John Lutz - Torch

“Harvey Sincliff?”

“He owns and runs Nightlinks. A real slimeball, is Harvey. Nightlinks is set up so it looks clean on police computers, but with Harvey in charge I can tell you the girls are spreading for money and he’s getting plenty himself.”

“Plenty of money?” Carver asked.

“Only that. Harvey’s a disciplined businessman, in his sleazy fashion. There’s not much chance he’s diddling any of his employees. He comes across as a lightweight who oughta be selling used cars with their speedometers turned back, but don’t underestimate him. He’s got brains and balls, and no scruples whatsoever. If he thinks you should be out of the game, he’ll pay Beni Ho to remove you from the board.” Travers paused for a moment. Violent coughing came over the line. “S’cuse me,” he said. “I been doing that more and more. One of these times I’m gonna cough up all them years I smoked cigars, then roll over and die.” He cleared his throat, coughed again briefly. “You know, I kinda miss Del Moray. How’s Lieutenant McGregor doing these days?”

“Up for promotion, and he’s got his eye on becoming chief of police.”

“That’d be a fucking tragedy.”

“Any message for him, now that you’re safely retired?”

“I don’t waste my time these days thinking about pricks like McGregor. What life I’ve got left is too short for hateful reminiscing.” More coughing. “On second thought, tell him I hope he eats ground glass and dies puking.”

“I’ll tell him verbatim. Thanks for your help, Barney. You take care of yourself.”

“Speaking of taking care, be extra careful of that little weasel Beni Ho. He enjoys seeing other folks in pain, and that’s the only reason he needs to start breaking small bones. There’s talk about him having killed some people in imaginative ways.”

Carver said, “I shot him in the leg a few days ago.”

“Really? That’s not very imaginative.”

“Effective, though.”

“Not effective enough, unless infection sets in. Shoulda been his fucking heart. But anyway, just knowing that has made my day, Carver, and it’s not even time for lunch. Call me again sometime, when you feel like chatting about dentures or prostate operations. Hey, wait a minute! Don’t forget to tell McGregor what I said about him. I mean that, now.”

“Not to worry,” Carver said, but Travers had hung up.

Lunch, Carver thought. Despite his earlier conversation with McGregor about fast food and the death of true love, he decided to grab a cheeseburger and vanilla milkshake at a drive-through McDonald’s, then drop by Nightlinks and try to talk with Harvey Sincliff.

He smiled. McGregor. Harvey Sincliff. It was amazing, the people you met in this business. Not at all like, say, if you worked in a shoe store or sold nursing home insurance. Maybe.

As he started to stand up, the phone jangled. He sat back down and was going to let the answering machine handle it, but it was Beth so he lifted the receiver.

“I’m calling from the drugstore down the street from Gretch’s apartment,” she said. “He’s back. He’s in the building now.”

“I’ll be there soon as I can,” Carver said. “If he leaves, follow him.”

Beth said, “I don’t think he’s going to leave, Fred. He’s carrying up armloads of clothes and boxes out of his car. Like he’s moving back in.”

Carver was in Orlando in a little over an hour. He left Beth parked in her car outside the apartment on Belt so she could follow Gretch if for some reason he broke and ran again. Then he limped along the hot sidewalk toward the building entrance, wishing he’d had time to stop for lunch. His stomach was growling. People like Gretch caused problems large and small. The large problems kept Carver in business, but they spun off smaller ones. Such as hunger.

Gretch apparently had finished carting up boxes; his car was parked at the curb in front of the building, doors and trunk closed. A length of twine dangled from beneath the closed trunk lid, barely touching the ground.

As Carver turned to negotiate cracked concrete and enter the building, Hodgkins emerged. He was wearing overalls today over a white tee shirt, and carrying a hammer. A long screwdriver with a yellow plastic handle smeared with white paint was tucked through one of the overalls’ many tool loops. He didn’t look happy.

When he saw Carver, he stopped and said, “I was gonna call you. He’s back.”

“I know,” Carver said. “How did that come to pass?”

“Billy seen his chance to collect back rent and get the apartment occupied right away, is how. That’s a landlord for you when he don’t live on the premises and have to cope with the trash that’s there. If I was him, I wouldn’t have let the little prick move back in. Not after the way he skipped out on the rent the first time. What’s to prevent him from doin’ it again?”

Carver didn’t have an answer. “Did Billy consult you?”

“Sort of. I told him what I just told you. Told him Gretch was scum and his money was contaminated. He said money was money and didn’t know nor care where it came from, so it made no difference if Gretch was scum. I don’t believe that. A man with character wouldn’t say it. Billy’s got no character, only property.”

“It happens that way a lot,” Carver said. “Is Gretch up there now?”

“Yeah. He carried up some boxes and a ton of clothes on hangers, and now he’s in there playin’ the TV too loud.”

“I’m going up and talk to him,” Carver said. “I’ll tell him to turn down the volume.”

“You be careful of him, Carver. He’s liable to do anything if you get him mad.”

Carver said, “I’m liable to do anything right back.”

That kind of talk seemed to excite Hodgkins. He waved the hammer in the air as if yearning for something to strike. “Know what gripes me, Carver? I cleaned up that apartment so I could show it to prospective tenants, even scrubbed and polished the kitchen and bathroom. Made everything shine. And it turns out I was only doin’ that little punk’s housework.”

“Cheer up,” Carver said. “Maybe the disinfectant will kill him.”

Hodgkins shuffled away mumbling, a malcontent on a mission of repair.

Carver began sweating more heavily as he climbed the stairs to the much warmer second-floor hall. He wasn’t in a good mood when he knocked on Gretch’s door.

He stood for what seemed a long time, listening to what sounded like people having sex on the other side of the door. “Oh, yes, yes, yes!” a woman shouted, as music reached a crescendo. The woman yelled something unintelligible. Then the door opened. “Oh, yes!” the woman said again.

Gretch looked out at Carver and said, “Oh, no! I figured you’d show up here again.”

Behind him on the TV screen a man and woman were lying nude on a round bed and lighting cigarettes, smiling dreamily at each other. Gretch started to close the door, but Carver placed the tip of his cane against his chest and shoved him back, then pushed inside. The apartment wasn’t any cooler than out in the hall.

“Okay, okay,” Gretch said, “so you’re insistent.” He glanced at the TV, then walked over and turned off the adult video he had playing. “I saw this scene before.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Next they take a shower together, get all excited with the shampoo and soap and all, then go at it again.”

“No kidding?” Carver said.

Gretch was still dirty from moving in the boxes that were stacked against a wall in the living room. His blue shirt and khaki pants were smudged and his hands and arms were streaked with perspiration and dirt. A half-empty bottle of Corona beer sat on the floor near the sofa that faced the television.