Read Online Dead on the Island by Bill Crider - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Crider
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my billfold and, trying not to
let everyone in the place see what I was doing, showed him my
license.
"She's been in here a few times," the cop
said. The girl in the spandex nodded agreement.
"She come in with anybody in particular?" I
put my billfold away and slipped the photo off the table.
"Some guy. Harry? Terry?"
"That's the one. They have any friends?"
"Look," the cop said. "I can't afford to say
too much."
"There's not a soul in here who doesn't know
you work for the city," I said. "You aren't going to sully your
reputation."
The girl smiled and leaned back in her
chair. The spandex shimmered.
"You're probably right," the cop said. "But
that doesn't mean I'm going to just give up the game for you." His
eyes were as gray as oysters on the half-shell.
"The girl's been missing for three days," I
said. "I'm just trying to make a buck and find her. Her mother's
worried." I decided not to mention what had happened to Terry. I
didn't even like to think about it.
"Give the guy a break, Stan," the girl said.
Obviously I had charmed her.
"All right," Stan said, but I could see he
wasn't too happy about it. "The kid's been in here a few times,
like I said. With this Terry. They don't seem to have too many
friends, mostly sit by themselves. But every now and then they talk
to Chuck. He'd sit with them sometimes.
"Chuck?"
"Ferguson," the girl said. "Chuck Ferguson.
He owns the place."
7
I thanked them for the information and got
up, leaving most of my beer. Then I went over to the bar and asked
the bartender where I could find Ferguson.
"Who's looking?" he said.
"Truman Smith," I said. "He's probably
expecting me."
"Yeah, he got a call. See that door?" He
pointed to a door near the bandstand. I noticed that Amyl Nitrate
and the Whippets were picking up their instruments and getting
ready for another set.
"I see it," I said.
"Goes up to the second floor. There's a
hall. Office is the first door on the right."
"Thanks," I said. I was eager to get up
there before the band got cranked up again. I wasn't sure my
eardrums were up to it.
I walked down to the door and went on
through. There was a narrow wooden stairway, and I followed it up.
The hall was paneled with rough plywood. No one was much interested
in putting up a front here. I tapped on the first door on my
right.
"It's not locked," someone called, so I went
on in.
The room was small, about ten by ten. There
was a run-down gray couch that looked even worse than mine, a
wooden chair, and an old desk that was covered in layers of black
varnish.
The man sitting at the desk stood up. He was
at least six inches taller than I was, maybe six-six or -seven, and
around fifty-five years old. He was thin, like an aging basketball
player. He wore glasses, and his hair was completely white, what
there was of it. It was fairly thick on the sides and back, but
there were only a few stands combed across the top. He had a white
beard as well. Quite a change from the crowd downstairs. He was
wearing a white Western shirt with pearlized buttons and a pair of
brown double-knit jeans. He would have looked more at home at
Willie Nelson's new place across town than where he was.
Below us the band was hammering out a song.
The floor began to jiggle slightly.
Ferguson stuck out his hand, and I shook it.
"Truman Smith," I said.
"Chuck Ferguson. I heard you might be by,
but I was expecting you a little earlier."
"I got tied up."
"Doesn't matter. Have a seat." He sat back
down in his desk chair. I sat on the couch and immediately sank
down about a foot and a half.
"Not much support," I said, struggling to
keep myself from disappearing completely from view.
"Chair's more comfortable, even if it
doesn't look it," Ferguson said.
I fought my way clear of the couch and sat
in the chair. He was right. I took the photo of Sharon Matthews out
of my pocket and passed it over to him. "Ever seen her around
here?"
He looked at the picture carefully, as if he
were trying to
let everyone in the place see what I was doing, showed him my
license.
"She's been in here a few times," the cop
said. The girl in the spandex nodded agreement.
"She come in with anybody in particular?" I
put my billfold away and slipped the photo off the table.
"Some guy. Harry? Terry?"
"That's the one. They have any friends?"
"Look," the cop said. "I can't afford to say
too much."
"There's not a soul in here who doesn't know
you work for the city," I said. "You aren't going to sully your
reputation."
The girl smiled and leaned back in her
chair. The spandex shimmered.
"You're probably right," the cop said. "But
that doesn't mean I'm going to just give up the game for you." His
eyes were as gray as oysters on the half-shell.
"The girl's been missing for three days," I
said. "I'm just trying to make a buck and find her. Her mother's
worried." I decided not to mention what had happened to Terry. I
didn't even like to think about it.
"Give the guy a break, Stan," the girl said.
Obviously I had charmed her.
"All right," Stan said, but I could see he
wasn't too happy about it. "The kid's been in here a few times,
like I said. With this Terry. They don't seem to have too many
friends, mostly sit by themselves. But every now and then they talk
to Chuck. He'd sit with them sometimes.
"Chuck?"
"Ferguson," the girl said. "Chuck Ferguson.
He owns the place."
7
I thanked them for the information and got
up, leaving most of my beer. Then I went over to the bar and asked
the bartender where I could find Ferguson.
"Who's looking?" he said.
"Truman Smith," I said. "He's probably
expecting me."
"Yeah, he got a call. See that door?" He
pointed to a door near the bandstand. I noticed that Amyl Nitrate
and the Whippets were picking up their instruments and getting
ready for another set.
"I see it," I said.
"Goes up to the second floor. There's a
hall. Office is the first door on the right."
"Thanks," I said. I was eager to get up
there before the band got cranked up again. I wasn't sure my
eardrums were up to it.
I walked down to the door and went on
through. There was a narrow wooden stairway, and I followed it up.
The hall was paneled with rough plywood. No one was much interested
in putting up a front here. I tapped on the first door on my
right.
"It's not locked," someone called, so I went
on in.
The room was small, about ten by ten. There
was a run-down gray couch that looked even worse than mine, a
wooden chair, and an old desk that was covered in layers of black
varnish.
The man sitting at the desk stood up. He was
at least six inches taller than I was, maybe six-six or -seven, and
around fifty-five years old. He was thin, like an aging basketball
player. He wore glasses, and his hair was completely white, what
there was of it. It was fairly thick on the sides and back, but
there were only a few stands combed across the top. He had a white
beard as well. Quite a change from the crowd downstairs. He was
wearing a white Western shirt with pearlized buttons and a pair of
brown double-knit jeans. He would have looked more at home at
Willie Nelson's new place across town than where he was.
Below us the band was hammering out a song.
The floor began to jiggle slightly.
Ferguson stuck out his hand, and I shook it.
"Truman Smith," I said.
"Chuck Ferguson. I heard you might be by,
but I was expecting you a little earlier."
"I got tied up."
"Doesn't matter. Have a seat." He sat back
down in his desk chair. I sat on the couch and immediately sank
down about a foot and a half.
"Not much support," I said, struggling to
keep myself from disappearing completely from view.
"Chair's more comfortable, even if it
doesn't look it," Ferguson said.
I fought my way clear of the couch and sat
in the chair. He was right. I took the photo of Sharon Matthews out
of my pocket and passed it over to him. "Ever seen her around
here?"
He looked at the picture carefully, as if he
were trying to
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