The Master Ring
Chapter 2
The first thing I did was exactly what I said I wouldn’t do. I called the cops.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Benny. It’s Jack.”
“No kidding. If only someone would invent something that could I.D. someone calling you on the phone.”
“Real funny, berk. Listen, I got a hypothetical for you.”
“Aw, crap. Every time you call me up with a hypothetical question, I spend the next two weeks trying to keep your ass out of the clink.”
“You like my ass, Benny. Just admit it. You’ll feel better.”
“Bite me, dickhead. Whaddaya want?”
“I was perusing last week’s edition of The Heights Post...”
“Oh, Crikes...are you serious?”
“...and I noticed a story mentioning that Carina Westwood has been missing for over a year. You know anything about that?”
Benny was quiet for a few moments. Then he said, “I don’t know anything about that. Why? Did you hear something?”
“Me? I haven’t heard nothin’.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“I’ve got a client. I just wanted to do a little fact-checking is all.”
“Who’s the client?”
“Confidential, Benny. You know that.”
“Jack, listen to me and listen good. You do not fuck with the Westwoods. Are you hearing me? If you know something, you need to tell me now.“
“I really don’t know anything, Benny. I was just running a fact-check, that’s all.”
“Yeah, well, make sure that’s all it is. You screw with the Westwoods, you can kiss your license goodbye.”
“All right, Benny. I got it. Be seeing you.”
“Be seeing you.”
The next morning, I got in my car and headed for southwest Heights.
Chrystal Heights is a strange city in many ways, but it’s also a typical city in others. A poor little rich girl wanting to taste the freedom of living on the edge, free of the rigid structure of the monied lifestyle and disappearing to prove to everyone she’s a strong, independent woman, yada yada yada- until the bills come due, anyway- is hardly news. It’s practically a hobby for bored socialites. They shack up with some guy for a week or two weeks to get out from under Daddy’s thumb and piss off mumsy. Then they get bored and came home. Dad throws a fit, mother complains to her friends at the country club that she just doesn’t know what goes on in these kids’ heads, and then everything goes back to what passes for normal in the world of old money.
But a year and a half was a long time for sowing oats. So whatever Carina had gotten into, it involved a lifestyle change. The question, of course, was whether that lifestyle change was voluntary or not.
I did have one piece of information that Veronica Westwood didn’t have, though. I happened to know where the Crosswinds was located.
Every city has their lower income housing section. Or slum, if you prefer. In Chrystal Heights, that’s the southwest section of the city.
I passed a number of poorly constructed tenements and ramshackle houses, but I wasn’t looking to go into the inner city. Instead I drove along the outer edge of the suburbs. After driving by a number of overgrown lots and fields piled with discarded couches and appliances, I pulled into a small parking lot and stopped my car next to the hand-painted sign that read Crosswinds Trailer Park.
I closed the door and glanced around. Calling it a parking lot was over-kind. It was more like a place where parking lots went to die. Brown overgrown grass tickled the bottom of my front fender and weeds grew out of the cracks in the asphalt. One corner of the alleged parking lot was broken into little pieces and piled near the edge. A drainage ditch bordered the asphalt and was filled with trash and debris. It was not an idyllic garden retreat.
I walked toward the double-wide mobile trailer home that doubled as the management office. Three mangy-looking Doberman pinschers lounged inside a fenced-in enclosure on the side. Large patches of rust glared at me so aggressively, I was sure I’d need a tetanus shot when I left. A sign reading “Manager” was attached to the door.
I knocked and waited. Thirty seconds later, a beefy, unshaven guy in a wife-beater undershirt yanked open the door.
“Yeah?” he said, his beer breath engulfing me like bad credit. “Whadaya want?”
“C’mon, Floyd,” I said. “Is that any way to talk to an old chum?”
He peered at me for several seconds, then groaned.
“Aww, fuck me dry,” he said. “It’s you. The fuck ya want, Jack?”
“Just saying hi. You know, catch up, chat about the good ol’ days.”
“Fuck off, Jack. I got nuthin’ to say to you.”
I took out a cigarette and lit it, then took a hit from the bone and blew out a steam of smoke. “Why, Jack,” I said, “you’re being very inhospitable. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“The fuck would I do that? I haven’t seen you in ten fuckin’ years…not since you kicked me in the fuckin’ balls, dickwad.”
“Now, now, Floyd,” I said, “I did warn you, if you recall. You were being very unreasonable about returning my security, remember.”
“Fuck you, Jack. You got your money back. Now get the hell out of here before I sic my dogs on you.”
“Relax, Floyd,” I said. “I just want a little information and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I already told you I got nuthin’ to say to you. Now go blow.”
I blew another stream of smoke. “Well, Floyd, here’s the rumpus. I need some words about one of your fine upstanding citizens. Give me that and you won’t hear boo from me again.”
Floyd snorted. “Have you dropped your sixes? You trying to make me think you work for the bulls?”
