A Bullet Apiece (6 page)

“And you knew he was dead?” I asked.

Jimmy spoke up. “I've seen death, Darvis. I didn't need a coroner.”

“Did you feel for a pulse?”

“Kira did. Gotta hand it to her. I didn't want to walk through his blood.”

“Nor did I,” Kira began, “and I didn't. No pulse. He was quite dead and warm together. It was a disturbing moment for me.” Funny, her face didn't register ‘disturbing'. I wondered what she'd seen in her lifetime to be so matter-of-fact about finding a dead man, and for that matter, one she knew.

“Then what?”

“We came back around the building, and Jimmy walked over and asked the cabbie what he saw. I was going to go inside and call the police, but the cabbie stopped me. He leaned in to Jimmy's ear and hissed a few things I couldn't hear. Then he got in the cab and drove off. Jimmy was—” She looked at Jimmy for confirmation, or maybe permission, then simply said, “I couldn't tell.”

“Go on and say it, Kira,” Jimmy muttered.

Kira hesitated a moment longer. “Scared. He was scared. I've never seen that look on his face. I came over to him at once. Tell him, Jimmy. Tell him what the cabbie said.”

Jimmy cleared his throat. The act did nothing for the gravel rattling around in it.

“It was a cop, Ed. Out of uniform, but a cop. A beat-cop, from Dogtown. He came running out of the alley when the cabbie showed up.”

“Is he sure?” I spat out.

“Cabbies know faces. And cabbies are friendly with the beat-cops. He said his headlights caught the guy right as he came out of the alley. The guy froze, and then covered his face and ran.”

My head raced with questions. “Kira, did you see or hear anything while you waited inside?”

“No. Between phoning for the cab and its arrival, I was wiping tables, running water.”

“Jimmy?”

“Nothin'. Hell, I was upstairs, about to go to bed.”

I kept my eyes level with his and tried to ignore the glowing bathrobe. “Was anyone else around?”

Kira responded. “Nobody that I could see. But I only looked outside briefly, when I heard George in the alley.”

“Who was the last person to leave tonight, Kira? Besides The Beef, obviously.”

She thought a moment, seeming to recall the faces of every middle-aged drunkard from the night. For a split second I saw my reflection in the bar mirror. Seeing my bruised and beat-up face, I winced and looked away. Then, Kira lit up.

“I know. Simon. The one George calls—called—Simple Simon.”

I flashed back to seeing Simon's uneasy countenance under The Beef's powerful arm earlier in the night. His lips had been trembling.

“You know where he lives?”

“Yeah.” It was Jimmy's turn to try to regain control. “He lives in Dogtown, too!” he exclaimed as though on the path to discovery.

“What street?” I asked.

“Ah, he lives on West Park. No. Wait. The other one. Parallel to it. Nashville. Yeah, that's it. Nashville. First block in from McCausland.”

“Kira, did Simon leave right before George?”

“No. He left perhaps half an hour before him.”

“All right. I'm gonna need to find him and this cabbie. Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“You hiring me here?”

“What do you think?”

Tough guy. In a yellow robe, no less.

“I think you are. I'm fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. I'll start today. Today being now.”

“Okay. Where do I sign?” Jimmy asked. These are the moments I felt like a life insurance salesman.

“We'll do the paperwork later in the day … today.” I wanted to make sure I didn't get stiffed.

No one said anything then. Kira had sunk back into her own thoughts, folding her arms again. Jimmy planted both his hands on the bar top, his natural propriety rooting him, despite the ridiculous get-up. I puffed on my cigarette, thinking about all Kira had said. That's when Jimmy raised his hand and slapped his forehead.

“What?” I asked, anxious to know what epiphany had come to him.“Goddamn. George. The Beef. The body! What the hell am I supposed to do with the body?”

Kira's eyes fluttered, but she held still. I glanced from her to Jimmy. None of us had considered what to do with the body—till now. What have we become, if such a thing as body disposal goes to the back burner? I focused on Jimmy.

