“This morning. I slept late, until nearly seven. When I woke up and went into the kitchen to start my tea, there was a man walking down the driveway. He had a pickup truck out front.”
“What did he look like?” I asked, trying to keep my face somewhere in the same universe as casual.
“I didn’t get a good look. By the time I got my glasses on, he was in the truck. He sat there for a few minutes. I didn’t know what to do, so I got dressed and walked outside to get the paper. As soon as I stepped outside, he gunned the motor and took off. Made a lot of smoke.”
“Did you see what kind of pickup it was?”
“An old one was all I could tell. Faded gray, rust spots on the side. A Ford, maybe.”
I stepped back over and squatted down next to her. “I’m sure it was nothing,” I said, feeling guilty for having lied to her twice in one conversation. “But just to be safe, you be sure and lock up well tonight.”
She smiled at me slyly. “Harry, this is the city. I lock up well every night. And there’s a loaded shotgun in the closet.”
I smiled back. “Good girl.”
I walked down the driveway to the Mazda, feeling about as low as a vagrant on Belle Meade Boulevard. Sometime back, a case of mine had inadvertently-and indirectly-placed Mrs. Hawkins at risk. There was simply no way I was going to put her in that spot again. Something would have to be done.
If the bastard wanted to stalk me, let him. I can handle that. But if he starts scaring my sweet little old landlady, something’s going to have to be done.
But what?
I got this terrible taste in my mouth as I pulled out into the noontime traffic on Gallatin Road and headed toward Inglewood, like the coffee I’d had at Mac Ford’s office wasn’t going to stay down. I knew it wasn’t the coffee, though; it was just another side effect of having the Ronco Stress-O-Matic going at full throttle. On the good side, the strain of the last few days had played hell with my appetite. It looked like I’d be saving lunch money today, at least for a while.
A few minutes later I passed under the railroad trestle on Gallatin Road and approached the old Inglewood Theatre. Just for shits and grins I turned left, drove behind the theatre, and coasted past Lonnie’s place. His big truck wasn’t there and I saw no sign of Shadow, so I continued on until the street intersected with Ben Allen Road, then made a left.
I’d gotten to know this end of Nashville pretty well over the past couple of years, and I knew exactly which motel Ray was talking about. Ben Allen Road dead-ended into Dickerson Pike near the motel, past the Ellington Parkway, and well into a part of Nashville known for its level of violent crime. There’s not much street crime there, really, since no one would dare walk the streets anyway. But the string of small businesses-pawnshops, X-rated video outlets, used-car lots, mom-and-pop groceries-was prime pickings for holdup artists. An elderly couple who owned a small convenience market had been the lead item in the local news a few weeks back when three guys busted in to rob them and the two started shooting back. Seems they’d been hit before and had taken to packing .38s on their respective, arthritic hips. This time, for once, the justice system was saved the trouble. Even though they outnumbered the old folks, the bad guys lost. Two went down for good, the other paralyzed for life.
I was beginning to wish I didn’t work alone so much. If Lonnie had been home, I might have asked him to go with me. In almost a flash of insight, I realized I was afraid, and I thought of my father’s admonition to me as a young boy that the only way to fight fear was to face it.
Yeah, I remember him saying it, and I also remember it not helping very much.
I turned right onto Dickerson Pike, then immediately slid into the turning lane. I waited for a break in the traffic, then jetted across the oncoming two lanes and into the parking lot of the College Inn motel.
In the far past, back before the government built the interstate highway system and put half the small motels in America out of business, the College Inn had been a stopping place for tourists and a home away from home for politicians when the legislature was in session. But that was maybe four decades ago. Now the place was plain old run-down, a couple of steps above a flophouse, but not much. It was U-shaped, the three sides of the motel angling around the parking lot, with a closed swimming pool in the center of the asphalt baking in the sun. A coating of green slime thick enough to support several discarded beer cans covered the pool, and in the shallow end, the handlebars of a child’s tricycle poked through the goo.
The asphalt parking lot was potholed, laced with cracks, and dotted with puddles of oil. I parked next to a Dodge van with a broken windshield and a faded coat of pale green paint. I stepped up on the curb, then over to a concrete sidewalk that led down to a wooden door with the word OFFICE nailed on in fake bronze letters. I twisted the doorknob; it wouldn’t move.
I tapped a couple of times on the door. A moment later a dusty blue curtain was pulled back and a pair of dark eyes set against brown skin stared out, then ran up and down me like a scanner. The lock rattled and then the door opened a crack.
“Yes,” a warbling voice said. “What can I do for you, please?” Strange accent, like a stand-up comedian’s parody of an Indian accent.
“I’m looking for someone who’s supposed to be staying here. I wonder if you could help me.”
The door cracked open a bit further. I could see an entire human head in front of me now, skin dark brown, eyes nearly black, the whites a catchy shade of yellow. The head was also at a level with my sternum, leading me with my superior deductive powers to assume I was speaking to a very short person.
“Are you the police, please?” he demanded.
“No, just a friend of a friend.” I smiled at him as benignly as I knew how and kept my hands where he could see them. I also wanted, if at all possible, to keep from having to produce my investigator’s license. I don’t know why, but I had a feeling nosy official-looking people weren’t welcome here.
“Who do you want to see, please?”
“Mike Pinkleton. I understand he’s staying here.”
“What is your name, please?”
“Harry Denton,” I said. “If you’d tell him I’m a friend of Slim Gibson’s, I’d appreciate it.”
“Stay right where you are, please,” he said, the Rs rolling off his tongue as thick as curried eggplant. I nodded as the door shut and the locks clicked back into place. Thirty seconds later the door opened again, this time wider.
“Mr. Pinkleton says you can go to see him, please,” the man said. “He is in room number seventeen.”
“Thanks,” I said, “Mr.-”
“I am Mr. V. S. Naipur and it is my pleasure to serve you,” he said, then slammed the door and set the locks again.
“Okay,” I said to the door. I turned and checked the room numbers. Seventeen was diagonally across the parking lot, past the concrete swamp, nestled in the ninety-degree angle the two converging sides of the motel created. A black motorcycle sat out in front, chained to a support post for the awning that ran around the perimeter in front of the rooms. I crossed the lot and couldn’t help but notice that I was being checked out-subtle signs like curtains being pulled back, doors cracking open a half inch for just a second, then closing again with a whoosh. I wondered how many tenants had outstanding arrest warrants.
I stepped over a broken concrete planter onto the walkway, stepped up to the door, and knocked. The door was painted a rust red, with the paint peeling in half-dollar-size chunks. I turned and looked at the bike, an old Harley. I don’t know much about bikes, so didn’t recognize the model or anything. But this one was stripped to the bones, just engine and frame, and chopped as well, its front end extended several feet, with high-rise handlebars and a single speedometer between the forks. Simple, basic, two-axled hell-on-wheels.
No answer from inside. I knocked again. “Hello?” I called. “Mike?”
“C’mon in,” I heard from inside. I opened the door. It made a swishing sound as it brushed across a stiff, thick shag carpet of red and green.
The room was a typically cheap motel room that had been too long without maid service: dingy sheets turning gray and a thin pastel-blue blanket thrown haphazardly across an institutional bed; scarred, mismatched furniture; an old color TV flickering away soundlessly in the corner. Dirty laundry lay in several mounds throughout the room, and there was a general air of mold and decay, all mixed with the scent of institutional cleaner. I hadn’t smelled anything like it since my last visit to the men’s room at a bus station.
