Known to Evil

33

The Cisco Kid Cafe was a dilapidated restaurant-bar with posters of old westerns on the walls. The strawberry-blond waitress wore a very short cranberry skirt over stout shapeless legs and sported clashing tattoos that bore witness to a life of rebellion and failure.

"Hey, Lonnie," she said to the youngest of us.

"China," he responded.

"What can I get for you guys?"

"I'll take whatever you got on tap and they can have anything they want," I said, making it clear that the bill should come to me.

Lonnie ordered a beer, while Pete asked for a double margarita without salt.

"So this is how it works," I said to the men once China had gone. "What I need is information I can work with. Descriptions, license plates, things they said or that Angelique said about them. I need something to help me find her. That's what I'll base the payment on. If you can't give me a few things like that then we can just have our drinks and move on."

Lonnie and Pete looked at each other. It was straight talk and they accepted it.

Pete nodded. "What if you can't find her with what we give you?"

"That's my problem. I'll pay for good intelligence. But I don't want to hear about some black Lincoln and two guys in suits."

"What if you're workin' for the guys after her?" Lonnie asked. He was still an innocent, in spite of his associations.

"Do you know where she went?" I asked.

"No."

"Then anything you give me the guys who tried to grab her probably already know. I need to get to them."

China came back with our drinks and served them. She and Lonnie exchanged a few pleasantries before she wandered off to the bar to chat with the young bartender-who sported a bright-yellow Mohawk.

"I wrote down the license-plate number," Lonnie said when the girl was gone. "It was a dark-green Lincoln… pretty late model."

"You got the number on you?"

"In my wallet."

"Anything else?"

"Figg-Figgis-an' me heard the girl screaming when we were workin' on his motorcycle," Lonnie said. "We run out and see these two white guys in business suits tryin' to drag her into their car. They didn't look like cops, so we run over there. Figg took a tire iron. He got there first and told 'em to let her go. They said he better get away and he cracked the passenger's side of their windshield. One guy reached into his pocket and I hit him in the jaw."

"What'd they do then?"

"Figg broke a headlight, and I think they were worried that a cop would pull 'em over, even if they got away from us. There was people stoppin' to look by then. They let her go and took off. That's when I memorized their license-plate number… at, at least long enough to write it down."

"What did Miss Lear say?"

"She thanked us. We asked what did they want and she told us that she didn't know but that they were probably workin' for some guy that'd been hasslin' her. We asked her who the guy was but she didn't say."

"Did she say what it was they wanted with her?"

"She said that she wasn't even sure what it was about."

"Anything else?"

"Uh-uh. She just thanked us and went up to her place."

"How long ago was this?"

"Two weeks today. I remember 'cause we had a party that night. We invited Angelique, and she said she'd come by, but she didn't."

"You call the cops?" I asked.

"We don't talk to cops, man," Pete said. "Not never."

"Then why take down the plate number?"

"I gave it to her," Lonnie said. "I thought she might call the police herself."

"Can I have it?"

Lonnie looked at Pete and the elder nodded. The kid had a green wallet made from desiccated plastic that was cracking. From this cheap billfold he produced a grayish- white scrap with a number written on it.

"It was a New York plate," the kid said.

I reached into my right-front pocket and came out with a roll of cash that I had prepared before getting to the house.

"Who do I give this to?" I asked the men.

Pete reached for the wad and Lonnie didn't complain. I let go the money and watched it disappear into Pete's overalls.

"Anything else?" I asked, just to say something.

"Yeah," Lonnie said. "She said that her luck had run out."

"What did she mean by that?"

"She told Figg that she'd had a run of real good luck for seven years, just about. Now she figured she had to pay for it."

I digested that little piece of secondhand editorializing and then stood up.

"You not gonna finish your beer?" Pete asked me.

"Strike while the iron's hot," I replied. "I'll leave fifty with China. You guys have a good time."