DAMIEN WAS USED TO RECEIVING FAN MAIL. AS A SINGER IN A BAND THAT had won three Grammys and had just released their third album last year, he would have to be used to that kind of thing. But not fan mail being delivered to his house. He'd made sure that didn't happen; career and home had to be kept separated or he was sure he as well as everyone he lived with would be driven nuts in no time. That was something that he couldn't afford to let happen.
So he was puzzled when he checked the mail Tuesday morning and found a letter addressed to him. He helped pay the bills but the account wasn't in his name; and this wasn't a bill anyway. It was postmarked HOUSTON, the name in the upper left-hand corner was L. CONSTANZO, and it was addressed from Galveston, Texas.
He looked at his name on the envelope. Strayed fan mail that had somehow miraculously found its way to his house was the only explanation he could think of, yet he knew that couldn't be correct either. It was addressed to MR. DAMIEN, and no fan in their right mind ever called him that. It had to be something else.
But what else was there? He certainly didn't know anyone in Texas, for God's sake. That was all the way across the continent, thousands of miles from Cheboygan, Michigan. [Note--thousands...? If that's exaggeration, then blame me, not Damien, because I honestly don't know.]
He shut the mailbox and turned away, tromping through the March snow back to the house. Stepping inside he shivered off the cold, turning the envelope over in his hands and giving it a puzzled look. He wanted to know what it was before opening it; but he didn't have x-ray vision, so he supposed he'd have to open it first if he wanted to know that much.
He went to his room and dropped off his coat, ripping the envelope open with a pencil. He pulled out what was inside and unfolded it and found it was a carefully typed letter. [Note--this letter is not in bold/italics or any other sort of special formatting in the original file. There are indents in parts, but I can't replicate them in HTML. The date and greeting seem to be left aligned; the interior paragraphs are indented once; and the signature is located further to the right than the farewell. The last two are right aligned, but for some reason that formatting isn't working for me. *shrug*]
March 1, 1993
Dear Mr. Damien,
My name is Lucien S. Constanzo, from Galveston Island, TX. I'm sure you don't know me but I've heard of you through some news articles I checked up relating to your home state of Michigan. I'm writing wondering if you could provide assistance on something that's come up down here. Not too long back a body was found on the beach, a person with his throat cut; this is the third such in a period of several months. This might sound kind of odd to you. I thought there could be a relation between this and what I read of you up there.
Maybe I'd better explain myself a little. Your name came through on a computer search concerning information on cults. I read you've dealt with something called Scorpio. A sign was presented that looked somewhat like an M, I'm sure you would recognize it. This is what it looks like.
I checked also and found a few references to a Scorpion cult operating possibly out of Mexico. You know more, would this be the same thing? In any case, I thought there could be a connection of sorts as one of the bodies that was found had a sign similar to the M written on its chest. Oh, all three were young men, white, probably tourists. I'm a native, I'd know.
I know you're probably a little suspicious of me by now. Why am I so interested in this? I found the third body on the beach in Galveston and reported it to the police but I had to keep myself anonymous. You know; whoever calls it in calls attention to himself, right? But I've been looking around and it seems there could be a pattern here, and if there's a fourth you know what Galveston's got on its hands. A serial killer isn't very good for the economy. And if it's connected to this cult thing, well, that could be worse, couldn't it?
In any case, if there's any way you could lend any kind of assistance, I'd be grateful. I know you're not a private investigator and neither am I, we'd just be two citizens doing our duty, but so far the local police don't seem to have accomplished much. Three vics is four too many. (Four for the thought of someone ending up dead, which is in itself bad enough, don't you agree?) If you do agree, and I believe you will, you have my address, Room 242, second floor, at the Sandpiper Motel in Galveston. It's right on the beach. If you were to show up and not find me there you can also ask the local police--they know me, look for Lt. Starkey--or ask for Coinspinner at the Beach Club across from the Sandpiper. Either of them might know where I am.
