Night Game (11 page)

I took out my notebook and made a few notes. Hank was back in five minutes. He seemed to have pulled himself together. His gait was steady; his eyes bright. I suspected he had used a little artificial assistance in the washroom.

“Gimme a beer, Cec,” he said.

“Name’s not Cec,” the bartender said, not turning his head.

“Excuse me,
Cecil
, would you be so kind as to pour me a beer,” Hank said. When it came, he picked it up, grabbed the bourbon bottle and his shot glass, and walked away.

“Come over here,” he said. I got up and pointed to the money on the bar.

“I’m good for it,” I told the bartender.

“It’s your money;” he shrugged.

I followed Hank to a corner table, away from the other pitiful customers. We sat down on mismatched chairs with rusting metal legs and torn vinyl seat covers that had pieces of foam sticking through. Mine had a distinct lean to the left.

“I want to tell you something in confidence,” Hank said.

“Fine,” I said.

“Off the record,” he said, self-importantly.

“Off the record,” I agreed. It was easier that way. If it was something I really needed to use, I could go back to him later to get it.

“I think they busted the wrong guy.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“It’s too easy. They arrested him too fast. I can’t believe the kid did it. He was too fucking grateful to her for letting him suck those tits to want to kill her. But that’s not the main thing. The main thing is, it makes that cocksucker Troy Barwell look too good.”

“You don’t like Detective Sergeant Barwell?”

He looked at me with cold hatred in his eyes.

“I’d like to kill the son of a bitch.”

“Why?”

“For what he did to Lucy.”

“Are you saying you think Troy Barwell killed her?”

“I’m not saying anything about him killing her. I’m saying the motherfucker raped her. That’s what I’m talking about here.”

That got my attention.

“When?”

“Last year.”

“Did she report it?”

He laughed, bitterly.

“Are you kidding? It was, what you call it, date rape. It happened at his place. It would be her word against his, and who would believe her?”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“You bet your ass I’m right,” he said. “You know the scene. ‘And why did you go there? What did you think you were going there for? How much had you had to drink?’ Like that. Then they drag out all her history and make her look like a whore. There was no percentage in it. But she got back at him good her own way.”

“Dick Teensy,” I said.

“You heard about that? Pretty good, huh?”

“It was certainly catchy,” I agreed, amused at his paternal pride.

“Humiliation is the best revenge.”

“What a slimeball.”

“Lady, next to Troy Barwell, a slug looks dry,” he said, then got up to go back to the bar. He was beginning to stagger a bit. Little wonder. I hoped he would keep it together long enough to give me what I needed to know.

He came back with two more beers. I hadn’t finished half of mine, but he put one in front of me anyway.

“Tell me more about Lucy. When did she start writing?”

“Before she even learned how to print, she was making up stories. She used to send me her little poems that June would write out for her. And Lucy would draw little pictures to go with them, too. It was pretty cute.”

He paused.

“When she was four, I went to jail for a while,” he said, quickly. “That’s why June divorced me. But before that, she sent me Lucy’s poems and stories in jail. Lucy kept on writing. Like I said, I didn’t know it until four years ago.”

“Why do you think she came to you?”

“She wasn’t happy at home. June had married that holy roller, and he was putting the leash on her pretty good. Compared to him, maybe I didn’t look so bad.”

“Was that when she moved out?”

“No. That was later, when she figured out that step-daddy had more than Bible-reading on his mind.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he just happened to catch her in the shower a couple of times. Meaning he liked her to stay home with him when June was working the night shift. Meaning that when he took the strap to her he’d come in his pants. And he liked to take the strap to her. Called her a harlot, read the Bible to her, then whacked her around, and came in his pants.”

“Christ,” I said.

“You gonna drink your beer?” he asked, his speech starting to slur. I shook my head.

“Help yourself.”

“Don’ wanna let it go to waste,” he said, gratefully.

“I’ve got to be going, anyway. Just one more question, then I’ll let you alone.”

“Hit me,” he said.

“Do you know which ballplayers she was involved with?”

