A Bullet Apiece (13 page)

“He's like that. And the other message?”

Again, she laughed. “She didn't leave her name, but she wanted me to ask if you needed your . . . and I quote—‘venetian blinds cleaned?'—unquote.”

This time, I laughed right along with her. “Boy, do I. But maybe another time, hon. And thanks.”

Back home I twisted open the lock to my mailbox in the building foyer and pulled out a stack of more bills. Nothing there that couldn't wait a few days. Also nothing to help delay me thinking about The Beef's murder. I retired upstairs to my wingback chair, loosened my collar, and kicked off my loafers. If I wasn't careful, I'd fall asleep, but the uncomfortable chair worked against that. My stomach growled, but I didn't know whether to feed it breakfast or lunch. Think Darvis. Think. You light socket-fucking idiot, you.

Officer Downing's nightstick still lay on the side table. He may not have slit The Beef's throat, but he was involved. I just wasn't sure exactly how. At least not yet. I had called The Beef's death a vengeance killing. I didn't know his death from a common mugging, yet Downing didn't correct my identification of the crime. You get matter-of-fact with people and push their buttons, and eventually they'll trap themselves in their own defense mechanisms. This I knew. Experience paid for something.

I check-listed what I knew so far. Someone had it in for George Reynolds. Based on the way he treated folks, more than a few people did. Tim Hamill, the cabbie, who had implied he spoke to Kira Harto on the phone the night The Beef was murdered, but said he didn't recognize her voice. Yet, when she called the cab company, she would have gotten a dispatcher, not Hamill. Either he was sloppy about his lies, or she hadn't gone through the dispatcher at all. Which, in that case, meant she called Hamill directly. And she was involved.

But why? The fact that Hamill lived in Dogtown, part of Officer Downing's beat, was a little too convenient. They could be accomplices. Also, Hamill claimed not to know or recognize Kira Harto at the bar. Something was fouling the gears of a plan, and Hamill was the grime. He covered the most territory in this situation. Plus, he spilled too easily. Let's say, I told myself, an arrangement had been made to off The Beef in the alley next to Broad Jimmy's. Kira could have called the killer after everyone else had left the bar and while The Beef was relieving himself outside. She also could have reached Hamill to arrange for a pickup, which would also have given him an alibi: drunk guy at a bar at the end of the night gets cab ride. That guaranteed that Hamill was a witness, if not an accomplice. In this scenario, Kira was deeply involved. If so, why? And was Broad Jimmy involved, too? I thought back to his demeanor and appearance last night. He looked like he had been asleep. His defenses were down, and some nervousness was playing around his tough edges. Was it the nervousness? Or involvement? Or could his demeanor be chalked up to having a regular customer killed outside of his establishment? Even more sinister, could Kira be involved in something as complicated as murder right under Broad Jimmy's nose?

I didn't know if Jimmy and Kira would be awake yet, but I needed to talk to them before I went any further. I picked up a contract to give to Broad Jimmy, swallowed down some cold, burned black coffee, and walked out the front door. As I closed it, I tucked a flyer advertising a cleaning service into the doorframe underneath the bottom hinge. Then I locked the door. If anyone decided to make any surprise visits while I was gone, I'd know.

I drove east on Route 40 and made Locust in about ten minutes. My watch said quarter to twelve. One of the two unlikely love birds would be awake by now, getting ready for the liquid lunch special the salesmen and stock brokers traded on.

I parked at a meter and fed it its thirty pieces. Broad Jimmy's looked dark inside. I tried the door, but it was locked. I stepped back to take in a fuller view of the place. There wasn't much foot traffic at this end of downtown. I noticed a little sign taped up to the left of the front door. In a quick-looking neat hand, it read:

Closed due to illness. Expect to be open again tonight.

Well, I didn't blame them. I doubted Jimmy would be able to keep his cool—or

keep from spilling what happened to someone. Kira would be able to, though. Ching-chong crap, as Jimmy said.
What other secrets do you possess, Kira?

I walked around to the alley and saw it for the first time in daylight. There were the usual metal trashcans and a dumpster. Kira and Jimmy kept it remarkably clean. There was an extra level of dazzle, thanks to Kira's wash job last night. Or maybe she just shined up the grime. The untrained eye wouldn't notice anything.

