Men's room, my ass.
I'm not the only one who sees Trimmingham cut and run. The bartender spots him, too. He pulls out a cell phone and punches numbers.
I throw down money on the table and head for the back door.
13.
By the time I step outside, Trimmingham is a third of the way down the long alley that runs behind Benny's Lounge, heading for Queen Street. He's fairly fast on his feet for a fat guy. And, cocky bastard, he doesn't even look back to see if I'm following.
I could catch him, even with my gimp foot. But where's the sport in that? More interesting to see where he goes. Who knows? I might even learn something. And the more I learn about Trimmingham, the closer I get to my money.
I hang back, waiting to see if he goes left or right when he hits Queen Street. But he never makes it there. As Trimmingham nears the end of the alley, a white Toyota screeches in from Queen Street and cuts him off.
Two guys get out, leaving the driver in the car. One is short, the other tall, and both of them wear sweatsuits like they've just come from the gym.
The short one carries a flat, wooden paddle-a cricket bat, it looks like-the handle wrapped in tape. He slaps it against an open palm as he stands beside the car.
Trimmingham stops. He turns back my way, but the tall guy is already on him, hooking an arm around Trimmingham's throat, shutting off his air as the short guy moves in with the bat.
I start running down the alley. Or, running as best I can anyway.
"Hey!" I yell.
The two guys don't even glance my way. The short one rears back with the bat.
Trimmingham throws up both arms, trying to ward off the blow. I hear the sharp, sick crack as bat meets bone.
The short guy flips the bat around and jabs the handle hard into Trimmingham's chest. Trimmingham groans. The short guy jabs him again.
The tall guy releases his grip and Trimmingham folds onto the ground. The short guys rears back with the bat.
"Stop!" I yell, closing in.
The short guy delivers another whack, this one to Trimmingham's head. Then another. And another. Then the two of them hop in the car and it squeals away.
By the time I reach Trimmingham, he is trying to prop himself up on an elbow. But he doesn't have it in him. He collapses on the pavement, head lolling to one side.
He doesn't look like the same guy I was just sitting across from in the bar. His eyes are battered shut, and blood oozes from wicked gashes along both cheekbones. His nose is split down the middle and flattened against the pulverized mess that is his face.
Trimmingham tries again to sit up, but falls back, cradling an arm against his chest, moaning in agony.
"Just lie still," I tell him.
Trimmingham sucks in air, gets a mouthful of blood. He coughs and blood splatters my face and shirt.
I try to apply pressure to the gashes on his cheekbones, but he jerks away.
"Try not to move," I tell him. "Deep breaths."
He breathes, coughs, splatters me with blood again.
The bartender from Benny's steps out the back door, spotting us as he lights a cigarette.
"Call an ambulance," I tell him.
He doesn't move.
"Do it!" I yell. "Now!"
The bartender hurries back inside.
People gather at the mouth of the alley. A woman kneels beside me. She pulls a handkerchief from a purse and I try to keep Trimmingham still while she dabs at the wounds on his face, trying to stop the bleeding.
There's shouting from the street, then a siren.
Trimmingham's breaths turn fast and shallow. He's slipping into shock.
As the ambulance arrives he tries again to sit up.
"Help me," he says.
"It's going to be fine. They're taking you to the hospital."
He reaches out, finds my arm, seizes it.
"No, you have to help me. With them," he says. "Please ..."
He collapses on the pavement as the ambulance crew swarms in.
14.
I'm way late returning to the spot where J.J. is supposed to pick me up outside Richfield Bank, but he is parked and waiting for me. I slide into the front seat of his van.
"Sorry I took so long. Ran into a few problems."
"More than just a few, by the looks of it." J.J. eyes my blood-spattered shirt. "You going to the Mid Ocean Club like that?"
"I was hoping to buy something, but all the stores are closed."
"What size jacket you wear?"
"A forty-eight long."