Leaving you to think on it, grateful for your time,
Yours truly,
Lucien Constanzo
Damien frowned at the letter as he lowered it into his lap. Whatever could be going on thousands of miles away in Galveston it couldn't be good. He'd heard stories that the cult he'd had experience with, Scorpio, was an international thing, but this was the first real evidence he'd received that it was so. He wondered briefly just what was being said about him over the computers. They weren't calling him some kind of expert, were they?
It didn't much matter. This Lucien Constanzo had heard of him, had heard of Scorpio, and had drawn him that sign, the scorpion M. That in itself was definitely bad news.
He sighed and folded the letter up, placing it back in its envelope. He'd been in Texas before, very briefly, on part of a tour; but that had been Austin, not Galveston Island. Other than the view he'd gotten from the stage he knew nothing of Texas, didn't really care to know more of it anyway. What he was used to was the wet blowing cold just outside his windows. He glanced up to see the snow piling up thicker on the sill, the sky growing darker already even in the late morning, the March spring morning.
Maybe getting to know Texas a little better wouldn't be such a bad idea, after all.
"Texas." Damien sat in the lobby at Little Rock University in Charlevoix, about an hour and a half from Cheboygan. Three others sat with him--Yoopy Irvins, Javier Martinez, and D. J. Broderick. He knew them all well from the college, had known D. J. even longer; he knew that Yoopy and Javier--both of whom were also in his band--were good friends as well, though the two of them were reacting quite differently right now.
"Fly to Texas?" Yoopy echoed himself. "I've never been that far south. That is, not without Radioactive." He mentioned the band by name, and pretended to play an invisible saxophone. [Note--nowadays Yoopy plays bass guitar in the band, and sax only once in a while.]
"Fly?" Javier's face was miserable. "Why're you asking me to go along on this? I'm not even from Texas. I'm not even from Mexico."
"Puerto Rico, isn't it?" Yoopy said.
"Why us?" D. J. asked. She glanced around the lobby. "I thought you'd want your uncle to come along. Don't you involve him in all of this?"
Damien shrugged a shoulder. His uncle, also named Damien, was a priest; together the two of them had helped the police--and others--gather information on the cult Scorpio. The truth was, Damien had intended for him to go along, but his uncle had been too busy with church functions, and had suggested he take a few of his friends instead. Which was what he was doing.
"He's busy, he told me. I trust you three, and that's why I want you to come along. And you, Javi, you can pretty much tell none of us speak Spanish except for you."
"Come on, man." Javier was adamant. "Galveston isn't even Latino territory."
"This guy that wrote me has a Hispanic name."
"So why don't you ask him for translation if you need it?"
"Just because he's Hispanic doesn't mean he can talk it," D. J. said, rolling her eyes.
"Latino. It's Latino. Unless you're certain he's from Spain." Javier shot her a look. "And you guys have pretty much decided he isn't." He turned back to Damien. "Come on," he said again. "You can handle it without me. Maybe I don't speak Spanish as well as I used to--"
"Oh, yeah, right, 'El Cuchillo,'" D. J. said. [Note--this is Javier's nickname; it's first given in one of the unfinished Men In Black novels of mine, when he introduces himself as "El Cuchillo--the Knife!" Supposedly because he has a sharp wit or something...]
"--and like I tried to say, I don't know anything of Galveston or that stuff. You can go without me."
"Galveston," Yoopy said, growing interested. "Isn't that where they got that huge hurricane? Y'know, that one that killed like nine thousand people?"
"Six thousand," Damien said. [Note--I've since learned it probably WAS closer to nine thousand!]
"They've had more than one big hurricane, the last one was ten years ago," D. J. added.
Javier was moaning and had dropped his head into his hands.
"Count me in," Yoopy said, sitting up and smiling brightly. "I think it'd be nifty to get a look at the other side."
D. J. looked at him. "Other side of what?"
"The US, for Pete's sake."
"Couldn't you all just go on without me?" Javier begged.
"What's the matter, Javi?" Damien finally asked, eyeing him with a puzzled look. "You afraid of planes?"
