final pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. It was coming clear for me, the story of Seamus Dent, not all of it, I would learn more in the course of my investigation, but now maybe just enough was coming clear to get François Dubé that new trial he so desperately sought.
It was late already by the time I figured it out. Beth was gone, my secretary, Ellie, was gone, it was just me in the office, the sole representative of the law firm of Derringer and Carl, but I was enough. I sat in Ellie’s chair, took out a blue-backed document, rolled it into the typewriter my secretary used to fill the blanks in preprinted documents, hunted and pecked, whited out the mistakes, hunted and pecked some more.
And then I put on my jacket, stuffed the document into my jacket pocket, and drove out to the Great Northeast to have myself a drink in the shadow of the King.
16
King’s Dominion was not the kind of joint people stumbled into by mistake. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d never find it, but then again you wouldn’t want to.
I parked in the lot of a small shopping center just off Roosevelt Boulevard. There was a Radio Shack, a T.J. Maxx, a dry cleaner, a vacant storefront, a CVS, a dollar store. Scintillating, no? The number I was looking for was taped onto a glass door next to the dollar store. I pushed open the door and was immediately hit by a deep throb of bass that resonated in my bad tooth. As I climbed the stairwell, I passed a series of signs tacked to the wall.
NO SNEAKERS
CHECK ALL GUNS
PEANUT BUTTER AND NANNER SAMMICH —75¢
Not my kind of place, exactly. I just hoped they served Sea Breezes.
Beside the closed door at the top of the stairs, an old man sat on a stool, clipboard in hand. He was tall and stooped, his shoes were white patent leather, and it looked like a gray poodle was perched on his head. When I tried to walk past him, he shot out a bony arm and stopped me cold.
“What’s your song?” he said.
“I’m just here to see a Detective Gleason,” I said. “Has he shown up tonight?”
“Do I look like a matchmaker?” he said.
“Hello, Dolly,” I said.
“The name’s Skip.”
“Kept that from summer camp, did you? I like your shoes.”
“Dancing shoes. I know a guy what knows a guy what gets them direct from Hong Kong.”
“Maybe he can get me a pair.”
“You want a pair?”
“Nah. So is Gleason in?”
“Yeah, he’s in.”
I gave the old man a wink, and started again for the door, and again the bony arm barred my way. I looked at it for a moment and then at the old man.
“What, is there a cover?”
“No cover,” he said. “But it’s karaoke night.”
“Just my luck. I should have come tomorrow.”
“It wouldn’t do no good,” said the old man. “Here, every night is karaoke night. What’s your song?”
“I don’t sing.”
“Sure you do, if you want in. Everyone sings, at least once. Makes you part of the show, keeps it festive.” He cocked his head, the poodle shifted, his eyes brightened crazily. “It’s karaoke night.”
“I know ‘Feelings.’ Should I sing ‘Feelings’?”
He looked at me, looked at his clipboard, paged through the pages, looked back at me. “We don’t got it.”
“How about ‘Kumbaya’?”
He looked back at his clipboard. “We got ‘Kismet,’ we got ‘Kiss Me Quick,’ we got ‘Ku-u-i-po,’ which is pretty close, but no ‘Kumbaya.’ ”
“ ‘Satisfaction’?”
“None.”
“You don’t got much, do you?”
“Only everything he ever sung.”
“Ah,” I said. “Now I get it. Why don’t you pick something for me.”
“How’s your pipes?”
“Not so good.”
“Then stay with something low, something easy. I got one here that usually works for first-timers. There’s a slow part you can talk your way through.”
“Done.”
“What’s your name?”
“Franz.”
“Funny,” he said as he pulled a white slip from his clipboard, filled it out, handed it to me, “you don’t look like a Franz.
It was late already by the time I figured it out. Beth was gone, my secretary, Ellie, was gone, it was just me in the office, the sole representative of the law firm of Derringer and Carl, but I was enough. I sat in Ellie’s chair, took out a blue-backed document, rolled it into the typewriter my secretary used to fill the blanks in preprinted documents, hunted and pecked, whited out the mistakes, hunted and pecked some more.
And then I put on my jacket, stuffed the document into my jacket pocket, and drove out to the Great Northeast to have myself a drink in the shadow of the King.
16
King’s Dominion was not the kind of joint people stumbled into by mistake. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d never find it, but then again you wouldn’t want to.
I parked in the lot of a small shopping center just off Roosevelt Boulevard. There was a Radio Shack, a T.J. Maxx, a dry cleaner, a vacant storefront, a CVS, a dollar store. Scintillating, no? The number I was looking for was taped onto a glass door next to the dollar store. I pushed open the door and was immediately hit by a deep throb of bass that resonated in my bad tooth. As I climbed the stairwell, I passed a series of signs tacked to the wall.
NO SNEAKERS
CHECK ALL GUNS
PEANUT BUTTER AND NANNER SAMMICH —75¢
Not my kind of place, exactly. I just hoped they served Sea Breezes.
Beside the closed door at the top of the stairs, an old man sat on a stool, clipboard in hand. He was tall and stooped, his shoes were white patent leather, and it looked like a gray poodle was perched on his head. When I tried to walk past him, he shot out a bony arm and stopped me cold.
“What’s your song?” he said.
“I’m just here to see a Detective Gleason,” I said. “Has he shown up tonight?”
“Do I look like a matchmaker?” he said.
“Hello, Dolly,” I said.
“The name’s Skip.”
“Kept that from summer camp, did you? I like your shoes.”
“Dancing shoes. I know a guy what knows a guy what gets them direct from Hong Kong.”
“Maybe he can get me a pair.”
“You want a pair?”
“Nah. So is Gleason in?”
“Yeah, he’s in.”
I gave the old man a wink, and started again for the door, and again the bony arm barred my way. I looked at it for a moment and then at the old man.
“What, is there a cover?”
“No cover,” he said. “But it’s karaoke night.”
“Just my luck. I should have come tomorrow.”
“It wouldn’t do no good,” said the old man. “Here, every night is karaoke night. What’s your song?”
“I don’t sing.”
“Sure you do, if you want in. Everyone sings, at least once. Makes you part of the show, keeps it festive.” He cocked his head, the poodle shifted, his eyes brightened crazily. “It’s karaoke night.”
“I know ‘Feelings.’ Should I sing ‘Feelings’?”
He looked at me, looked at his clipboard, paged through the pages, looked back at me. “We don’t got it.”
“How about ‘Kumbaya’?”
He looked back at his clipboard. “We got ‘Kismet,’ we got ‘Kiss Me Quick,’ we got ‘Ku-u-i-po,’ which is pretty close, but no ‘Kumbaya.’ ”
“ ‘Satisfaction’?”
“None.”
“You don’t got much, do you?”
“Only everything he ever sung.”
“Ah,” I said. “Now I get it. Why don’t you pick something for me.”
“How’s your pipes?”
“Not so good.”
“Then stay with something low, something easy. I got one here that usually works for first-timers. There’s a slow part you can talk your way through.”
“Done.”
“What’s your name?”
“Franz.”
“Funny,” he said as he pulled a white slip from his clipboard, filled it out, handed it to me, “you don’t look like a Franz.
Similar Books
