"Love is a burning thing"
-- Johnny Cash, Ring of Fire

It didn't take much longer than the quarter of an hour I had told Ray it would to get to Becks neighborhood. I had to bend a few rules of the road, and lost a few friends amongst my fellow motorists in the process. The address Ray gave me wasn't that far from where Becks had lived before -- less than six blocks from the theater. It was a small group of Spanish style apartments that surrounded a common space. Too small to be called a courtyard, but more space than was strictly needed to allow access to the different front doors.

Ray was waiting on the street, at the base of the small steps that lead up to the mini-courtyard. I left the bag on the seat. I doubted I would need any of its contents immediately, but I didn't bother locking the door.

Ray was pacing back and forth. I don't know how rattled he'd been when he called, but I don't think the wait helped him at all. It wasn't a look I was used to seeing on Ray. He might have been a bit of a hothead, but I don't think I had really ever seen him like this.

"What's up?" I didn't bother with the formalities.

"Look." He said.

He walked me up to the door of what I presumes was Becks' apartment. The door was closed. I looked back at Ray and raised my eyebrows in a question. He pushed against the door. It swung open. The bolt-hole for the deadbolt was torn out on the inside. I looked at Ray.

"Have you been inside?" I asked. I had a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

He shook his head. "No. I called her when I got off work."

"No answer?" I asked.

"Disconnected," he said.

I didn't like the sound of that. I push the bad thoughts down again. I needed to get the facts.

"I drove over," he said, "I knocked on the door and I saw that. I...got no...didn't know what to do. I called you."

Maybe I had gotten through to him. If it had been me, I would have called Wilson, or the police. I opened the door the rest of the way and stepped inside.

"Should we do that?" Ray asked.

Not many people have been in this kind of situation, so it wasn't really his fault, but the question annoyed me. I shot him a look.

"We attract more attention loitering outside her door at night," I said. "Get in." I kept my voice low and conversational.

It takes more than a little force to break open a door, but there was no obvious damage to its surface. As we stepped in, I felt the wood around the door jam. It was softer than it should have been. My nail easily tore away a small piece of wood. It crumbled easily as I squeezed it -- dry rot.

"What was that?" Ray asked.

"Nothing." I told him. "Just habit."

"Huh..." he said and stopped when he saw the room.

It was easy to see that this was a place Becks inhabited. Everything I saw had the feeling of things that could be hers. An autographed copy of Judas Priest's Turbo hung on the wall. She loved that album more than was reasonable. An easel stood in the corner. A blank canvas sat on it. There were more canvases behind it. Then there were things that I knew were hers. I walked over to the short bookshelf. A statue of a dog sat there. It was been her favorite of Wilson's work. There was a ribbon hanging around its neck, with something gold pinned to it. It was an Egyptian god -- Sekbet. I had given it to her, and she still kept it.

Even if I'd been there before, I might not have recognized the layout of the apartment. Becks would rearrange, redecorate, or exchange items regularly. If she was happy, she might paint a room. If she were sad, she would reorganize the furniture. Any reason would do. There would always be some surprise whenever I came over.

"Ray," I said.

He was still standing in the middle of the room. His eyes didn't seem to be focusing on anything.

"Does anything seem different here?" I asked.

"What?" He said, not understanding.

"Becks' apartment," I said. "Would you know if something wasn't where it was supposed to be?"

"Dunno," he said. He didn't look around.

"Sit down Ray," I said.

Under the weight of what he had seen, Ray seemed to have shut down. I fell back on what I knew how to do. Searching the apartment and piecing together the puzzle helped me pretend this was all about someone else. I was looking for someone I didn't care about -- someone unimportant.

The apartment wasn't ransacked. I've seen what that looks like, and it is very different. The apartment was a mess. More than was usual for Becks. Some of it had to be just the natural dishevelment of living, but some wasn't. There were items knocked off her desk. A mug was broken on the floor. The contents of her small kitchen table were on the floor.

If it had been a search, they would have kept things as they were to avoid notice, or the apartment would have been turned inside out. If there'd been a struggle, it hadn't taken very long. I walked down the hall to where I guessed her bedroom was. I glanced in the bathroom -- there was no obvious trauma to her toiletries.

Her bedroom was a different story. Her closet doors were spread open -- there were clothes strewn around, on the floor, on the bed, everywhere. Nothing was broken, nothing was torn. It looked like someone packed in a hurry. It was so haphazard that it probably wasn't Becks. I went back to the living room. Ray was sitting on Becks' couch staring at his hands.

"Would you recognize Becks' luggage?" I asked.

"Wha?" Ray looked up at me, confused.

"Her luggage," I said again. "Do you know what it looks like?"

He shook his head, no. I squatted down in front of him meeting his eyes, sitting on my heels.

"Look at me Ray," I said. I spoke slowly and calmly. He tilted his head up.

