A Child's Garden of Death (12 page)

Kim laughed again. “The chicks down there got a new thing, called getting pinged by a pig.”

Martha glared at the black girl again. “Please stop it.”

“All right, all right,” Lyon said. “To tell the truth, the money aspect never occurred to me. The research Rocco's doing will only take a day or two. He should be home tomorrow in time for dinner.”

“Why, Lyon?” Bea said tiredly. “The police are hardly paying you a retainer for your efforts. You haven't done a thing on Cat since this whole thing started.”

He explained to them about the meeting at the Houston factory. The fight between the murdered man and a man called Bull Martin. “And so,” Lyon said, “now, we find a man named Martin.”

“That's a very common name, and Bull is hardly a given name,” Kim said.

“I know,” Lyon replied. “But how many Martins worked for Houston in 1943, and where are they now?”

“This is all beginning to sound familiar,” Bea said. “We've been through this one before.”

“With results,” he retorted.

Bea shrugged. “Isn't it time you two stopped?”

“The last I heard, Rocco was a police officer,” Lyon said.

“Parking tickets, accidents, drunks and domestic squabbles,” Martha said. “How many times have I heard that?”

“We need a few more days. Let's see what we can turn up about Bull Martin, find out where he is, or even if he's still alive.”

“To the end of the week,” Bea said. “And then I want to see only elbows and hear typewriter keys.”

“Yes, dear,” Lyon said. “Elbows and keys.”

It took Rocco Herbert a day longer in Washington than they had expected. When he returned and came to Nutmeg Hill, the lines under his eyes, Lyon felt, were not so much from his District of Columbia research as from his wife's monologues.

In the study Rocco held the folder tightly across his knees. “Well, what do you have?” Lyon asked.

“All there is. Six Martins at Houston's during 1943. Three deceased, two I've located, one no record.”

“Shall we go, Chief?” Lyon said.

“I'll drive,” the large man replied.

The two Martins Rocco had tracked down lived in the metropolitan area, and within four hours they'd talked to both, discovered that one had left the plant months prior to the fight with Meyerson, and the second had been a maintenance man whose physical size and club foot ruled him out as the potential “Bull” Martin.

Back in the study during late afternoon Lyon sipped sherry while Rocco took his vodka neat—a preference he claimed to prefer, but which, Lyon felt, was to rule out possible discovery by his wife of any daytime imbibing.

“A dead end,” Rocco said. “Thad Martin left the plant sometime in 1943. No further FICA payment to the federal government, no death certificate in this state … a blank …”

“He could have gone into the service.”

“And been killed.”

“Either he's our Martin or one of the deceased ones was.”

“Could we have overlooked some point, something we haven't followed?” Rocco asked.

“There's got be something … somewhere.”

They sipped their drinks and watched the waning sun through the window. Lyon closed his eyes. He could see his own vague shape years ago standing before a map board in headquarters. Piled on a table in front of him were combat patrol reports, aerial photographs, company commander reports. The possibilities were diverse, the information scanty as he attempted to piece together a picture of intentions. In combat the intention of the enemy was obvious … to annihilate you … at least that had been the intention in the old wars. A missing man. A man who left a factory thirty years ago and to all intents and purposes ceased to exist.

In today's society or in the society of the forties, a man could not disappear. Somewhere there was a tracking, a sign, a print of his being and whereabouts. There was always a record somewhere.

Lyon looked at Rocco. “Suppose T. Martin were self-employed.”

Rocco smiled. “Income tax, franchise tax, license fees, state registrations … worth a try.”

“I believe it is,” Lyon said and refilled their glasses.

The “Bull Pen” was located off Highway 66 on the road to the shore. They'd located their Thad Martin in the records of the liquor control commission and discovered that he was permittee for a restaurant and cocktail lounge aptly called the “Bull Pen,” a name which gave them both a great deal of satisfaction.

On the three-quarters-of-an-hour ride to the restaurant, Lyon was regaled with the attributes and advantages of the town clerk's job. The orderliness of the deed and mortgage books, the possibility of running a few real estate titles for local lawyers … a sinecure greatly to be desired, at least according to Rocco Herbert.