I blew a stream of smoke into his face. “I don’t work for the bulls, you mug, but I do work with ’em, if you get my drift. And if I gotta waste time bringing ’em here because you don’t want to dance, I just might be tempted to give ’em a grand tour of Crosswinds Trailer Park. I haven’t lived here in ten years, but this burg just has a timelessness that mesmerizes, wouldn’t you say, mug? Why, I bet those illegal stills you ran are still right in the same spot behind One-Eyed Jimmy’s old trailer. And I’m sure you wouldn’t care if the coppers started asking why everybody coming out of Kate’s trailer is named ‘John’, now, right? After all, even if Kate and her daughter were doing anything unsavory like that, you wouldn’t be receiving any kind of cut from it, right? Or from any other illicit business dealings that might be occurring here without your knowledge, right?”
I took another hit from my cigarette and blew it directly into his face. Then I gave him a significant stare.
He was furious, but knew when he was beat. “The fuck you need, Jack?”
“I just need a little information about one of your tenants, Floyd,” I said. “That’s it.”
“Gimme a break, Jack,” he said. “That’s privileged information. Y’know, like talkin’ to yer lawyer or yer priest.”
I laughed. “Privileged information? Try again. This is a trailer park, mug. Those saps you got in there gotta look up to see rock bottom. You ain’t fooling me, Floyd.”
“You were a sap once.”
“Way once, mug.”
He glared at me. I had pushed him far enough. It was time to switch gears.
“Relax, Floyd, all right? This shouldn’t strain your conscience much. Tonya. Which trailer is hers?”
He was silent for several seconds and I thought maybe I had guessed wrong. Then he finally growled, “Lot seventeen. But you didn’t hear it from me, all right? I’m a man of principle and I don’t want my tenants thinking I’m handing out their personal information.”
“I’ll take it to the grave, Floyd. She live alone?”
“Yeah. She’s got friends, come and go. Chicks.”
“Chicks? A lot?”
“Fair amount. She’s lezzie. Why? You got a problem with that? She pays her rent on time, I don’t give a duck’s ass if she fucks men, women, doorknobs, cocker spaniels or her fuckin’ garden gnome.”
“You’re a beautiful man, Floyd.”
“Thanks. I try to be open-minded and shit, y’know?”
“Kumbaya, brother. One more thing,” I said. I held up the picture of Carina. “Recognize her?”
Floyd stared at the picture of Veronica’s raven-haired sister for several seconds. Then he said, “Yeah. Stayed in seventeen with Tonya. Sylvia, I think her name is. Ain’t there no more, though. Seemed like a sweet kid.”
“All those girls coming and going, but you remember this one?”
He shrugged. “She stood out, you know? Nice girl. Not like the skanks Tonya usually has hanging around.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “She got a last name?”
“Do I look like the fucking White Pages to you, asshole?”
“I suppose not. You’re prettier.”
“That’s funny. We done?”
“Are you gonna offer me a drink?”
“No.”
“Then yeah, we’re done. See ya around, mug. Been a real slice, ya know?”
His answer was the door slamming in my face. Not that I was offended. I had leaned on him a little hard, after all. Still, I had gotten what I came for. More, in fact. I had a name and a roommate.
And it was time to talk to Tonya, the roommate.
Lot seventeen wasn’t far away. My reception there wasn’t any warmer, however.
“Sylvia?” she said. “No, ain’t seen her. I haven’t seen the fucking bitch. And if you see the bitch, tell her to pay me back the money she owes me. All right? Tell her that. Tell the fucking bitch she owes me a shitload of money!”
Tonya was a redhead and had clearly taken to disliking me immediately, probably to save time and effort later. She fit the hot-headed stereotype like a hand in a glove. She was surprisingly attractive for a trailer park resident, despite the shiner under her left eye. She wasn’t smiling and I wasn’t sure she knew how.
“So I take it that it wasn’t an amicable parting of ways?” I was treading carefully. This bird seemed volatile.
“No, asshole, it wasn’t an amicable parting of ways. She fucking fooled me. I thought she was so sweet. You want to know about Sylvia? Go ask fucking Allison. She left with that cunt. Well, first she maxed out my credit cards and hocked my jewelry, then she left with that cunt. What the fuck?! Does Allison have a pussy made of solid fucking gold?!“
“Allison?”
“Yeah, Allison,” said Tonya, with surprising bitterness. “Phil’s fucking slut.”
“Phil?”
“Yeah, Phil,” she said. “My ex.”
Wow. I had a real soap opera going here.
“Sylvia took off with your ex’s girlfriend?”
“Did I stutter? Sylvia cleaned me out and took off with that nasty skank. Owed me back rent as well. That fucking bitch!“
Fiery, this one. Talking to her was the conversational equivalent of snipping random wires on a bomb.
“All right,” I said. “Is it possible for me to talk to Phil?”
“I don’t give a flying fuck if you do or not.”
