فصل 09 - بخش 07

9

John Zellman, owner and operator of Gentlemen, Please, called Ralph fifteen minutes later. He sounded curious rather than irritated, and was willing to help. Yes, he was sure Claude Bolton had been at the club when that poor kid had been grabbed and killed.

‘Why so positive, Mr Zellman? I thought he didn’t go on duty until four PM.’

‘Yeah, but he came in early that day. Around two. He wanted time off to go to the big city with one of the strippers. He said she had a personal problem.’ Zellman snorted. ‘He was the one with the personal problem. Right under his zipper.’

‘Gal named Carla Jeppeson?’ Ralph asked, scrolling through the transcript of Bolton’s interview on his iPad. ‘Also known as Pixie Dreamboat?’

‘That’s her,’ Zellman said, and laughed. ‘If no tits count for shit, that ole girl’s gonna be around for a long time. But some men kind of like that, don’t ask me why. Her and Claude have got a thing, but it won’t last long. Her husband’s in McAlester now – bad checks, I think – but he’ll be out by Christmas. She’s just passing the time with Claude. I told him that, but you know what they say – a foreskin just wants to get in.’

‘You’re sure that was that day he came in early. July 10th.’

‘Sure I am. Made a note of it, because no way was Claude gonna get paid for two days in Cap City when he had his vacation coming right up – with pay, mind you – less than two weeks later.’

‘Kind of outrageous. Did you consider firing him?’

‘No. At least he was honest about it, you know? And listen. Claude’s one of the good ones, and they’re scarcer than hen’s teeth. Mostly security guys are either pussies who look tough but don’t want anything to do with a brawl if one breaks out in front of the runway, as they sometimes do, or guys who want to go all Incredible Hulk every time some customer gives them a little lip. Claude can throw somebody out with the best of them when he has to, but most times he doesn’t. He’s good at quieting them down. He’s got a touch. I think it’s on account of all those meetings he goes to.’

‘Narcotics Anonymous. He told me.’

‘Yeah, he’s up-front about it. Proud, actually, and I guess he’s got a right to be. A lot of guys never get that monkey off their backs once it climbs on. It’s a tough monkey. Long claws.’

‘Staying clean, is he?’

‘If he wasn’t, I could tell. I know from junkies, Detective Anderson, believe me. Gentlemen is a clean place.’

Ralph had his doubts, but let it pass. ‘No slips?’

Zellman laughed. ‘They all slip, at least in the beginning, but not since he’s been working for me. He doesn’t drink, either. I asked him why not once, if drugs were his problem. He said both things were the same. Said if he took a drink, even an O’Doul’s, he’d be off looking for blow or something even stronger.’ Zellman paused, then said, ‘Maybe he was a douche when he was using, but he isn’t now. He’s decent. In a business where your trade comes to drink margaritas and stare at shaved pussies, that’s kind of rare.’

‘I hear you. Is Bolton on vacation now?’

‘Yup. As of Sunday. Ten days.’

‘Is it what you might call a stay-cation?’

‘You mean is he here in FC? No. He’s down in Texas, somewhere near Austin. It’s where he’s from. Hold on a second, I pulled his file before I called you.’ There was the sound of shuffling papers, then Zellman was back. ‘Marysville, that’s the name of the town. Just a wide spot in the road, from the way he talks about it. I got the address because I send part of his paycheck down there every other week. It goes to his mother. She’s old and pretty feeble. Got the emphysema, too. Claude went down to see if he could get her into one of those assisted living places, but he wasn’t too hopeful. Says she’s one stubborn old nanny goat. I don’t see how he can afford it, anyway, on what he makes up here. When it comes to taking care of old people, the government should help regular guys like Claude, but does it? Bullshit it does.’

Says the man who probably voted for Donald Trump, Ralph thought. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Zellman.’

‘Can I ask why you want to talk to him?’

‘Just a couple of follow-up questions,’ Ralph said. ‘Small stuff.’

‘Dotting i’s and crossing t’s, huh?’

‘That’s right. Do you have an address?’

‘Sure, to send the money. Got a pencil?’

What he had was his trusty iPad, open to the Quick Notes app. ‘Shoot.’

‘Box 397, Rural Star Route 2, Marysville, Texas.’

‘And what’s Mom’s name?’

Zellman laughed cheerfully. ‘Lovie. Ain’t that a good one? Lovie Ann Bolton.’

Ralph thanked him and hung up.

‘Well?’ Jeannie asked.

‘Hang on,’ Ralph said. ‘Notice I’ve got my think-face on.’

‘Ah, so you do. Could you use an iced tea while you think?’ She was smiling. It looked good on her, that smile. It looked like a step in the right direction.

‘No doubt.’

He returned to his iPad (wondering how he had ever gotten along without the damn thing), and found Marysville about seventy miles west of Austin. It was little more than a dot on the map, its single claim to fame something called the Marysville Hole.

Ralph considered his next move while he drank his iced tea, then called Horace Kinney of the Texas Highway Patrol. Kinney was now a captain, mostly riding a desk, but Ralph had worked with him several times on interstate cases when the man had been a trooper, logging ninety thousand miles a year in north and west Texas.

‘Horace,’ he said after they had finished with the pleasantries, ‘I need a favor.’

‘Big or small?’

‘Medium, and it requires a bit of delicacy.’

Kinney laughed. ‘Oh, you need to go to New York or Connecticut for delicacy, hoss. This is Texas. What do you need?’

Ralph told him. Kinney said he had just the man, and he happened to be in the area.