No way out

Chapter Thirty-nine

Staley’s Market was near the intersection of St. John and Monroe; a thirty-foot brick and glass storefront shielded by wrought-iron bars, the name spelled out in flickering purple neon stretched across the center panel, flanked by promises of everyday low prices, fresh produce, and cold beer painted in twelve-inch red and yellow script. The aisles were empty, no cashiers ringing up sales, no baggers offering paper or plastic, and no shoppers sorting coupons. A hand-drawn notice was taped on the door, papering over the hours of operation, announcing the market was closed, out of business, impossible to tell which was cause and which was effect. An American flag hung limp from a bracket bolted into the frame.

The lights were off, but there was enough daylight to illuminate narrow aisles of canned goods, cereals, snacks, detergents, lightbulbs, toilet paper, and toothpaste. Refrigerated and frozen cases lined one wall; meat, poultry, and produce the other. Three abandoned check-out lines stood at the front. Powerball tickets offering billion-to-one odds against turning a dollar into fairy dust were looped around spindles next to the registers alongside packages of cigarettes and copies of the National Enquirer. I tried the front door, pounding when it wouldn’t open.

A man appeared at the back, his head visible over the top of a swinging saloon door, a fluorescent ceiling fixture shedding cool light behind him. He hesitated before easing one side half open, his arm tucked under the apron hanging from his neck. He edged into the store like he was testing thin ice, taking his time getting to the front, his hidden hand gripping something at his waist as he turned the lock and opened the door a crack.

“Looking for Nick Staley.”

“That’s me, but I’m closed.”

He was an older, battered version of his son.

“We saw the sign. You’re out of business?”

“You saw the sign. What? You think I’m kidding?”

“Not kidding, just maybe not yet. We don’t want to buy anything.”

“Neither does anyone else. Not enough, anyway. If you’re from the bank, tell them I’ve got a guy coming to give me a bid on the inventory and fixtures. Tell them they’ll get some of what I owe but not all of it. They want to come after me for the rest you tell them they’re wasting their time. I’m walking away from here without a pot to piss in. There’s nothing they can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”

I tried pulling the door open, and he raised the hand under his apron, the barrel of a gun outlined against the thin fabric. I stopped, the hard cast in his eyes telling me he was willing. The iron bars testified to the rough neighborhood and hard times, so it was no surprise that he was cautious. The surprise was that he felt threatened by Kate and me.

“You won’t need that. We’re not from the bank, and we’re not armed.” I opened my jacket, lifting it above my waist and turning around. “My name is Jack Davis. This is Kate Scranton. We’re working with a lawyer named Ethan Bonner. He represents a friend of yours, Jimmy Martin. We’d like to talk to you about him.”

He took his time, chewing his lip, making up his mind before motioning to the rear of the store. “We’ll talk in the back.”

Half-empty shelves confirmed that Staley was going out of business. What merchandise he had wouldn’t last a week. I could guess what happened. As his customers got laid off, they stopped buying as much, making it hard for him to stay current with the bank. Roni said he’d diverted rent money from his real estate, but it wasn’t enough, forcing the bank to cut off his credit and his suppliers to cut off their shipments and his mortgage lender to foreclose. No customers, no credit, no groceries, no future, a personal pandemic of economic ruin repeated all across the country.

There was a small warehouse on the other side of the saloon door, empty wooden produce crates scattered on the floor, a folding table and chairs butting up against a sloppy pyramid made of overturned cardboard boxes. A calendar hung on one wall advertising a different power tool each month, and a radio sat on a three-drawer file cabinet tuned to an oldies station, the volume low, music mixing with static.

Staley turned the radio off, settled into a chair, and folded his arms across his chest. He had a fighter’s face, his forehead layered with scar tissue, his nose crooked and squashed, the look of a man who’d given as good as he got, the split decision written in his washed-out eyes.

“I don’t know nothin’ about Jimmy’s trouble.”

“Which trouble?” I asked him.

“What d’ya mean?”

“Jimmy is in a lot of trouble. Which trouble are you talking about?”

“I heard he got busted for stealin’ some copper off a construction site. I don’t know nothin’ about that, and if he’s got his tit in the wringer some other way, I don’t know nothin’ about that neither.”

“But you do know Jimmy.”

“I know him.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “He’s from Northeast, I’m from Northeast. Both of us were in the Marines. You live here long enough, you know people. “

“You guys asshole buddies? Get drunk, chase women, play poker?”

He cocked his head, one corner of his mouth turned down and sour. “Shit. I know him, that’s all.”

“How about his wife, Peggy? You know her?”

He shifted in his chair, uneasy coming back to center. “Seen her around. Same as him.”

“You ever see Peggy when Jimmy wasn’t around?”

“What are sayin’?”

“She ever come into the store by herself?”

“Now and then. Most everybody in the neighborhood came through here one time or another. Or they did until everything went into the shitter. Now most of the stuff left on my shelves is past the sell-by date. Nobody’s got any money. I don’t know whose food people are puttin’ on their table, but it sure as hell isn’t mine.”

“Yeah. It’s tough all over. Peggy Martin, you get close to her?”

He laughed. “That’s what this is about? Jimmy tell you I was bangin’ his wife? Even if I was, what’s that got to do with him rippin’ off that construction site?”

“Were you banging his wife?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Not that I couldn’t have if I’d have wanted some of that. Peggy, she gets around. Least that’s what Jimmy said; why they split up.”

“Jimmy told you why they split up? I thought you and him didn’t hang out.”

“We might’ve had a couple of beers now and then. Run into each other at the Jigger, a bar over on Independence Avenue. Lot of the locals get pickled there on Friday nights.”

“When was the last time Jimmy and you talked about his wife?”

He pursed his lips, rubbed his chin. “Hell, I don’t know for sure; probably a month or so ago. What’s this about?”

“Jimmy tell you who he thought his wife was seeing?”

“Said he wasn’t for sure but someone was going to pay.”

“What do you think he meant by that?”

“Christ, who knows what a man means by anything he says when he’s drunk.”

“You say that everybody knows everybody around here. You hear any talk about who might have been Peggy’s boyfriend?”

He shrugged. “People talk a lot, mostly about stuff they don’t know nothin’ about.”

“We could use a name.”

“What’s that got to do with Jimmy gettin’ busted?”

“No one has seen Jimmy’s kids in three weeks. The police think he kidnapped them, maybe even killed them, to punish Peggy. If she has a boyfriend, we want to talk to him, find out if he knows anything about the kids.”

He sighed. “I heard about the kids. That’s tough, real tough. I wish I could help you. All I can tell you is that Peggy’s got a big appetite; you know what I’m sayin’. A woman like that will do most anything.”

“Jimmy’s sitting in jail instead being out on bail because he won’t answer any questions about his kids. You think he’d hurt them?”

“No way. Man loved his kids. Talked about them all the time. Told me he’d never let Peggy have them and that he was going all out for custody.”

I pointed at his belly. “What is that under your apron? A. 38?”

He smiled, patting the gun. “Nine-millimeter, man’s best friend.”

“We scare you that much?”

“These days, mister, getting out of bed in the morning scares me.”