A fire escape climbed the brick wall near the dumpster. The retractable ladder leading up to the stairs was halfway down. I jumped a few times and finally caught hold of the bottom rung. It slid down, the clatter of squeaky iron echoing in the alley. I started up, huffing and puffing when I reached the landing. Maybe I needed to cut down on the smokes. On the second floor there was a dark window. I pushed my face up to the glass. An un-curtained bathroom. Guess you don't need much privacy with another brick wall for a neighbor. I continued to climb to the top floor to another window. This one looked into a bedroom. No curtain here, either. The place had a light clutter of discarded crumpled paper and file boxes. A twin bed was pushed against the right wall. Broad Jimmy's sleeping form filled it. He was wearing a tanktop t-shirt and boxers. The yellow robe lay crumpled on the floor. One of his tattooed arms, the one with the squashed Japanese soldier on it, lay across his face. His body and the general disorder of the room belied the definite lack of a feminine touch. So, Jimmy and Kira slept in separate rooms. The door to the bedroom was closed. I couldn't hear any sounds coming from the apartment.

I climbed back down the fire escape and gave the ladder a good push to get it back up. It grated to a stop halfway. I'd leave it how it was then. I stood in the alley, right over the spot were The Beef's body had lain. Jimmy was sacked out. No visible sign of Kira Harto. The tavern was closed. This all felt funny. Something wasn't right.

I got back into the Chevy and decided to go by St. Mary's to see if I could visit Bertie. Later, I could try to find the cab dispatcher, Ben Hartog, in the phone book and talk to him face to face. Not that I had high hopes of him being overly cooperative, though.

When I came in the hospital room door, Bertie raised a coffee mug.

“Whatcha got in there, Bertie?”

“It's just water, detective. But cheers anyway.”

“Don't tell me you're off duty because of a little scratch?”

“Naw. It's just my lunch hour.” He gestured at a plastic chair. “Have a seat. Miss Weathersby, is it? Now, I'll be the one to ask the questions.” Bertie giggled, of all things. “Tell me about your estranged husband and why you think he's dead.” I smiled at that, then sat in the flimsy chair. Bertie must have a dandy narcotic on board. He looked strangely relaxed, while I was feeling sleepless and uncomfortable.

“You look like shit, Ed. Broad Jimmy's already treat you right today?” It was my turn to stiffen. I passed off the sudden jolt with a big yawn.

“You know me. Never met a happy hour that didn't deliver. How are you feeling?”

He shrugged and gestured impassively at his abdomen. Bertie was too casual. His left hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

“Yeah, well. I wanted to see if you wanted a Hi-Lo rematch. So I could take back some of my money.”

“You're on. Got the cards?”

I nodded, took out the pack, and handed it to him. I lit a cigarette, too, which drew a look from Bertie.

“Feel strange to be in here, Ed?”

“I'll say. Especially with the likes of your mug looking at me.”

“The view ain't so pretty from over here, either.”

“I'll give you that.” He shuffled the deck on his tray and I cut the cards. He started to deal as I blew out a smoke ring. When he winced, I stayed his hand, then took the deck away from him. He lay back and blew a breath out slowly. I dealt instead.

“Bertie,” He seemed to know what I was going to say.

“Ed, don't bother. I'll be all right.”

I wanted to reassure him, ask him how he felt, make sure the pain wasn't too bad. I also wanted to fish for any mention of The Beef's disappearance. I wanted to insure he knew nothing about The Beef, or worse, my involvement in hiding his body. Actually, I didn't want to hear anything about The Beef coming from Bertie's lips.

“You know George ‘The Beef' Reynolds?”

Damn
. I leaned over to fiddle with one of my shoes, keeping my eyes averted.

“Sure. I wouldn't call him a pal, but I know him. He holds court at Broad Jimmy's most nights. You can get a ringside seat every night if you want. Some lucky customers even get a chance to fight him.”

“Including you?”

I raised up and steeled myself. “Nix. The Beef may be retired, but I wouldn't put him on my dance card.” I paused to pull on the cigarette. I squinted as I did so, but my eyes were riveted on his face, scanning for a tell. “Why do you ask?”

“Some buddies of mine in the Three are looking for him.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Bertie just studied me. I studied the face-up cards as though I was unsure of my next move. “Where'd he go?” I asked, without looking him in the eye.

“They don't know. But he's in some shit.”

And how
, I thought.
Frozen shit.

