Clean Slate

Chapter 55

Those in the know called the place Bottles & Cans. That may have been its real name, but there was no sign to that effect above the plain steel door in the dirty brick store front on Evangeline Avenue in what most people referred to as the Lower Town section of St. Marys. Bottles & Cans had no need for marketing or promotion. It depended not on walk-in trade. It was a cop bar, the city's oldest. And its most prestigious, with its own brand of unstated exclusivity: everyone knew you didn't rate Bottles & Cans till you made the equivalent of lieutenant or above.

As Superintendent of Bureau of the Bailiff, Earl Bucaro certainly qualified. But he was not a back-slapping bonhomie kind of man, and he did not rely on chit-chat to build or maintain his influence. So he realized, as he went through that plain gray steel door early Thursday evening, into the windowless dimness of Bottles & Cans, he realized he had not been here since a retirement gathering for one of his department rabbis, a dozen or more years ago.

He had not enjoyed it then. And he wished he did not have to be here now.

The room was a long wide rectangle. The U-shaped mahogany bar followed the mirrored walls around the left, back, right. The center was filled with two rows of deep booths separated by dark wood partitions that reached nearly halfway to the painted, beaten-tin ceiling. Globular tinted chandeliers sprouted from up there, giving off just enough light to enable middle-aged men to read the menu, were they so inclined. A jukebox played some kind of formless jazz at a volume level that permitted low conversation. Barmaids, old pros in slacks and businesslike white shirts, worked the bar and the booths with brisk efficiency, addressing the smattering of patrons by first names and pro-forma endearments. Earl knew where to find the Commander, and sure enough there he was, at the last booth on the left, across the deeply lacquered table from a substation commander out of Dixon.

The Commander smiled at Earl's appearance. "I was just thinking about you," he declared, pinkish face wreathed in a smile. "You and Clyde know each other, I'm sure."

"Earl," greeted Clyde, briskly cordial.

"Captain," Earl acknowledged. "Could we have a word, Commander?"

"That's my cue," Clyde said good-humoredly, and slid out of the booth, polishing off his Rusty Nail as he rose. "Always a pleasure, Earl."

"Likewise, Captain." As the hefty Captain ambled away on sore feet, Earl slid into the booth, feeling the Clyde's residual body warmth suffusing the thick vinyl cushion. Across from him the Commander sat relaxed, half smiling, watching Earl with bright blue eyes, ascetic hands loosely encircling a half empty rocks glass. He was probably 65 by now, bursting with good health, his skin scrubbed and pink, his eyes sharp and clear. He was on the thinner side with a full head of soft gray hair cut very short – not quite military, but close. Though casual in appearance now – he'd no doubt discarded his tie in the car – he had a bearing that was patrician almost to the point of being regal. He was, Earl knew, way, way past the years of any need to dirty his hands, issue threats, or even raise his voice. He was not Number One, but by preference; he'd discerned early in his brute push up the ladder that Number One was, in the final analysis, an exposed, friendless, and easy target. And the years had proven him right. He'd held the coats of four Number Ones that Earl could think of, and so far pissed on the graves of three.

"So, Earl," the Commander said.

"Well, Captain," Earl began.

"I know."

"Excuse me?"

The Commander glanced toward a bar maid and nodded, then looked back at Earl, placid, motionless. "I know," he repeated easily. "When certain names arise in internal operations, I make it my business to keep apprised." The barmaid arrived and set a fresh drink down in front of the Commander, removing his half empty one. Earl noticed she did not ask him what he wanted, perhaps because the Commander did not suggest that she do so. "So," the Commander said, "what are you going to do?"

Which pretty much said it all. Earl's reaction – which of course he concealed, and fairly adequately, he thought – was a hot gust of anger. How dare they cut me loose, he thought. But then another part of him understood. You don't jeopardize the whole, by taking unnecessary risks to protect a part. Still, Earl had come here with a purpose, and though he hated having to do it – hated to sit here, hat in hand, across from this quietly bemused imperious man – he had to see it through. "I'm hoping," he said, "it'll just go away."

"Hey, from your lips to God's ear," the Commander said. "But frankly, as I cast about, I can't see how in the world that might happen. What bad luck, Earl."

"Sir?"

