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“None. It’s a police case. I just got kind of… interested.”
“That’s my Holly, you’re just another addict. Don’t take that wrong, most people are riding one pink horse or another.”
“Philosophy before five gives me a headache,” she says.
John laughs. “I’ll give it a shot, because now I’m sort of interested, too. If anyone knows, it’d be Reverend Mike, aka the Rev, aka Big Book Mike.”
“Who’s that?”
“Kind of a pain in the katookis. The Rev lost his church because he was an Oxy freak, but he must have gotten some kind of pension, because his job now consists of going to meetings all over the city, from Sugar Heights to Lowtown. Also Upsala, Tapperville, and Upriver. But Holly… I’d say the chances reside somewhere between slim and none.”
“Maybe a little higher than that. People say all kinds of things in those meetings, right? Don’t you folks say ‘honesty in all your affairs’?”
“They do and most people are. But Hol—it’s not lying if you just keep your mouth shut.”
This guy might not be able to, Holly thinks, remembering his note. Not to mention his alias. She thinks this guy sees himself as an avenging angel with a flaming sword, and people like that can’t help popping off. It relieves the pressure.
She notices a sign behind the bar that shows an orange with a straw sticking out of it. An obviously tipsy hummingbird is hovering nearby. Below the orange it says, EARLY BIRD SPECIAL! YOUR FIRST SCREWDRIVER FOR A BUCK! 8-10 AM!
“Do people really come in for a vodka and orange at eight in the morning?” Holly asks.
“Girlfriend,” John Ackerly says, “you’d be surprised.”
“Oough.” Holly finishes her drink, then goes to the women’s room. There’s a graffiti on the door of her stall that says, FUCK THE 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS.
Someone was having a very bad day, she thinks.Probably last year, when Alan Duffrey was still alive.
She’s in the act of pulling up her pants when an idea strikes her so hard that she sits back down with a thump. Wide-eyed, she stares at FUCK THE 12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS.
Oh God, she thinks.So obvious. I have to talk to Izzy.
She begins to count on her fingers, lips moving.
Outside John’s bar, she calls Isabelle Jaynes. It’s a rule of her life that when you call someone with bad news, you always get them. When you call with good news or exciting news, you get voicemail. She’s hoping this will be the exception that proves the rule, but it’s not. She tells Izzy to call her as soon as possible, then goes in search of lost jewels… although right now, jewelry isn’t her priority. Duffrey’s not her case, but she’s got her teeth in it, anyway.
5
Izzy checks her phone, sees it’s Holly, and pushes dismiss.Not now, Hols, she thinks. The plan was for her and Tom to split up and do re-interviews, asking about Letitia Overton, but as John Lennon once said, life is what happens when you’re making other plans.
She met her partner outside the First Lake City Bank, and they were just about to go in when Lew Warwick called. “I’m thinking Wilson may have gotten two more.” He gave Izzy an address in Breezy Point.
Now she’s standing beside the Washee-Washee with a stout woman named Marie Ellis. The Ellis woman is trembling and won’t go around to the back of the laundromat; she says once was enough.
“I haven’t seen a dead person since my grammy,” she tells Izzy, “and at least Grammy died inbed.”
Tom is around the corner, photographing the two dead men, the lawn chairs (one collapsed), the cans of Fuzzy Navel, and the container they came in. The forensics van will be here in short order with their cameras and brushes, but it’s best to get pictures as soon as possible.
Marie Ellis works as a cleaner, folder, change-maker, and all-around woman of work at the Washee-Washee. The men might have beenmurdered while she was at lunch… or not. Not is an idea that scares her to death. Even empty, the big driers run for five minutes out of every fifteen, she doesn’t know why, and they’re noisy. If there had been gunshots, she probably wouldn’t have heard them unless they were very loud.
She had a Twinkie in her smock for dessert, and once the last batch of clothes were folded, she went around back to eat it and have a smoke, because the drier exhausts keep that area warm. She thought if the two winos weren’t there, she could sit in one of the lawn chairs to eat her Twinkie. Only theywerethere, and they were dead.
“Do you know their names, Ms. Ellis?”
“One was Frank. I think he’s the one on the ground. The other one was Bruv or Dove or something like that.”
“You didn’t hear gunshots?”
Marie shakes her head. “Those poor men! Whoever did it could have come in and shotme! I was all alone!”