“Got a spare freezer?” I asked evenly. Jimmy looked at me to see if I was kidding. He turned to Kira, and a slow, deliberate smile spread across her face. She nodded slightly at me. I sucked on the tail-end of my cigarette and gave her the grin I'd been restraining since she walked out of the back room. “We'll need some gloves,” I added.

Jimmy's laugh sounded like an old coffin creaking open, then splitting to pieces.

We wrapped The Beef's body in an old tarpaulin. Sweating and cursing the whole way, Jimmy and I hauled him to the basement freezer. The inside of the freezer felt damn good, and we both lingered with the body for a moment, catching our breath and not looking at each other. Kira volunteered to do hose duty in the alley. By the time we finished, it was dawn. Jimmy was grouchier than usual—which was understandable. Hell, I wasn't so great myself. Besides my throbbing head, my empty gut was begging for a fill-up. I didn't think staying around to wait for a continental breakfast was going to get me fed, so I bid them good morning and promised to come by later in the afternoon. The Courtesy Drive-in on Kingshighway would be near enough to Dogtown, so I headed there.

The restaurant was mostly full with blue-collar guys and a few business types. I sat at the counter, the sunshine beaming through the glass and bouncing off the chrome trim. My stool was still warm from the last customer, but the A/C was already cranked up.

As usual, Carl, the short-order cook wearing his characteristic smudged white apron, was flipping patties and spreading hashed brown potatoes around on the top of the grill. The smell of strong dark coffee mingled with the mouth-watering grease. I ordered a slinger, extra cheese, and onions. Lois, who has waited on me for a few years now, poured my coffee and moved on to another customer without a word. The “courtesy” is everyone gets treated the same—pour the coffee, take the order, and slap the plate and ticket down in one swift motion. No chit-chat or how-you-doin's. Eat and get out. It suited me just fine.

As I sipped my hot coffee and tried not to salivate at the sights and smells of heavy food, I thought about Kira Harto. Here, like some two-bit Mafioso, I'd spent the morning hoisting a big, dead man into a freezer, and all I could think about was Kira, and her transformation from a broken-English war-bride, to a well-spoken, educated woman. I'm sure she had good reasons for keeping up the act inside the bar. I suppose it kept most men at an enjoyable, tense distance. What I couldn't figure, though, was how she connected with a lug like Broad Jimmy? But hell, there's probably plenty about him I don't know, either.

Shaking off thoughts of Kira, I returned to The Beef's death. So much for my middle-of-the-night squeamishness about taking the police out of the equation. The coppers—at least one of them—were already in the thick of it. I didn't know what to make of that. If it was a cop from Dogtown, he had strayed a good six miles from his beat. So, I figured, he was there on his own time. Did he work with a partner? Did he have something on The Beef that necessitated giving the boxer a permanent KO? My stomach churned. A sour taste erupted in my mouth. Whether from the ramifications of this budding case and my part in hiding a dead body, or the coffee I was now slurping, I'd need some rye toast. First to even out the Joe, and next, to decide what the hell I was going to do, since I was now an accomplice in covering up a murder.

At 6:30 I paid my check and left. I took Kingshighway to Manchester and then onto Hampton. I cruised down West Park, went several blocks, then cut over to Nashville. I parked at the top of the last block, just east of McCausland, and got out. The rising sun was at my back as I started down the sidewalk checking house numbers. Jimmy said he didn't know which house belonged to Simon, only that it was on the north side of Nashville. He thought it had blue shutters, but couldn't remember if the cracker box was brick or asbestos shingle. I decided to case each house on the way towards McCausland. As I walked along the street, my nifty detective senses didn't perk up, and I was starting to feel like a boob. I didn't even know if Simon had a car. I didn't know, either, if he was a bachelor and led a solitary river life, or had a loud-mouth wife and a brood of squalling kids. Hell, I didn't even know his last name. I'd be better off contacting Bertie Albanese to help me out with this. But I was leery of talking to Bertie, friend that he was, if I had to cover up my involvement in a case that might include a killer cop.
 

