"It's gonna be knocking at your door"
-- Dusty 45s, Frosty Mornin'

"Thought you might be." I said. I held out my hand. "Quinn," I introduced myself.

"Betty," she had a firm strong handshake. I got the feeling she was used to proving her worth to people.

"Really?" She asked. "Ya had me pegged?"

"Suspected," I corrected her. "Ronny there kept his eyes on me, the immediate threat. You kept your attention on the room, except when you took your shot. You were cool about it, but you were keeping tabs on the whole scene."

"Good eye," she said.

"Thanks," I said. "Your name really is Betty then? I thought you might have been playing." I gestured at her nametag.

She gave me a tight little smile, controlled but not unfriendly. "Nope, that's me, but I don't mind if it keeps people guessing. I even got a cutesy nickname that my boys aren't allowed to use to my face."

My guess was Straw-Betty, but I wasn't willing to find out. I wouldn't want to spar against her. She was small enough to get under my guard, and had probably studied a close-in style. Besides, I had a theory about small women.

"Yeah," she said and took the picture, "I've seen her with Vance more than once, all friendly like. Ya sure you're not a cop?"

"Not the last time I checked." I said.

"Too bad," she said. "He's a waste of a pretty face, he is." She handed the picture back to me.

"How's this your matter?" She asked.

"I'm trying to find her," I said.

I put the picture back into my pocket. I tried to do it in a smooth motion, so I wouldn't catch sight of it.

"I think she's in LA with Vance."

"So to find her, you need to find him?" She asked.

"Got it in one," I said.

"She important to you?" She asked. "Or is this a job?"

"It's not a job." I said.

I didn't want to tell the story.

"Too bad," she said and let it hang there.

I let it pass. That was something I could come back to. She sat at the table, but didn't indicate I should join her. I sat.

"What do ya want to know?" She asked.

"He's a member of some kind of car club?" I asked.

"That's what they call it," she said.

She pulled out a cigarette from her pocket. I picked up a pack of matches from the table, lit one, and leaned in to let her use the flame.

"Call themselves the billyboys," she said, "like they are being cute. Gang might be another way to describe them. They just wear a scene instead of colors."

"What are they into?" I asked.

"Nothing good," she said, "that ain't their style." She kept her voice controlled, but there was a tone of contempt in it. "I know they deal a little. They always have ready cash and I've never seen them short. They're always ready for a party or a throw-down. Doesn't really matter to them."

"Any idea why they were up here? In the Northwest?" I asked.

"They said they were up for a bunch of car shows, and rocka," she said. "Meetups and stuff. There are bunch that happen up here in summer through about September. They were up for longer this time. I think they were trying to set something up."

"What?" I asked.

I wondered if it could be connected to Becks.

"Don't know," she said, "but I don't know anyone who claims to got a job that can take that much time off."

"How much time are we talking about?" I asked.

"I don't think they been back for a couple of months," she said. "If I were the betting kind, I'd say they were setting up a deal, but I don't know what."

"And the shows and concerts were a pretext?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said. "Don't know what for though."

In her hands the cigarette was more than a means of delivering nicotine to her system. It was a prop. She would punctuate her sentences with it, taking long drags to underscore her point. She almost made it look fun.

"What did they do in LA?" I asked. "It doesn't sound like they were dealing big time."

She shook her head, blowing the smoke out of her tightly pursed lips.

"So they had to be doing something for cover, if nothing else." I said.

"Vance runs a garage," another drag, "the others work for him. What's it called? Something cutsie, that's his style."

She thought for a minute, tapping her bright red nails on her knee. She was keeping time with the music -- Boulevard, The Sugar Daddys.

"The Falconer, that's it," she said.

"That makes a kind of sense," I said.

"Really?" She asked. "Why?"

"The Falcon was the most popular model that Ford ever made," I said. "It's a popular car for people who liked mid-century vehicles. It an easy car to work on, and not that hard to find parts."

"Yeah," she said. "Guess I do see a lot of them in the scene. You think your girl is with him?"

I nodded. I didn't correct her about my relationship to Becks.

"Then this is what I'll tell ya." she said. "It ain't gonna end well, you know? So she should get outta there soon." For the first time she let real hardness into her voice.

