The Big Blast Read online

  “The young girls, the junior hostesses, have a slightly different role . . . They should remind the boys of their kid sisters or the girl next door or even their sweetheart—but only in the most wholesome of ways. That’s why this work’s not for every young woman.”

  She paused and in the intervening silence I could hear music and dancing from inside the club, the splash of the bay waters beyond, a foghorn in the distance, and the nocturnal sounds of the city behind us—traffic, horns, people bustling about, laughter, and the occasional yell or whistle.

  The sounds were various, but the smell singular. The cold night air carried on its currents the briny scent of the bay. Salty with a touch of tang.

  She didn’t say anything else so I said, “Tell us about Joan Wynn.”

  “She wasn’t particularly suited for it,” she said.

  “You ain’t sayin’ she did anything to dishonor Ernie, are you?” Orson said.

  He leaned forward slightly when he said it, his body growing tense, his voice conveying something like challenge if not actual menace.

  “Let her say what she means, big guy,” I said. “We want the truth. No matter what it is. Remember? Don’t make her hesitant to tell it.”

  “I ain’t hesitant,” Mildred said. “He don’t scare me none. I deal with big boys like him every single day. Can’t intimidate me.”

  “Wasn’t tryin’ to,” he said. “Sorry ma’am. I just get worked up too quick these days. I care about Ernie and Joan. That’s all. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

  He took a step back and some of the tension went out of his big body.

  “He’s your buddy and she’s his girl. I get it,” she said. “But like Jimmy says, you need to know the truth. And so does your buddy, Ernie. Every guys needs to know how his girl acts when he ain’t around. Especially if he’s off fighting in a war for his country, protecting the very freedoms she’s at home enjoying.”

  “So tell us about her,” Orson said. “The straight scoop.”

  “Joan’s not a bad girl, she ain’t, but she don’t exactly act like she belongs to anyone. You know how some guys are chasers? Well, some girls are . . . they make it known they’re lookin’ to be chased. She’s always looking—and she had the look, you know the one? You could see it in her eyes. She was always looking for . . . something . . . someone . . . some kind of . . . thrill, like she was bored . . . or at least restless.”

  She paused. I nodded. Orson didn’t overreact. She continued.

  “Now, I’ve seen a lot of girls in my day,” she said. “A lot. And I watch them. Tell the truth, I watch everyone. You two would be surprised at all I could tell you about yourselves. Of the girls like Joan there are the kind who act restless and look around, but without any real intention behind it. They flirt with the thrill, but that’s it. They ain’t about to run off with it and actually do anything. Then there’s the ones who aren’t satisfied ’til they’re racin’ headlong toward a cliff with someone snippin’ the brake lines.”

  “Which is Joan?” I asked.

  “I would’ve said the harmless flirter, but . . . now I’m just not so sure. She could’ve run off to be in pictures like she talked about. She could’ve run off with a man who promised her the moon. Shoot, she could’ve joined the circus. I just can’t say for sure. And that’s not like me.”

  “What about the guy who used to come in and just stare at her?” I said. “Lauren said you might know how we can find him.”

  “Somethin’s surely not right about him,” she said. “Never spoke a word—to anyone. Just sat and stared at Joan. I finally had to ask him to leave. When he wouldn’t, I had a couple of the boys toss him. They had a bit of a scuffle outside—well, let’s call it what it was, they beat him up. Said even during all that, he never said a word. He came back the next night, but hasn’t been back since.”

  “Lauren thought that might have coincided with Joan’s disappearance,” I said.

  “Oh, you know, it may just have. Wow. Do you think he could have . . . Oh my. One of the boys said they’ve seen him a few other places. I could get him to help you find him.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A GI named Otis took us around to the places he had seen the guy they all just called The Creeper.

  Otis was average in every way—average height, average build, average intelligence. In his uniform and with his buzzcut, he looked like a hundred thousand other GIs.

  We started at Nick’s.

