Stories (2011) (95 page)

"Plenty, but not for this long. That's why I waited a
couple of days to report it. He's a pretty temperamental guy, very apt to do
this sort of thing-and, to tell the truth, he and Anibal don't get along so
good. Least not outside of the ring. That might have had something to do with
it. When Jason feels pushed, he does funny stuff."

"Like walks out?"

"Uh-huh. Odd thing, though, is, when it comes to
boxing, things are different. They respect each other there, least on how a
fight is won. They've just got the kind of personalities that grate on one
another.

"I don't think there's a trainer alive that can work
with and get more out of Anibal than Jason." Yank paused and drank the
rest of his beer. "Yeah, he's done it before, but it's only three weeks
before the fight, and there isn't any way in hell Jason would do anything to
hurt the fight."

"You said that he and Anibal didn't get along very
well. Wouldn't this be a good time for him to get even? Say they had an
argument, and-"

Yank threw up a hand. "No way. Jason and Anibal can go
at each other like starved rats, but there ain't no way you could get Jason to
hurt a fight. He may not like Anibal in ways, but the guy's his handiwork.

"It's like a car in a way. You may not like the paint
job, but if you tuned the engine it holds something special for you." Yank
gave Slater a stiff look. "Whatayasay, Slater? Burn said that you could
probably find him before they did on account of how busy they are."

Slater was still thinking, humorlessly, about Yank's
car-tuning analogy. "All right, Yank," he said. "I'll find him.
But I won't guarantee he'll come back. That's his decision."

Yank nodded. "That's fair enough, Slater." With
that, he groped a huge wallet from his pocket and picked three hundreds from an
ample collection of same. "This do for a retainer?"

Slater managed not to lick his lips. "Quite."

"You can bill me for the rest," Yank held out his
hand. They shook and Slater got the address of Yank's gym. After that, they
went out into the glaring sunshine together.

"Tomorrow at nine," Slater said.

"Right. Nine."

Yank went to his sleek, black Lincoln and drove away. Slater
got into his red '65 Chevy with the stuffing leaking out of the seats and drove
home.

II

Early the next morning Slater showered, dressed, had a grease-and-egg sandwich
and drove over to the address Yank had given him. He spotted the Lincoln right
off. It looked conspicuous in this dreary neighborhood. He parked, got out,
took a look at the gym. It appeared overdue for the wrecking ball. He lit a
cigarette and went inside.

The interior was unexpectedly slick. All new equipment, all
shiny to the eye. Never judge a gym by its cover, Slater thought.

There were Nautilus weight machines, speed bags, heavy bags,
racks of jump ropes and lots of people scuttling about making shadow moves and
noises like boxers. On a raised platform, between the ropes, a stylish boxer Slater
recognized as Anibal Martinez was slamming the hell, left and right, out of his
puffing sparring partner.

No doubt about it the kid had the moves. There was champ
written all over him. A half dozen men were gathered about the ring, hanging on
the ropes. One of them was Yank. Slater went over and stood by him.

"Ain't he somethin'!" Yank said after shaking
hands with Slater. The big detective agreed that he was in fact something all
right. A real hell of a boxer.

"That's enough," Yank yelled to Anibal, and the
grateful sparring partner dropped his tired hands for a rest.

Anibal spit his mouthpiece into a gloved hand. A short man
wearing a grey sweatshirt and sweat pants slid through the ropes and untied his
gloves, took off the head protector. That done he made his way over to the
sparring partner. Anibal slid between the ropes, flopped down next to Slater
and Yank.

"You the detective Yank hired to find Krim?" The
boxer asked with just the slightest trace of a Mexican accent.

"That's me," Slater said.

"If I was you, I'd do my looking in the bars. Under
some bar stool preferably."

"Something serious could have happened," Yank cut
in. "For goodness sake..."

Anibal tossed Yank a cold stare. "Could be the best
thing that ever happened to us," he said slowly. With that he went over to
the speed bag and put his taped knuckles to work.

Nice fellow," Slater said.

"Foolish pride, Slater," Yank said. "He won't
admit it, but without Jason he just ain't the same."