"Why won't it end well?" I asked.

"It never does," she said. "That's OK for him, you know? Seems like there's always another girl ready to hang onto his arm. He's good meat, face arms, and all that." She shook her head.

"Oh man, can he turn on that bad-boy charm," she said. "And then they just eat outta his hand. Sooner or later he'll want something you don't want to give, but that's OK too. Vance's the kinda guy who, if he wants something, makes sure he gets it. He ain't got no problem taking. Savvy?"

I nodded. I didn't like any of the ways I could have taken what she had just said.

"I'll let her know that when I find her," I assured her.

I'd do nothing of the sort. That would be the single worst way of getting Becks to do anything -- even if Becks were feeling receptive to my advice. Push and she'd just push back harder.

"You really going down there?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"And you're not a cop?" she asked again.

"Nope," I shook my head.

"Not a PI either?" she asked.

"Nope" I said

"What is she to you?" She asked.

"Important," I said.

She liked that, and gave me a grin.

"OK, play it that way if ya want," she said. "I don't know if I've got anyone who'd do that for me, and I think you're in way over, ya know. You got any skills?"

"I get along," I told her.

I hoped that satisfied her, I wasn't planning on providing details.

"Soldier?" She asked hopefully.

"I'm currently between fulltime positions," I said. "I was thinking I'd like to be a man of leisure."

"That pay well?" She asked and gave me the smile again. It was the kind of smile that made you want to keep it on her face. It was a good upgrade.

"I'll let you know when I find out," I said.

It would have so been easy to move into a more casual conversation. I itched to ask her questions about how she became cooler of this place. When this was all over perhaps I could arrange a social call. Right now though, I had to keep on the mission.

"What does Vance look like?" I asked. She didn't answer right away.

"How far are you willing to take this?" She asked. "He ain't the kind of guy who 'takes kindly to no one sticking their nose where it ain't their business.'"

"As far as I have to," I said, "and not any further."

"Huh." She stared me in the eye. "Ain't quite sure why I'm gonna do this, but I got something for ya."

Betty got up and walked over to the dartboard. She reached behind it and pulled out a picture. She walked back and handed it to me.

"Don't ask me why he ain't banned from here," she said, "but I want all my boys to know what he looks like."

There was a man -- I presumed it was Vance, leaning against a restored Falcon. The car was pretty -- white with red flames. Behind the car were the rest of the Billyboys. Vance's arm was around a girl, small with red hair. I looked up at Betty. She shrugged.

"I told ya, he's got this bad-boy charm," she explained. "So listen to me when I say it, he's no good. You got a crew?"

"I've got my ways," I said.

She shook her head and took one last long drag on the cigarette.

"You better," she said. "I can give ya some names if ya want. You look better alive than you would as a corpse. Vance ain't beyond that."

"Thanks," I said. "I owe you."

I downed the last of my drink. I got up to leave. She touched my arm.

"Hey!" She said. "When it comes down to it, I sure hope you're in touch with your inner-badass, when it comes down to it. Vance sure is, so you're gonna have to be. Good luck, right?"

"Thanks," I said again. I started to walk away from the table.

"Quinn!" She called out after me. "When this is over, I want to know how it went down, right?"

I winked, and touched my finger to my forehead in a mock salute. Maybe I would get a crack at that social call after all. It would be nice to have something else to look forward to, when this was done.

It was starting to get late and the club was picking up. Betty got up to walk the crowd and keep tabs on things. It was her job to spot trouble before it started. She had probably spent more time with me than she should have.

I had a fair amount to do before morning, but I decided to indulge in another drink. I told myself it was to listen to another song by the band -- a cover of Jailhouse Rock. They had been pacing themselves. They were just as animated as when I had come in. As amusing and enjoyable as their antics were, they didn't let it get in the way of the music. It was still tight and well played. When that song stopped, they started into a song about a man who so ignored those in his life, that everyone assumed he was dead. It had to be something original. I'd never heard it before. I'd have to find out who they were.

I made my way to the bar, and ordered. I reached in my pocket to pay, but the bartender pushed the money back at me.

"She says you're covered," he told me.

