Steve Martini - Undue Influence

My candidate of the week for Lothario at this moment is the late George Merlow, the man feeding fish. I think maybe Melanie had warned George that Jack was on to them. If he was keeping a watch when Melanie took the dive in her bathtub, and saw the killer, my guess is Merlow decided he’d rather not play family feud.

‘It would help,’ I tell Dana, ‘if your people could come up with the informant.’ I’m talking of the man Dana told me about, the one who saw Jack in the bar across the river doing business with the courier, over beers.

‘They’re looking,’ she says. ‘It takes time.’

‘If he’s on vacation, he ought to be coming back soon.’

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ she tells me. It seems this man they are looking for is facing some time of his own, on an unrelated state charge. He may have reasons for an extended holiday.

‘You’re telling me he’s a fugitive?’

‘No. Not yet anyway,’ she says. ‘We’ll find him.’

‘Let’s hope it’s before the trial’s over.’

The band is striking up, strains from the sixties. I go to get us some drinks, tickets in hand. It’s a mob scene at the bar.

Some gal sashays by, dark hair to the shoulders like Cleopatra, first name Sharon, but it’s all I can pull from the recesses of pubescent recall. It’s what sticks in the memory of the fifteen-year-old male — big chest and a first name. She’s wearing a black crochet dress that with a candle from behind you can see through, and from the view I am getting, not much else. The way it hugs her body would be enough to stop most grandmothers from knitting. She pretends she doesn’t notice all the gawking from the bar, until some guy, three sheets up and blowing, gives her a catcall, something wild from the northern woods that for an instant suppresses all the chatter at the bar. Then it picks up slowly, snickering laughter and the drone of voices. Not nine o’clock and it’s already getting rowdy.

I squeeze my way in and order two drinks. Some kid with pimples who doesn’t look old enough to be handling the bottles is pouring.

‘Hey — those are mine!’

I turn and it’s Clem, a hand on my shoulder.

‘Put ’em on my ticket,’ he says.

The kid makes a note on a napkin.

Leave it to Clem to open a ticket at a no-host bar. He turns for a second and is busy making introductions with the other hand, two guys who want to meet the woman in black. As if by royal command, night of nights, he reaches out, sticks his own hook into a loop of crochet. Got an itch and wanna scratch, Clem as facilitator.

Just as quickly he is back to me.

‘Great night, uh? Good crowd.’ Clem pats his stomach through the cummerbund, a satisfied smile, while he looks around taking in all that is his, like he invented the species.

‘Havin’ a good time?’

The way he says this makes me think that if I say no, Clem would add another day to the creation, one devoted entirely to the making of merriment.

‘Wonderful,’ I tell him.

‘Good to see the old crowd, isn’t it?’ he says.

‘Yeah. Couldn’t wait,’ I tell him.

‘Nice threads,’ he says. He’s feeling the lapel of my suitcoat. ‘Musta set you back.’

‘Thanks.’ I don’t tell him that I’m on my way from work and haven’t changed.

The drinks are on the bar.

‘I know you’re busy,’ I say, ‘but I got a couple of favors.’

‘Heyyy, anything for a pal.’ He’s looking around. I think he’s wondering who I want to hit on, and, given the dazzling looks of Dana, why.

I reach into my inside coat pocket and take out an envelope, open it, and remove the little picture, the DMV shot of the courier from the post office that Dana had given to me the other night.

‘I need you to run a make,’ I tell him. ‘On this guy.’

A look on Clem’s face. ‘If I didn’t know you better I’d think ulterior motives,’ he says.

‘Hey — you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

‘I hope this can wait,’ he says.

‘Well, you don’t have to do it right now.’

‘That’s good of you,’ he says. ‘I thought I was going to have to get my cape and find a phone booth.’

‘You can wait till Monday,’ I tell him.

‘And this is all you got, I suppose?’ He’s looking at the picture.

‘That and a name. Try Lyle Simmons, alias Frank Jordan, aka James Hays. There may be others. I don’t know. The guy’s got more faces than Eve,’ I tell him.

‘What about a birth date, social security number?’

‘Try DMV,’ I tell him. ‘That’s where the picture came from.’

‘What is it ya wanna know?’ He’s making microscopic notes with a ballpoint pen, light ink-squiggles on the back of the picture.

‘Any addresses. Whether the guy did time, either here or in another state, when and where. Anything you can tell me about his background, military, civilian. Whether he’s got any family.’

‘What the fuck did he do, shoot the Pope? Skip out on a legal fee?’

I ignore him. ‘And one more item.’ I pull a little plastic baggie from my coat pocket, the acrylic paint on the tube now hard as cement with the ridges and swirls of Kathy Merlow’s thumbprint.

‘Can you get the computer guys to run a check on this?’ I point to the print.

‘You don’t want much,’ he tells me.

‘It’s important,’ I tell him. ‘Do this and I’ll owe you big time.’

‘Fuckin’-a,’ he says. Clem knows that by doing this, sharing information off of CI amp; I, the state Justice computers, possible criminal-history data, he is putting his head on the block. Such items are confidential by state law, available only to law enforcement for specified purposes. Criminal sanctions would flow for a violation. His ass could be grass.

I’m running a gambit that Dana’s people may not have given her everything on the man known as Lyle Simmons. It never hurts to check another source. It could be something that came their way, something they didn’t think was significant. Clem may be many things, but on an errand like this he is above all else discreet.

‘No promises,’ he says, ‘but I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks,’ I tell him.

‘What’s a buddy for?’ he says. ‘Besides, you may need all the friends you can get.’

I give him a look.

‘Word is that Jimmy Lama’s got his sword out for you, sharpening it on a fine stone,’ says Clem. ‘That business over pretrial motions.’

Lama’s embarrassment, the fact that he was called on the carpet by Woodruff, is the talk of the cop shops in town.

Lama’s enmity is nothing new. I tell him this.

‘Yeah. Well, just don’t turn your back,’ he says.

We talk for a few moments, I grab my drinks and head back toward the table. Halfway there I notice that a guy has moved in next to Dana, the empty chair on the other side. He’s looking nervous, little glances to the side, wondering how to open conversation.

‘My old high-school special — double rum and Coke,’ I tell her. ‘What fueled my engine on Saturday nights.’ I put the drink in front of her.

The guy on the other side is crestfallen, the look of some wasted auto worker facing life on the line after missing super-lotto by one number.

Dana takes a sip, makes a face.

‘Like it?’

‘I’ve tasted better paint thinner,’ she says. ‘You must have been a real ace in school.’

We make talk for a few minutes and the guy on the other side does what could pass for a discreet exit. The other couples from the table are all on the floor, dancing, Dana and I alone.

‘Come on, let’s blow this place. I’ll mix something special back at the house.’

‘Can’t tonight,’ she says. ‘I’m going to have to go in just a few minutes. I’ve got to fly to D.C. in the morning.’