“Ah, yes, my darlin’s little weakness,” he said. “She wasted her brains and that great body on any asshole that could swing a bat or throw a ball. She said they were the poets of sport. Shit. And she loved them. Young, old, single, married, black, white, Latin, yellow, plaid, whatever. If they wore stirrup socks with their work clothes, she had to have them.”

He shook his head.

“She was hooked,” he said. “She was crazy for baseball. Even when she was a kid. Lucy wanted to be a bat girl, but they only had bat boys. As soon as she got old enough she babysat the players’ kids. When she got old enough to screw, she screwed them.

“That’s why she wanted to be a sportswriter, so she could be part of the game. If she couldn’t be an athlete, she wanted to get as close to them as she could. She wanted to screw them or she wanted to write about them.”

He clenched his glass so tightly I thought it would break.

“She had real talent, God damn it. She could have been anything. Waste of time, waste of mind, being a fucking sportswriter. Fucking sportswriter. Jesus.”

He wound down, and stared into his empty glass. He was done, gone. I stood up.

“Thank you, Mr. Cartwright,” I said. He didn’t look up. “You’ve been a big help. I have to be going to waste my mind now.”

It didn’t get through the fog. I went to the bar.

“Let him go through the rest of the money,” I said to Cecil. “But hold back five for yourself. And I need a receipt.”

He put down the glass he was drying with a questionable-looking rag and rummaged in a drawer under the cash register. He pulled out a receipt book with a carbon, the kind you can get at any stationery store, and concentrated on printing in it.

“Thanks,” I said, when he handed it to me. I gestured towards Hank’s table. “Will he be all right?”

“He won’t cause any trouble. I’ll just let him sleep it off in the back room. He’s done it before.”

He picked up his rag and smiled.

“And he’ll probably do it again.”

“Sorry to leave the mess for you to clean up,” I said.

“No problem. You have a nice day, now,” he said. Florida. They even do the happy faces talk in the dives.

I sat in my car for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the sunlight, and took deep breaths of air that didn’t smell of stale beer, smoke, piss, and disappointment. I checked my watch. I had time to stop in at the
Sentinel
office on my way to meet Tiny.

Cal was on the phone when I got there. He waved at me, excited. The elderly woman whom I had seen on my last visit offered me a seat and a cup of coffee. I accepted both.

“I haven’t seen Mr. Jagger have this much fun in years,” she confided.

“Have you been with the paper for a long time?”

“Oh, my, yes,” she said. “I began to work for Mr. Jagger, Senior, just after the war. World War II, that is. I’ve been here ever since.”

“Then you knew Cal when he was little.”

“I first met him the day after he was born. Such a cute little tyke he was, too.”

“Then can I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Why do you call him Mr. Jagger? He calls you Estelle.”

“Well, he’s the boss. It wouldn’t be proper to call him Cal. It might be old-fashioned, but that’s the way I’ve always done it. That’s what makes me comfortable.”

“Fair enough,” I said.

“His father called me Mrs. Burnett, of course. Cal doesn’t, but he’s from a different time. He used to call me Auntie Estelle, when he was little. I liked that. We never had children of our own, you see. My husband died in the war.”

“You never remarried?”

“No, I’m afraid I was never lucky enough to meet a man who could compare with Mr. Burnett.”

“I think Cal’s lucky to have you,” I said.

“So do I, dear,” she said, then winked.

“You must have known Lucy Cartwright, too, when she worked here.”

“Yes, I did. I can’t say I approved of the way she went about things, but I think underneath she was a very kind girl. Even if she did use her wiles for what she wanted. Maybe that was her undoing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she wasn’t very careful about who she became intimate with, was she?”

I got her drift. Sweet little old lady, my ass. Narrow-minded old bigot is more like it. She smiled at me, conspiratorially, then took my hand and squeezed it.

“I think Mr. Jagger is ready to see you now.”

“It’s amazing,” he shouted from his office. “You’re not going to believe this! Get in here!”

I went.

“There’s a second gun,” he said. “They found another .38 off the pier by the condo.”

“But I thought they found the gun that did it.”