I turned and saw Betty at the other side of the floor, standing on a step near the stage. I was impressed. She'd been able to spot me, and then get word over so quickly. She ran a tight crew. It was nice to see professionals work. I left the money on the counter.

"Buy Betty something on me, when the night is out," I told him.

When the drink was finished, I got up and left. I couldn't go back to the hotel and sleep. Not right away. I had a lot to do.

The northwest believes in one-stop shopping. The average Fred Meyer sells food, clothes, electronics, and even lumber -- some locations open 24 hours a day. I found one that was open, and purchased everything I would need to send myself a parcel. When I got back to the car, I pulled the case out from under my seat and prepared it to be shipped.

As I drove out to the airport, I found the name and address of an airfreight company. It was too late to ship my package by conventional means, if I wanted to receive it the next day. Places like this were more flexible. I dropped off the package and paid to have it shipped to LA, and left it at the will-call desk to be picked up.

With that out of the way, I could finally return to the hotel, though sleep was going to have to wait a bit. I grabbed three sodas from the fridge and lined them up on the desk next to me. I opened the notebook to a new page and wrote "Vance" at the top, and like every new section, I double underlined it. Then I went online and found everything I could on him.

I started with the garage, and worked backwards. It didn't take long to get some basic information. His last name was Hendrickson, and he seemed to live at the garage (my guess was that there was a living space above it). I found the phone number of the garage, and his personal one. A little more digging found his cell-phone, but no email or any obvious online activity. There were a few references to him on rockabilly sites; it seemed that no one had anything nice to say.

I could go with what information I had, but it didn't feel like enough. I had reached the point where casual searches would not reveal anything else. I logged out of the service. My hands rested on the keyboard while I debated with myself if I should use a legal research service to find out more. They were expensive, but that wasn't much of a concern. I would leave tracks behind, and I didn't want that. Finally one side won over the other and I dug deeper.

It wasn't that surprising to learn that Vance had a problem speeding. There had been a couple of arrests for assault, and one for possession. He did six months when he was 19, but nothing interesting after that. To learn anything more would require a significant investment of time and I hadn't had the time to create a false persona to use as cover. If anyone looked, it could be traced back to me -- at this place, at this time. I hoped I hadn't been foolish.

I didn't like booking the flight before I needed too. It would put my name into the system where it could be noticed, but ordering at airport raises bigger flags. It was time to play a part again. Mr. Quinn was assigned seat 12C, on the aisle of Alaska flight 719 to LA. I ordered a car to pick up at the airport there. The last thing to do was to jot down the addresses and phone number of the hotels and motels within a few miles of Vance's garage.

I don't like to be without a pen and a notepad. I prefer small that are fit easily in a pocket -- about five inches long, and half that as wide. To the cover I clip the smallest pen I can write with. I want the combination to easily fit in a pocket that may contain money, keys, and the like. I had a small supply of each in the bag.

I pulled out a fresh pad, and began to transfer the contents from the old one. I never want to let too much information accumulate in one place. When one notebook is filled, I transcribe whatever is still relevant into the next one. There's never much to copy over -- unrefrigerated eggs will remain fresh after most information spoils. Then I find some appropriate way to destroy the old one. It's hard to beat the classics like burning or shredding.

That was the last task that had to be done for the night, so it was time for bed. Except for a new set of clothes, and anything else I would need for the next day, I packed everything away in its place. I felt a twinge of anxiety without the case close at hand, but I had to get it to LA some way. I didn't want to check it in, and there was no way it was going to be sent though the X-Ray machine. I lay on top of the bed, pushed the worry away, and went to sleep.

Once again, I woke before the alarm. I had enough time for a quick walk, or breakfast, but not both. I chose the walk. There would be time to eat later on. Afterwards I worked out while listening to the news on the radio. I packed the previous days' clothes, showered, and dressed. When I checked out I explained that I'd been called back to the home office for an emergency.

"Will you be returning soon?" It was a different woman behind the counter than when I checked in, but they were cut from the same hotel management cloth.

"I hope so," I told her.

I was lying. If I returned, I'd pick a different hotel, but there was no point in telling her that.