They pulled into the parking lot of the “Bull Pen.” It was set a hundred feet back from the highway, a large one-story building with brick veneer front and a large neon sign. A placard near the doorway announced rock bands on Fridays and exotic dancers on Saturdays. Four cars were neatly aligned along the side of the building, one a large Cadillac with a marker containing only the initials TM.

“I don't need to check motor vehicles to find out who that is,” Rocco said.

The main door to the lounge was locked, and they entered through a side door with the small “men's bar” sign; along the bar three locals were sipping beer and joking with the young barmaid.

“Where's Bull?” Rocco asked.

“In the back auditioning,” she replied without turning her head.

“Thanks,” Lyon replied, and they walked the length of the bar toward the double doors to the rear.

“Hey, wait a minute,” the barmaid yelled after them. “Hold your horses. Bull don't want no one in there when he's auditioning, otherwise we'd have half the yokels wantin' a free peek.”

Rocco Herbert never broke stride, and without replying he pushed the doors open as they entered the large rear area. Inside the wide room chairs were piled on tables and the floor was freshly waxed. A ringside table was cleared and they could see the back of a large man straddling a chair near the dance floor. A lone spotlight illuminated the center of the small stage where a dancer undulated. She was down to a G-string, bent backward, her hips thrust forward, her head touching the floor. As the music over the public address system increased in tempo she straightened and went into a bump and grind routine.

She moved offstage to the center of the small dance floor near the ringside table and stood with arms stretched overhead, breasts jutting forward. She bent slowly backward again, her fingers touching the floor, hips forward toward the sitting man, and began to undulate. Quickly she stood erect and threw the G-string aside, now completely nude. She pranced forward toward the sitting man, her stomach muscles rippling as she ran her hands over her breasts, the nipples erect, and then her hands went down her body to the shaved triangle between her legs. Placing one hand between her legs she squeezed and rotated slowly from side to side, chirping, while the other hand reached toward the man.

The man grasped her bare shoulders and pushed her downward until she was on her knees before him. She bent forward, and from the rear of the room Lyon and Rocco could see the backward and forward movement of her head as she knelt before the sitting man.

“I like to see you flash it, baby,” the man at the table said.

The dancer stopped and brushed her long hair back. “I don't mind stripping all the way for you, Bull, but if I flash it for the locals, I get busted.”

“Nobody busts anybody around here without my say so, pussy cat. On the late show Saturday I like to give my customers a real treat, a couple of good flashes … if I get a real swinging group in here, then you go for broke.”

“You put up bond money if anything happens?”

“You know it, pussy cat. Now, show me what you can do for the swingers.”

“O.K., but I don't do nothin' with animals. You understand, I draw the line with dogs and stuff … I got principles.”

“I know you do, pussy cat; now let's have a little more French.”

“For the fuzz in the audience?”

Bull stood and turned, knocking the chair over. His pants were open, his erect penis thrusting forward. “Who let you creeps in here?”

“Knock it off, Martin.” Rocco's authoritative voice was reminiscent of Korea years ago. “Send your pussy cat to the sand box.”

Without turning, Bull Martin waved a hand and the dancer quickly left while he adjusted his clothing. “You guys aren't from around here,” he said.

“Sit down, Martin. Unless you want our conversation to take place at the State Police barracks.”

Bull Martin contemplated them coolly for a moment and then set chairs around the table. “You fellows want a drink … on the house?”

“You are Thad Martin, Bull Martin?” Lyon asked.

“'Course I am. What's the matter, I forget to pay a ticket somewhere?”

“Cut the crap, wise ass,” Rocco said.

Lyon looked at the fat man sitting across the table from them, his pudgy hands enveloping the highball glass, his eyes glinting anger. Bull Martin wore slacks and a white shirt open at the neck; morning food stains dribbled across the shirt pocket.

“Would you like to ask this gentleman some questions?” Rocco said as he took a small notebook and pen from his pocket.

