Thin Air

"My name's Spenser," I said. "I'm looking for a woman named Angela Richard."

The dogs circled around and began to sniff at me. I scratched one of them behind the ear, and the other stuck his head in to get scratched too.

"Why?" Vaughn said.

There was the smell of booze on his breath. "She's missing. Her husband's worried about her."

"She got a husband?"

"Yeah."

"Shit, I didn't know that."

"Now you do," I said. "She your daughter?"

"You could say so."

"I could?"

"I mean, yeah, she's my daughter, but I ain't seen her in fifteen, twenty years. The old lady wouldn't let me near her."

"You wouldn't have any thoughts where she might be?"

"Hell no."

"You heard from her in the last few months?"

"'Course not," Vaughn said. "She didn't want nothing to do with me."

"She told people she'd like to find you," I said. "She doodled your name on her calendar pad."

"My name?"

"Vaughn," I said.

"Yeah. That's me. Middle name, actually. You know? First name's Lawrence, but I never used it. She wrote it down on a pad?"

"Un huh."

"Why'd she say she wanted to see me?"

"Far as I know she didn't say. People she told assumed she wanted to come to some terms with her family, maybe put her childhood to rest."

The dogs got through sniffing and having fulfilled their contract went back to sprawling in the sun. There was a sliding door between the deck and the living room of the small house. I could see a quart bottle of vodka standing on the table, and beside it one of those jumbo plastic bottles of Mountain Dew. There were lobster pots piled against the house beyond the deck, and firewood in a wooden rack someone had cobbled together out of two-by-fours. At the foot of the sloping hill a skiff jostled on a short rope against a small jetty that looked no better built than the wood rack.

"She wanted to find me?" Vaughn said.

"So she said."

"What do you mean she disappeared?"

"Her husband came home one day and she wasn't there. No note, nothing. She was gone."

Vaughn frowned. "You a cop?"

"Private," I said.

"Her husband hire you?"

"Yes."

Vaughn had a prominent lower jaw and he shoved it out now so that he could chew on his upper lip with his lower teeth.

"You think she run away?"

"I don't know. Her purse is gone. And the clothes she was wearing. Nothing else. She didn't take any money out of the bank. There haven't been any ATM transactions. She hasn't used her credit cards."

"You think something bad might have happened?"

"I don't know what happened," I said.

"Shit, I wouldn't want nothing bad to happen to her."

"That's nice," I said.

Vaughn's eyes looked a little moist.

"Well, I wouldn't. I ain't seen her awhile. But shit, she is my little girl, you know. I had her with me for a while, 'fore the old lady got the cops on me, wouldn't let me keep her."

"And you been a regular busy beaver ever since trying to stay in touch," I said.

"I never knew where she was," he said. "I didn't know she wanted to see me."

His eyes were squinched up and he was actually crying. Tears and everything.

"I didn't know," he said.

I'd have been touched if I hadn't smelled his breath and seen the vodka on the table. I'd seen too many crying jags by too many drunks to be impressed with Vaughn. It was the kind of sorrow another vodka and Mountain Dew would fix right up. On the other hand, I saw no need to mention that his son-in-law had been shot.

"Ever hear of anyone named Luis Deleon?" I said.

Vaughn shook his head.

"Frank Belson?"

He shook his head again.

"Elwood Pontevecchio?"

"What kinda name is that?" Vaughn said.

"Ever hear of him?"

"No."

"Lisa St. Claire?"

"No."

"Ever talk with Angela's mother?"

"Hell no."

"What do you do for a living up here?" I said.

"Lobster a little. Some firewood. Mow some hay. Unemployment. I make out."

"You have no idea where your daughter might be?"

"No."

He was talking all right now. His grief seemed to have subsided.

"What are the dogs' names?" I said.

"Buster and Scout. Buster's the one with the white on his face."

"They hunt?"

"Sure. Good hunters. Put some nice birds on the table in season."

I gave him my card.

"You hear anything, think of anything, get in touch with me. There may be a reward."

He nodded. I had made up the reward part, but I didn't want to depend too heavily on father love.

"You find her, you tell her where I am," he said. "Tell her I love her."

"Sure," I said. "I'll do that."

He was starting to tear up again. I got in my car and backed around and headed out his driveway. I could see him in the rearview mirror, standing on the deck watching me. Then he turned and went through the sliders back into his house. Vodka and Mountain Dew. Jesus!

Chapter 26

Chollo showed up at my office on Thursday morning. I told him what I was doing on the ride up to Proctor. If he found any of it interesting, he didn't say so. We got out of the car in front of Club del Aguadillano at 11:30 on a rainy April morning. There were three cars in the parking lot. Frost heaves had buckled the hot top years ago and weeds grew vigorously up through the cracks. The club itself was a cinder-block building, with a flat roof. The sign above the glass double doorway spelled out the name of the place in flowing pink neon script. On either side of the doorway someone had planted small evergreens in wooden tubs. The evergreens had never gotten big and now stood spindly and bare of needles in the spring rain. A blue Dumpster, overflowing with green garbage bags, stood at the corner. A railroad tie served as a step for short janitors. Beyond the club, the river ran a sullen gray, pocked by the rain and blotched with clusters of yellowish foam. From upstream, out of sight around the bend, came the unremitting sound of the falls. And from the club came the sound of salsa music.

Chollo stared at the club. He was slender and relaxed, with black hair to his shoulders, and a diamond earring. His thin dark face was more Indian than Spanish. He wore a black silk-finish raincoat, belted at the waist, the collar up.

"You fucking Yankees know how to do ugly," Chollo said. "I'll give you that."

"Hey," I said. "This is an Hispanic joint."

"It's Yankee Hispanic," Chollo said. "You could have more fun at the podiatrist."

"We're not here for fun," I said.

"That's good," Chollo said.

We went in. The room was brightly lighted, painted pink, and full of small tables and rickety chairs. The juke box was loud. There was a bar across the far end. Behind the bar was a huge bartender with thick forearms, a big belly, and a bald head. As he moved down the bar toward us, I could see the sawed-off baseball bat stuck in his belt slanting across the small of his back. He didn't took at me. He spoke to Chollo in Spanish.

"Tequila," Chollo said.