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Fifteen minutes later, Derek and I were seated in a motel bar half a block away from the hospital. The Plantacion is a rogue of a drinking establishment that looks as if it's crept to its present location from some other part of town. The motel itself was apparently built with an eye to sheltering the relatives of the ill and infirm who come to St. Terry's for treatment from small towns nearby. The bar was added as an afterthought, in violation of God knows what city codes, as it is smack in the middle of the residential neighborhood. Of course, the area by now has been infiltrated by medical buildings, clinics, convalescent homes, pharmacies, and various other suppliers to the health-care industry, including a mortuary two blocks away to service folk when all else fails. Maybe the city pla
The interior is narrow and dark, with a diorama of a banana plantation that extends behind the bar in the space that usually supports a long mirror, liquor bottles, and a neon beer sign. Instead, arranged as though on a small lighted stage, scale-model banana palms are laid out in orderly rows and tiny mechanized laborers go about the business of harvesting fruit in a series of vignettes. All of the workers appear to be Mexican, including the tiny carved woman who arrives with a water barrel and a dipper just as the noon whistle blows. One man waves from a treetop while a wee wooden dog barks and wags its tail.
Derek and I sat at the bar for a while, scarcely speaking, we were so taken by the scene. Even the bartender, who must have seen it hundreds of times, paused to watch while the mechanical mule pulled a load of bananas around the bend and another cart took its place. Not surprisingly, the house specialties run to cuba libres and banana daiquiris, but no one cares if you order something adult. Derek had a Beefeater martini and I had a glass of white wine that made my lips pull together like a drawstring purse. I'd watched the bartender pour it from a gallon jug that ran about three bucks at any Stop N' Go. The label was from one of those wineries the grape pickers are always striking and I pondered the possibility that they'd peed on the crop to retaliate for unfair labor practices.
"What do you think about this business with Bobby?" I said to Derek when I finally got my mouth unpuckered.
"His claim about a murder attempt? God, I don't know. It sounds pretty farfetched to me. He and his mother seem to believe it, but I can't figure out why anybody'd do such a thing."
"What about money?"
"Money?"
"I've been wondering who benefits financially if Bobby dies. I asked Glen the same thing."
Derek began to stroke his double chin. The excess weight made him Jook as if he had one normal-sized face superimposed on a much larger one. The jowls were just leftover flesh hanging out the sides. "It'd be a fairly conspicuous motive, I should think," he said. He wore the skeptical look of a man in a stage play: an exaggerated effect for the audience twenty-five rows back.
"Yeah, well forcing him off the bridge was conspicuous7 too. Of course, if he'd died in the wreck, nobody would have known the difference," I said. "Cars go off the pass every six months or so anyway because people take the curves too fast, so it could have been passed off as a single-car accident. There might have been some damage to the rear bumper where the other driver made contact, but by the time they'd hauled Bobby's car up the mountain, I don't think anybody would have suspected what really occurred. I take it there weren't any witnesses."
"No, and I'm not sure you can count on what Bobby says."
"Meaning what?"
"Well, he obviously has a vested interest in having someone else to blame. The kid doesn't want to own up to the fact that he'd been drinking. He always drove too fast anyway. His best friend gets killed. Rick was Kitty's boyfriend, you know, and his death threw her for a loop. I don't mean to cast doubt on Bobby's version of the story, but it's always struck me as self-serving to some extent."
I studied Derek's face, wondering at the change in his tone of voice. It was an interesting theory and I got the impression that he'd been thinking about it for some time. He seemed uncomfortable, though, pretending to be casual and objective when, in fact, he was undermining Bobby's credibility. I was sure he hadn't dared mention his idea to Glen. "You're saying Bobby made it up?"
"I didn't say that," he replied evasively. "I think he believes it, but then it gets him off the hook, doesn't it?" His eyes slid away from mine and he signaled to the bartender for a repeat, then glanced back at me. "You ready for another one?"
"Sure, why not?" I hadn't actually finished the wine I had, but I hoped he'd be more at ease if he thought I was matching him drink for drink. Martinis will make you say anything and I was curious what might come out once his tongue was loosened. I could already see that look in his eyes, something slithery and pink that hints of alcoholic tendencies. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and took out the pack of cigarettes, his gaze riveted to the diorama. A tiny mechanical Mexican with a machete was climbing up the tree again. Derek lit a cigarette without looking at it and the gesture took on a curious air, as if it couldn't count against him if he ignored it himself. He was probably the kind of person who eats while watching TV and tops off his Scotch so it will always look as though he is only having one.
"How was Kitty when you saw her? You haven't said."
"She was… you know, she was upset, I guess, to find herself hospitalized, but I told her… I said, 'Now look, kid. You're just going to have to shape up.'" Derek had shifted into his parental persona and he seemed uncomfortable with that, too. I could just imagine how effective he'd been to date.
"Glen didn't seem very sympathetic," I said.
"Well, no. I can't blame her for that, but then Kittys had it rough and I don't think Glen understands the toll it can take on a kid like her. Bobby's had every advantage money could buy. Why shouldn't he have it made? I tell you what bothers me. I mean, anything Bobby does is excused. Anything Kitty does is the crime of the century. Bobby's screwed up. Don't kid yourself. But when he fouls up, Gleri can always find a way to rationalize what he's done. Know what I mean?"
I shrugged noncommittally "I don't know what he's done."
The drinks arrived and Derek took a sip from his as though he tasted martinis for a living. He nodded judiciously and set the glass down with care in the center of his cocktail napkin. He touched a knuckle to the corners of his mouth. His movements were becoming liquid and his eyes were begi
The bartender took a couple of beers out of the cooler and moved down to the other end of the bar to serve a customer.
Derek's voice dropped. "This is just between you and me and the lamppost," he said. "But the kid's been cited twice on drunk-driving raps and he got some little gal knocked up over a year ago. Glen wants to treat it like youthful hijinks- boys will be boys and all that sort of crap-but let Kitty cross the line once and all hell breaks loose."
I was begi
"So where do you start on a thing like this?" he asked.
"I don't know yet. Usually I nose around, do a background check, uncover a thread, and follow where it leads." I looked at him, watching while he nodded as though I'd actually said something significant.