  And ran into essentially the same crowd that had been there the night before—including Sweaty Neck and his friends.

  They were shooting pool in the back room and worked real hard at not seeing us when we walked in.

  Cab Callaway’s “Blues in the Night” was on the Wurlitzer.

  The dance floor was full.

  The strong liquor was flowing.

  The crowd was cacophonous.

  While Otis looked around for The Creeper, Orson and I stood in between the bar and the dance floor and looked around a little ourselves.

  “Being here bringing up any memories?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe.”

  He then saw a woman at the bar, another working woman not unlike Betsy, though not as polished or professional.

  He rushed over to her.

  “Hey,” he said. “Patricia, right?”

  Her head reared back, her eyes flung open wide, and her mouth fell into an alarmed O. She looked genuinely frightened to see him.

  She glanced from Orson over to me, to my missing arm, then back to him.

  As if oblivious to her frightened reaction, Orson said, “You were here last night, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t want no trouble, mister,” she said. “Just leave me alone. Please.”

  The man sitting on the other side of her, a blond-haired, brown-eyed boy with red splotchy skin in an air force uniform, turned toward us.

  “What is it, Patty?” he asked. “What’s wrong? He bothering you?”

  “I just want to ask you about last night,” Orson said.

  “Look, pal,” the airman said. “She said she didn’t want to talk to you, so beat it.”

  He then made the mistake of getting off his barstool and standing near Orson, who would have dwarfed him even if he had been standing on the barstool.

  “I ain’t gonna hurt you,” Orson said to her.

  “You’re damn right you aren’t,” the airman said.

  “Come on, Orca,” I said. “She doesn’t want to talk.”

  “But she was here. She can tell me what—”

  “I saw you leave with Betsy,” she said. “I know what you did.”

  People in our vicinity began to gather around us.

  “Let’s go, Orca,” I said. “It’s no good. She doesn’t want to—”

  “You killed her,” she said.

  “No, I—” Orson said.

  “Who’d he kill, Patty?” the airman asked.

  “Did you see me do it?” Orson said.

  “Somebody call the cops,” she said, louder now, nearly shouting. “He killed Betsy.”

  More people gathered around.

  “No, stop,” he said. “Don’t do that. I just want to talk.”

  Someone unplugged the jukebox.

  “What is it?” someone asked. “What’s going on?

  “He beat her to death with his bare hands,” Patty said.

  Now the entire crowd had gathered around us.

  “You like beating up girls?” the airman said. “Do you?”

  He then grabbed a beer bottle from the bar and swung it at Orson’s head.

  Without taking his eyes off of Patty, Orson blocked the blow with one arm and swept the airman aside with it, tossing him several feet onto the dance floor and into the crowd.

  “CALL THE COPS,” Patty yelled. “HE’S A COLD-BLOODED SEX KILLER.”

  “No,” Orson said. “It’s not like that. I ain’t like that. I just want to––”

  “Orson, come on,” I said. “We
need to go. Now.”

  “KILLER,” she yelled, feeding off the energy of the crowd quickly becoming a mob. “YOU’RE A KILLER.”

  “No,” Orson said. “Stop it.”

  “KILLER. KILLER. KILLER.”

  In an instant he was on her, his huge body smashing her small one against the bar, his hands around her throat, his massive mitts enveloping her entire neck, throttling her.

  “Stop it,” he said. “Stop it. Stop saying that.”

  “ORSON,” I yelled. “ORSON. STOP IT RIGHT NOW.”

  He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He was choking her, oblivious to me or the mob beginning to yell and swing at him.

  Patty was trying to scream, but couldn’t. She couldn’t even breathe. Soon he would crush her windpipe and end her life.

  “ORSON,” I yelled again.

  Still no response.

  Withdrawing my revolver, I turned it over, grabbing the barrel and hit him a hard glancing blow with the butt of the gun on the back of the head.

  He felt it, but twitched it off and kept killing her.

  I hit him again.

  And again.

  Finally, he let go and turned toward the pain I was inflicting.