He guessed Javier was, judging from the way he kept his eyes closed, his teeth clenched, and his fingers locked over the armrests of his seat as they soared thousands of miles high over the southern United States, headed for the Houston Airport. Across the aisle Yoopy was constantly nudging D. J. to look out the window at every cloud formation he found interesting; D. J. was gritting her teeth as well, her eyes fixed perpetually on the ceiling of the plane in irritation.
"Cumulonimbus!" Yoopy enthused. "I think; is that what that is, D. J.? Huh? Cumulonimbus?"
"I'll cumulo your nimbus if you don't shut up," D. J. snapped.
"Are--we--al--most--there," Javier managed to force out between his teeth.
"Pretty soon," Damien replied, looking at his watch. He'd made sure to set it back an hour and was glad he'd decided to wear one. He had to keep reminding himself everything was an hour off. At concerts he usually didn't care about that; the show was always planned before him, and all he had to do was show up. This was different. They had someone to meet this time.
"Where we going first?" Yoopy asked, craning his neck to look across the aisle at Damien. The seat tray in front of him was littered with empty bags of peanuts.
"The police station," Damien said. The truth was, he wanted to know first of all how the police knew this Lucien Constanzo so well, as Constanzo had stated in his letter. Damien had a "working" relationship with the Cheboygan police, and the roots of it weren't very positive ones.
Not that he didn't trust this Constanzo, though.
As a matter of fact, though, he didn't.
"Didn't this Costizo guy say to check his apartment?"
"Constanzo. There's no harm in asking at the station first, it's probably on the way."
"Do you have a map?" It was a sincere question.
Damien gave him a look. "You'd better shut up now, Yoopy."
Yoopy blinked at him, then sat docilely back in his seat and continued prodding D. J. to look at the clouds.
They landed in Houston, picked up their luggage, tramped around looking for a car rental service. Price was no matter, not with Damien around; they stopped at the first one they saw, checked out the cars, and rented two. "Believe me, it's better than four people and luggage crammed into one car," Damien said, as an overly cheerful woman at the desk gave them the keys and told them welcome to Texas.
"How do they know we're not from around here?" Yoopy asked on their way through the airport to the parking lots. D. J. and Damien shared a look; Javier was still reeling from the planeride.
"Gee, Yoopy, I wouldn't know. It definitely can't be the same way that we can tell they're Texans."
"You mean we talk funny?" Yoopy didn't seem to believe it. "Naw, that can't be it. We don't talk too different, do we, eh?" [Note--ever seen Fargo or Strange Brew? Yoopy's accent. 'Nuff said.]
"Speak for yourself," D. J. muttered, hitching the bag over her shoulder and shaking her head.
They found a newsstand selling road atlases and maps; Damien bought one of the latter and looked it over as the others dropped their bags momentarily to rest. "First we'll check out the station and see how they react there. I don't see why some private citizen is getting so involved in a series of murders. It could be fishy. Quickest way to Galveston?"
"Interstate 45," the vendor answered. [Note--how the hell do I know that?? I must have looked at an atlas myself when writing this...]
"Thanks." Damien picked up his own bags, folding the map and sticking it in one of the pack's pockets. "It's probably nothing," he went on as they found the way out to their cars. "But you can never be too sure. He mentioned Scorpio, and that can't be good any way."
"I hope they have good food in Galveston," Yoopy murmured, half to himself, not minding the looks everybody--even Javier--gave him this time. They split up--Damien and Yoopy to one car, D. J. and Javier to the other--and started the engines, leaving Houston behind.
It took a while to get to Galveston, and Damien was glad their plane had arrived earlier in the day instead of late afternoon. It was around four when they finally got there, driving across to the island, only then they weren't quite sure what to do. Constanzo had given no instructions as to where the police station was. So they ended up driving around and around, down quiet shady roads past huge Victorian houses in every color conceivable. [Note--I don't know if they were Victorians. That's just what they looked like to me.]
"Did I just see gargoyles?" Yoopy inquired, glancing over his shoulder as they passed one particularly huge house.
"Probably. What the heck is all this? Looks like we drove through some kind of time warp."
The car phone rang. Damien picked it up to hear Javier's voice. "Are you wondering what I'm wondering?" he asked.