"There is no body in there, OK?" I said.

I gestured towards Becks' bedroom. That had to be his biggest worry -- it had been mine.

"I don't know where she is," I said. "I can't tell you what happened, but she isn't in there. OK?"

He nodded. He probably hadn't even admitted to himself that he had worried about that.

"Now then," I said. "You told me Becks got some new friends. Tell me everything you know about them. This is no time to play in the kind of god damned pissing contests you like to do. Just tell me what I need to know."

"She got back into Rockabilly." Ray said slowly.

"And?" I prompted.

"She was going to concerts and car shows. She met some guy who came on hard to her. We'd...I'd just..." He halted.

"Dumped her?" I asked.

I didn't care about his reaction. I just wanted to get him talking again.

"No!" He shook his head.

If she ended it then it sounded like his roaming eye -- or worse -- had gotten him in trouble again.

"She stopped calling," he said, "said she didn't have no time for someone she can't trust. Met this guy, and he really turned it on her, you know?" I nodded, if Ray wanted to think we were kindred, I wasn't going to stop him.

"He was the deal in some car club outta LA," he said. "She'd hang out with all of them. They were going to shows from Seattle to Salem. I wanted no part of them, and it was mutual. They made that clear. Other guys in the scene tended to keep away from them. There were a whole bunch of rumors about them."

"What kind of rumors?" I asked

"About what kinds of badasses they were," he said. "About the scraps they got into. How mean they were. Some people said they were dealing. I tried to warn her."

"I'm sure that went over well." I tried to sound like I was commiserating.

I could just see it, Ray confronting at her, all angry and jealous telling her that she should stay away from them. That was exactly the wrong way to get Becks to do anything.

"Yeah," he nodded. "She got all pissed. Said I could just go to hell. She could see Vance or anyone else she liked."

"That's his name?" I asked. "Vance?"

"Yeah," he said. "I told her he had a bad rep, but she wasn't having any of it. I ain't seen her since the blow up."

"Was that when she stopped going to The Anchor?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "She came in next night, took one look at me, and split."

She stopped hanging out at The Anchor, and just stuck with them."

I wondered if Vance was a first or last name. Given enough time, I could find out everything I wanted to know without any more assistance from Ray. I could just leave him to stew, but the scenarios that matched the facts weren't any kind of reassuring, so I didn't have the luxury of time. Besides, I didn't really want to be that mean to the man. I'd need to get more out him, and would make him my friend if I had to.

He claimed not to know any more than that. I had him tell me everything he knew again. When he was through I had him tell it all to me another time, in case he added anything without realizing it. I got up and wandered the apartment as he spoke. Ray did not know Vance's last name. Becks had a couple of plants on the windowsill. He and his crew were all scenesters, and lived it 24/7. I sunk my finger into dirt in the pot. There were five or six of them, including Vance. The dirt was dry. Vance was a mechanic, or at least made money working on cars. I opened Becks fridge and checked the crisper. It was common knowledge in the scene that Vance did some small-time dealing. The vegetables were wilted, but not liquid.

"I think she's been gone for about a week." I said, returning to the living room. Ray looked up at me.

"How do you know?" He asked. He was getting some of his composure.

"Educated guess." I told him. He could work it out from the facts for himself, if he wanted.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"With Vance," I said, "but that's the obvious guess. By the looks of things," I gestured toward the broken in door, "it probably wasn't voluntary. I'm going to LA."

"What?" Ray asked.

"Well," I said working it out for him, "if she isn't here, and we think she's with him, then the next place to look is down there. You said they were from LA and they can't be completely nomadic. So they'd need to go back sometime. Becks has been associating herself with them for a bit now, right?"

"I guess," Ray said.

"So it seems pretty reasonable that they went back home." I told him.

"How do you know she's there?" he asked.

"I don't Ray." I said. "It's a gamble, but it makes sense."

I couldn't look at the apartment and believe that Becks would not have contacted Wilson, if she were still in town.

"So that's what I'm going to do," I said, "but I've got a problem Ray. I don't have enough to go on. I've got to talk to someone who knows him better than you do."

"Becks was the only one," he said. "Don't know anyone else."

Ray had started to get his head about him, and was being less helpful. I just needed to be pointed in the right direction, and then Ray could see what good it would do to stand in my way.

"Maybe," I said, "but I'll bet you know someone who knows someone, or someplace he hung out."

The last part got a look from Ray. It hit me what he might be holding out.

"Ray?" I asked, "is there someplace he would take Becks?"

"Hmmm," Ray made a show of thinking. "There was a billy-club she mentioned going to. Could be other people in the scene said they saw them there."

"Name?" I prodded.

"RadSkull," he said. "It's on the east side."

