Unknown Man #89

12

SHE WASN’T IN KEN’S, the Gold Dollar, the Good Times, the Temple, the Hotel Ansonia, the Royal Palm, the Willis Show Bar, or Anderson’s Garden.

Ryan checked the bars for a couple of days, thinking she might’ve felt safer with the drunks, the familiar atmosphere, and was still in the neighborhood. The trouble was, she could stay in a room drinking and seldom come out. She must have money, some, anyway. And if she did, she could have taken off. She could be anywhere.

He called his answering service several times a day-in case she remembered his number and phoned, which wasn’t likely-and listened to the answering service girl recite the messages. Call Virgil Royal, and the number. Call Raymond Giddy? Gidre. Rhymes with hid-me. Staying at the Eldorado Motel on Woodward, and the number. Call Rita. Call Jay Walt. Call five, six, seven lawyers with papers waiting to be served. The list of lawyers kept growing. The others kept trying.

Ryan went back to the county clerk’s files and checked the marriage license again.

Denise Leann Watson. Occupation: student. Birthplace: Bad Axe, Michigan.

He didn’t notice it the first time he checked. Bad Axe. He’d worked in that area of the Thumb twelve years ago, in the sugar beet and cucumber fields. He might’ve seen her on the street in Bad Axe or Port Austin, the majorette with the blond ponytail and the perky ass, twirling for the consolidated high school marching band. Or in the backseat of a car at the drive-in, drinking Boone’s Farm.

Father’s name: Joseph L. Watson.

Ryan talked to Mrs. Watson on the phone. He could feel her withdraw and lock up when he said he was inquiring about Denise. Was she there? Mrs. Watson said she had not heard from Denise since Christmas. She did not see her then and did not care either, because Denise was not going to hurt her anymore. Ryan asked if, by any chance, Denise had gone to Wayne-picturing the psych or sociology major who’d got lost in the inner city and messed up. No, she’d gone to Michigan State and then to Detroit Arts and Crafts. Ryan thanked her.

He called the art school and found out Denise had studied there four years ago. Graphic design.

So he visited art studios in the Cass Corridor area-storefronts painted over in bright colors, a corner building that looked like the Alamo, painted white, and had been a Hi-Speed gas station. He talked to artists who looked like mechanics. The one who remembered a Denise Watson was building a sculpture out of hubcaps, welding them together. He turned off his torch, put his goggles up, and said, Denise. She did whales. She did wailing fucking whales, man. Denise’s whales, man, she drew whales, she painted whales, she fucking carved whales better than the Eskimos.

Ryan called Dick Speed.

Nothing on Denise Leary yet. Sure they were still looking-a guy is killed and his wife disappears? Her name was at the top of the all-points. For questioning.

“How about Virgil Royal?”

“Yeah, we talked to him,” Dick Speed said. “We talked to his sister, we talked to his brother-in-law. They say he spent the night with them. We talked to Virgil again. We had the night clerk at the Montcalm Hotel happen to pass through the office. He said he didn’t know, maybe, they all looked alike to him. He said the guy had on a raincoat and a knit cap, maybe a beard. You remember Tunafish?”

“Sure.”

“That’s Virgil’s brother-in-law.”

“It’s getting like everybody knows everybody,” Ryan said.

“How about birds of a feather?” Dick Speed said. “If they’re not screwing each other’s sister, they strike up meaningful relationships at Jackson. They’re all in the life together.”

“You believe Tunafish? I mean since he’s supposed to be on your side?”

“Tunafish, he gives us a little straight stuff and a lot of bullshit. With something like this-well, if you had a brother-in-law was a hard-time con who might’ve blown away a couple of people with a shotgun-would you get him sore at you?”

“So what do you do now?”

“Stay on it. Talk to people. Like the hairdresser out in Pontiac. He gave us the same description, raincoat, knit cap, but no beard. So we don’t think much of the beard the night clerk might’ve seen. The hairdresser looked through the family album. ‘Mmmmmm, no. No… no… no. That’s cute, the earring. I know a fella wears his mother’s wedding ring in his ear.’ We say, How about this mother? And point to a nice full-face and profile of Virgil. He says, ‘Mmmmmm… mmmmm. Well, there is a likeness… no… well, maybe. No, I can’t say positively, so I’d better not say.’ We parade Virgil through the office, Virgil looking around like he’s never been here before-isn’t that interesting, a calendar, and a window, and all those mug shots on the wall-he probably knows half the fucking guys up there. The hairdresser, he’d glance at Virgil and look away, like he didn’t want to be impolite and get caught staring at him. To make a long story, no positive I.D. Virgil’s on the street.”

“He keeps calling me,” Ryan said. “He wants to talk to the wife.”

Dick Speed said, “Who doesn’t? The broad’s sitting somewhere, she doesn’t know how popular she is.”

There was a story about the disappearance of Denise Leary on page 3 of the Free Press and a graduation shot of her out of the Michigan State Spartan. It became a before in the before-and-after pictures of her Ryan kept in his mind. Her blond hair was shorter then, dipping close to her eye in a soft curve, and she was smiling. It was the first time he had seen her smile.

The news story said she was being sought for questioning in the slaying of her husband. Ryan wondered where they dug up words like that. Slaying. He didn’t see anything in the news story he didn’t already know.

Ryan stopped by the Eldorado Motel to see Raymond and find out what Mr. Perez was doing. The Eldorado was a midtown motel on Woodward Avenue. Ryan couldn’t figure out who would stay there. He asked Raymond how it was going.

Raymond Gidre said he had never seen so many niggers in all his life. He said he’d walked from the motel down to the river and all he’d seen was niggers.

Ryan asked him if he liked to walk, since it was about three miles.

Raymond said if he’d known it, he wouldn’t have. He had walked over to the General Motors Building, but there wasn’t nothing to see there. He liked the Fisher Building, though, the way they lit up the gold top at night. He said the street lights on Woodward were funny. They were kind of pink.

Ryan said he’d never noticed.

Raymond said near two weeks, he hadn’t found a good place to eat other than a nigger joint he happened to go into. They had collards and okra. Nobody seemed to have heard of red beans and rice. Raymond couldn’t believe it. He told Ryan he understood one thing now. At the Saint Charles Hotel in New Orleans, before they tore it down, and different places, the Monteleone, he’d wondered why a person couldn’t get a shoeshine no more. It was simple once he saw why. All the niggers had come up to De-troit.

Ryan asked him if he’d heard from Mr. Perez.

Yeah, Mr. Perez had been to Chicago and Fort Wayne and was down to Indianapolis now.

Same kind of business?

You bet. It was what Mr. Perez did. He never sat around much, he was always on the go.

Ryan asked Raymond what he did for Mr. Perez.

Raymond said oh, he looked up people, he drove Mr. Perez on trips, he went with him sometimes to see people. Otherwise he fooled around, worked some at the Jungle Gardens and Bird City, then’d go on down to New Orleans for a while. Shit, Canal Street was about five times wider than Ryan’s Woodward Avenue.

Ryan tried to think of things for Raymond to do. He asked him if he’d been to Belle Isle, in the Detroit River.

Raymond said shit, there was nothing there worth seeing. Some statues, the aquarium-gaw fish were little bitty things. Ryan should see the gaw fish they caught down at Barataria and Grand Isle, man, big ones like Ryan