"Yeah. What's with all the houses?"
"D. J. says this is what Galveston's like. I guess it was designed by a bunch of Gibson girls or something. Oh, hold on, I'll put her on the line."
"I took the time to look it up," D. J. said in an annoyed voice over the phone. "Galveston's known for its Victorian houses. [Note--I cannot believe I actually RESEARCHED this story.] Don't be surprised if you see any--"
"Gryphons!" Yoopy cried, as they slowly passed a dark purple house fronted by two stone statues of eagle-headed lions. [Note--yep--saw that one myself.]
"--Yeah, those. What I'm meaning to ask is, do either of you have any idea where we're going?"
"I think we're going to have to get out and ask," Damien sighed. "It looks like there's a bunch of kids up here; I'll stop and ask them. You guys just keep following."
He hung up and pointed out to Yoopy a group of teenagers dawdling on a street corner. He slowed the car and brought it over to the curb; several of the kids glanced up, and started drifting over as Yoopy rolled the window down.
"Hey," one of them called. "You got any stuff?"
"Not really," Yoopy said amiably. "But we're looking for the way to the police station. Any idea where we could find it?"
The kids exchanged looks. "That way," one said, pointing to Damien's left. "Drive straight, see a big blue house and turn right. Drive till you see a brick building. Galveston City Police." [Note--no--I did NOT see the police station, that I recall; I made this part up.]
"Thanks," Yoopy said, grinning and waving. Damien pulled out into the road again and turned left, D. J. following.
"What nice kids," Yoopy said, still smiling. "Too bad I didn't have any stuff to give 'em. Wonder what kinda stuff they wanted, anyway." [Note--*LMFAO!!*]
"I definitely don't think it's any stuff you've been taking," Damien murmured, spotting the blue house on the right-hand corner and turning again. "Then again, I'm never too sure."
They finally spotted the police station. It surprised Damien a little. It wasn't much bigger than the state post in Cheboygan, and made up of red brick like the Michigan police station was, only it looked much older. Gothic wasn't quite the right word, but then again, Damien had never been good with architectural styles, so he wasn't sure if it was meant to be Victorian or not. It just looked old.
They parked along the road and got out, stretching their sore legs. Javier took a longer time stretching than the rest of them.
"Thank God for automobiles," he said. "Thank God for the ground." He knelt down and touched his head to the road.
"You look like a Muslim doing that," Damien said. "C'mon. Constanzo said something about a Lieutenant Starkey. Let's see if we can find him."
In truth, he just wanted to make sure Constanzo had been telling them the truth about the police knowing him. How the police knew him was strictly another matter. Just so he was on the up and up.
As soon as they stepped inside--a busy office greeted them, filled with people--mostly detectives from the look of it--in short sleeves and shorts even. Damien wasn't used to how casual most of them were dressed. He supposed it must be the heat, but even in Michigan they had their protocol, and--
"Excuse me," a deep voice said from off to the side. Damien turned. One of the detectives was rising from his desk, putting the phone aside and coming their way. He wasn't dressed in shorts, wearing instead a medium tan, almost brown suit. He was rather stocky, and Damien wasn't sure he liked the look on the man's face as he came towards them.
"Can I help you?" he asked, the tone of his voice saying, "Do I have to help you?"
"I'm not sure," Damien said, and was immediately sorry. The man's eyebrows went down and he got a bullish look on his face as if he'd just been insulted. Damien quickly tried to make up for his quick response. "Maybe you could tell us who you are."
"Detective Sergeant Harkissian," the man said, still looking aggravated. [Note--yes, I know now, misuse of the word "aggravated."] "I work here. You don't. Maybe you could tell me why you're walkin' around the station house like you own the place."
