The inmates were large, muscular, pockmarked, and pierced. They had long hair, dreads, and Willie Nelson braids; one bald inmate had tattooed his skull with bright flames. Another huge inmate, a wiry blond ponytail snaking down his broad back, looked like a deranged Norse god. Jack didn't break eye contact when it was made by the inmates or the guards. He knew he was a novelty here; his photo was splashed across the tabloid on the bolted-down table, and the inmate who had piled mashed potatoes on his dinner plate that night had stopped serving to shake his hand.
'Why?' Jack had asked, astonished.
'I never met no millionaire before,' the inmate had answered.
He had been thwarted in reaching Trevor. There was an 'approved list' for calls from county jail, which contained only the inmate's attorney and one contact in the immediate family. He mulled over calling Mary and coming clean with his doubts about Trevor, but he couldn't sacrifice Paige. A commercial for Listerine came on TV, and in
time Jack realized that his thoughts had stopped with Mary, which both worried and comforted him. At the same time.
32
THE DEVIL'S INN, read the boxy white sign. It was illuminated from within and lightweight enough to be blown around by the wind, which set its old-fashioned drawing of the devil, wiry and red with a spiked tail and trident, whipping back and forth. The Devil's Inn was like every other run-down tavern that dotted Philadelphia's street corners, concentrated in the working-class residential neighborhoods, and Brinkley had been a cop long enough to disapprove not only of the bars but of the liquor billboards that popped up around them like mushrooms. That he disapproved didn't stop him from hanging in the Devil's Inn, sipping the whiskey they advertised on every block.
It was his favorite bar, in West Philly, on the corner and down the block from where he had grown up. He didn't go to Liberties, the bar in Fairmount where all the detectives went. He hated a bar like in Cheers, that TV bar where everybody knows your name. He went to the Devil's Inn because nobody knew his name there and he liked it that way. That was its only attraction for him, because it certainly wasn't a nice joint. It was small, dim, and smelled like dust and dirt. Stale cigarette smoke clung to the cocktail napkins and grit lay on the tile floor. The mirror behind the bar was too greasy to reflect anything, dust coated the few bottles of top-shelf, and a garland of dull tinsel festooned the cash register. It was leftover from Christmas, five years ago. Brinkley doubted it would ever come down.
He hunched over his shot and squinted down the knotty bar at the other patrons. Aging black men, they all looked
like him without a tie, and no one acknowledged him. He guessed they didn't like Cheers either, and none of them were his old neighbors. Those were long gone, surrendering what used to be a decent black neighborhood to gangbangers, pipers, and crack whores, emptying his old block. Sheets of plywood covered the windows that used to have sheer curtains and Venetian blinds; the city boarded up vacant rowhouses to keep trouble out, but the cops knew it only hid the bad guys. Brinkley's childhood home didn't even have plywood over the windows; the place lay exposed to the elements as a nude woman. He didn't drive by the house when he came to the Devil's Inn. He always took the other way around.
He sipped his booze and cupped his shot glass, which leeched the warmth from his palm and then returned the favor. Brinkley's hand never left his glass the times he came drinking at the Devil's Inn and he wondered what that was about. He was in deep shit if all he had in the world to hold on to was a shot glass. He downed the last of his drink and when he looked up Kovich was sitting on the barstool next to him. 'Boo/ Kovich said. 'I'm Casper the Friendly Ghost.'
Brinkley didn't know what to say, it was so unexpected. He had never brought Kovich here, never even mentioned it to him. But there he was, with no coat on. Brinkley could smell the cold night on him.
Kovich looked around the bar, layered with a visible haze of cigarette smoke. 'Is this a bad dream?'
Brinkley smiled crookedly. 'How'd you know I was here?'
'I followed you.'
'For real?' s
'Only twice.'
'Stalker.' Brinkley smiled again. It was the whiskey that let him.
'How else am I gonna find out stuff I need to know? You don't tell me squat.' Kovich waved to the old bartender,
who had his back turned, and called for a Miller Lite. Brinkley didn't tell him it would be a long wait. 'I checked it out when you started getting cranky. I figured it was trouble between you and Sheree.'
'How?'
'I'm a detective, remember? I detected.' Kovich gestured again to the bartender, who was washing a glass in the grimy sink. 'Hey, buddy, a Miller Lite for me and another shot for my lawyer.' The bartender didn't turn around, and Kovich's heavy lips curled into an unhappy line. 'What is this, Denny's? I'm too white to get a drink?'
'He's hard of hearing.' Brinkley leaned over. 'James!' he fairly shouted, and the bartender turned. 'A Miller and another!'
'Lite!' Kovich added, loudly. When he looked over Brinkley was staring at him. 'Portion size is key.'
Brinkley laughed as the bartender came over with a sweating bottle and pilsner glass for Kovich and poured him another shot. Both detectives took a first sip.
Kovich cleared his throat. 'So you're thinkin' the boyfriend is trying to hide something, the way he signs the logbooks. Right?'
Brinkley nodded. He was relieved Kovich didn't start talking about Sheree.
That meant to follow up, we had to find out his real name. So while Goofus cries in his beer. Gallant gets busy.' Kovich leaned down, picked up a paper grocery bag, and pulled out a stack of girls' clothes catalogs. He slapped them on the bar and spread them out like a winning deck of cards. There were easily ten, marked with yellow Post- its. 'My kid saves these to bankrupt me.' He flipped open the top catalog and inside was a photo of Paige Newlin. She wore a floppy hat with a fake daisy on it. 'Recognize our girl?'
'Sure, yeah.'
'So I call up the catalog company and ask about the girl but I can't get anybody who knows her. They give me the
name of the photographer they use in Philly and I call him up. David Something, his name is. He don't know much about her and he only dealt with the mother on the phone, but he says the boyfriend stopped by the shoot. He remembers the boyfriend's name in a flash, he says because it's an unusual name, but I say it's because he's queer as my dick is long.'
Brinkley straightened on the barstool. 'So what's his name?'
Trevor Olanski. How's that for a handle?' Kovich took a gulp of beer. 'So I check him out. Call Morrie in juvy on a flyer and ask around.'
'What did you find out?' Brinkley said, his head clearing suddenly.
'Seems our Trevor got tagged for dealing coke, on Tuesday of last week. At Philadelphia Select, that ritzy private school in town. He goes there.'
'No shit,' Brinkley said, surprised. 'Was there a complaint?'
'Don't show up in the file. The docket they keep shows it got withdrawn the next day. Smells like strings got pulled, but the officer in charge is on vacation. I'll find out when he gets back.'
'So we gotta talk to this kid.'
'I got an appointment with him tomorrow morning, at his parents' in the subs. You can come with, even though you're black.'
'Damn!' Brinkley laughed. It was great news. Maybe they were on to something, with the boyfriend. This mean you think I'm right?'
'No fuckin' way. I still say you're full of it.'
