Jonathan Kellerman - Self-Defence

"Anything with a picture?"

"No need," he said, but he flipped again to a driver's license. It had expired three years ago, but the picture was of him and the name and address were right.

"Okay," I said, giving him a twenty and putting the rest of the money back.

"Hey," he said, rising out of his chair.

"When we're finished."

The heavy man said, "We got ourselves a dude here, Eddy. Street dude, knows what it is."

Sylvester looked at the twenty as if it were tainted. "How do I know you're righteous, man?"

"Because if you complain to the Times and my boss finds out I paid you, my ass is grass. I don't want any hassles, okay? Just a story."

"Fair is fair, Eddy," said the heavy man, with glee. "He gotcha."

"Fuck your mama," said Sylvester.

The heavy man laughed and wheezed. "Why should I do that, Eddy, when I already fucked your mama and she squeezed all the juice outa me?"

Sylvester gave him a long dark stare, and for a second I thought there'd be violence. Then the heavy man flinched and winked and Sylvester laughed, too. Picking up a domino, he slapped it on the table.

"To be continued, Fatboy," he said, standing.

"Where you goin, Eddy?"

"To talk to the man, stupid."

"Talk here. I wanna hear what kind of seventy-dollar story you got."

"Ha," said Sylvester. "Ask my mama about it." To me: "Let's go someplace where the atmosphere ain't stupid."

We walked down the block, past other big subdivided houses. An occasional palm tree skyscraped from the breezeway. Most of the street was open and hot, even as evening approached. The air smelled like exhaust fumes.

When we got near the corner, Sylvester stopped and leaned against a lamppost. A brown-skinned woman in a brown-flowered dress walked past. Several small children trailed her, like goslings, laughing and speaking Spanish.

"They come here," said Sylvester, "taking jobs for crap pay, don't even wanna learn English. Whynchu write about that?"

He patted his empty shirt pocket and studied me. "Smoke?"

I shook my head.

"Figures. Now, what murder is it you wanna hear about?"

"Was there more than one at the Adventure Inn?"

"Could be."

"Could be?"

"That place was no good- you know what it really was, don't you?"

"What?"

"Whorehouse. Nasty one- tough girls. I only worked there 'cause I had to. My day job was cleaning gutters on houses and that's irregular- know what I mean? When it rains, you get your clogged gutters and your leaks coming right through the window seams into the house, people start screaming, Help me, help me! No rain, people forget their gutters; real stupid."

"The motel was your night job."

"Yeah."

"Tough place."

"Real bad place. The people who owned it ran it stupid- didn't give a damn."

"The Advent Group."

He gave me a blank look.

"Guys from Nevada," I said. "That's what it said in the original article."

"Yeah, that's right. Reno, Nevada; my check used to come from there. Pain in the took-ass because it didn't clear for five days. Stupid."

"The murder I'm talking about is a guy named Felix Barnard. Ex-private eye. The article said you found him."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember that. Old guy, bare-assed, his pecker in his hand." Shaking his head. "Yeah, that was bad, finding that. He got shot up in the face."

He stuck out his tongue.

"What else do you remember about it?" I said.

"That's about it. Finding him was disgusting, I wanted to quit the stupid job after that. I was working too hard anyway. Used to get off at five in the morning, get home, try to sleep for a couple of hours before going off to clean gutters. I had four kids, I was a good daddy to all of them. Bought ' em stuff. The best shoes. My sons wore Florsheim in high school, none of that sneaker stupidity."

"You inspected the rooms at 5 A.M.?"

"I finished by then. Started at a quarter to, so I could finish and get the hell out of there by five. If a room was empty, I'd tell the Mexican girl to clean it. If someone was still in it, I'd put a mark in the ledger for the day clerk. Day clerk's job was easy, no one used the damn place during the day."

"You looked in Barnard's room. Does that mean it was supposed to be empty?"

"Supposed to be. He only paid for a short time- couple of hours, I think. He shoulda been out."

"You didn't check the room before?"

"Man," he said, "I didn't do more than I had to, it was a nasty place. Someone else didn't want to use the room, what did I care if some stupid idiot stayed twenty minutes longer? People that owned it didn't give a damn."

"A two-hour rental," I said. "So Barnard wasn't there to sleep."

He laughed. "Right. You must be a college boy."

"What'd you do when you found him?"

"Called the po-lice, what else? You think I'm stupid?"

"What about the manager? Mullins. Darnel Mullins."

He frowned. "Yeah, Darnel."

"You call him, too?"

"Nah, Darnel wasn't there. He was never around except to kick me out of the office."

"Why'd he do that??"

"Thought he was some kind of writer. Showed up every once in a while, looking down his nose at me and kicking me out so he could use the typewriter. Fine with me. I'd go get something to eat- no drinking, don't put in that I drank, 'cause I didn't. Only ale, once in a while. In the privacy of my own home, not on the job."

"Sure," I said. "So Darnel considered himself a writer?"

"Yeah, like you- only he was writing a book." He laughed at the absurdity of that. "Stupid."

"He wasn't a good writer?" I said.

"How would I know? He never showed me nothing."

"Did he ever get anything published?"

"Not that I heard, and he sure woulda told me; he liked to toot his own trombone."

"Well," I said. "I could ask him if I could find him. Been trying to reach him but haven't been able to. Any idea where he is?"

"Nope. And don't waste your time. Even if you find him, he won't help you."

"Why not?"

"He was an uptight dude."

"Uptight how?"

"Uptight and uppity. And mad. Always mad about something, like he was too good for everyone and everything. Looking down his nose. And telling stories. Like he'd went to college, too good for this damned job; he was gonna write his book and get the hell outa here."

He looked at me.

"Like he had somewhere to go and the rest of us didn't."

"Do you remember where he said he went to college?"

"Some place in New York. I never paid attention to any of his stupid stories, all the man did was bitch and brag. His daddy was a doctor; he worked for some movie hotshot, met all these movie stars at parties." He laughed. "Writing a book. Like I'm stupid. Why would a brother who could do all those things be working at a hole like the Adventure? Not that he admitted he was a brother."

"He didn't like being black?"

"He didn't admit it. Talking all white. And tell the truth, he was light as a white man." Laughing again, he pinched the skin of his forearm. "Too much pale in it. And his hair was yellow- nappy, but real yellow. Like he'd been dipped in eggs- Mr. French Toast."

"Did he have a mustache?"

"Don't remember, why?"

"Just trying to get a picture."

His eyes brightened. "You gonna put my picture in the paper?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Gonna pay me for it?"

"Can't do that."

"Then forget it- aw, okay, if you want- lot better than Darnel's picture. He was an ugly dude. Big and strong- said he played football in college, too. Wouldn't admit he was black, but his nose was flatter than Fatboy's back there. Yellow hair and these wishy blue eyes- like yours, but even wishier. Yeah, come to think of it, I think he had a mustache. Little one. Fuzz. Weak, yellow fuzz. Stupid."