Oh, goodie, Damien sighed inwardly. This is going swell already. "I was told to look for somebody here, by somebody else who--"
"Oh, a friend of a friend of a friend, maybe? I hear the way you're talkin'; you think I'm some kind of East Texas hick who doesn't know his--"
"Hark," came another voice, this one softer but also clear. The word was meant as a nickname but it also sounded like a call for attention. Detective Sergeant Harkissian shut up immediately, scowled at the four, and turned away, back to his desk, like a bulldog being sent outside to be punished. Damien turned with more than a little relief--he still wasn't sure what he'd done to set the guy off so much--to see another man coming towards them, from the other side of the room. He was taller than the detective, taller than any of them, his face angular and hawkish looking. His hair and skin were darker so that Damien would have thought he was Latino except for the fact that his eyes, rather than being dark brown, were a pale, startling hazel. There was definitely some Mexican blood there, but it didn't show in the eyes, which scrutinized the group coolly, almost with an air of superiority. He was dressed in a suit without his jacket; they could all clearly see the gun holster strapped under his arm to rest at his left side. He hitched his thumbs in his pockets and looked at them.
"May I help you?"
Well, at least he was more polite. "Maybe," Damien said, a bit more carefully this time. He could almost sense Harkissian scowling at them from off to the left. "We were told to ask for a Lucien Constanzo around here."
"Constanzo." The man merely repeated the name, making no other statement or motion.
Damien nodded. Jeez, this guy was unnerving him. "He told us to ask for a Lieutenant Starkey if he weren't here."
"I'm Lieutenant Starkey. Robert Starkey. Mr. Constanzo isn't here right now. May I ask why you were sent here?"
He spoke politely enough, yet phrased his words so that they made the others sound as if they were trespassing. Damien bit his tongue to keep his mouth shut and pulled out Constanzo's letter, handing it to the lieutenant, who received it with no change of expression, looking it over only briefly before handing it back. "He told us about a few murders that've taken place. I wasn't sure why he's involved, but he told us to ask around here if we couldn't find him. He mentioned your name."
"Mr. Constanzo's not here right now. Did you check his apartment?"
Damien bit the inside of his mouth this time. "No, we didn't."
"That's most likely where he is. He has friends at the Beach Club if you don't find him there. I'm sorry I couldn't help you more."
"Thanks. That's all right." Damien folded up the letter again and tucked it away, motioning to the others to follow him out of the station. He was eager to get away from the place; he disliked the reception he'd gotten from both Harkissian and Starkey, different as they were. As he turned away he heard Lieutenant Starkey's voice again and nearly froze.
"By the way, welcome to Texas. You don't sound like you're from around here. I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Don't worry," Damien called back as they left, then, in a lower voice, "we will."
"Cold people, there, at the station," Yoopy remarked as they made their way to the Sandpiper Motel, after receiving instructions when picking up a bite to eat at one of the fast-food restaurants dotting the area. Yoopy ate some fries while Damien turned down what seemed like the millionth street--maybe it was just him, but Galveston seemed cluttered--scanning around for any motels. There seemed to be plenty of them. Constanzo had said his was on the beach, not that that would help; Damien was sure that, in a place known for its beaches, plenty of motels would be on the beach. He just had to find the right one.
"Yeah, you can say that again. I don't think we'll be stopping by there again if we can help it. Is this the way the waitress said?"
"Yeah, I think so. Looks right. Oh, there's a sign. 'Sandpiper.' I guess this is it."
He turned left, drove down a slight slope towards the motel's parking lot, underneath the building. A set of stairs and a wall blocked their view to the right; Damien went straight to registration and asked the location of Room 242. The clerk told him without even looking up from his book. From behind the desk the TV was blaring something about the Branch Davidians. Damien turned away, crooked a finger at the others, and headed upstairs.
"Cozy little place," Yoopy remarked as they stomped up the steps. "I always wanted to live in a motel when I was a kid. Best thing I got was an RV."
"You'd hate it after a while," D. J. said.
"Naw, I don't think so. It'd be fun. I love little places. Little cozy places."
"Little cheap places," Javier muttered. "How much do these cops get paid, anyway?" [Note--uh-oh! This comment is a spoiler, and indicates knowledge these characters shouldn't have! Bad bad Tehuti!]
Damien silently agreed. The most charming thing he'd seen about the place so far was the big palm tree painted on the side of the building. Nothing else.