That was all I needed, I wanted to get moving and away from Ray. I had enough to find the club, and then find someone who could tell me what I needed to know. I walked into Becks bedroom. I grabbed one of the socks that had been flung on the floor. I put it over my right hand and walked back to the front door.

I closed my eyes, and pictured myself walking in though the door. I walked as the shadow of myself in my memory. Everything I touched or might have touched, I wiped with the sock. My memory isn't perfect, but it is very good. I didn't want to leave anything that was immediately traceable back to myself. I didn't want to raise any red flags with the kind of people who ask questions. That would be a check I couldn't afford to cash. I didn't worry about all of the minor traces I might leave: hair, fibers, etc. If they wanted to track me down the hard way, that was fine, but I wasn't going to hand myself over on a silver platter.

The whole time Ray watched me in silence. He probably thought I was covering both of our tracks. I wasn't deliberately leaving his, but I wasn't making any special effort.

"Hey!" he said, getting my attention.

I kept at my task, but looked back at him.

"I think I should be the one to go to LA," he said.

That was the last thing I needed. I wanted to grab him by his collar and push him up against the wall. Tell him to stay out of it -- this is what I knew how to do. He'd just screw this up and wouldn't do Becks any good. I bit my tongue instead. Ordering Ray to do anything would have the opposite effect. I put my hand on his arm, and tried to muster the look of an ally.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea." I said. "You said it yourself, we don't even know if she is there. It could just be a wild goose chase. I don't have anything to lose; got no roots back here yet. You've got a job."

I had been going to say he had responsibilities, but thought better of it,

"There are people who count on you," I said. "Let me do this part."

I wasn't sure he was buying it. I was going to have to sell it a little harder.

"Let me be the one to waste money on a plane ticket," I said. "And there needs to be someone up here who can keep an eye out -- someone she'd be willing to talk too. Just now, I'm not that man, right?" That got a chuckle and a nod from him.

"So, let me be the one to do this for you, OK?" I said. "You keep looking for her up here. You've got the contacts for that. It might not be a bad idea to call the police."

"Naw," he said. "We can handle this, right?"

I don't think Ray had ever been in any serious trouble, but he had always seemed to have an institutional dislike of the authorities.

"You're right," I said. "It's your call of how to handle this. If you do, just wait until tomorrow before you do. It's probably not a good idea to say you had been inside, you know? Just say that you found the door this way and decided to call. OK? It's your call how you want to handle it. Deal?"

"I'll take care of it," he assured me. "You got plenty of leg work to do."

He decided to follow the trail of crumbs I laid down. He might change his mind, but now I had a head start. Once he got back in the normal swing of his life, it would be harder for him to change his mind.

"Thanks, Ray." I said. "Give me a two days, and I'll let you know what I've found."

He nodded. I gave the apartment one last scan -- there was nothing left to do there. I turned and gave the doorknob a wipe as I left.

I turned the sock inside upon itself. I wanted to chuck it here, so it could not be found on me, but it would be too easily found here. I put the sock into my coat pocket. I'd find somewhere else to lose it. This was just the standard paranoia. If I thought there was a good chance I'd be connected with all this, I'd have bought a replacement set of clothes and dumped every single thing I was wearing. I felt no need to take it that far.

I walked back to the car as though I was a man who had just visited a friend -- nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to pay any attention to. After quickly checking that everything was where I left them, I drove off. I didn't know where I was going yet, but I didn't want to loiter. I found a dark spot where I could pull over, and called information. The RadSkull was deep in the Eastside -- a part of town I never knew that well. I had to get the map from the glove box. My memory is good, but it is far from perfect, and I had been away for a while. Some things were so familiar that it felt like I had never left. Other parts felt alien, as though I had never been here.

I don't want to contemplate what it would be like to have a perfect memory. I already remember too much as it is. All those conversations, facts, and sights rumble around inside my head. I can never predict when one of them will come up to the surface. There are times when they all come back at me in a rush and I cannot control it. Memory after memory of my failures and mistakes come at me like a seizure. It would be even worse if I could remember them in perfect detail. Like a bad trip I just have to wait for it to pass.

In most cities you can classify broad swaths of the city. One part is upscale, and another is poorer. One part is residential, and another is corporate. Portland defies such easy generalizations. I drove to an area that was more industrial than not, but there were still shops and homes. Based on the people I saw loitering outside, it was a crowd that took their scene very seriously. I wasn't dressed for the part, so there was no point in pretending. They'd just have to take me as I was.

The man at the door looked me up and down, but didn't say a word. Probably wondering what a mundane was doing there. He took my money without any argument. It was still early, so it wasn't that crowded. There was a band playing, and putting on a good show. A man with a blond pompadour was standing on the upright bass as it was being played. He was playing what sounded like the chorus of Ring of Fire from a small trumpet. I walked over to the bar. The bartender was wearing jeans, red flannel shirt, and was sporting a ducktail.

