going to let that shit lie.”
“What else did Andre say?”
“He said the next time you’re in the way, your Korean buddy won’t be around to protect you. And then they’ll take you down, man.”
“I’m not worried,” I said, and pinched his cheek. “I’ve got you.”
We reached the Elizabeth City area before two in the afternoon. McGinnes suggested we drive around to get a feel for the place. In certain residential areas of the city were large Victorians, some with wraparound porches on more than one level. Cypress trees stood handsomely on wide green lawns.
We drove by the waterfront, which seemed to be rundown to the point of decay in several sections. There was little commercial activity on the Pasquotank River that day, though there were a few pleasure boats heading out to the sound.
“This used to be quite a port,” McGinnes said.
“It doesn’t look like it was in our lifetime.”
“Not in our lifetime. I’m talking about in the nineteenth century. Some serious Civil War shit went down in these parts. Naval battles. The Union ended up taking this place early in the war.”
“How do you know so much about it?”
“I grew up in this state.”
“Come on, man,” I said. “You’re not talking to one of your customers now.”
“No, I’m serious. My old man was stationed at Lejeune. So we spent some time on the Carolina coast.”
“Then maybe you can steer us to a motel.”
“Is that an order?” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows.
We found a place off the bypass, a row of cottages that looked like toolsheds with stoops. The sign said Gates Motel. McGinnes kept calling it the “Bates Motel” as we approached it, and insisted we stay there.
The woman in the office had probably seen a few things. But she couldn’t help staring when we walked in, announced by the sleigh bells that hung on the inside of the door. McGinnes had on his Hawaiian retailer outfit and a beer in his hand, and I my crisscross adhesive nose mask.
“We’d like a room, please,” McGinnes said.
“Sure,” she wheezed, her slit of a mouth barely moving on her swollen face. “Eighteen a night, checkout at eleven. How many nights you fellas plan on stayin’?”
“Just tonight for now,” I said. I signed the book and paid her as she suspiciously eyed a smiling McGinnes.
“Anything else?”
“Is there a phone?” I asked. “I’ll be needing to make some local calls.”
She went into a back room and returned with a dial phone and directory, placing them both on the counter in front of me.
“There’s a jack in the room. Number nine.”
I took the key and handed her a ten. “This should cover the phone.”
“That’ll do.”
“Any bars around here?” McGinnes asked sheepishly.
“Sure is, son,” she said with a nasty grin. “But if you was to go into any of ’em, I wouldn’t wear that shirt.”
After a shower I sat on one of the twin beds in the room, with the phone in my lap and the white pages spread in front of me. McGinnes was out walking.
There were four Lazarus listings in the directory for the entire region. I began dialing.
My third call was to a T. J. Lazarus. The man who answered sounded old and either drunk or tired.
“’Lo,” he said.
“Mr. Lazarus?”
“Yes?”
“Kim’s father?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Nick Stefanos,” I said quickly. “I’m a friend of your daughter’s.”
“Kim’s away,” he said.
“I know. But I wasnowTER heading south on business and stopped in town for the night. Thought I might meet Kim’s folks.”
“Kim’s mother passed on last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t bother yourself,” he said. “But you just missed Kim. She was in town last week.”
“I’d like to drop by and meet you anyway, sir.”
“I don’t know what the hell it is you want,” he said bluntly. “But if you want to come by, come by. And stop and pick up some beer on your way out, will you?”
“Yessir.” I took his directions, thanked him, and hung up.
I shaved and removed my bandages, deciding I looked more vulnerable and less intimidating that way. McGinnes entered the room.
“There’s a train runs behind here,” he said excitedly. “I walked into the woods out back and down a hill to some tracks.” I didn’t answer him. He looked at the keys in my hand. “Where you headed?”
“I found the Lazarus girl’s father,” I said. “I’m going to talk to him.”
McGinnes drew a beer from the cooler at the foot of the bed. “Check you later,” he said.
T. J. Lazarus lived on a street of old bungalows set on large pieces of land. His, a gray and white-shuttered affair, badly needed paint.
I crossed the walkway onto a wide wooden porch, where a black Lab rose clumsily to greet me. He sniffed at my jeans, then my hand, and gave me one perfunctory lick. Then he stood next to me and slowly wagged his tail as I knocked on the door.
The man who opened up and stood before me was well into his seventies. He was tall and thin and rawboned, and wore blue chinos with a faded yellow T-shirt. There was a gardening glove on one of his hands. His eyes were alert and a fluid blue.
“Well, come on in,” he said, taking a good look at me before he shook my hand. “We’ll walk through the house and out back.”
His house was clean and furnished with worn, cushiony armchairs and sofas. A stereo television and VCR were set in the bookshelf, new models that made everything else in the place seem archaic. The dog stayed next to me as I followed Lazarus through the dining room to a back door that led to a screened porch.
“Been in a scuffle?” he said, his back to me.
“Yes,” I said. “Like my grandfather used to say, I zigged when I should have zagged.”
“Well,” he chuckled, “no shame in taking a punch now and again.”
We walked back deep into the yard to a garden that ran the width of his property. I pulled two cans of beer off the six I was cradling, holding the remaining four with a finger hooked through the plasrou He tic ring. He took them both and opened them, handing one back to me. Sipping the beer, he kept one eye in my direction.
“What was the name again?”
“Nick Stefanos.”
“Okay, Nick. Mine would be T. J.”
“I’ve been anxious to meet you,” I said.
“You have?” he said almost mockingly. “Let’s step into the garden. We can talk while I do a little work.”
I followed him to a row of tomato plants, where he bent down and untied a stake, tossing it out of the garden.
“Good year?”
He nodded. “Steady rain last spring, hot and wet all summer. Great for tomatoes. I’ve cleared out most of the vine vegetables-squash and cucumbers and that sort of thing. Melons were no good this year-went rotten before I got ’em on the tiles.” He waved his hand around the expanse of greenery. “Still pulling carrots and onions.”
“Kim told me about this garden,” I said, realizing how stupid it sounded as the words were coming from my mouth.