"Have a safe trip," she said.

"Thanks," I said, "I'll do my best."

I drove out to the Portland International Airport. It was built on the southern bank of the Columbia where it forms the border with Washington State. I returned the rental car. I'd just get another when I got back. A shuttle was nice enough to drop me and my fellow travelers off at the front door of the airport. The roadway was covered with a metal and glass roof to keep my fellow travelers dry. I answered the dubiously useful security questions without a second thought -- Yes, my bag has been in my possession the whole time. No, no one unknown to me has asked me to carry anything with me.

I was issued my ticket, a smile, and the intelligence that my flight would not be departing on time. The airport didn't seem like a bad place to pass a little time. Like its kin around the world, it had expanded its diversions beyond overpriced sundries and large glass windows to watch the planes arrive, though both were still available. I found an exhibition of wildlife photography, a nice bookstore, and what appeared to be a few acceptable places to eat.

When I had finished exploring the opportunities for commerce to my satisfaction, I made my way to my gate. I spent some time in the store that sold only neckties. I wasn't sure it was something the world needed, or that the airport was the best venue. The modern necktie can trace its history back to the Thirty Years War and the scarves worn by the Croatian mercenaries. They evolved into the modern necktie, from a military uniform to a business uniform. I hadn't had to wear one, except as a part of a costume, in a long time. I wasn't sure I cared to ever again.

I made my way through security without notice. Anything that could have raised an eyebrow had been mailed ahead. All that was required was to go through the process wearing the air of bored detachment that went with the role. Though I maintained the front, I kept an eye on the whole process. There was good coverage at the different stations; security kept casual chatter to a minimum, and kept focused on the job. With the right preparation, it might have been possible to get the case through unnoticed. Mailing it was simpler and wouldn't tempt the fates.

I didn't go directly Gate 14, Concourse C, as was marked on my ticket, but walked passed it so I could get a good look. Nothing raised hackles on the first pass, so I walked to the newsstand and bought some gum. I walked back and took a seat at the gate just past mine. I could hear any announcements, but wouldn't have to be obviously attached to it until the last minute.

There was probably no reason to be so careful. Some of it was old habit, but I'm not sure that covered all of it. Maybe I was just looking for an excuse to not make the trip and I was just trying to build up my paranoia and then let any little thing so I could back out. Wasn't hard to figure out why I might feel that way. I was out of reasons not to find Becks.

It wasn't certain that she was with Vance in LA, but I was short of options in Portland. Finding someone -- or some piece of information -- is like putting a puzzle together. Once it starts to take shape, I get a sense of what the missing pieces look like. The trip to LA felt like it would fit with the last piece I had and what I had seen in Becks' apartment had me worried.

It didn't matter what I would find when I got down there. At the end of it, I'd still have to face her, and that thought still made me ill. There was no avoiding it though. I still didn't know how I was going to handle it. If I were going to get any of this done, I couldn't let myself think too many steps ahead in the game. There was plenty to do before the hard part.

No amount of angst or worry could make my plane arrive any faster. I pulled out the other Nero Wolfe and began to read. I left it to my subconscious to be aware of my surrounds and look out for threats. The active part of my attention lost itself again in a narrative of Wolfe's erstwhile assistant. If this was one of Stout's books, and I was Goodwin, Becks would have been found by now or would have turned up dead. Fortunately for the latter case, this was real life.

When the PA called for rows one to 15 to board, I folded the corner of my page, and took up my bag. I joined the line of lemmings and shuffled on board. I put my bag in the bin, and sat down again to read. The book didn't survive the whole flight. It was a quicker read than the last one, and wasn't as filling. I needed something else. So I started in on the magazine the airline thoughtfully provided for me. It was filled with short, easily digestible, articles full of seemingly useful information while promoting travel in one way or another. I consumed them like peanuts.

When the pilot announced that we were approaching LAX, I put the magazine away and stared out of the window. The sprawling megalopolis grew large and spread out below. The grids of the streets and the ribbons of freeway, I had been to the city only a few times to visit the obvious places. I was never there long enough to develop any real sense of the place. It was too easy to fall into the superficial opinion about a city with a superficial reputation. The plane landed without incident.