I sighed. “I mean, where can I find Phil?”
She looked at me through narrowed eyes. “Just full of questions, aren’t you? Try Phil’s Garage on State Road, a mile or two west of Main Street.”
“Phil has a garage?”
“No, asshole. Some guy just randomly decided to name his business after Phil.”
“All right, all right. Dumb question. I got it.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
It was time to go. This angry bird wasn’t going to give up anything else. Still, I was curious about something and it couldn’t hurt to ask. Much.
“I don’t mean to pry,” I said, “but were you and Sylvia...more than just friends? Friends with benefits, perhaps?”
“What business is it of yours, asshat? Why are you even asking? You want fucking pictures?”
“Is that so much to ask?”
“You fucking wish, dickwad. How about you getting the hell out now?”
I sighed. “Look, I apologize. I’m just trying to locate Sylvia. If I do that, you benefit too, don’t you think?”
“You’d tell me where she is?”
“Sure,” I said.
“Bullshit,” said Tonya, “but you know what? I don’t care. You don’t need my help finding Allison. Just follow your nose. You should smell her stench long before you get close to her.”
Quite the earthy soul, this Tonya. “Thank you for your time,” I said. “Perhaps I will try talking to Phil.”
“Yeah, whatever, ass.”
I would have stood up to leave at this point, but I had never sat down. And since Tonya’s body language indicated that I had a better chance of starting a menstrual cycle than being invited to stay any longer, I made my exit.
I had already spent more time in this trailer park than I wanted and even one more minute was too much. But Tonya had left me feeling mean and Floyd had left me feeling a tiny bit nostalgic, so just for the hell of it, I drove a little further down the lane and stopped in front of lot twenty-four.
It had changed, but for the better and that was surprising. Ten years on a mobile home is hard time, no matter how well kept it is. The old guy I had sold the place to for a song hadn’t looked all that perky to me and I couldn’t imagine Floyd giving it much TLC, so it had me wondering who had put the place back together after I left.
You could have thrown a rock from the porch of twenty-four and hit the flamingo in front of seventeen, where Tonya lived. I tried to remember who lived there back in the day, but drew a blank. I was in transition back then and wasn’t interested in getting to know the neighbors.
I was so lost in reverie that the sudden rapping on my car window nearly made me jump out of my skin. I rolled down my window with a snarl.
“Yeah?”
A woman looked down at me. Brown hair, middle twenties, reasonably pretty. Great hips.
“Can I help you with something?” she said, speaking with diamond-edged clarity.
I shook my head. “Not at all,” I said, “but thanks for asking.”
“Then perhaps you can tell me why you’re parked in front of my home,” she said, every word enunciated clearly.
I feigned a look of confusion. “Isn’t this the Chrystal Heights Bureau of Tourism?”
She flashed me a smile that indicated she found me almost as funny as a venereal disease. “Not quite,” she said, “but don’t worry. You can ask me. I’ll be glad to tell you exactly where to go.”
I chuckled. A live wire, this one, although I wasn’t sure yet of the exact voltage.
“Sorry,” I said. “I used to reside in this kingdom. I was just giving the past a quick viddy.”
“I see,” she said. “So you used to live here?”
I shrugged. “Some might call it that.”
She nodded. “Did you also live in seventeen? Because you stopped there first.”
Oh, great. An amateur gumshoe.
“No, I didn’t, Miss Nosey,” I said. “I stopped there first because I had business there.”
“Of course you did,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“Jack.”
“Last name?”
“Why do you need my last name?”
“I like to know things.”
Strange bird, this one. “I can see that.”
“I’m Lynn.”
“Glad to know you, Lynn.”
“Your passenger-side tail light is out, you know.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. I noticed it when I was writing down your license plate number.”
I sighed. “I see.”
“I’m just kidding,” she said. “I memorized your plate number. I don’t have to write down anything.”
“That’s quite a memory you have.”
“Thank you, Mister Wolfe.”
That made me pause. “And just how do you know who I am, Lynn?” I said, as casually as I could.
She grinned. “My grandfather bought this trailer from a Jack Wolfe. You said your name was Jack and that you used to live here. It doesn’t take a real leap of logic to work it out, does it?”
“I suppose not.”
“I fixed that hole you left in the floor of the living room.”
“That’s good.”
“And the leak in the bedroom ceiling.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I remember that.”
“I also fixed—”
“Look, Lynn,” I said, cutting her off before she could continue cataloguing everything repair she had performed as if I had just moved out last week, “I’ve enjoyed this visit, but I have to get back to work, okay?”
“Work?” she said. “And just what is it you do, Jack? Besides parking in front of single women’s homes and staring like a creeping creepster?”
“I’m a private detective, kid.”
She perked at that. “Really, Jack? Or are you just trying to fool me again?”
“I’m the real deal, sweetums.”
I pulled away then. She might have been swooning as I left. More likely she was memorizing what kind of car I was driving.
And now it was time to talk to Phil.