  He started to grab me around the throat.

  “Orca, it’s me, Jimmy. Hey. Look at me.”

  He stopped, shook himself, and looked around as if having just regained consciousness or at least awareness.

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’re you—”

  The circle around him opened up and Sweaty Neck charged him with a pool cue, popping him hard across the head with the fat end of the stick.

  “This is for last—”

  Orson hit the man with a backhanded fist, a single blow to the sweet spot on the side of his chin. His head snapped, a line of spit flew out the side of his mouth, and he went down hard and didn’t get up.

  The rematch between Orca and Sweaty Neck had gone just like the first—a one-punch knockout in the first round.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “You think he would’ve killed her?” Lauren asked.

  “I do,” Clip said.

  I nodded.

  We had cut the search for The Creeper short after the incident at Nick’s. I had taken Orson home and put him under the care of his grandmother, dropped Otis off at the USO, and now Lauren, Miki, Clip, and I were having a late supper in the back corner booth at the Bird of Paradise.

  The Bird of Paradise was Panama City’s only queer club—and one of only a few places the four of us could go together and be both accepted and welcomed.

  It was an old, small fishing shack on the end of a dock out in Massalina Bayou, marked by a large, iridescent Ribbon-tailed Astrapia painted on the front slat-board wall, its huge head and neck shimmering, glittering green and gold and blue, its full body a rainbow of brilliant colors on the tips of shiny black feathers.

  This small fringe establishment was one of my favorite places in town, mostly because of its owner, Thomas Queen, who didn’t ask but told us what we would be having every time we came to eat here––which was often, and often late at night.

  It was late, but not late enough for the place to be busy yet. The perfect time.

  Only a smattering of patrons were present—a few at the bar, a few around the jukebox, a couple in the booth in the opposite corner from ours. All homosexual men and women except for one heterosexual couple having an affair—something I knew because this was one of the places Lauren and I frequented back when she had a husband and we had to hide.

  In his deep and smoky, soft and sensual voice, Tommy Q had said, “Honey, y’all will be havin’ the very best grilled bay shrimp you ever put in your sweet little mouths. Now, I didn’t say the best thing you ever put in your mouth, but I guaran-damn-tee it’ll be the best shrimp you ever did. Those big ol’ bay shrimp are just a marinating in my own special sauce. Well, not my sauce. Get your mind out of the gutter, Clipper Jones. I’m taken. And that, sugar is just the appetizer. Then for your entrée, I’ve put together the most delicious lump blue crab meat–covered filet of scamp imperial. With the most delightfully crisp white wine. How’s that sound?”

  “Divine,” Lauren said.

  “That’ll do,” he said. “Now, can I get y’all a little cocktail while you wait?”

  Next to his deeply tanned skin, Tommy’s bright white teeth and silver eyes sparkled brightly––the latter matching his coarse, closely cropped white hair.

  “Is it just me or did he emphasize the cock in cocktail?” I said.

  “It’s just you,” Tommy said. “Better keep your eye on this one, Lauren. He’s hearin’ emphasized cocks.”

  “No,” she said. “I heard it too.”

  “Me too,” Miki said.

  “How about you, Clipper Jones? Did you hear me, ah, emphasize anything?”

  “I shore as shit did not,” he said.

  “See?” Tommy said. “I rest my cock—I mean case.”

  Which is how we were sitting at the Bird of Paradise drinking cocktails and talking about our cases.

  “So big whale kill hot pants hooker?” Miki said.

  “He may just have,” I said. “Don’t know for sure yet.”

  “I do,” Clip said. “You better get his ass in a cage. You don’t and he do it again, we all know who you gonna blame.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Hitler.”

  “They do send some unexploded bombs back home tucked deep inside our boys, don’t they?” Lauren said.

  “That they do,” I said. “I talked to him on the way home. He didn’t remember much of anything. It’s like he has these . . . envelopes of time. Can’t see anything inside them.”

