host was apparently in no hurry to conversate, nor to offer me any refreshment.
He looked me up and down, spending a while on the patchwork of sanitary napkins duct-taped to the left side of my face. His face was deadpan, and I decided right then that this was no man I’d ever play poker with.
He aimed his stare at my stained and raggedy clothes. “You’re not much of a clothes horse,” he observed.
I primped myself defiantly. “This is my lucky outfit,” I said. “We’ve been through a lot together. Besides, I may make it as a male model yet.”
He nodded. “Tell me how my daughter died.”
I took a breath, blew it out. “It was quick,” I said. “She died easy.”
“I didn’t bring you here to be bull-shitted. Kendra wouldn’t have gone quiet.”
“All right,” I said. He was her blood and had a right to know most of it. “I’ll give it to you straight. She knew she was dead, but she didn’t flinch. She looked right in that son of a bitch’s face while he pulled the trigger, and she gave him nothing, nothing at all.”
I shook my head in wonderment at her memory, probing the pain like sticking my tongue into an abscessed cavity. “Mr. Tubbs, I didn’t know your daughter, but it was a privilege to be with her in that moment. She died as well as could be.”
He grunted. “So then a man like you, with a record like yours, he just hauls off and charges into that school unarmed after you watch her die. Why? What was the connection?”
“A lot of people been asking about that one,” I said. “You don’t think the kids were enough of a reason? You don’t think I’d be good for goodness’ sake?”
“Why?” he repeated.
“That’s private,” I said, looking at the floor. “It had nothing to do with Kendra.”
He nodded but didn’t press the issue further. His face squirmed around, and his mouth contorted into what took me a second to realize was a smile, one as warm and sincere as his cadaverous face could approximate. This old man was one tough nut: like daughter like father I supposed.
“That’s about the way I figured, son. I just wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.” He stood.
“I’d like you to go with me somewhere,” he said, planting his jaunty little fedora on his head. I had a suspicion the invitation wasn’t a request.
Chapter 23
The Meshback Twins sat in the front seat: Meshback Number One driving, with Meshback Number Two wedged in next to him. Mr. Tubbs and I sat together in the back seat.
Tubbs’ car was a big old Bronco jacked up on fat all-terrain tires, putting us way higher above street level than I was used to riding at. On the dash radio some redneck warbled a sad song about his dog cheating on him with his pickup truck; I mused on the possible mechanics of that intriguing interaction.
“You probably wouldn’t know it, but I’m kind of a wheel around here,” Mr. Tubbs said. “What I say pretty much goes in Stagger Bay. Not too much happens that I don’t know about.” We were headed toward Old Town.
“Have you given any thought to your future plans, son?” he asked. “You’re quite a celebrity these days. There’s a lot going on in Stagger Bay right now, and I’d like you to be part of it, come on over to our side of things. You’re not the man I thought you were; we had you pegged all wrong.
“You shouldn’t be staying there in the Gardens with those riff raff – we need to put you up in a nice B & B, get you used to being one of us. Hell, I’ll set you up in a cush apartment in Old Town. Or even a house if you like; I own half this town.”
“Maybe I’m more comfortable in the Gardens, Mr. Tubbs. There is cush enough for me.”
“I suppose that’s as good a place to hide as any, though we knew where you were as soon as you lit. Did you know I used to be Chief of Police here, before I handed over the job to Jansen?” he asked, studying his fingernails.
The sidewalks were increasingly crowded the closer we got to Old Town; some big shindig must have been getting ready to throw down.
“Yep, our boys in blue still come to me for advice on tough cases. I still keep my hand in. They came to me about the Beardsleys, actually,” Tubbs said, looking out his side of the Bronco at the thickening crowd, all of them watching us as we passed. “A man like you, an outsider from Oakland with a violent record like yours? We keep a close and wary eye on ‘em no matter how well they behave.
“I’ve seen your rap sheet, Markus. I know you were in CYA for a decent hunk of your teens, I know all about what you were. You were born to pin what happened to the Beardsleys on.”
“What are we saying here?” I asked. “You hung the frame on me?”
“Now, don’t be putting words into my mouth, son,” Tubbs said. “I’m not confessing to nothing.”
“Pull over now,” I said, sitting as far from him as I could.
“You’ll hear the rest first,” he said. He took his hat off and toyed with the pretty feather. “My daddy taught me never to complain, never to explain, and never to apologize. Well, I’m going to break that rule here, for the first time in my life. I’m sorry for what happened to you, Markus. I know you didn’t do it, and I’m glad you’re free again, and that’s as much as I’m going to say.”
The withered bastard looked at me hard, but his eyes glistened. “Thank you for putting paid to those whore sons for my girl. I owe you my marker. You can cash it in any old time. I don’t care whether you like it or not, I’m going to keep an eye out, and if there’s ever anything I can do for you-”
“We’re here,” the driver said as we crossed 4th Street on F and entered Old Town proper.
We were coming up on the Plaza’s wide expanse of cobblestone. Its fountain’s water jets danced and gurgled merrily in front of its spiral-ramped, raised gazebo. Bunting hung from surrounding buildings.
Usually the Plaza was crowded with scavenging pigeons and the shrieking children and barking dogs that chased them. Today its cobblestones were surrounded by barricades, with people of all ages packed against them held back by security personnel. The streets were blocked off and free of traffic, and the surrounding sidewalks were crowded with people who commenced a loud cheering as the Bronco rolled into view.
Mr. Tubbs guffawed at the expression on my face. “Relax, Markus. This is just the dress rehearsal. Enjoy yourself, son – you earned it. But you and me’ll be talking again later after the main event.”
The Bronco stopped and I climbed out, facing up to the cheering crowd. Church bells started clanging and bonging in the distance – from the direction it sounded like it was Stagger Bay Lutheran making their belfry sing.
Those ubiquitous news vans were here – but they were parked off to the side in a small group, they weren’t the star of this particular show. Several big television studio cameras were strategically deployed on pedestals, all aimed toward the gazebo where a group of people stood.
Cables snaked in various directions across the ground, connecting stacked speakers and an open air sound board which techs tinkered with. A man with a meter was doing a check in front of a bank of lights; another man snuck a cigarette while standing to the side holding a boom mike; a bald guy with a clipboard in his hand gave some kind of briefing to a small attentive crew.
A man and woman hurried up to me, bursting with energy and dazzlingly well groomed. The man had white, shiny chiclet teeth, made me wonder if they glowed in the dark. The woman was dark, and had an East-Coasty vibe.
She took in my combat-weary outfit and her eyes widened. “Yes,” she hissed. “He’s wearing the same clothes he fought in. We’ll have the cameraman get a full length shot of him.”
“You can’t be serious,” the man said. “People aren’t going to want to see him in rags – we’ll find a suit for him somewhere.”
“No,” she insisted. “That’s his brand, don’t you get it? The everyday, everyman look.”
“The bandaging has to go,” he muttered. “It’s tacky.”
The people standing in front of the gazebo drew my attention, as they seemed to be at the focus of the entire setup. A bunch of kids stood in front of the dancing fountain, looking strangely familiar. Next to the kids stood a podium crowned with a bank of microphones; the mayor of Stagger Bay stood behind it, goggling at me. The gazebo reared up behind them all on its spiral-ramped ziggurat pedestal.
