West Seattle Blues Page 7

  “Good.”

  “Are you going to do this for Carson?” he asked me.

  “No, I’m not going to do it,” I told him. “I can’t.”

  “How you doing?”

  “A hell of a lot better for sleeping in my own bed,” Carson answered on the other end of the line. His voice sounded thick. “And I’m kind of glad of those painkillers.” I heard a rough chuckle. “Guess I won’t be winning any medals for the sprint just yet, though.”

  If he could laugh about it, then he was doing fine, so I didn’t need to worry. It was time to get to business.

  “Tell me something, Carson. Did you ever talk to your son’s wife at all?”

  “Well, just the one time when my grandson took me over,” he admitted thoughtfully. “But we didn’t talk about his daddy. I couldn’t see the point. They’d been divorced for years. Jim told me that. He hardly ever saw his father.”

  “But she still knew him. She married him, and then she divorced him for a reason.” I’d thought about it the evening before.

  “I guess.” He sounded doubtful.

  “Look, if you want, I’ll go and talk to her. But that’s all I’ll do.” I’d help, at least a little, but I was going to be the one to make the rules. And none of them would put me in danger. Visiting Jim’s mom was going to be safe enough.

  “Sure,” he replied after a while. I could hear the narcotic fog in the word.

  “You have her number?”

  “I can get it from Jim.”

  “Do that and I’ll go talk to her.”

  “What about the other guys? The names I got?”

  “No, Carson,” I said firmly. “I’ll do this for you but that’s all. If you want to talk to them, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

  “I would but…”

  “Yeah, I know. Your leg. Then it’s just going to have to wait until you can get up and around again.”

  “Okay.” He sounded sullen, as if he was pouting.

  “Look, if you don’t want me doing this, I won’t.”

  “No, that’d be good. I’m sorry.”

  “I could at least find out more for you. Find out what he was like. She probably knew him as well as anyone.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “Listen…”

  “What?”

  “Can I just give you the names of these guys?”

  “Why?” I was instantly suspicious.

  “Just in case…I don’t know, in case something happens.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “For God’s sake, it’s just a flesh wound, Carson, you told me that yourself.”

  “I know.”

  “You just want to give me these names and hope I’ll change my mind.” He was silent for so long that I knew I’d hit it spot on. I sighed. “Look, if you want to give me the names, go ahead, if it really makes you feel better. I’ll keep them somewhere, in case you get amnesia or something.”

  “There’s Kyle Adams,” he began. “And the other one’s called Rick Deal.” He paused as I sucked in air. “What?”

  “Do you have an address for him?” I asked. I’d been knocked back to hear the name.

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I know someone with that name. Used to, anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I was certain. I’d seen Rick Deal around Seattle for years. He’d been there in the early punk days of the Gorilla Room at the start of the Eighties, then in the clubs that sprang up and melted away overnight around Pioneer Square in the middle of the decade. He’d even sung in a few hardcore bands, channeling his inner Henry Rollins, but none of them stayed together more than a few gigs.

  The last time I’d seen him had been two years before. Dustin and I had gone to a show at the Crocodile, down at Second and Battery. Rick had been on the door, checking IDs and looking bigger and even more muscled than I remembered, like he’d taken to working out regularly. He’d nodded at me and stamped my wrist, but that was it. No ‘hi, how you doing,’ or anything like that. Three months later I heard he’d been fired, and ended up in court because he’d beaten up on someone at a club.

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Maybe.” I doubted it, though. Someone told me Rick had once done some jail time. I could imagine him knowing Carson’s son. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going to see him, right?”

  “Right,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “You get that number for me and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  He called back in less than fifteen minutes.

  “I talked to Jim. Her name’s Angela Donald these days. She’s off today and says you can go around anytime this afternoon.” He passed on the address.

  The woman lived in an apartment on North East Eleventh, off 155th North East. It took me half an hour to find the place, after becoming confused by the way streets were laid out in Bellevue; it seemed there was no logic to it. Even though I’d grown up in Seattle, I rarely took the floating bridge across Lake Washington. I’d never felt the need. Just like Mercer Island, which sat smack in the middle of the water, the East side was where the rich lived, a world far removed from the one I inhabited.

  I found a space in the parking lot in front of the apartments. Not all of Bellevue had bulging wallets, it seemed, because there were a couple of beaters next to me with bald tires, a mix of faded paint and grey primer on the bodywork. Beyond them sat a couple of cars that were almost old enough to be classics, well looked after, but nothing here was worth very much.

  The building was two squat stories that looked as if it hadn’t enjoyed much maintenance or attention in way too long. The windows were all dirty aluminum, several of the screens torn and hanging loose. A few toys and a child’s plastic tricycle lay outside the front door. I found the name Donald, rang the buzzer and waited. Five seconds passed, then ten, before I heard the click of the latch and pushed.

  Angela Donald lived on the second floor, right at the end of a hallway. Her door was already open so I walked in. She sat at a table piled high with thick textbooks, staring out the window, an empty coffee cup and a legal pad in front of her.

  Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, pale blonde and hanging halfway down her back. She was dressed in a brown sweater and blue jeans, a small woman with a determined face and sad, disappointed eyes. Angela was a woman without too many illusions left, I suspected.

  “Ms. Donald,” I said. “I’m Laura Benton.”

  She eyed me, appraising.

  “So you’re the one who found Jim for his grandfather.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement. She nodded at the empty chair across from her and I sat down. “Jim’s pretty taken with Carson. He still can’t quite believe it.”

  “Yeah, Carson can be a charmer in his own way. And I know he’s happy getting to know Jim.”

  Angela snorted. “Like father, like son. James could be charming, too, when he wanted. Get you eating right out of his hand. Only problem was, soon as he had what he wanted, the charm vanished.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It wasn’t. Trust me on that.” She packed plenty of bad memories into that remark. Better to start somewhere else, I decided.

  “How about you?” I asked. “It must have been a shock when Jim told you about his grandfather.”

  She chuckled. “That doesn’t even start to cover it. All the time I knew him, Jimmy always said his father had vanished - didn’t want anything to do with him. I should have guessed it was all down to his mom.” She made a face. “Darlene always was crazy. About ninety-nine per cent bitch, especially after a drink.”

  “But you still married her son.”

  “Yeah,” she answered with a sigh. “Hey, we’re all allowed one mistake, right? Anyway, I didn’t meet Darlene until after our wedding and it was too late by then. If I’d known her before…” She shrugged.

  We’d only exchanged a few words, but I already liked her. There was a heavy layer of cynicism; underneath all that, I
was willing to bet she still believed in romance and forever. She’d lay her heart on the line and have it trampled on again.

  “It wasn’t a great marriage?”

  “Let me put it like this: he turned from attentive to asshole in less than a month,” she said bitterly. “You ever meet a man like that?” Of course I had. Every woman had, and she knew it. “He was all sweet words and candy and flowers when he wanted to get in my pants. Once he’d gotten that ring on my finger, he was out all the time and I was stuck at home. After Jim was born, it was even worse. He’d be there maybe a couple of days a month. So I said screw it and filed for divorce.”

  She was obviously bitter and who could blame her? There were too many men like James Clark, and they always seemed to find women like Angela. Maybe it was just fate or some strange magnetic attraction.

  “Jim said you were in Spokane.”

  “That’s right. I grew up there. Met Jimmy in a bar. There wasn’t much else to do there at night. I was studying to be an RN.” She gestured at the books on the table. “Just like now. The difference is that I’m going to get there this time.”

  I was willing to believe it. There was determination in her eyes. She was a survivor, one who wore her hard knocks with pride.

  “Why move here? It’s a long way from Spokane.”

  “That was the point,” she told me. “The farther the better. It meant I wouldn’t have James coming around. He had my address, and sometimes he’d remember his son at birthdays and Christmas, sometimes he wouldn’t. Usually, if I heard from him, he needed to borrow some money. I figured out that here he wouldn’t be knocking on my door.”

  “Never showed up?”

  She shook her head firmly. “Nope. He’s not going to drive that far. Wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference, anyway, since I didn’t have enough. Even if I’d been rich I wouldn’t have given the bastard a cent. I’d have never gotten a penny back from him. Then he went and moved to Everett.” She shook her head. “I never could figure that one out. As far as I knew, he didn’t know anyone this side of the mountains.”

  “Did James ever come around after you married again?”

  She smiled ruefully. “Jim told you about that, huh?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  “Yeah, well.” She took a sip of coffee. “Make that two mistakes. I must have been a glutton for punishment. Kicked that one to the curb after five years. I’m better off on my own for now. But no, Jimmy didn’t really come around much after a while.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  She focused on a tree in the distance. “Must have been about 1988. He showed up here with a card for his son’s birthday. First time he’d managed that in maybe three years. And there was a twenty-dollar bill inside. I couldn’t believe it. Figured he must have stolen someone’s wallet. I just took it out of his hand and closed the door in his face.”

  “How did you feel when you heard James was dead?”

  “Sad.” She paused for a moment. “I didn’t like the guy one bit but I wouldn’t have wished that on him.”

  “Ms. Donald,” I began.

  “Mrs.,” she corrected me. “I never changed it back after my second marriage. It’s a way to remind myself not to screw up again. Just call me Angie.”

  “You know what happened to Carson?”

  “Yeah, my son was the first person he called from the hospital after he was shot. And no, I don’t know why anyone would murder my ex, if that’s what you’re wanting to ask. I didn’t know anything about James’s life anymore and I’m glad.”

  Maybe that was what I was really asking. I’d come hoping for a little background, really, to learn about the dead man.

  “What was James like?”

  “The guy was a loser.” She didn’t even have to hesitate before she said it. “Stone-cold loser. And a liar, a good one, too. I believed him enough to marry him. Even for a while after.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You really want to know? Before I met him I had this plan. I was going to qualify as a nurse and join the Navy. See a bit of the world before I settled down. He suckered me. He convinced me we’d be living high on the hog, and I believed him. Three months, he promised me, and we’d have plenty of money. Two years later I’ve got Jim and I’m thinking about asking for food stamps.”