"Could have fooled me."

"I tell you, Slater, it's pride. The kid's got a chip
on his shoulder for some reason and Jason is his prime target. Got some fool
notion Jason's pushing him too fast."

"Is he?"

"No way. Won all his fights. He just can't stand the
fact that he has to depend on the man so much. Likes to think he can do it all
by himself."

"He doesn't have him to depend on now."

Yank nodded. "And it shows."

"Yeah, he's all torn up."

"Just believe me, Slater. I know him."

"All right," Slater said, "you know
him." With that he took the folded contract from his pocket. "Shall
we fill this out, and then I've got a few questions."

"Let's go back to the office."

The office, unlike the interior of the gym, was not the
Ritz. It was so small that the two big men were almost enough to overload the
straining air conditioner.

When the contract was completed and Slater had folded it
away in his coat pocket, he asked for a list of the people who worked with
Jason. None of the names, other than Anibal and Yank, were familiar to him. He
gave Slater a newspaper clipping with Anibal and Krim's picture. They were both
smiling.

Krim was a fiftyish black man with a once-muscular body now
coated with fat. Even in the picture he maintained a certain air of reserve and
capability. Slater put the clipping in his pocket with the contract. Last, but
not least, Slater had Yank write out a list of Jason's hangouts. He could only
think of three.

Yank and Slater shook hands, expressed hopes that Krim would
be found soon and Slater left the office.

On the way out he stopped by the speed bag that Anibal was
flogging. The bag thumped to a stop. Anibal looked at the burly detective with
flat, brown eyes.

"Yank says you need Krim," Slater said, not trying
to be the least bit cagey, watching carefully for the fighter's reaction.

"I don't need nothing but time. Krim don't give a damn
about me and the feeling's mutual. He treats me like a side of beef. He only
wants me to do well so he can pat his own goddamn self on the back. To hell
with that! To hell with him!" Scowling, Anibal turned to the bag and
slammed it a hard one.

"I don't need Krim," he snapped, looking back at
Slater's impassive face.

"See you later," Slater said and moved away.

When he reached the door Anibal yelled, "If you find
that sonofabitch, tell him not to come back. I don't need him. I don't want
him."

Slater nodded in a disinterested way, pushed out the door.
Behind him, even through the closed door, he could hear the speed bag. Anibal
Martinez was going at it to kill.

He had driven two blocks when he decided that the late-model
grey Plymouth was following him. Not too close. Not too far away. Just about
right. Coincidence, maybe.

Slater took a few quick lefts, a right, then gassed it till
he hit E
arl Street.

He eased up to a YIELD sign and waited.

He didn't see the Plymouth.

Deciding maybe that he was becoming paranoid in his old
age-too much TV and Watergate-he chalked it up to stupidity. Feeling like a
Junior G-Man, he drove the 25 miles from GulfCity to Pasadena and his office on
Strawberry Street.

III

Slater sat in his office, heels on desk, looking at the paint-peeling walls
till four o'clock, then locked up and drove back to GulfCity and one of Jason's
hangouts, Happy's Good Time Bar.

Happy's was an ugly building with more beer and wine
advertisements splattered on the outside than the off-white paint that showed
between them. Red neon curlicue writing in a large, dirty window announced that
there was live entertainment inside. Strippers.

Inside, it was the usual seedy little honkytonk with sticky
tables, an unpolished bar, rows of bottles, a beer tap, a huge mirror that
looked as if someone had deliberately wiped it with a greasy rag, and a small
stage for the strippers.

The place stank of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol.

Behind the bar was a bored bartender with black curly hair,
a lantern jaw and eyes like a lynx. It was too early for the strip show, and
only one die-hard drunk was present. He sat at the table in the back,
contemplating the empty glass before him.

Slater went up to the bar, perched on a stool and ordered a
beer. The bored bartender squeezed one out of the tap and slammed it down hard
enough for some to slosh out on Slater's hand. The bartender saw it happen, but
if it bothered him he didn't let on.

Slater showed him his grillwork. "You look kind of
bored, Curly. Maybe you'd like to talk."

