given the room a good cleaning, and now it was ready to be rented to someone else. It would not be vacant long. Her rooms never stood vacant long.
Had Calderon been a good tenant? Si;, an excellent tenant, but she had never had trouble with her tenants. She rented only to Colombians and Panamanians and Ecuadorians and never had trouble with any of them. Sometimes they had to move suddenly because of the Immigration Service. Perhaps that was why Calderon had left so abruptly. But that was not her business. Her business was cleaning his room and renting it to someone else.
Calderon wouldn't have had trouble with Immigration, I knew. He wasn't an illegal or he wouldn't have been working at the Galaxy Downtowner. A big hotel wouldn't employ an alien without a green card.
He'd had some other reason for leaving in a hurry.
I spent about an hour interviewing other tenants. The picture of Calderon that emerged didn't help a bit.
He was a quiet young man who kept to himself. His hours at work were such that he was likely to be out when the other tenants were at home. He did not, to anyone's knowledge, have a girlfriend. In the eight months that he'd lived on Barnett Avenue, he had not had a visitor of either sex, nor had he had frequent phone calls. He'd lived elsewhere in New York before moving to Barnett Avenue, but no one knew his previous address or even if it had been in Queens.
Had he used drugs? Everyone I spoke to seemed quite shocked by the suggestion. I gathered that the fat little landlady ran a tight ship. Her tenants were all regularly employed and they led respectable lives. If Calderon smoked marijuana, one of them assured me, he certainly hadn't done so in his room. Or the landlady would have detected the smell and he would have been asked to leave.
'Maybe he is homesick,' a dark-eyed young man suggested.
'Maybe he is fly back to Cartagena.'
'Is that where he came from?'
'He is Colombian. I think he say Cartagena.'
So that was what I learned in an hour, that Octavio Calderon had come from Cartagena. And nobody was too certain of that, either.
Chapter 25
I called Durkin from a Dunkin' Donuts on Woodside Avenue.
There was no booth, just a pay phone mounted on the wall. A few feet from me a couple of kids were playing one of those electronic games.
Somebody else was listening to disco music on a satchel-sized portable radio. I cupped the telephone mouthpiece with my hand and told Durkin what I'd found out.
'I can put out a pickup order on him. Octavio Calderon, male Hispanic, early twenties. What is he, about five seven?'
'I never met him.'
'That's right, you didn't. I can check the hotel for a description.
You sure he's gone, Scudder? I talked to him just a couple of days ago.'
'Saturday night.'
'I think that's right. Yeah, before the Hendryx suicide. Right.'
'That's still a suicide?'
'Any reason why it shouldn't be?'
'None that I know of. You talked to Calderon Saturday night and that's the last anybody's seen of him.'
'I have that effect on a lot of people.'
'Something spooked him. You think it was you?'
He said something but I couldn't hear it over the din. I asked him to repeat it.
'I said he didn't seem to be paying that much attention. I thought he was stoned.'
'The neighbors describe him as a pretty straight young man.'
'Yeah, a nice quiet boy. The kind that goes batshit and wipes out his family. Where are you calling from, it's noisy as hell there?'
'A donut shop on Woodside Avenue.'
'Couldn't you find a nice quiet bowling alley? What's your guess on Calderon? You figure he's dead?'
'He packed everything before he left his room. And somebody's been calling in sick for him. That sounds like a lot of trouble to go through if you're going to kill somebody.'
'The calling in sounds like a way to give him a head start. Let him get a few extra miles before they start the bloodhounds.'
'That's what I was thinking.'
'Maybe he went home,' Durkin said. 'They go home all the time, you know. It's a new world these days. My grandparents came over here, they never saw Ireland again outside of the annual calendar from Treaty Stone Wines & Liquors. These fucking people are on a plane to the islands once a month and they come back carrying two chickens and another fucking relative. Of course, my grandparents worked, maybe that's the difference. They didn't have welfare giving 'em a trip around the world.'