  “Did he work?”

  “He was at a tire shop when I met him. Quit that and went into business for himself.” She shook her head. “That’s what he called it, anyway. Gone all the time, coming home smelling of liquor and perfume. By then I’d made it to licensed practical nurse so we had a little money coming in. He’d take that, if he didn’t have any himself.”

  “He sounds like a real winner.”

  “Oh yeah, big time.” She rolled her eyes. “You see why I kicked him out?”

  “Yeah. When he was in business, what did he do?”

  “Apart from bullshit, you mean?” She stood up, stretched and placed her hands against the window glass. “It depended who he was talking to. Cars, property, anything that might make him rich. I don’t think I ever knew the truth. I’m not sure he did either, come to that. Getting rid of him was like lifting this huge weight off me.”

  “And you’ve no idea why anyone would kill him?”

  “I’m sure there were plenty of reasons. But nothing I’d know about. He was out of my life.”

  “Jim said he has his father’s guitar.”

  “Yeah. He went over to check out his dad’s place after he died and he found it sitting in a closet.”

  “Did you go and see the place yourself?”

  Angie shook her head.

  “You couldn’t have paid me. I just didn’t want to know. But I was kind of surprised there was a guitar.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t even know he played. He’d go out dancing and he’d listen to the radio, but music…” She shrugged. “Maybe he changed, who knows? But I doubt it. You know what they say about leopards and spots.”

  “You know what I can’t figure?” I said to Carson. I’d heated up a can of soup for him and made a fresh pot of coffee.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why he got himself a guitar.”

  He finished the bowl of soup, put it on the table by the chair and wiped a hand across his mouth. His stubble was starting to form itself into a beard, a mix of silver and iron-grey. It suited him, gave him that cowboy look.

  “People do,” Carson said. “It’s not so strange, Laura. Maybe he just decided he wanted to learn to play. Who knows, maybe Darlene told him what I did and he decided he wanted to be better than me. We’re never going to know.”

  “Most people start out with a cheap guitar, don’t they?”

  “Yeah,” he agreed slowly. “But not everyone. I know a guy bought himself a thousand dollar instrument and he couldn’t play a lick.”

  “But James didn’t have any money.”

  “I just don’t know. Maybe someone owed him and he took the guitar instead.” He sighed. “He’s not here, so we can’t ask him. Just let that train leave the station.”

  “I still think it’s odd that he got one, that’s all.”

  “Maybe he inherited something from me, after all. I’d like to think he wasn’t all bad.”

  “No one’s all bad,” I observed.

  “Maybe,” He said doubtfully.

  I didn’t tell Carson I was heading over to Capitol Hill. I didn’t say a word to Dustin, either. I drove along Beach Drive, all the way past Alki Point, along Harbor Avenue then left on to the West Seattle Bridge. I knew this was stupid. I knew it was idiotic. But I thought it would be safe to see Rick Deal.

  We’d talked a few times over the years. Nothing deep, but enough to get to know each other a little. The guy had a wire edge, but he’d always been fine with me. Besides, it was up on the hill, and in the middle of the afternoon that meant I was going to be safe enough.

  Seven
>
  I drove up Denny Way. In the rearview I could see the view down the hill, the buildings and the road stretching away beyond. Beyond them, the waters of Puget Sound rolled out to the Peninsula and the Olympics. It was a classic postcard scene. There was beauty in it, both the modern and the timeless. I followed cars through the stop and start of traffic signals to Fifteenth. I knew exactly where Rick lived. He’d been in the same place for as long as I could remember, renting a room in Sheila’s big old house. Some tenants came and went in a matter of months. Others, like Rick, stuck around forever, until they became part of the furniture. The money helped her pay the mortgage.

  I parked on Mercer and walked back along the sidewalk. The Five-O was just down the street. I’d gone there so often in the late Eighties, when Terry Lee Hale booked the bands and appeared onstage himself sometimes. The Walkabouts were regulars, and other names I’d forgotten now. It was like glimpsing a tiny splinter of my past. Good days; they’d been fun: Some of them, anyway.

  Sheila had a large corner lot, with rhododendrons of all kinds forming a big hedge to shield her garden from the road. I’d known a few people who’d roomed here over the years, so I knew the technique. I went straight to the back door and knocked; the front door was purely for official business, and often ignored. A battered Ford F150 pickup stood on the gravel driveway, outside a shed that was in danger of toppling over. Rick’s vehicle, so he was probably at home. I still hoped I was doing the right thing. When I got home, I was going to owe Dustin five bucks.

  The door opened and I took a breath. Rick was still large and intimidating, a little bigger around the belly, blond hair cut unfashionably short - almost a buzz cut - and eyes bleary, as if he hadn’t been up too long. If he was still working in clubs, he’d have to keep late hours.

  “Hello, Rick,” I said. He squinted for a brief moment, then his face relaxed.

  “Laura, right?” He tried to place me. “Is that it? Laura?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Laura Benton. It’s been a while. I think the last place I saw you was the Crocodile.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. It was an open, big-hearted sound. Honest. He seemed different from the man I’d once known. He seemed…happier.