Slugfest

“Lucy doesn’t have anything worth stealing, unless the thief is a shoe freak. If there was anything valuable in the bag, wouldn’t the kid have been more careful with it? But maybe someone else wanted the bag because they’re afraid of what might be in it.”

J. C. and I exchanged numbers. She made me promise to call the police as soon as I got to the Wagner Center and said she’d stay on the lookout for any strangers in the building. I pitied the poor delivery person who didn’t identify himself to her satisfaction. I wrapped a scone for the road and placed it in the outside pocket of my backpack so it wouldn’t get crushed. As I did I felt the rumble of my cell and pulled it out of my bag. The caller’s number was unfamiliar.

It was a woman. “Is this Paula Holliday? I’m an exhibitor at the flower show. Can we meet? I’d like to talk to you about Garland Bleimeister.”

I couldn’t think of anywhere near Lucy’s for us to meet except Carmine’s and it was too early for pepperoni. The caller suggested a place called Jimbo’s Bagels a few blocks east. It was in the same general direction as the convention center, so I’d have to pass it anyway.

“Fifteen minutes.” I hung up and tried to make sense out of what I’d just heard. “That was someone named Cindy Gustafson.”

“Why is she calling you?”

“I guess I’ll find out.” I leafed through the show directory. Cindy was one of the six vendors on the dog-eared page.

“Like I said—watch your back.”

Thirty-nine

Cindy Gustafson fiddled with the lanyard of her badge holder, which was tucked into the breast pocket of her corduroy jacket. It was an old show trick so you wouldn’t forget to wear the darn thing but didn’t have strangers on the street calling you by your first name and creeping you out when you weren’t working.

She stood up and stuck out her hand like an overeager job applicant. From the still life on the small resin table where she’d been sitting—empty coffee cup, newspaper, and bagel—she’d been there a while; maybe that’s where she’d called me from.

She was young—twenty-five, maybe younger, close to Bleimeister’s age. She had that same dewy look, combined with a surprising coarseness common to those in their twenties. Maybe it was the fashion. They looked world-weary, even if they’ve never really seen the world and had no legitimate reason to be weary.

“Thanks for coming.” She hooked her straight dark hair behind one ear in a move I would see repeated many times in the following twenty minutes.

Cindy said she had met Garland, haunting the corridors of the Wagner Center. “It was Wednesday,” she said, “late.”

They had talked in the shorthand of the twentysomething—clubs, social networking, jobs, schools. Thinking of his shirt, I asked her if Bleimeister had gone to Penn State.

Cindy shook her head and seemed surprised by my question. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Why do you ask?”

“The Happy Valley shirt. I thought maybe he was an alumnus.”

“He said that was a joke. He said he’d gotten an education at Happy Valley but not a degree.”

“Did you know what he meant?”

She shrugged. Another move I’d see numerous times. Garland told her he’d been at the show earlier and had left a bag at my booth but couldn’t get back in to retrieve it because he’d lost his badge. Would she stop by to pick it up for him and meet him later at Dekker’s Tavern on the West Side?

“He said he’d treat me to dinner to say thank you, but I got so busy setting up that I forgot. When I called to let him know, he said never mind. He’d made other plans and couldn’t meet that night anyway. I thought he was blowing me off because of the stupid bag, but he rescheduled for the next night. He even said dress nice because we were going to a fancy restaurant.”

“Where were you supposed to meet him on Thursday?”

“Nick & Nora’s. I waited for two hours but he never showed. I even walked back to Dekker’s, thinking I’d misunderstood. Then this morning, I saw this.”

She pointed to the newspaper. It might have been coffee stains but I thought there were tear splotches on the grainy picture of Bleimeister wearing his Happy Valley shirt and hoisting a can of beer, his arms entwined around two buddies.

I’d only seen Bleimeister twice and the features were indistinct, but the smile was unmistakable. He was the floater, as Rolanda and the paper so sensitively called him. I asked Cindy the same question J. C. had asked me. “Did you notify the police?”

“No. I called you because you were his friend.” She looked down and played with a stray thread escaping from one of the buttons on her jacket. If she wasn’t careful she’d lose it.

“I wasn’t his friend. It was an accident that I had his bag—which, by the way, I don’t anymore.”

“Did the police take it?” she asked.

“No.”

“If you don’t have the bag,” she asked, “where is it?”

“Beats me. If Bleimeister didn’t take it, somebody else made off with it.”

“But who? Who’d want a ratty old bag?”

That was the final Jeopardy question. Or maybe it was why did somebody want the bag? What did they think was in it? And how did Cindy know it was a ratty old bag unless she’d seen it?

“Just for curiosity’s sake,” I said, “how did you get my cell number?”

“I stopped by last night during the reception, but you weren’t there. One of the guys from the next booth suggested I take your business card.” The ever-helpful David.

“Look, I am calling the police. This bag business might be something the police can use to find out what happened to Bleimeister.”

“Do you need to mention my name?”

“He might have mentioned a girlfriend. Did he mean you?”

“No way.” The button came off, as I knew it would, and she shoved it in her pocket. “I have a boyfriend back home. He won’t understand my going to meet another guy.”

What exactly was I going to tell the cops if I didn’t have the bag, didn’t mention Jamal, and didn’t mention Cindy? Wouldn’t they find her when they questioned the people listed on the dog-eared page? Was he pointing to his killer from his slab in the morgue or was that just something you saw on television?

“I may have to. You saw Bleimeister and spoke to him more recently than I did. Depending on when he died, you may have been one of the last people to see him.” Just like Jamal, but I didn’t see the need to complicate things by mentioning him.

That realization sent a visible shudder through the girl. “Don’t worry. Nothing happened. You didn’t even meet him. Even the most jealous boyfriend couldn’t object to that.”

She smiled weakly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Jealous boyfriends—another reason to be glad I was unattached.

I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher I had information about the body that had been found in the river. I gave my name and cell number and said I could be reached at the Wagner Center, booth 1142 in approximately twenty minutes. After I hung up, Cindy thanked me profusely, even though I told her she would likely have to talk to them anyway because of the directory and the note.

“Your name’s on one of the pages. The cops will want to speak to you. C’mon. Let’s get going. Big shopping day today.”

I left a few bucks on the table for Cindy’s uneaten bagel and grabbed the tearstained newspaper, folding it under my arm. We didn’t speak for two or three blocks—hard to shift gears and discuss the weather after talking about a young man who’d just died under questionable circumstances. Although maybe that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do—talk about shoes or sports. Or work.