"A little early for that sort of thing." I gestured at the band. The bass player was making a play at shaking the trumpeter off.

"Yeah," the bartender gave a little grin, "they better be pacing themselves. They got a long set ahead of them. What can I get you?"

"Tequila" I ordered. I'm not as picky when it comes to that beverage. As the bartender poured, he gave me the once over as the man at the door did.

"Not from around here are you?" He asked, He put down a napkin and placed my drink on it and pushed it over.

"Was it the glasses that gave it away?" I asked.

I don't wear glasses.

"Yeah," the bartender winked, "that must be it."

I took out the picture of Becks from the back of my notebook. She was wearing a black blouse and jeans. It was one of the very few things I took with me when I left. I don't think I looked at it during that whole time.

We had been wandering in Washington Park, debating if we should wander down to the zoo.

"Hey!" she suddenly said.

"What, chou-chou?" I had replied. I don't recall when I started calling her that.

"Take my picture," she had told me, and struck a pose by a tree.

"Really?" I had asked. It was the most unusual thing she had ever asked me to do. Becks was almost pathological about not letting pictures of her be taken.

"Hurry up," she said, "this is a limited time offer."

I quickly knelt on the ground, and lined up the shot. I opened the aperture to blur the background. I started taking pictures, but she wouldn't look directly at the camera. Her gaze was always at her feet, or up at the trees.

"Done," I said, as she pushed away from the tree, I took one last quick picture. She was smiling directly at me. It was a wonderfully candid shot.

"It's your birthday tomorrow," she had said before I could ask. "I wanted to get you something special." She gave me a kiss on the cheek, and started walking on the trail again.

I put the picture on the bar and covered it with my hand.

"I'm looking for someone who can tell me about a guy named Vance." I said and took my hand off the picture.

"You may have seen him with her." I said. He looked at me again and then at Becks picture. I hoped it might give him a reason to want to help.

"You a cop?" He asked.

I thought about lying. He already had the thought in his head. I could have tried to bluff my way though the rest, but I hadn't come prepared for that. I couldn't pass as a uniform, and was too casually dressed for a detective. It had too much risk and even if I pulled it off, it wasn't a lock that he would have been any more likely to help.

"No" I shook my head.

"Too bad." He handed back the picture of Becks. "You a dick?"

"Probably." I replied. It helps when the joke cuts close to the truth. He grinned and gestured over to a dartboard in the corner, to where large man and a small woman were playing.

"Talk to the Cooler over there." He said.

I took out a twenty from my pocket, and put it down on the bar. I didn't ask for the price, the bartender could work out the tip from there.

I walked over to the pair of players. It was out of the way, but had a good view of the whole place. Since they were playing with metal points, the board wouldn't be for public use, more likely to be a private perk. I stood behind them until the large man made his throw. He turned and looked down at me. There is an art to looking intimidating, and he was very good at it. I like people who take pride in their craft.

"I'm looking for someone who can talk to me about a man named Vance." I said. I showed the picture again.

"You may have seen him with this girl." I said.

Becks would have hated it if she heard me us that last word, but calling her a woman wasn't as likely to inspire the desire to help.

He was the kind of large man who would get saddled with the nickname Tiny -- tall, over six and a half feet and he had some bulk to him. He wasn't fat, though he had a little pad, mostly mass and muscle. I wouldn't want to start with a body blow to take him down, and the face was out of reach. He'd probably been in enough scraps to know to guard his crotch. I'd want to start with his knees, and knock him down to a more manageable size.

Not that I had any desire to do violence to him. I had no reason to go for him and even if I did, I doubted I could get out. I was deep in the place, and he wouldn't be the only bouncer. Then I'd have to get past all the other employees.. I was willing to bet that there was a shotgun behind the bar as well -- for the times things got really out of hand. Above all that, there would be the crowd to deal with. It was just a thought experiment, to keep the skills sharp.

"You a cop?" He asked. I wondered if they got many in the place, or if Portland detectives were dressing down these days.

"No." It was beginning to feel like it was the chorus of a song.

The woman's throw was off center and hit in the middle ring. She was small, about five-four. Like most redheads, her age was hard to place. The color looked real, but it was hard to tell in the dim light of the club. If pressed, I would have guessed she was in her mid-twenties, but you could have added six or seven years to that number without surprising me. Her features were sharp, but far from unpleasant. She held her watch up to the other man.

"Crowd's gonna be thick, Ronny." She said. "Why don't you help keep an eye on the door?"

Ronny the bouncer gave me the intimidation look again, then went off in the direction of the door. She turned to me. She was wearing the kind of uniform jacket that a mechanic might wear. The name on the tag was "Betty." I liked that touch. It was slang for both a pretty girl, and a stuck up one. She was at least one of the two.

"I'm the one ya want to talk to," she said.