They found the room, 242, and knocked, and waited, but nothing happened. No one came to the door, even after Damien pounded on it a few times. He sighed and turned away, for the stairs again, sitting down to rest for a moment. The air was practically sizzling, even this late in the afternoon. He wiped a hand across his brow.
"Maybe he's down at the Beach Club," Yoopy suggested. "Maybe he wasn't expecting us so soon, or maybe he was expecting a letter first. I'll go up to the roof and see if I can spot that club." He jogged up the stairs and stopped at the top, just his feet visible to the other three.
"Maybe we should have sent a letter ahead," D. J. said. "Can I see that one he sent you, again?"
Damien handed it over without saying anything. The feeling was dawning on him that maybe this whole thing was just some big stupid joke.
D. J. frowned as she studied the letter. "Hey, something sounds funny here. First he says he calls this murder in anonymous, then he says the police know him. So how--"
"Holy crap," Yoopy finally said from the stairs.
The other three looked up. Yoopy still hadn't moved, so all they could see was his feet. Damien pushed himself to his own feet and went up to join him, D. J. and Javier close behind.
"Yoopy?" he asked as soon as he saw his friend's blank face. "What..."
He trailed off as he turned to look in the direction Yoopy was, and his face went blank as well. "Holy crap," he echoed.
D. J. and Javier came up the steps and stopped beside them, also staring.
They were atop the Sandpiper, on the roof, a long, flat, wood-planked roof with seats out in the sun; down behind them sprawled the city and the rest of the island, while ahead of them sprawled the beach.
And the ocean.
Javier turned to look at the other three as they gaped at the vast expanse of the Gulf of Mexico, waving his hand in front of one face after the other. "What? What's the matter? You never seen that much water before?"
"Not that much," Yoopy said, his voice awed.
"I thought the Great Lakes were big," D. J. added, just as softly.
"No wonder that hurricane was bad," Damien said.
They all fell silent, Yoopy finally wondering aloud, "Does it taste like salt?"
The others looked at him, and both D. J. and Damien wondered the same thing.
Javier rolled his eyes. "Ah, for God's sake. Of course it does. It's the ocean. It's supposed to taste like salt. Come on, we have to go down there anyway to find that Beach Club place. You might as well have a drink." [Note--yeah...I had to try it out for myself...and it does...]
He went back down the steps, the others following like zombies. When they reached the beach and headed for the Beach Club--it was a giant rectangular building painted bright blue with vertical orange, red, and yellow stripes, appearing to be practically out on the water itself--they tromped through the sand, dimly grateful for their sandals to protect their feet from the burning grains. There were people down on the beach, not many, but a good number nonetheless, most probably college students on Spring Break. One group was playing volleyball. A giant stereo--probably about six feet high--was set up, blaring Toad the Wet Sprocket:
Where are we going, so far away
And somebody told me that this is the place
Where everything's better, everything's safe
Walk on the ocean
Step on the stones
Flesh becomes water
Wood becomes bone
[Note--like I said, that part was real.]
They found a wide set of stairs leading up to the Club. Constanzo hadn't told them what to expect. Up here there were several shops, probably set up especially for tourists; Damien, having snapped out of his daze, stepped into the first one they found, called BEACH TREASURES. [Note--the store itself is real, but I can't remember if that's the actual name. It probably is.] The others followed.
If it hadn't been for the mini sharks encased in blue liquid paperweights and the keyrings and other objects reading GALVESTON ISLAND, Damien would have thought they were on Mackinac Island in Michigan. This place served the same purpose: tourist trap. He kept expecting to find miniature replicas of the Fort on the island, but kept finding palm trees and those damn sharks. [Note--yep--also real. And kind of morbid, too.]
"Greetings!" came a cheerful voice. Damien glanced up to see a Hispanic--Latino, he corrected himself--man just finishing a transaction at the counter, waving them his way as if welcoming lost relatives. All senses telling him to beware, the singer did as he was told, and the others just kept following him like sheep.
