Greywalker - Kat Richardson [42]
That’s the way this sort of operation goes: six hours on your feet for a return rate of one yes for every seventy-five to one hundred nos. Still, one positive can be all it takes.
I thanked the couple, finished as much of the burger as I could manage, and started onto the slow work of the evening.
Saturday night in the Square was hopping, but as I worked, I had that observed feeling again, though I couldn’t spot a watcher in the crowd. But so what? It’s not like this job was going to be exciting. I figured they could watch me work all they liked, so long as they stayed out of my way.
I canvassed the bouncers and bartenders at every club in Pioneer Square and every night clerk in every late-closing restaurant and shop I could find. Most gave me a no. From a few I got a maybe. Several took my card and agreed to contact me if they saw Cameron. Then a bouncer at one of the clubs said, “Yes.”
TWELVE
His name was Steve, and he was sitting on a stool just inside the door to Dominic’s. He looked at the photo, then raised his eyes to scan for obnoxious drunks and underage partyers. “Yeah. I think I’ve seen this kid. Not in a while, though. Came in a couple-few times.”
“When was this?”
Steve shrugged. “January, February, like.”
“You card him?”
“Musta done. He don’t look legal.”
“He wasn’t. Birthday was March seventh.”
“Damn it, don’t tell me that. My boss’ll kill me. Card said he was good. He was good. OK?”
My turn to shrug. “Why do you remember him if it was so long ago?” I asked.
“Patterns. That’s what you look for. You know—certain panhandlers always hang on the same corners, certain guys always get real quiet just before they try to bust somebody in the chops. Can’t watch everybody in a crowd like this, so you get to know the signs, look for the disruption in the patterns. This kid, he was a pattern breaker. Didn’t fit. Slow time of year—shoulda known he was a freakin’ minor. Showed up, like, two or three nights a week. Come in right after dark, stay a while waiting for some people, then leave, usually alone. Then he stopped coming around. Haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Who were the people he waited for?”
“Harder to say. They were more like a type. Not so much regulars as clubbers—you know, the ones who hit the circuit every night or every Friday and make the rounds. Not really anybody’s regulars and not really anybody’s friends, but they’re there all the time and you sort of know who they are.”
“Be more specific—what type?”
“Uh-huh—hey, you! ID, please.” He broke off to block a young guy and his twitchy date at the door. He stuck out his hand, snapping his fingers and giving the “come on” wave.
Nervous, the guy handed the bouncer his driver’s license.
Steve glared at it. “According to this, you won’t be legal until after midnight.”
The kid shifted and whined. “Aw, come on, man. It’s my birthday! Show some class.”
“Hey, you’re still underage until twelve-oh-one a.m., man. So why don’t you show a little class and take this pretty lady out to a nice dinner and come back after midnight?”
The birthday boy slumped and led his date away.
The bouncer turned back to me. “What type, huh? Gothies. The black hair and white makeup crowd. But there’s a couple of ’em always scare the crap out of me—though, you say so and I’ll deny it. You know, kind of guys look at you like they’re looking through you, but not like they’re ignoring you. Like you’re nothing but meat to them. Be just as glad to hack you up.” He gave a hard nod. “That kind.”
A shiver rushed over me. “Any names you could give me?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know any of ’em personally. Don’t want to, either, you know? But I’ll keep my eyes peeled and my ears open. Give you a call if I find out anything, OK?”
I handed him my card. “Good enough.”
I hit several more places before calling it a night. My feet were complaining, and I wanted a drink myself, but I headed back toward my office instead, too tired to worry about anyone who might be trailing me. But I stuck to well-lit streets, rather than crossing through the alleys.
The ghosts