 
I made McCausland without any sign that I'd nailed the right house. Time to turn around and contemplate a door-to-door. Luck favored me then. A woman in a house dress, her greying hair twirled around curlers, shuffled out of her front door to retrieve the morning
Post-Dispatch
. I took out a piece of scrap paper and pen and wrote down the nearest house number on it. Then I put on a happy face and called out to her.

“Ma'am? Excuse me. Eddie Arnold.” I extended my hand to her. She took it, leaning slightly back, as though I might execute a wrestling move on her.

“Eddie
who
?” she asked. A line of red lipstick was smeared over her upper lip and crept up toward the short channel of flesh under her nostrils.

“Arnold. You know. Like the singer.”

“Oh, yes. Like the singer. What can I do for you, Mr. Arnold?”

“Well, ma'am, I was looking for Simon, you know? Guy with a grey beard? Yeah, I'm foreman for the second shift. He left his keys yesterday.” I held up my own ring of keys. “I wanted to drop 'em off to him. Figured he probably had a spare to get home, but still, you know how it feels not to have your keys.”

“Oh, sure. I can't stand that.”

“Me neither. Like I said, I was just heading home myself, over in Maplewood, just off Southwest, and I thought Simon might need his keys.” I gestured westward, smiling big and booming with early-morning, good-guy cheerfulness. She's buying it, I thought to myself, as she cradled the bound paper to her chest. “So, if you could point me to his house, I'd be obliged. I got his address from one of the guys at work, but I'm not so sure.”

She looked at the address I had scribbled down. “No, that's not it. You're off by one number.”

I rolled my eyes and mumbled something like,
Those guys in the shop. I swear!
She gave me the missing number and pointed me two houses east of hers.

“That's his.”

“Well, I thank you. I'll be sure to tell Simon you helped me out, Miss…?”

“Mrs. Reynolds.”

I shook off a chill when she said her last name, but kept my smile on.
Reynolds
? Probably a coincidence. Surely. I turned away and waved again. “All right, Mrs. Reynolds. I'll be sure to tell him. And thanks again.”

She said goodbye and headed towards her door.

Just as I got to Simon's front walk, Mrs. Reynolds called to me from her porch.

“Oh, Mr. Arnold?”

“Yes?”

“How about a little song for this beautiful morning?”

I decided there and then to retire the Eddie Arnold alias. Still, what the hell. I gave her the opening bars of “Cattle Call” and then beat a quick retreat before she asked me to yodel. It was a relief to knock on Simple Simon's door. It opened immediately after I heard an agitated voice inside.

“Dick, you're early…” He froze when he saw me. “What the—?”

“Wrong Dick,” I said with a grin. His face went pale and he tried to slam the door. I slammed my right palm on the door, and shoved my foot into the doorframe.

“Not so fast, Simon. I just want to talk to you.”

“No! Get away from me! I don't want any trouble!”

“Trouble? From me? Not likely, unless you try to slam this door in my face again.” I pushed against the door and it gave way to my weight.

Simon backed up into the room and held up his hands. “N-no. Please! I don't want any trouble! I'm not even involved!”

I followed him in and slammed the door behind me. I stared at him evenly, never letting my gaze drop. I think this was the first time I'd ever looked at him straight on. Simple Simon had a face that must have had a rough trip down the birth canal and never recovered. Below his big, rheumy, blue eyes, the rest of his features seemed to melt into his shirt collar. His beard sunk into his receding chin, which disappeared into the collar of his shirt as if it was being sucked into quicksand. And I'm sure he could whistle a fine tune through the gap in his front teeth, which would surely send the ladies running the other way. Despite his weak face, his bare arms were sinewy from river work. Even so, I took another step forward, this time leaning in, my nose almost touching his. The silence stretch uncomfortably. His breath smelled like the dumpster behind the Courtesy. “Involved with what?”

Simon took another step back. “Nothing. I don't know anything. Now go away!”

I held my pose right in his face, despite the rotten smell.