He gave Slater a sour look. "The name's not Curly and
talk from drunks I don't need. It's that that makes me bored."

Touchy, Slater thought. He showed him the nice smile again.
"I haven't even had a beer yet, so how come I'm a drunk. Maybe I could
even salt up the conversation some." Slater took out his wallet, removed a
one, put it on the counter.

The bartender gave it the experienced eye. "Nothing but
the big time, huh, Charlie?"

Slater pursed his lips, took a fin from his wallet, put it
with the single, kept his fingers on them, but just lightly. "Nice job you
got here," Slater said. "Bet you even make some money. But not off
the joint."

He gave Slater a sigh and a smile. Neither was exactly first
rate. "Something I can do for you, Charlie?"

Slater took his fingers off the bills and watched the
bartender palm them with the professional ease of a sleight-of-hand artist. The
bills disappeared into his shirt pocket. He looked at Slater out of the corner
of his eye.

He said, "You just giving them away or have you got
questions?"

Slater drank some of his beer. It was bad enough to spit
out, but the big detective restrained himself. "I've got questions,"
Slater said, a bit tired of the cat and mouse. "Ever hear of a guy named
Jason Krim?"

The bartender lifted his eye brows, wiggled his mouth from
side to side, said, "Nope. Sorry."

"For six bucks you didn't give the question a whole lot
of thought."

"Don't know any Jason Krim. It's as simple as
that."

"Maybe I can refresh your memory. He's been in here
quite a lot. Trains fighters, Anibal Martinez in particular. Krim's a big black
guy about fifty. Here."

Slater got the clipping out of his pocket and laid it on the
bar.

The bartender picked up a glass and a rag, made like he was
polishing the glass, looked down at the clipping.

"Maybe I've seen him," he said.

Slater let out a sigh. "Either you've seen him or you
haven't. Which is it?"

Very carefully, as if it were fine china, the bartender set
down the glass, put the rag away beneath the counter, kept his left hand there.
"You a cop or something?"

"Private investigator. I'm looking for Krim,"
Slater said, all the while watching the hidden hand. "How about it? You
seen him?"

The bartender brought his hand from beneath the counter. It
was empty. He picked up the clipping and looked at it. "Okay. Yeah, I've
seen him. Used to come in here a couple of times a week, drink himself bananas
and watch the strip show."

"You told the cops about this?"

"Now why should I do that?"

"Surely they've been around asking. He's on the missing
persons list."

"Not to me, they haven't. Cops I don't need, Charlie.
Look, I'm telling you, I used to see the guy a couple of times a week. Last
time was a week ago, a Tuesday night, and that's the truth." He held up his
hand. Slater had the feeling that if a stack of bibles had been available, he
would have sworn an oath on them.

"Seem awful nervous about cops. Wouldn't be running
some kind of action out of this joint, would you?"

"I just work here. As far as I know the joint's as
straight as Robins arrow."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm not kiddin'. Anything that goes on illegal here, I
don't know nothing about it."

"Sure, the joint's a regular Sunday school."
Slater looked at the bartender hard enough to crack an ice block. "Okay,
preacher, wouldn't be more you'd want to tell me about this Krim fellow?"

"Okay now, don't get sore. It's just that chatty
bartenders don't do an establishment any good. Weather and dames is one thing
but..."

"I get the picture." Slater picked another five from
his wallet, handed it to the bartender. It went, quickly, into the shirt pocket
with the other bills.

He licked his lips, leaned over the bar, said to Slater in
an almost whisper, "This Krim fellow is a regular. Like I said, a couple
of times a week."

"That line's starting to sound like an echo."

"Just listen. He sits over there." Slater turned
to look where he was pointing. A corner table next to the stage. "He
drinks like a fish and watches the strip show. Passes a lot of bills around to
the girls."

"The last time you saw him-leave with anybody?"

The bartender put an elbow on the bar, leaned close to
Slater. "Just between you, me and the wall, I did see him leave with
someone, more or less."

"How do you leave with someone more or less?"

"This Mexican, the one here in the picture, came in and
did some yelling at the old guy, finally jerks up the old dude by the
shirt."