"You I've never seen before," the man said, beaming, practically oozing pleasure at their showing up. He was medium height, thin, dressed in wild-colored shorts and Hawaiian shirt, tousled black hair falling over his brow. An expensive-looking gold watch rested against his left wrist, matching the gold chain around his neck. "Welcome to Beach Treasures. I'm Coinspinner Alvarez, your gracious host."
Finally! "Hi. We actually came here looking for you," Damien said, stepping up to the counter. "We--"
"Wait, you're not from around here," the man said, holding up a hand. "I can tell it in your voice."
"No, we're from--"
"Wait, let me guess." He put a hand to his forehead as if attempting to read the future, a regular Amazing Karnac [sic?]. [Note--rather than "regular," I think I meant something like "veritable."] He suddenly pulled his hand away and stared Damien directly in the eyes.
"Wisconsin! Am I right?"
The corner of Damien's mouth twitched up. "Close. Michigan."
"Ah! Close I am!" The man laughed and waved a finger at him, like he'd just been caught in the middle of a trick. "Welcome to Galveston. Your names are--?"
"Damien," Damien said, filling in the blank. "Yoopy, Javier, D. J." He indicated each of the others, in turn.
"Very pleased to meet you all. Once again, welcome to Galveston. I do hope you enjoy your stay here, so when you head back to Michigan you can tell all your friends about the wonderful hospitality and good old Coinspinner down at Beach Treasures."
Damien couldn't help smiling this time. He supposed things always came down to business, however you looked at it, whether it was Galveston or Mackinac Island. "Actually, we were told to look for you here," he reminded the man. "A Mr. Lucien Cons--"
"Lucky? Lucky told you to find me here?" Coinspinner didn't even allow him to finish. "Ah, Lucky and I are good friends, we help each other out now and again. I'm not surprised he told you where to find me. Good old Lucky."
Lucky? Lucky Luciano? God, that was silly. "Lucien Constanzo," he said, just to make sure they were talking about the same person. "And really, he told us to ask for him here, if we couldn't find him."
"Oh." Coinspinner seemed to finally get it. "Yes, that's different. He wasn't at home? You checked--"
"The Sandpiper, yes. He wasn't at home." Damien found himself growing just the tiniest bit irritated.
"Ah, he must be out." Stating the obvious. "Hm. Not many places Lucky goes, he works mostly on his own, you see."
"Works? As--?"
"Oh. He's an informant to the police." As he said this, Coinspinner's eyes narrowed slightly, and he didn't quite manage to hide the brief look of suspicion on his face.
An informant? An anonymous informant? Damien pushed that aside for now. "But really, all we want to do is find out where he is. He said you'd know, and we already checked with the police. So if you--"
"Well, few places that Lucky goes. He could be out at Jojo's, that's a restaurant, you see. [Note--I think that's a real location too.] Not a girlfriend." Coinspinner actually giggled. "Nope, not that lucky. Get it, lucky? He's not at the station, so maybe he's at Catera's place. He goes there, de vez en cuando, now and then. God knows why."
"Catera? Who's that?"
Coinspinner's upper lip curled with disgust. "Catera fancies himself a babalawo, a high priest, as it were, of santería. Quién sabe. Who knows, maybe he is. But he's a little man."
"Where would we find him?"
Coinspinner sneered again. "Not here, certainly. But further along the beach. North of here. You'll find the houses are on stilts. There's a boardwalk with shops along it out there, and Catera whiles away his meaningless time waiting for the next storm to knock him screaming into the ocean. ¡Adiós, gracias! ¡De buena me he librado! Good riddance!"
"Thanks," Damien said, trying not to appear hasty. He just didn't like the idea of hanging around to hear Coinspinner start ranting in a foreign language. The place was weird enough without any of that. "If Mr. Constanzo shows up while we're gone, let him know we were here, won't you?"
"Of course I will. And you four have a good time on your stay. Come back again soon, I might have something special waiting for you. Goodbye!"
"Right," Damien said in a low enough voice that Coinspinner couldn't hear him as he walked away with the others. "Looks like we've still got a little wandering around left to do," he sighed, waving them to follow him, and they left the Beach Club.
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