 
“I've … I've got a gun!” he stammered.

Without giving an inch or taking my eyes from his, I reached down and pulled my jacket aside to show him the .38. Simon's eyes trailed down to my gun.

“So do I,” I said, baring my teeth. “But I don't plan to use mine today. How about you?”

Simon looked on the point of collapse. He hung his head, slumped his narrow shoulders. I pointed to a ratty love seat behind him and said, “Sit down. Let's chat. This can be quick, if you cooperate.”

Without taking his eyes off of me, he stepped back, feeling for the couch behind him, and plopped onto the seat. He looked up at me like a chastened schoolboy. “Please don't hurt me,” he pleaded.

“For chrissakes, Simon, get a goddamn grip.”

He looked wildly around the room, sweat pouring down into his beard. I was sweating, too. The house was a hotbox. No air conditioning, and no shade for miles around outside. People around here don't want trees messing with their zoysia, I guess.

I pulled out my cigarette pack and offered him one. He leaned back into the loveseat, hesitant, as if the cig was a gold coin under a viper's ass. Finally, he reached for it. But his hand was shaking so wildly, he had to grab his wrist with his other hand to hold the cigarette still while I lit it. It was all I could do to keep from guffawing at him.Then I lit one for myself and pulled up a cheap cotton-fabric chair across from him.

“Nice place, Simon. You live alone?”

He blew out some smoke in a couple of gasps and coughed at the end. “Yes.”

“I'm gonna get right to the point. Your buddy, The Beef, is dead.”

“You're puttin' me on.”

“Like hell. I saw his body. A brand new smile carved in his muscled neck.”

Simon flopped back against the love seat. If he was going to need smelling salts, he was with the wrong guy. I'm only good for a few slaps.

“Broad Jimmy and Kira Harto told me you were the last to leave before The Beef.”

“Yeah? So?” he began. “Wait! You don't think I did it?”

“I don't know. But I'm talkin' to you.”

“Jesus, buddy. How could—? Could you imagine me trying to cut The Beef?”

“Stranger things have happened. Where did you go after you left Broad Jimmy's?”

“I came home. I took a bus. I swear it! Two buses. I came home and went right to sleep.”

“You see anybody around before you caught the bus?”

“No, not really.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean maybe a pedestrian or two. I don't know. Coupla niggers. They all look the same to me.” He looked at me half-proud, half-bashful, like he wanted to take a stand against me somehow.

I ignored Simon's bid for racial solidarity. “Where were the Negroes?”

“They passed on the other side of Locust. I didn't really look at them. Animals. You don't make eye contact with them, you know.” He puffed out smoke, righteous, his indignance giving him confidence as he sat up straighter. The itch to slap him grew strong.

“Were they all Negroes?”

“Yeah. I swear.”

I looked at him over my own cigarette. He couldn't hold eye contact long, busying himself with shaping his ash on the side of a cracked plastic ashtray. “Why did you think I was coming here to hurt you?”

“Because of what happened in the bar. Because of what The Beef said.”

I laughed and leaned toward Simon, and with a sinister undertone, I said, “That? That was just The Beef's bullshit.”

“You're not gonna hurt me?”

“I already told you, Simp—Simon—I'm not puttin' any hurt on you. Unless you don't cooperate.”

“Well, that's all I know.”

“What'd these colored guys do?”

“Nothing. They were just shuffling along the street. By the time my bus came, they were gone.”

“How about the bus ride? Any reckless drivers? Strange occurrences?”

“I don't know. I was half-asleep. Didn't see a thing.”

“Why'd you think I was this Dick guy when I came to your door?”

“Dick's my ride to the landing. He'll be here any minute, too,” he added with emphasis.

“Nothing to me.” I stood up and gave him one of my business cards. When I leaned over close to him, I thought he was going to bust through the back of the couch into the wall behind him to get away from me. “I'll be in touch. Call me at my office if your memory improves today. In the meantime, not a word. To anyone—police, your buddy, Dick.
Any
one. Got it?”