"I probably got something that'll fit. My house is on the way. Might rustle up a shirt, too."
"Well, thanks. I appreciate it."
"Oh, don't be thanking me for anything yet."
He raises an eyebrow, shoots a look at a rear seat. Only then do I notice the other passenger in the van-a woman, thirtyish, her long black hair pulled back tightly against her head then tied in a ponytail that just barely manages to control it. She wears a tight black T-shirt and jeans, a pair of funky red glasses.
"My niece," J.J. says.
"Janeen Hill," the woman says. "From the Royal Gazette"
"You were there yesterday when we found the body."
"Yes," she says. "That's what I was hoping to talk to you about."
I look at J.J. He puts up a hand in protest.
"Wasn't my idea," he says. "I told her she shouldn't be ambushing you like this."
"Why, listen to you," Janeen says. "You're the one called me and told me you'd driven Mr. Chasteen downtown this afternoon. So don't be playing Mr. High and Mighty with me."
J.J. mutters something, pulls the van onto the street.
"How can I help you, Ms. Hill?" I say.
She scoots forward in the seat, pushes the glasses up on her nose. She is wound tight, ready to pounce.
"Need you to confirm something for me," she says. "Tell me about the condition of the body when it was pulled from the water."
"I'm guessing you want to know about the eyes, right?"
"Yes, that."
"They were gone," I say. "But isn't that common knowledge by now? Your uncle knew about it. Plenty of other people apparently did, too. Why do you need me to confirm it?"
"Because I refuse to rely on secondhand information," Janeen says. "The rumor was floating around the newsroom last night, but there was nothing about it in the preliminary report, and the police wouldn't comment on it, on or off the record. I refuse to allow conjecture to be a part of anything I write."
"Makes you a rare breed of journalist," I say.
"Not really. But that's neither here nor there," she says. "I've got a stake in this story."
"How's that?"
She looks out the window. We're bogged down in traffic, just creeping along.
"Seven years ago, when I was just starting at the paper, I covered a story that was a lot like this one," she says. "Two bodies were found then, both bound in similar fashion, both with their eyes missing."
"Yeah, your uncle mentioned something about that," I say. "He said the case was never solved."
"Never fully pursued is more like it. At least, not by the authorities." There's bitterness in her voice. "Everything died down and the police just sort of put it on a shelf and conveniently forgot about it."
J.J. clears his throat. He glances at Janeen in the rearview mirror.
"Just because I'm letting you ride in my van doesn't mean I need to be hearing your conspiracy theories," he says. "Talk about conjecture. I've heard you conject all kinds of things about what got those two men killed, Janeen."
"Yes, you have. But I've never written about it."
"Good thing, too," says J.J. "Because no one in their right mind would believe it."
"Well, now maybe they might."
"Believe what?" I say.
Janeen shakes her head, turns away.
"Go ahead. Tell the man," J.J. says. "I'd like to hear what he thinks of it."
Janeen doesn't say anything.
"What's the matter? Afraid he might not believe your nonsense either?" J.J. looks at me. "My niece, she's usually got a pretty good head about her. Except when it comes to this so-called story of hers. And then she gets crazy."
Janeen ignores him, reaches into her purse, pulls out a pack of cigarettes, and starts to light one.
"Unh-uh," says J.J. "Not in my van you don't."
Janeen takes the cigarette out of her mouth. She folds her arms across her chest, looks out the window.
The traffic eases up. We whip through a roundabout and are soon riding along Point Finger Road toward the south coast.
J.J. splits off onto a narrow lane lined with eucalyptus trees. He stops the van outside a house half-hidden by jacaranda bushes.
"Might take a few minutes," he says, getting out of the van. "I have to heat up the iron and put it to the shirt, get the wrinkles out of it."
"You don't have to go to all that trouble," I tell him. "I don't mind wrinkled."
"Maybe not," he says. "But Mrs. Ambister? She does."