two in the afternoon.
I'd brought Cracker with me. He knew this world and I didn't. The regulars whispered secrets to each other that they would never divulge to an outsider.
We walked in. The bartender gave me a bored look through hooded eyes. He saw Cracker, and his mouth turned up in what could be taken for a smile. I wasn't sure.
'Hey, Cracker,' the bartender said. 'Beer?'
'Sure,' said Cracker. I'd never known Cracker to turn down a beer, no matter the time of day.
'Fats,' said Cracker, 'this is a friend of mine, Matt Royal.'
'Beer?' asked Fats, looking at me. I assumed that was his idea of a pleasantry.
'Miller Lite, if you have it.'
He bent to the cooler behind the bar and came up with a can of Budweiser for Cracker and a bottle of Miller Lite for me. He set them on the bar. No coasters.
'Fats,' said Cracker, 'I'm looking for Wayne Lee. Do you know where he lives?'
'Not exactly. He got kicked out of his trailer over at the park when he stayed drunk a few days and didn't work. The manager said he was tired of putting up with that.'
'Do you know where he went?' asked Cracker.
'Pretty much. Why?'
Cracker looked at me, and I nodded my head. 'I think he's in some trouble, and Matt here is a lawyer. We want to help him out.'
'I know he ain't got no money for a lawyer,' Fats said.
'It's a freebie,' I said. 'For Nestor Cobol.'
'Nestor's still trying to take care of him, huh?' asked Fats, a sneer on his face.
I had no idea what that was about, and I didn't want to find out. Maybe Nestor and Wayne had had a falling out, and sooner or later, Fats would mention my visit to Nestor. Well, no harm. I'd know what I needed to know by then.
'I guess so,' said Cracker.
Fats took a swipe at the bar with a paper towel, moving a little dust around. 'He'll be drinking somewhere by now,' he said. 'I don't know where he goes. He moved over to the Tamiami Trail area a couple of weeks ago. He's only been in here once since then. He can't get a ride, usually.'
'Do you have an address?' I asked.
'No, but I can give you directions. I took him home the last time he was here.' And he told us the block on which Wayne lived.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
There are parts of Bradenton into which one does not venture alone at night. Wayne Lee lived in one of those areas. I took Logan and my nine millimeter along for company.
'What are we doing?' he asked. 'I wouldn't even come here in the daytime.'
'We're looking for a guy.'
'What guy?'
'Wayne Lee.'
'Who's lie.'
'Just a guy.'
'That doesn't make any sense.'
'It will,' I said.
'Why are we looking for this guy?'
'He may know something about Peggy.'
'Okay. I give up. What?'
'Varn used to hang out at a dive called Hutch's on Cortez Road. He was usually with a guy named Wayne Lee, a deckhand on fishing boats out of Cortez. I know Lee. The bartender at Hutch's said he lives up here. On this street. In this block. I don't know which house, but you can always count on Lee being drunk by ten and stumbling home from somewhere. Maybe we'll get lucky.'
'What if we don't?'
'We'll come back tomorrow night.'
'Wow. I can't wait.'
The neighborhood was quiet and dark. No streetlights, although the fixtures were still present. The city had stopped replacing the lights when some bureaucrat determined that his department couldn't stay ahead of the street thugs shooting the lights out. It's easier to deal drugs in the dark.
We sat. The street was lined with bungalows built for returning servicemen at the end of World War II. A neighborhood built on the G.I. bill. It was once a pleasant place to raise a family, but it was now a testament to urban blight; a warren of drug dealers and dope addicts, a decaying ruin that would continue to deteriorate until the city bulldozed the whole damn place.
We watched a car approach the corner, blink its lights twice, and pull to the curb. A hooded figure darted from an alley, passed a small package through the window of the car, took a wad of cash in return, and slithered back into the darkness. The late-model Mercedes sped off.
Over the next hour, several more cars stopped, made their buys and left. The kid in the hooded sweatshirt was doing okay.
I saw the lone figure walking up the sidewalk, weaving a little as drunks do, staying upright by sheer will. He was not tall, about five eight, and skinny. I'd met him at Tiny's a couple of times, brought there by Nestor Cobol, a fishing boat captain who had married one of the local girls. Lee was affable, if quiet, and took his drinking seriously. His tattooed arms were ropes of muscle, his hands calloused and scarred, the result of working the nets on the fishing boats. He was missing several teeth, and his blond hair was cropped short; a buzz cut that grew out over the weeks until he could afford another haircut. He was in his early thirties and looked fifty.
I turned in my seat. 'We're going to take him when he gets to us,' I said. 'He's strong, so don't get careless.'
'You're the lawyer,' Logan said, 'but wouldn't this come under some kind of kidnapping statute?'
'Probably. But he won't know who we are, and we'll let him go as soon as he tells us what we want to know'
'Okay. Give the word.'
Lee was at the back bumper of the Explorer.
'Now,' I said.
We both opened our doors. I ran around the rear of the car as Logan confronted Lee. The specter of two men jumping out of a car at him didn't seem to cause any great surprise to Lee. He stopped when he saw Logan, and then turned to face me. He must have heard me coming.
'Matt,' Lee said. 'What're you doing here?'
'So much for anonymity,' said Logan.
I stopped, stuck out my hand to shake. 'Hey, Wayne. Got a minute?'
'Sure. You got anything to drink?' he asked, shaking my hand.
'Get in,' I said, motioning to the front passenger door. 'We'll find a bar.'
Logan got into the backseat, and we drove two blocks to Tamiami Trail and turned south toward Sarasota. No one spoke. It was as if Lee was used to people picking him up in the middle of the night and taking him for a beer.
In the second block, on the right, I saw a small concrete block structure with a blinking neon sign advertising Budweiser beer. I pulled into the gravel parking lot and we entered the building.
The air was permeated with the smell of stale beer and unclean airconditioning filters. A faint hint of urine floated out of the open restroom door. There was a bar along one side of the room with three men sitting on stools, hunched over their drinks, not talking. They all turned as we entered, and then returned to staring into their