"Well, to start with, it was bad luck for you that Erkfitz was catching. I've had the dickens of a time trying to keep him parked where the damage he can do is minimal. Wish we could spare him completely, but that just hasn't been possible. Because, frankly, he's just so damn good, making collars and cases. What bad luck for you. And then, there's – but then – well. I must point this out, Earl." He leaned forward. "Since when do you fuck them at their house?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "What could you have been thinking?"

Because of her kids, Earl wanted to say; Clarisa would not go to Room 33 like the others, and he wanted her so badly he'd agreed. "Just circumstances," he muttered.

"You and that fucking Corvette," the Commander said mildly. "And some of your other extracurriculars lately have been. . .just a little bit too public. Reckless, some would say."

Earl said nothing, moved not a muscle, just sat there and seethed.

The Commander leaned back and seemed to sigh. "Think of this as an opportunity, Earl. Tough challenges sharpen skills and bring out talents we may not be fully aware of."

Earl waited. The drawn-on silence confirmed for Earl how momentary a concern Earl's fate was to the Commander. "Yes, sir," he said finally.

"I'm sure you have something planned." He snapped up a palm. "No details." Earl just looked at him. "I wish you luck," the Commander said.

Dismissed, Earl left for home. He needed several more hours, but by morning he'd be ready. He had to be. And this was going to work. It had to.

---

Mac parked beside the Camry and got out. The sedan was deserted. But there, on the dashboard by the steering wheel, was a Lodge Inn key card envelope. Printed in blue, below the hotel logo, was 238. How organized, Mac thought drily. How efficient. But judging from the presence of the police cars, perhaps things weren't working out for the partiers precisely as planned.

Mac went to the side entrance. The door was propped open by a cylindrical bronze container used for trash and cigarette butts. As Mac went inside, a uniformed man stepped into view from behind the stairway just to the right. Obviously a copper, he wore a blue shirt and dark tie over dark pants, waist-heavy with handgun, radio, and other hardware. His cap had the distinctive black-and-white checkerboard band above the bill. And his expression was cop-unfriendly. "What's your business?" he asked.

Mac gestured at the stairs. "Headed that-away."

"You a registered guest?"

"No, sir."

"Then one-eighty," the cop said, twirling a finger, "and get lost. Party's over."

"What party?"

The officer waved a hand. "You know what party. You'd best take off, or we'll cite you too."

You'd best take off. Spoken like a McGladrey, Mac thought. His mom was from Chicago, after all; perhaps that explained how the usage entered the family lexicon. Mac studied the officer. He was maybe 30, with an earnest face and observant eyes, and on second look seemed not to be quite as hard-nosed as he held himself out to be. "Maybe we can start over," Mac suggested. "I'm not a. . .customer, okay? I'm a probation and parole officer from the city of St. Marys. Let me get out my credentials." The cop nodded. Mac extracted his county ID from his wallet and held it up. "I'm here because we may have a person of interest involved in this party."

The cop squinted at the ID. "Whyn'cha go through channels then. There's channels for this."

"Long story," Mac answered. "Can I talk to whoever's in charge?"

With the slightest shrug, the copper tapped his shoulder mike and murmured a few words. Presently another officer, taller, skinner, and hatless, came down the stairs. "Sergeant's upstairs," he said to McGladrey. "Says you better not be bullshitting."

"Oh, I'm not, believe me."

"Come on then."

Mac followed him up the stairs and down the carpeted hallway. Close to the far end, Mac could see a couple more uniformed cops standing around. "How'd you guys bust this thing?" he asked.

"Hard to believe," the officer grunted. "But some lady out in Topeka, her son got an email invitation for this. She sent it to the hotel's corporate headquarters. They faxed it over here. The desk clerk called us."

"It's for real, then?"

The cop snorted. "Wait til you see."

"Woman named Brody involved?"

"Wouldn't know."

As they reached the room door, a uniform came out escorting a handcuffed woman. She looked disheveled and resigned. "Brody?" Mac asked. She shook her head as she went by. Out the door came another uniform, this one African-American, on the shorter side, with extra hash marks and stripes on his sleeves. His head was shaved almost bare, and he had a round bemused face and interested brown eyes. He looked up at McGladrey. "What the fuck you doin all the way up here, farm boy?"

Is it that obvious? Mac wondered. "I appreciate your letting me talk to you, Sergeant."

"Just get on with it. We engaged in law enforcement here."