“What'd he do?”

“He's been rigging fights on the South side. Amateur stuff. But he's suspected in some backroom deals. Illegal gambling.”

“Small stuff. And common. Why the sudden interest in bringing him in?”

“There's been some talk. Possible mob connection. Maybe a hit or two. That gets the local boys worked up. Might mean Feds.”

I forced a chuckle. “Territorial pissing.”

“You got it. It's bad enough having to deal with you PI's.” He smiled emptily at me and turned over a queen of diamonds. We played for about half an hour. I barely spoke, but Bertie held up his end of the conversation cheerfully. Neither of us was addressing the previous night's events. I had more than Meeki's killing on my mind. I was feeling guilty. I wanted to spill what I was involved in and solicit his help. I was close to opening up a few times, but I couldn't get past the feeling of The Beef's dead weight in my arms as Broad Jimmy and I slung him into the basement freezer. Until I put together a few more pieces, I would have to keep my lips sealed around Bertie. And that hurt in a way. To my knowledge, he had always dealt straight with me. I couldn't think of a more honest guy.

In fact, it reminded me of the time I was having girl trouble at sixteen. My father was off philandering on a sales trip somewhere. My mother was sweet with me, but her advice about love was old-fashioned: you wait until you're married, and that's that. The problem, as it was, was that I finally got with this hot number who put out once, but then strung me along, holding back after that. I was convinced I was in love with her and something was wrong with me because she wouldn't let me touch her. I recriminated myself, tried to do anything to please her, even wrote her love letters. But no soap. Every night I lay awake, sleepless, anxious, horny. Even afraid. How could I tell my mother that my sanity depended on getting some? My mother could tell something was eating at me, but there was no way I could talk about sex with her. Eventually, this girl and I hit the sheets again; I don't know to this day what made her change her mind. We lasted maybe another two months. My mother was relieved when it was over. I was, too, but for reasons I could never tell her about. I never learned what—or if—I did wrong. Since then, I haven't gotten close enough to anyone for long enough to feel much more than a strong lust. And with my few friends, I was just as cautious.

Around 1:30, a dour nurse poked her head in, frowning at me and my smoke, before curtly announcing the end of visiting hours. I left the cards for Bertie, then paused at the door longer than usual when I said goodbye. Bertie's composure made me nervous. Like my mother, he could tell something was eating at me, but he didn't pry.

When I got back to the office, I looked up Ben Hartog from Yellow Cab in the phone book. He was listed as having a South City address, near Holly Hills. If it had been Dogtown, I'd have wet my pants. I called his number and let it ring. At last someone picked up.

“Yeah?” A sleepy voice.

“This Ben Hartog?”

“Yeah. What is it?”

I contemplated beginning my calls with offers of free sweepstakes tickets after today.

“This is Ed Darvis. I'm a private investigator.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Darvis?” Now there was a change. Either this guy was polite, or he had something to hide.

“I'm investigating a case that involves one of your drivers. He may have been witness to a petty crime, but this crime involves a VIP. You know how that is. I can't really say much more.”

“Yeah, I understand. Uh, what can I do to help?”

“Were you working the late shift two nights ago?”

“I was.”

“Did you get any calls from foreigners? Oriental-sounding voice?”

“Let me think,” he said. A few seconds ticked by. “Yeah, there was one. German voice, though. Male. That work?”

“Not quite. Any others? A woman's voice maybe?”

“Nope. Just the one German. I'd have remembered a woman's voice. Oriental, you say? Especially that. I can't understand what they're saying half the time. Mr. Ferris, he manages our garage, he wanted to give dispatcher duty to this Jap driver. A guy from California. Ferris thinks his English is good enough. Can you imagine? He says ‘de
r
ivery'! No one can understand him. I mean—”

Irritated, I cut him off. “I get you. Listen. Anybody ever call cabbies directly? You know, have a favorite, and bypass dispatch?”

“Not that I know of. And Mr. Ferris would be pissed off to hear about it. We gotta log all our drivers' hours and routes. There's no pickup we don't know about.”

“Okay, Mr. Hartog. You've been very helpful. Thanks.”

“Hey, don't mention it.” He sounded like I had made his day. If that was the case, I felt sad for him. I hung up the phone and pressed my fingers to my lips. Unconsciously, I brought my index and middle fingers together as though I had a cigarette. A thought was about to break to the surface of my mind, but it would need a little nicotine enticement. I lit a cigarette and got up to pace in front of my desk. A few dust bunnies got wise and scattered.