“Mr. Martin,” Lyon started, “you were employed by the Houston Company in 1943.”

“No.”

“You never worked for the Houston Company?”

“Maybe I did when I was a kid. In 1943 I was in the service, as I remember it, a little place called the South Pacific.”

“I submit you worked for Houston in 1943,” Lyon said.

“You what? Listen, mister. I sure ought to know where in hell I worked, and sure in hell ought to remember a little something like the war in the South Pacific. What is this anyway? I don't have to answer questions for nobody.”

“It would be of great help to us if you would,” Lyon said.

“Help-smelp. Both you guys fuck off. Go on, get outa' here. This isn't your town, cop—you got no rights here.”

Rocco looked at Bull until the other man averted his eyes. Slowly, very slowly, Rocco placed his notebook and pen along the edge of the table. His hand reached across the table and closed over Bull's fist.

“I also submit, sir,” Rocco said in a low voice, “that you were an employee of Houston in 1943.”

Rocco's hand tightened over Bull's fist as beads of perspiration formed on the fat man's forehead. “You guys get outa' here. You got no right …”

“Remember 1943,” Rocco said as his hand tightened.

“Jesus, man, let go! You're crushing my fingers.”

“1943,” Rocco said again, his voice almost a whisper.

“Yeah, yeah, 1943 … I worked there. I went in service later.”

“Now, you're doing just fine, Mr. Martin.” As Rocco's large hand enclosing the pudgy fingers of Bull Martin tightened, the other man half rose, the chair falling over backward. “Now, let's see if you can recall Mr. Meyerson.”

“Please … I don't remember anybody that long ago.”

“Think again. You were both foremen.”

“All right … all right, just let go.”

Rocco released the other man's hand and picked up his pad and pencil. “I'm glad you recall Mr. Meyerson, Bull. Now … what do you remember about him?”

“So, I beat up a Hebe thirty years ago, what's that mean?”

“What was the fight about?”

“I don't remember. I had lotsa fights in those days.” Rocco's hand made a tentative gesture toward Bull. “It was over his wife.”

“His wife?”

“Yeah, I was jumping her. They lived in a trailer next door to the factory, and I'd go over there and jump her during my breaks. She loved it. The little Hebe found out and got ticked off. He tried to take me.”

“What happened to him then?”

“I read the papers. I read where you found the body. Don't try sticking that on me. I heard he moved away somewhere, tried to get his wife's nooky away from me. Then I went into the service.”

“How'd you open this place?” Lyon asked.

“I won a pot of dough on the troopship coming home. Everybody had a shit-ass fulla dough and no place to spend it. We played craps, I was big man, got off that boat with over eighteen grand.”

“What else do you remember about Meyerson?”

“Not much. He and I didn't exactly socialize. Besides, he was always working or studying. So, I beat him up. What's that prove?”

“It proves that I want you in my office at nine o'clock tomorrow morning,” Rocco said and handed a business card across the table. “There are a few items of evidence that I'd like to discuss with you.”

“What if I'm busy?”

“Then we'll meet here or at your house, or wherever you are. But that would make me angry, Mr. Martin, and I don't like to get angry.”

The fat man rubbed his fingers and glared at Rocco. “All right, I'll be there.”

Rocco hummed an old popular song as he inched the police cruiser up to seventy as they headed back to Murphysville.

“He's not exactly my sort of person,” Lyon said.

“Did you expect to find St. Francis in the gutter? Lyon, I think we've got it. I really think we've got it. The way I see it, he went back to the trailer, perhaps was caught with the wife, the fight broke out again, and that was all she wrote.”

“Now you're going to let him sweat overnight, worry about the evidence we might have.”

“Exactly. Then in our little talk tomorrow I'll offer to let him cop a plea, offer him manslaughter. That's the best we can get under the circumstances anyway.”

“I don't like it anymore, Rocco. This is where I climb off.”

“If I can break the slob, we've got it; and it'll be due to you, Lyon. From here on out it's making the bastard sweat.”