serious pig sticker you cut my pants with.”
“I think you’re telling me the truth, Marty,” I said. “And I know for sure you’re not going to tip off
Hornung
, or Ivan, that I’m in town.”
“Hell, no.
Frankly, I wish you’d grease them all.
Bad for my business.
Gives prostitution a bad name.”
“If you think of anything else that might help me square things over Cindy’s murder, let Mike know. I’ll be back from time to time until this is settled. He can tell me.”
“I’ll be glad to be your eyes and ears in
Chalaka
,” Rodman said. “Damn straight.”
I thanked Rodman, left a wad of money on the counter, got up, nodded at Mike behind the bar,
who
seemed to relax a little, and left The Asylum, just tickled pink with my lead on the killers of Cindy Stalking Wolf.
And a new respect for a pimp.