“They probably did. But get this! The gun they found was identical. In other words, it could be Avila’s, and if it is, the one in his apartment was a plant. It’s the same model, and the serial number had been filed off both of them.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“Bringing another identical gun into the picture muddies the waters. What if the first gun, Gun A, the one that they say is the murder weapon, isn’t Avila’s gun? Then you have to ask how it got into his apartment. There’s only one way. The murderer put it there after he killed Lucy, then dumped Avila’s gun, Gun B, into the ocean. Because the two guns looked the same.”

“I’m not sure I get the importance of this, Cal.”

“It changes everything, including the time frame.”

“You mean the murderer could have made the switch any time between the murder and when the gun was found, when, Monday?”

“Right. A whole weekend during which someone could have planted the evidence that sent Avila to jail.”

“The plot thickens,” I said.

“And a lot of that time the place was empty, and the murderer knew it was empty because Avila was at the ballpark. So we’re not just looking at the night of the party anymore.”

“Which means that a lot more people had the opportunity. Motive and opportunity. That’s what it’s all about, right?”

“That’s what they say in the mystery novels.”

“And speaking of motive, I’ve got some news for you, too,” I said. “I’ve got at least one addition to our list.”

I told him about my conversation with Hank, apologizing for stepping on his turf.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I was busy stepping on Esther’s turf.”

“With any luck, she has found something out on mine,” I laughed.

“So, there was more behind the hostility between Barwell and Lucy than I thought,” Jagger said. “There are some other things starting to make sense, too. The last time Hank got busted for drunk and disorderly, he took a run at Barwell. Unprovoked, apparently. Now I can see what was behind it.”

“And Holy Dirk Hoving isn’t quite as holy as he seems.”

“Like I said before, the seamy side of paradise.”

“Can you call Esther and fill her in?” I asked, gathering up my things. “The second gun might have some bearing on Dommy’s defence. I have to get to the ballpark. You can get me there, or I’ll call you later on. I’m going to look at the ballplayer angle. The second gun widens the possibilities, but we can’t rule out the people who live there. After all, they were the ones who knew the gun was there.”

The practice fields were empty when I parked at the training complex. The players were around the clubhouse, having lunch. They looked worn out.

I saw Tiny heading towards the media room and honked my horn and waved at him. He stopped and waited for me to catch up.

“Lady, you sure do keep some low-life company,” he said. “Who was that dude I saw you following from the funeral?”

“Lucy’s father.”

“That old hippie’s her old man? You don’t say. Looks like he’s got some serious problems with the juice.”

“Right the first time, Detective Washington,” I said. “Now let me tell you about what I’ve done so far.”

“Hold on, now,” Tiny said, holding up his huge hand. “There’s nothing so important it can’t wait until I’ve put something in this big belly of mine.”

“Your belly doesn’t need any more help, Tiny. It’s taking on a life of its own. I’m surprised it hasn’t rented itself a separate apartment.”

“Now Kate, don’t you be mocking me.”

“Maybe if you disciplined it with a bit of exercise now and then, it wouldn’t boss you around so much.”

“You can’t begrudge a man the pleasures of retirement, now. Just because you’re built like a fungo bat.”

“Better a fungo bat than an equipment truck,” I said.

“You’re a cruel woman,” he said. “Cruel.”

“All right,” I said. “In the spirit of compromise, I’ll agree to eat if we can talk at the same time. And not in the media room.”

“Hey, that’s free lunch.”

“I’m buying.”

My expense account was going to drive the bean-counters crazy this week.

We went in Tiny’s car, a big, roomy Cadillac, to a barbecue joint in the black part of town. We sat at a picnic table behind the parking lot and split an order of ribs that would feed most average families. I had about a quarter of them, Tiny the rest, along with a side order of potato salad. We drank giant colas out of plastic cups. I couldn’t get much conversation going until there were nothing but sauce stains left on the paper plates. Finally, Tiny wiped his mouth and fingers daintily on a moistened paper towel from a foil packet, lit a cigarette, and smiled.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now you can make your report.”