  Our wine and appetizer arrived, and we toasted and ate together like the great good friends and unlikely associates we were.

  And it was good. Very good.

  From behind the bar, Tommy said, “I’m not even gonna ask y’all if I was right, ’cause I know I am. Aren’t I?”

  We all nodded.

  The door opened and Mama Cora ambled in, smoke from her long, ivory churchwarden pipe swirling about her big, beautiful head.

  That’s another reason this place was among my very favorites in town—the people who frequented it. Or as Tommy says, “freakwent” it.

  Mama Cora was a three-hundred-pound, caramel-skinned Creole woman with closely cropped rust-colored hair that stayed mostly hidden beneath her colorful silk do-rag. As usual she was adorned with a plethora of rings—on her fingers and in her ears and nose.

  She was the daughter of a French-African woman and a white man and had traveled the world singing, and, when she was younger and smaller, dancing.

  “Hello, soldier boy and friends,” she said. “It is most agreeable to see your beautiful faces.”

  “And yours,” Lauren said.

  “We love Thomas’s big bird, no? Everyone is welcome.”

  “We do,” Lauren said, and we all nodded.

  “Soldier, take a moment for Mama before you leave, okay? Needs must tell you a thing or two.”

  “Was planning to anyway,” I said. “Have a question or two for you.”

  “Then we will have a meeting of the minds, no?”

  I nodded.

  “She is so very beautiful,” Lauren said as she lumbered away.

  “Perfection of skin,” Miki said. “But not as pretty as Lady Boss Lauren.”

  Before I could second that sentiment, Clip said, “Not nearly as pretty as you and Lady Boss Lauren.”

  “Why, Clip,” Lauren said. “That may by the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. Thank you.”

  We finished our shrimp and I awkwardly poured us another glass of wine.

  “Would think you be better with that hand by now,” Clip said. “Seein’ how it the only one you got.”

  “Would, wouldn’t you?”

  “He’s just fine with it,” Lauren said. “Just fine.”

  Miki, who didn’t have to be Judy in here,
blushed.

  “So, tell us about Gary and Rita before our food arrives,” Lauren said.

  “Well, first y’all do know they’s lots of places a nigger and a Jap can’t go,” Clip said, “so we not the, ah, ideal team to be followin’ white people ’round.”

  “Noted,” I said.

  “Judy here can pass in a pinch, but my black ass can’t pass for shit—not even high yellow.”

  Judy smiled adoringly at Clip and bit her tongue to keep from jumping in and telling the story like she wanted to.

  “But neither of them met anyone—least not at the places we could follow ’em. If they did in the places we couldn’t follow, they only met a minute or so. Not long at all. It like she lookin’ for someone, but can never find him. She just go from place to place, look, then leave. Just like at Nick’s last night. They easy to follow tonight. All we had to do was follow her ’cause his ass was too.”

  “She go,” Miki said. “He follow. We follow.”

  “Just go places, look, and leave—bars, soda shop, hotel lobbies, the beach. The Barn Dance.”

  “Go, look, leave,” Miki said.

  “Go, look, leave,” Lauren said.

  “What is she looking for?” I said.

  “When you were following me,” Lauren said, “I was looking for you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  While the others were finishing their scamp imperial, I slipped over to talk to Mama Cora.

  “Mama been hearin’ ’bout your troubles,” she said.

  “I thought nobody knew the troubles I seen but Jesus,” I said.

  She laughed, her fat cheeks pushing her eyes nearly closed.

  “We will deal with that miserable Lady Bird Bennet and that wicked Noah Mosley, I assure you,” she said of the two wealthy Bay County kingmakers and lever-pullers I had run afoul of on my last case, “but for now tell me about this friend of yours they say killed Betsy.”

  I did.

  “There anything in it?” she asked. “Tell Mama the truth, you.”

  “I’m just not sure,” I said. “I’m going to find out. The boy I knew, the man who left here to serve his country, could never have, but . . .”

  “But the man they sent back?”