"I can see that." They stepped inside. Evidently two adjoining rooms had been rented. The hotel's beds were pushed against the walls. Inflatable mattresses practically covered the floor from wall to wall. Nearby, a bureau stood arrayed with various items: small silver camcorders, what looked like a guest book, packs of condoms. A middle-aged man was seated, with his wrists handcuffed in front of him, on a chair by the bureau, staring at the floor. He wore a red bath robe and, Mac was reasonably sure, nothing else. The connecting door stood open to Mac's right, and beyond that he could see more people sitting on the floor. Women.

"We're waiting on warrants," the sergeant said. "Already got hits on two. Issued appearance citations to the men and turned them loose soon as they came back clean. And this joker –" He tapped a well shined shoe against the bathrobed man's ankle – "he's the master of ceremonies. Him we're taking to jail presently."

"I've broken no laws," the man murmured. "The women were here voluntarily."

"You charged admission," the sergeant said.

"That was for the videos. We send out videos to the guys. No law against that either."

"Sorry. We had an undercover in here earlier this afternoon." The sergeant looked at Mac. "Saw the whole thing. Three, four guys at a time, working the same girl on the bed. Others standing around naked, watching, pleasuring themselves. This guy here shooting video of it all. Three, four beds-full going at once. Ain't that just special."

Mac felt sick. He realized the room smelled bad, of sweat and other things. He wanted nothing more than to leave. But he stuck tight. Came all this way; might as well finish.

"The woman's name is Brody," he told the sergeant. "Debby Brody."

"Oh sure," the sergeant said. "She's here. She the queen bee of this place." With an ironic gesture of welcome, he added, "Step right this way."

In the adjoining room sat three women, on the floor, backs against the right hand wall. Two sat cross legged. The other sat with limbs splayed. They were dressed in various summer flavors: shorts, jeans, sandals, short sleeve shirts. Their air was bored resignation. Just waiting.

"That's her," the sergeant told Mac, gesturing at the woman on the end. Like the others, she was probably in her late thirties, but looked to be fifty or more. Her shoulder length hair was a dark mouse brown and permed into tightish ringlets. Her fleshy face had a hint of tan, perhaps burn on her small nose, and she was paler at the eyes and temples, as if accustomed to wearing dark sunglasses outside. She wore no makeup whatsoever. Her short sleeve shirt was pink, and her white coulottes stretched to her knees, revealing bare freckled stork like legs crossed at the feet. She seemed surprisingly shapeless, with, at least for Mac, no female allure whatsoever. All used up, was the sense he got.

"Debby," he said, as the sergeant bustled away.

She glanced up at him. Dark eyes. Her folded-together hands squeezed and released, squeezed and released. "Who're you?" she asked, clearing her throat first.

One of the hotel beds stood to the left. Its cover was back, and the tip of a dildo peered out. Mac flipped the cover over it and seated himself on the edge, leaning on his knees, so as not to seem to hover over her. "Mac McGladrey," he said. "We spoke on the phone. And I sent you an email." She shook her head. "St. Marys," he said.

She squinted, and made an angry smile, showing surprisingly white and even teeth. "Fuck you, mister! I got no business with you."

"But I have some with you," Mac said. "And I came a long way to see you. And I can promise you that nothing kicks back from whatever you tell me."

She was shaking her head wearily as he talked. "I don't give a shit. Take a walk."

Mac lowered himself just a bit, to try to get a good look into the woman's eyes. He was searching for something there, anything: a spark, a glint, warmth, some indication of. . .of whatever it was that he always sought, when starting to work with a person. And for the first time, the first ever, what he saw was: Zip. No spark in Debby Brody's eyes. No light. Nothing. The realization stunned him. He had not thought such a thing was possible. But here it was.

Which probably contributed to the decision he made then – to do something he preferred not to do. Run a scam.

Just then a copper came to the door. "Ludwig? You're out of here." One of the other women clambered to her feet and left.

To Brody, and in a quiet voice, Mac said, "You help me out here, maybe I can put in a word for you."

She blinked. "Really?" she asked suspiciously. "You got clout with these jokers?"

"I can put in a word," was as far as Mac was willing to go.

She seemed to shrug. "What do you want to know."

Mac hesitated. It seemed indecent even to utter the name. "Wayne Wildern," he managed.