Okay, the dispatcher said he didn't get a call from a woman, so, let's say Kira called the cabbie directly. Maybe they had a deal. She'd call him to pick up the drunks, he'd collect the fare, and split the profits with her. That would make sense. Hell, maybe they even had a deal where Hamill would rifle their pockets and split that kitty with her as well. Only one problem. Hamill claimed he didn't recognize Kira. And he thought he might even stand to get robbed going to Broad Jimmy's at that hour. So that didn't fit.

I thought about the
Closed
sign outside the tavern. I pictured Broad Jimmy's sleeping form in the closed-up room. That's what made it click. I've been sweating all day. Jimmy was asleep in a sealed room with no fan. In this heat, a third-floor room of a brick building, downtown, would be hotter than a kiln. But I couldn't see any sweat in my mind's eye. His body had looked hairy, but dry.

The funny feeling I'd had outside the tavern returned, this time intensified. I jumped up, locked my office door, and got in the Chevy. The humidity punished me immediately, and until I got on Route 40 East, I cursed the sluggish traffic. Once on the highway, I opened her up. I made Locust faster than ever and parked at a meter without giving a thought to satisfying it. The sign in front of Broad Jimmy's was gone. I got out and tried the tavern's door. It opened. Inside, the usual low lights were on, the dirty ceiling swathed in gloom. A couple of suits were engaged in one-upmanship at a table in the center of the room, their faces red with laughter and drink. A few other singletons hunched over tables. A glance behind the bar showed me Kira Harto's back, clad in regulation tight black. I walked up to the bar and sat on a stool. She turned around with two dripping shot glasses in her hands.

“Hey, soldier. You here earlier than usual. What you have?” She had raised her voice to say this, so no one would suspect anything unusual.

I looked deep into her eyes. She didn't betray anything but a casual acquaintance with me. I pulled out a cigarette and looked around at the two drunken businessmen on the other side of the pool table. One laughed loudly, and the other gripped the tabletop. They were lost in their own bluster. I looked back at Kira and spoke in a low voice.

“Where's Jimmy?”

“He sleeping. He got to work late tonight,” she answered, in the same loud tone.

“Cut the act, Kira.”

She glared at me over her tight smile. Leaning close she whispered, “Fuck you. And like it.” She stepped back and picked up the shot glasses. Without taking her eyes off me, she started drying them.

I blew smoke in her face. She wrinkled her delicate nose, but she didn't say anything.

“I wanna see him.”

“Who?” she asked stupidly, and sarcastically.

I remembered the contract. “I've got that contract for Jimmy to sign. How about I just go up and slip it under his door?”

“I'm perfectly capable of bringing a slip of paper to my husband,” she muttered.

“I know you are, Kira. That and more, I'm sure. I just feel better putting the paper in my client's hands. You know.”

“That's as good as saying you don't trust me,” she returned.

“Not at all. Just one of the few formalities of my job I let myself enjoy.”

“Well, you can give it to me, or wait until tonight. He's sleeping. He's not feeling well.”

“I understand. The Beef was a heavy lug.”

She shoved her drying towel forcefully into one of the glasses. I just sat there and watched her for a moment, taking long drags and blowing the smoke out slowly.

“Okay, Kira. I'll come back tonight. Say, your bathroom working at this hour?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” she said in a harsh stage whisper. The two businessmen were oblivious. I smiled at her, stubbed out my cigarette, and returned the contract to my inside coat pocket. I went towards the John, taking my time opening the door. I looked back in her direction, but she had turned around to grab some more soapy glasses. It's now or never, I thought.

 
I ducked down out of her line of sight and scurried along the back wall away from the bathroom door and towards the far end of the bar. Kira's back was still turned. I scooted under the hinged bar top that separated the bar back from the main room, and slipped between the curtains to the kitchen. I'd only been back here once before. The body in my arms had distra
cted me from the décor. Yeah, a dead body would do that. The usual white pickle buckets, silverware, and metal drying racks greeted me. I waited just inside the curtain for a couple of seconds to see if Kira had noticed me. Luck struck for the second time today. That gave me one more bout of it for later. I had a feeling I'd need it. Good things aren't the only things that come in threes.