They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

Paper Apologies

We didn’t speak much on the ride back to Riversborough. MacClough was busy absorbing information and planning our next moves. My mind was just as busy, but my thoughts were far more scattered. I was furious with Jeffrey for not telling us about Zak’s connection to Valencia Jones. At the same time, I had a gut feeling that John and I were on the verge of stumbling onto something very big. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see how any of this was getting us closer to finding Zak. Traces of Zak were all around the periphery, but it was Valencia Jones at the center of this part of the universe.

It was past dusk when MacClough pulled into the rest stop where I had left my rental. As I was getting out of the car, John grabbed my arm.

“You can see now that you had nothing to do with Markum’s death, can’t you?”

“I guess,” I said, “but I still feel like shit.”

“Come on, Klein, think! This is bigger than Steven Markum. I can’t tell you for sure, but I would bet Valencia Jones wasn’t the only person whose car got packed with a little extra baggage. With the trial coming up, Markum’s old employers probably didn’t want to risk him opening his mouth. He was going down whether you got chucked in that holding cell with him or not. So stop beating yourself up over it.”

“Is that what you’re doing with the Boatswain case,” I wondered, “beating yourself up over it?”

“Yeah.” MacClough shook his head, “I saw that fax in your room. But believe me, even your big macher friend Feld doesn’t understand. So don’t you try to. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“What does that mean?”

He ignored me. “Get some sleep. I think we need some skiing lessons.”

The door wasn’t fully closed, but he pulled away just the same. The sleeve buttons of the peacoat caught on the door edge, shredding the coat arm as it went.

I picked up some fast food and went back to the Old Watermill. I was so preoccupied that I nearly didn’t notice who was behind the desk. My old pal was on duty.

“How was ice fishing?” I teased.

“Huh?” he puzzled.

“Never mind. Can I have a word with you?” The way I said it, it didn’t sound like a question. I stepped into the vacant guest lounge. He followed, but without much bounce in his step. “Okay. Now you want to explain your rudeness to me the other morning? Or do you always treat people like shit who give you big tips?”

“It wasn’t you,” he raised his hand as if to swear an oath. “It was. . um. . It was. . you know.”

“The girl I was with?”

“You said it. But anyway, yes. We don’t usually let her kind in here.”

I was so stunned by his admission that it took me a few seconds to lift him into the air by his neck. He was even more stunned and his face turned several shades of red. I told him he’d have a career as a color chart for flesh-tone paints, if I let him live.

“You don’t understand,” he managed to choke out. “She’s a-”

I squeezed a little harder. “She’s a what, asshole? Come on, cat got your tongue?”

When his eyes began rolling up in his head, I relaxed my grip and let him down. He gasped, grabbing at his throat. He coughed up phlegm and fell to his knees.

“Listen, you racist motherfucker,” I began, “I’ll cut your heart-”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, his voice stronger now. “She’s a pro. This is a respectable place. It’s against house rules to let working girls up to the rooms. I could have lost my job.”

And somewhere, deep in my belly, I knew he was telling the truth. I helped him to his feet. The, “How do you know that for sure?” came out of my mouth reflexively.

“There’s this place over the border. A, um. . Anyway, there’s a place over there where they throw these way cool bachelor parties. Theme parties, you know? The bachelor chooses the theme and for like a C-note and a half a guy, they send you around the world.”

“Okay, I’m sold, but get to the point. What about the girl?”

“My friend’s party was there. His theme was to get stranded with a native girl. She was-”

“-the native girl,” I finished. “You’re sure?”

“Trust me, Mr. Klein, I wouldn’t forget her. She-”

“Spare me the details.”

I pulled five hundred dollars of Jeffrey’s money out of my wallet. I put the bills in the clerk’s palm and told him it was just my way of saying sorry for nearly killing him. He said he preferred paper apologies and that anytime I wanted to work off a little tension at five hundred bucks per minute, to just ring him at the desk. I informed him that the money came with a catch. He had to keep quiet about the girl and he had to let her keep coming up to my room. He didn’t like that so much. I could see him begin to waver. And when he moved his hand to return the five bills, I grabbed his wrist.

“Give me a few days. There’s another five hundred in it for you and we can leave out the rough stuff this time. Just look the other way when the girl comes in and goes out. Half a grand to look the other way is pretty easy money. Deal?” I let go of his wrist.

He hesitated. Then shoved the money in his pocket. “Deal.”

I was curious. “Anybody else who works here know about her?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

I let him walk back to his station at the front desk. After taking a minute to consult the local Yellow Pages, I headed back into the night. Before I got out the door, I literally ran into MacClough. Judging by the bags he dropped at my feet, he too had decided on fast food for dinner.

“Where you going?” he whispered, as I knelt down to pick up his food.

“To take a test,” I whispered back. “Wish me luck.”

Clearly confused, John stood stony-faced as I played the part of the clumsy stranger. I apologized profusely for knocking into him. I think the desk clerk was watching to see how much money I would slip MacClough. John reluctantly let me go with a warning to be a little more careful in the future. At the time, John had no way of knowing just how ironic that bit of advice was.