I looked at the photograph again before returning it to my pocket. “At least the whole dating Bernard thing is starting to make sense though.”
“That’s what I’m saying. I mean Bernard wore those glasses and that stupid-ass wig and all—it was kind of sad. He was always talking about how she was his girl and all this, and the guys would laugh at him behind his back about it because they knew she was a prostitute. Bernard worked in the city but he wasn’t from here, and he never really figured out how small a community this city still is.”
I finally wiped the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “You wouldn’t have any idea where I might be able to find her, do you?”
“Try Weld Square,” he said with a short, sardonic laugh.
Weld Square was an infamous corner of the city littered with dilapidated apartment buildings, deserted businesses, and vacant, garbage-strewn lots. It was easily accessible from the state highway, and was known in the city and beyond for drug dealing, prostitution and violent crime. In my early days with the company, when I’d been given some of the worst details, I’d worked night security in a few of the businesses still operating in the area at that time. I was in no hurry to return.
Despite the probable accuracy, Bentley knew the humor in his comment had been wasted on me. “You ever heard of The Captain’s Hook? It’s a bar down by the waterfront. Real shit-hole. Tough crowd. Bernard told me Claudia worked part-time there as a waitress. I don’t know if he was telling the truth, but he probably was, because a lot of hookers hang out there too. You could try checking out that place, but be careful. Cops are forever dragging people out of there, real jewel of a joint. This huge fat chick runs it; she’s owned the place for years. She’s supposed to be a psychic or a witch or something—probably just a gimmick to rip off a bunch of drunks and druggies, but that’s what people say. Supposedly some weird shit goes on in there. Wouldn’t put anything past that dump.” He hesitated a moment then said, “Anyway, other than that, I don’t really know what to tell you. Claudia lived in the city, but I don’t know where.”
I shook Chris Bentley’s hand again, and thanked him for his help.
“Wish I could tell you more, help you find this broad, but Bernard never really dealt much in specifics—you know what I mean? That’s just the way he was, at least around me. I worked with him for a couple years, spent hours talking with the guy, and most days even now I feel like I never really knew him at all.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I get the feeling you do.”
“Thanks again for your help.” I offered him his business card. “You want this back?”
“You hang onto it.” He selected the sincerest smile in his arsenal and pasted it on for me. “The next time you’re in the market for a quality used car or truck, you come see me, OK?”
Given Bernard’s consistent lack of success with women, and the problems he clearly had—many of which we were still uncovering—none of us were particularly surprised to learn he had sought out prostitutes. At a minimum, he had sought out one, and a sense of sadness more than anything else permeated the Jeep as we headed away from the car lot and Chris Bentley’s eternal smile. Like so much else with Bernard, it seemed impossible for us to have missed it previously, yet once out in the open, it made perfect sense. Had I assumed him to be a monk? Where else would he have gone for sex? Had I ever really given it any thought at all—and if not, then why not—hadn’t it even once occurred to me what he might be doing when out of my sight? I couldn’t help but feel as though I had let him down as a friend. Here he was, a rapist, a butcher and killer of young women, and I was the one feeling remorse. Memories of him at our apartment flashed through my mind, memories of how he’d sometimes come for dinner and never know enough to go home, lingering and making excuses and small talk until Toni finally had enough and I was left with no choice but to tell him we needed to go to bed and work the next day and it was time for him to leave. I knew then how lonely he was. We all did. Had he gone home after those nights at our apartment, or had he cruised these same streets in that rundown old car, searching for prostitutes—maybe victims—to sate his needs, however twisted and dark? Had I gone to bed and snuggled into the warmth and loving arms of my wife while one of my best friends snuggled into the underbelly of the city? Had I known? Deep down, had I? And would it have mattered even if I had?
Ten minutes after leaving the lot we were cruising along the waterfront looking for The Captain’s Hook. Rick had heard of it but wasn’t precisely sure where it was, so we had to cover a few different avenues until we finally found it on a desolate side street across from a fish processing plant. A small building sandwiched between a vacant commercial property on the corner and an insurance office, it was set back a bit from the sidewalk, receded farther than the buildings on either side of it. A large door that had been painted black but that was nicked and gouged rather badly marked the entrance, and two narrow windows on either side of it housed neon beer signs. Cheap curtains had been slapped up in each window to block what little might be seen through them rather than to serve any cosmetic purpose, and above the door a sign shaped like the bow of a pirate ship protruded from the face of the building. Painted in chipped blood-red letters across the faux bow was the name of the establishment.
The neighborhood was one of great history, home to some of the literal “dreary streets” Melville had written about. A few blocks over, near the famous, (or infamous) whaling museum, where renovations and several nice retail and dining establishments had moved in, several years earlier the city had converted a few streets to their original cobblestone in an attempt to lend a sense of quaint historical authenticity to the area. But even now, under the haze of imminent darkness, this lesser-traveled street still radiated the same ominous level Melville had discovered more than a century before.
A few older cars were parked on the street, including one rundown Chevy that occupied the space directly in front of the bar, but otherwise, the area was deserted.
Rick slowed the Cherokee, and from the backseat Donald said, “Have I mentioned what a bad idea I think this is?”
“About twelve times now.”
“You walk in there asking questions,” Rick said, “you better be a cop.”
I motioned to an empty space a bit farther up the street. “Park it.”
He mumbled an objection but pulled over anyway. “Fine,” he said, slamming the shift into Park, “but I’m going with you.”
“I’m just gonna go in and have a quick look around, relax.” I knew Rick meant well, and I knew I’d be safer with him by my side, but I also knew that outside a controlled setting like the club his temper would more than likely get the better of him. “Let me go scope the place out a little, see what I can see.”
He stared at me, his jaw clenching then releasing then clenching again. “You got five minutes,” he said. “Then I’m coming in looking for you. Donny, go with him.”
With a sigh, Donald rolled a cigarette between his lips. “I was so hoping I could.”
“Hey,” Rick said, “no smoking in the vehicle, ass-wipe.”
Donald ignored him and slipped out onto the street with an irritable grunt.
I really didn’t want him with me either but the sun had almost completely set and night was slowly closing in around us, there wasn’t time for arguments.
I pulled my sunglasses free, tossed them on the dashboard then turned back to Rick. “Keep this fucking thing running.”