Robert Crais - Indigo Slam

Two of them didn't know the name, but the third told me that Michaels worked in 'big screens.' I walked back to 'big screens.'

Tre Michaels was drinking black coffee from a Styrofoam cup as a gentleman of Middle Eastern descent argued with him about price surrounded by thirty large-format televisions displaying exactly the same image of Arnold Schwarzenegger throwing a guy through a window. I recognized Michaels because he wore a little plastic name tag that said TRE. The Middle Eastern guy was saying that he could get a better price elsewhere, but if Bestco matched that price, then gave him five percent for cash and threw in free delivery and a free two-year full-service warranty, he might be willing to deal. Michaels said that if the man could produce a published price he might be able to give him an extra two percent, but he didn't seem in a hurry to do it. He seemed more interested in Arnold.

Michaels was an overweight guy in his early thirties with a wide butt and a hairline that hadn't seen his eyebrows in years. He had pale skin and washed-away eyes and dry lips that he continuously licked. The lips made me think he was feeling short and thinking about his next fix, but that's only because Livermore had said he was a junkie. Tre Michaels didn't look like a junkie, but then I've never met a junkie in real life who looked like John ny Rotten.

Michaels glanced over when he saw me, and I pointed at a fifty-two-inch Mitsubishi. 'When you've got a moment, I'd like to buy this unit from you.'

He nodded.

'Full price.'

Michaels came over without a second glance at the Middle Eastern man and said, 'Will that be cash or charge, sir?'

The Middle Eastern guy started making a big deal out of it, but another salesman drifted over and pretty soon they were gone. I said, 'Do you have an office?'

Michaels smiled like the thought was silly. 'We'll just write you up over here by the register.'

I lowered my voice and went close to him. 'You don't need to write me up. I want to ask you about Clark Haines.'

Tre Michaels froze as if he was suddenly part of a great still photograph. He glanced at the blond salesclerk. He twisted to look around at the other salespeople and customers, and then he wet his lips some more. He made what he hoped was an innocent smile. 'I'm sorry. I don't know anyone by that name.'

'C'mon, Tre. I'm not here to make trouble for you. I just want some information about Clark Haines.'

More licking. Around us, images of Arnold crashed up through a floor, spraying a hail of lead at faceless bad guys as the world exploded around him. I said, 'That Arnold is something, isn't he? Walks through a world of hurt and all of it slides right off.' I turned the smile back to Tre Michaels. 'Too bad it doesn't slide off the rest of us like that, isn't it?'

Tre nodded, kind of stupid, like he wasn't sure if he should talk to me or not, like he was scared to talk, but scared what I might do if he didn't.

I'm not the police, Tre. I'm looking for Clark, and I know that you know him. I know that you and Clark know each other from Enright. I know that you're on parole for narcotics, and that you sold Clark drugs at least one time.' I spread my hands. 'Talk to me about Clark and you'll never see me again.'

'Sure.' He kept looking around. He kept licking his lips and looking at Arnold, but Arnold wasn't coming to help.

' Clark 's missing and I'm trying to find him.'

'I don't know where he is.'

'Don't lie to me, Tre. I'm betting if I push down your socks or check your arms, I'll find needle tracks. I'll bet if I check your apartment, I'll find dope. If I think you're lying to me, I can call a couple of cops I know. Violation is only a phone call away.'

'I'm not lying. I swear to Christ I don't know where he is.'

'He buy from you often?'

Head shaking. 'A couple of times. Maybe three, four.'

'What did he buy?'

'Dime bags of heroin.' Jesus Christ.

'When's the last time you saw him?'

He shook his head and made a kind of shrug, as if it was tough to remember. 'A couple of weeks ago he calls me. He says he's going away for a few days and he wants to buy enough to get'm through.'

'He say where he was going?'

Michaels shook his head again. An older guy I took to be the floor manager was watching us now. Michaels saw him and didn't like it.

I said, 'Think hard, Tre. Did Clark mention a name or a place? A girlfriend, maybe?'

More shaking. 'Look, that was, what, two weeks ago? I haven't heard from him since, okay? I swear to Christ I haven't.'

The floor manager sidled closer, trying to listen. Michaels leaned toward me. 'These guys beef me out of the job, it's going to go like a bitch with my parole officer. Please.'

I left Tre Michaels in the sea of flickering Arnolds and slowly drove north to my office. The day was warm and clear, but the air felt dirty and the weight of the sun seemed heavy as if the light was a burden. I thought about Teresa and Charles and Winona, and how the daddy I was trying to find wasn't the same daddy that Teri was searching for, and I thought how sad it was that we often never really know the people around us, even the people we love.

It was after two that afternoon when I took the winding drive up Laurel Canyon to the A-frame I keep just off Woodrow Wilson Drive in the mountains above Hollywood. It's a long drive up Laurel, but I've found that as you climb through the trees and cut rock to the top of the mountain and leave the city behind, you're often able to leave the clutter and stress of modern life with it. Often, but not always. Less often still when you're thinking about three kids with a missing father who turns out to be a drug addict.

I parked in the carport, turned off the alarm, and let myself in through the kitchen. The home was cool and still and smelled of Lucy's presence, but I probably just imagined it. Wishful thinking. I said, 'Anybody home?'

No answer.

I share the house with a large black cat who has shredded ears and a fine flat head that he carries cocked to the side from when he was shot with a twenty-two. I think it soured him. He is not the world's friendliest cat, and he'd hissed twice when Lucy arrived, then scrambled through his cat door and disappeared. He had watched us drive away that morning, so I thought he'd be inside waiting for me by now, but there you go. He sulks.

I took an Evian from the fridge, had some, then put Clark Haines's phone bills on my kitchen counter and looked at them. Tre Michaels had said that Clark was going on a trip, and the phone bills showed calls both to Tucson and Seattle, but the dope changed things. People died from drug overdoses, and people were often murdered when they were trying to buy drugs, so there was a very real possibility that the only trip Clark Haines had taken was to the morgue. I spent the next thirty-two minutes on the phone with hospital emergency rooms and the Los Angeles County Medical Examiner's Office asking if anyone named Clark Haines or fitting his description had been admitted, living or dead, but no one had. Whew. Dodged that bullet.

I went through the bills, noting the two calls to Tucson and the five to Seattle. Over four months, there were also eighty-six local-area toll calls. The Tucson calls were to two different numbers. The five calls to Seattle were to two numbers, also, one number once, the other four times. I called the Tucson numbers first, getting a woman who answered, 'Desert Moving and Storage,' and asked her if Clark Haines was there, or if she knew how I could reach him. She told me that she knew no one by that name. Clark had probably used them to move to LA from Tucson, and she didn't remember the name. A woman named Rosemary Teal answered the next call. I asked her if Clark was there, and she told me that he'd moved, though she wasn't sure where. I asked her how she knew that he'd moved, and she told me that she was his neighbor. I asked if she'd heard from him since they moved, and she said only once. She said he'd called to ask her to please check and be sure he'd turned off the gas. When she insisted that I identify myself, I hung up. Turn off the gas. The junkie as concerned neighbor. I called the Seattle numbers next. When I called the first number, a young woman's voice answered, 'New World Printing.' I again asked for Clark Haines, and she told me that no one by that name worked there. I dialed the second number, and on the third ring a hoarse male voice said, 'Hello?'