They stepped to the front porch. Reel stood to the right of the door, her gun ready, while Robie rapped on the wood and then stepped to the left.
They heard footsteps padding toward the door.
It opened and a young woman looked back at them.
She was about five four, in her thirties, with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair possessing dark roots. A nose ring hung from each nostril. She had on jeans with a tank top revealing a spread of tattoo that swept over her left shoulder and continued down to her wrist.
It looked to Robie like a woman being swept along by rough water.
“Can I help you?” she said, looking first at Robie and then Reel.
Robie said, “We’re federal agents.”
“Where are your badges?” she demanded.
They held out their creds.
“What do you want?”
“We’re looking for Clément Lamarre. We understand he used to live here.”
“‘Used to’ is right.”
“What’s your name?”
“Do I have to tell you?”
“You don’t have to do anything. But we can take you in for questioning somewhere more formal. And I don’t see how telling us your name is being too invasive.”
“Beverly Drango.”
“This your house?” asked Reel.
“It was my momma’s, and she left it to me when she passed on.”
“You know where Lamarre is?”
“No.”
“When was he last here?” asked Robie.
“I can’t remember.”
“We have his last paycheck,” Robie said. “Two hundred bucks.”
Drango’s eyes bulged. “In cash?”
“No, a check that he has to endorse on the back to cash.”
Her eyes returned to normal. “Figures,” she said disgustedly.
Robie said, “Sonny Driscoll said Lamarre never even showed up to get it.”
“Sounds like Clém,” said Drango bitterly. “He had no problem mooching off me, but God forbid he ever chipped in a dime. That money should be mine, plus a whole lot more.”
“So if you help us, maybe we can work something out on that score,” said Robie.
“Really?” she said eagerly.
“Can we come in?” asked Reel.
Drango looked nervous. “I don’t usually have visitors. I mean, the place ain’t too clean.”
“I can guarantee you that I’ve seen worse,” said Reel.
Drango held the door open and stepped back.
The room they walked into could accurately be described as a pigsty. Drango moved some junk off two chairs, and Robie and Reel sat down.
Robie pointed to her tat. “What does that mean? Someone being swept away?”
“Yeah, me. That’s my life, out of control.”
“Okay,” said Robie.
“Why are Feds looking for Clém? Any illegal shit he does is definitely small potatoes.”
“He ever talk to you about something he saw?” asked Robie.
“Saw? Like what?”
“Like people being held against their will?” said Reel.
“Against their will? Like prisoners?”
“In hoods and shackles,” added Robie.
Drango didn’t nod or shake her head. She just stood there looking down at them.
Reel looked over the woman’s shoulder at the lighted backyard that held a rusted swing set and an assortment of faded toys. In a bookcase behind Drango were shelves of children’s books.
“Where are your kids?”
“Don’t have any.”
“What are those for, then?” asked Reel, pointing out the window. “And those books?”
“I used to run a day care.”
“Really?” said Reel, looking around at the trash pit that was the woman’s home.
“When the kids were here this place was spic-and-span. Took good care of ’em. Fed ’em. Played with ’em.” She plucked out a book from the shelf. “Read to ’em. Kids like books.”
“What happened?”
“I…I made some bad decisions. I’m what you call a bum magnet. Moms didn’t like their kids being around them.”
“Okay, getting back to whether Lamarre talked to you about seeing these people?” prompted Robie.
Drango sighed, put the book back, and leaned against a bookcase. “You got to understand that probably half his life Clém was stoned, okay? He talked shit all the time. I never believed none of it.”