“Daggett’s a charmer when he wants,” she said. “Give him a couple of drinks, though, and he’s mean as a snake.”
That was a story I’d heard before. “Why don’t you leave?” said I, as I always do.
“Because he’d come after me is why,” she said snappishly. “You don’t know him. He’d kill me without giving it a second thought. Same thing if I called the cops. Talk back to that man and he’ll punch your teeth down your throat. He hates women is what’s the matter with him. Of course, when he sobers up, he can charm your socks off. Anyway, I’m hoping he’s gone for good. He got a phone call Monday morning and he was out of here like a shot. I haven’t heard from him since. Of course, the phone was disconnected yesterday so I don’t know how he’d reach me even if he wanted to.”
“Why don’t you talk to his parole officer?”
“I guess I could,” she said reluctantly. “He reports to the guy every time he turns around. For two days he had a job, but he quit that. Of course, he’s not supposed to drink. I guess he tried to play by the rules at first, but it was too much.”
“Why not get out while you have the chance?”
“And go where? I don’t have a nickel to my name.”
“There are shelters for battered women. Call the rape crisis center. They’ll know.”
She gestured dismissively. “Jesus, I love people like you. You ever had a guy punch you out?”
“Not one I was married to,” I said. “I wouldn’t put up with that shit.”
“That’s what I used to say, sister, but I’ll tell you what. You don’t get away as easy as all that. Not with a bastard like Daggett. He swears he’d follow me to the ends of the earth and he would.”
“What was he in prison for?”
“He never said and I never asked. Which was also dumb. It didn’t make any difference to me at first. He was fine for a couple weeks. Just like a kid, you know? And sweet? Lord, he trotted around after me like a puppy dog. We couldn’t get enough of each other and it all seemed just like the letters we wrote. Then he got into the Jack Daniel’s one night and the shit hit the fan.”
“Did he ever mention the name Tony Gahan?”
“Nuh-uh. Who’s he?”
“I’m not sure. Some kid he asked me to find.”
“What’d he pay you with? Can I see the check?”
I took it out of my handbag and laid it on the counter. I thought it best not to mention the cashier’s check. I didn’t think she’d take kindly to his giving money away. “I understand Limardo is a fabricated name.”
She studied the check. “Yeah, but Daggett did keep some money in this account. I think he cleaned it out just before he left.” She took a drag of her cigarette as she handed back the check. I managed to turn my head before she blew smoke in my face again.
“That phone call he got Monday, what was it about? Do you know?”
“Beats me. I was off at the Laundromat. I got home and he was still on the phone, his face as gray as that dish rag. He hung up quick and then started shovin’ stuff in a duffel. He turned the place upside down lookin’ for his bank book. I was afraid he’d come after me, thinkin’ I took it, but I guess he was too freaked out to worry about me.”
“He told you that?”
“No, but he was cold sober and his hands were shaking bad.”
“You have any idea where he might have gone?”
A look flashed through her eyes, some emotion she concealed by dropping her gaze. “He only had one friend and that was Billy Polo up in Santa Teresa. If he needed help, that’s where he’d go. I think he used to have family up there too, but I don’t know what happened to them. He never talked much about that.”
“So Polo’s out of prison?”
“I heard he got out just recently.”
“Well, maybe I’ll track him down since that’s the only lead I have. In the meantime, would you find a phone and call me if you hear from either one?” I took out a business card and jotted my home address and phone on the back. “Call collect.”
She looked at both sides of the card. “What do you think is goin’ on?”
“I don’t know and I don’t much care. As soon as I run him down, I’ll clean up this business and bail out.”
Chapter 3
As long as I was in the area, I went by the bank. The woman in charge of customer service couldn’t have been less helpful. She was dark haired, in her early twenties, and new at the job I gathered because she greeted my every request with the haunted look of someone who isn’t quite sure of the rules and therefore says no to everything. She would not verify “Alvin Limardo’s” account number or the fact that the account had been closed. She would not tell me if there was, perhaps, another account in John Daggett’s name. I knew there had to be a registered copy of the cashier’s check itself, but she refused to verify the information he’d given at the time. I kept thinking there was some other tack I might take, especially with that much money at stake. Surely, the bank must care what happened to twenty-five thousand dollars. I stood at the counter and stared at the woman, and she stared back. Maybe she hadn’t understood.
I took out the photostat of my license and pointed. “Look,” I said, “You see this? I’m a private investigator. I’ve got a real problem here. I was hired to deliver a cashier’s check, but now I can’t find the man who gave it to me and I don’t know the whereabouts of the person who’s supposed to receive it and I’m just trying to get a lead so I can do what I was hired to do.”
“I understand that,” she said.
“But you won’t give me any information, right?”
“It’s against bank regulations.”
“Isn’t it against bank regulations for Alvin Limardo to write me a bad check?”
“Yes.”
“Then what am I supposed to do with it?” I said. I really knew the answer … eat it, dum-dum … but I was feeling stubborn and perverse.
“Take him to small claims court,” she said.
“But I can’t find him. He can’t be hauled into court if nobody knows where he is.”
She stared at me blankly, offering no comment.
“What about the twenty-five thousand?” I said. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
“I have no idea.”
I stared down at the desk. When I was in kindergarten, I was a biter and I still struggle with the urge. It just feels good, you know? “I want to speak to your supervisor.”
“Mr. Stallings? He’s gone for the day.”
“Well, is there anybody else here who might give me some help on this?”
She shook her head. “I’m in charge of customer service.”
“But you’re not doing a thing. How can you call it customer service when you don’t do shit?”
Her mouth turned prim. “Please don’t use language like that around me. It’s very offensive.”
“What do I have to do to get help around here?”
“Do you have an account with us?”
“If I did, would you help?”
“Not with this. We’re not supposed to divulge information about bank customers.”
This was silly. I walked away from her desk. I wanted to make a withering remark, but I couldn’t think of one. I knew I was just mad at myself for taking the job to begin with, but I was hoping to lay a little ire off on her … a pointless enterprise. I got back in my car and headed toward the freeway. When I reached Santa Teresa, it was 4:35. I bypassed the office altogether and went home. My disposition improved the minute I walked in. My apartment was once a single-car garage and consists now of one room, fifteen feet on a side, with a narrow extension on the right that serves as a kitchenette, separated from the living area by a counter. The space is arranged with cunning: a stackable washer-dryer tucked in beside the kitchenette, bookshelves, drawers and storage compartments built into the wall. It’s tidy and self-contained and all of it suits me absolutely. I have a six-foot convertible sofa that I usually sleep on as is, a desk, a chair, an endtable, and plump pillows that serve as additional seating if anyone comes over to sit. My bathroom is one of those preformed fiberglass units with everything molded into it, including a towel bar, a soap holder, and a cutout for a window that looks out at the street. Sometimes I stand in the bathtub, elbows resting on the sill, and stare at passing cars, just thinking how lucky I am. I love being single. It’s almost like being rich.