A Bullet Apiece (9 page)

“What for?”

“What do you mean ‘what for?' I just saw a dead man. I saw a guy I recognized running from the scene. Wouldn't you do the same?”

“Sure. Sure I would.” I glanced back at the counter. The proprietress continually cleaned the same spot on the counter top. It was clear from the look on her face that she was hearing every word.

“Hey, hon, I can't quite hear those pipes well enough. You want to turn that music up?” Without looking at me, she turned the radio knob up and continued cleaning. “Look, Tim,” I said in a low voice, “you sure we can't talk in your apartment? I don't keep a clean house myself.”

“Hunh? What are you saying? I keep my place clean. His voice was rising.

“Easy, Tim. Nothing personal. I just figured being a single guy, you know, cleaning wasn't at the top of your list.” I glanced around and leaned in toward him. “Here's what I want to know. Why were you so specific about the cop you saw? Why not just say you saw a guy running?”

“Look, bud. I saw someone I knew. It scared the hell out of me. I told Broad Jimmy who he was. Figured if the victim lived, he'd tell. And that way, I wouldn't have to be involved. What the hell is so unusual about that?”

“Nothing, Tim. It's all right. One more thing, and you can go back to your beauty rest. Did you tell anybody else about what you saw?”

“Nah. Just you and Jimmy, and the slant-eyed babe.”

“All right. Let's keep it that way for the time being. Look. Here's my card. Call any time. I have an answering service. If you think of anything, give me a buzz. I'll probably need to talk to you later.” He took my card and shoved it into his shirt pocket. I could see it had about as much value to him as lint. I extended a hand to him and he took it without much force. I tipped my hat to the proprietress. This time no smile.

I got back in the Chevy and pointed it toward my office. As I drove by the bakery, I noticed Tim huddled over the counter talking to the woman behind it. She looked mean, like a mother chiding a disobedient child.

Hamill's story matched Kira's. Except for one important detail, and that was going to cost him. No way he could have heard Kira calling for the cab. That would have been the dispatcher who took her call.

Back in my office, I checked in with the answering service. Three calls, the woman said. Bertie Albanese, no message. Another solicitor. And one from a police officer.

“What was his name?” I asked. I could feel my heart wake up.

“Matt Downing.”

“Any message?”

“No. He did say he'd be looking out for you.”

“Thanks again.” I held onto the phone and thought a minute. I was sure Officer

Downing wasn't going to invite me to a pajama party. I didn't like it. I dialed the operator and asked for the Yellow Cab Company again. The same dispatcher as before answered.

“This is Ed Darvis again. I got a question for ya. Were you working the night before?”

“No.”

“Who was, if you don't mind?”

“Ben Hartog.”

“He work most nights?”

“Yeah. He'll be on again tonight.”

“Any chance you got his number?”

“Sure. But I'm not givin' it out to you.”

That was odd. He had no trouble giving me Tim Hamill's. “Not even for an investigation?”

“Not unless there's a subpoena.”

“Well, in that—”

He hung up on me again.
Son of a bitch
. I'd have to look up Hartog's number myself. Or maybe I'd wait to call back tonight. In fact, it looked like most of the action would be tonight. It was 2:30 in the afternoon now. I yawned and looked out at the sunny street. I decided to go home and at least get a couple of hours.

I pulled into the cool garage adjoining my building and trudged up the back stairs, desperate for some sleep. The music store below wouldn't be open yet, so I didn't have to worry about any horns squeaking through the floorboards. And the only other tenant on my floor, an artist, kept vampire hours, too. So, no problem there.
Ah, sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleep of care
. But no sooner had I opened the door and stepped into my apartment that I caught a quick glimpse of a black object coming at me. Right before, that is, searing pain radiated across my shoulder and I collapsed onto the floor. Instinctively, ignoring the pain, I rolled over to my left away from the intruder. I managed to stumble to my feet and swing around just as he slugged me again. Only this time, I deflected the blunt force with my forearm. Now in full attack mode, I caught a glimpse of a man in blue, right before I kicked him dead in the chest. He stumbled back, dropped the billy club, and howled. Then before the young cop could grab his service revolver, I'd fished out my .38 and leveled it at him.

Even though I was still full of adrenalin, I managed, “Nice try,” through gritted teeth. Then, keeping my gun pointed dead center at his gut and drilling him with my eyes, I said, “Don't move a muscle.” I took a deep breath to calm down, trying not to pant, or shake. The snarl plastered across my intruder's sweaty face suggested he was going to get the better of me. My snub-nose .38 said otherwise.

“There's an arm chair next to you. Take a seat.” He looked at the chair, then at the nightstick on the floor, then at me. I smiled, daring him to go for it. Finally, thinking better of it, he complied with my request and sat.

“Keep your hands where I can see 'em.” I motioned with my gun for him to raise his arms. He locked his fingers together and rested them atop his head. Smart man, I thought. So, for fun, I decided to see how far I could take this.

“Actually, lay your fingers on your shoulders.”

“What?”

“On your shoulders. Like a ballerina.” With my free hand, I aped a ballerina stretching her arm and cupping her hand above her head, then bending it down to touch her shoulder. “Like that.”

“Fuck you.”

“Now, officer. I usually don't make it my business to point my gun at cops. That's likely to get me killed—and I sort of enjoy my life. But in this case, I'll be happy to make an exception.” I trained the gun on his forehead and pulled back the hammer.

He shifted his hands down to touch his shoulders. In that pose, he looked more like some stupid collectible figurine, rather than a dancer.

“Start talking.”

Although he sat still, he continued to scowl at me from behind rimless glasses, which were crooked on his nose from our tussle. Like most new recruits, he was clean-shaven, lean, muscular. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five. He looked the type to smile at the little old ladies and wave to the kids on his beat.

“You're the one who needs to start singin', shitbird,” he spat.

“Tough talk for a man with a .38 pointed at him. What would you do if I put my gun down?”

“Pull mine.”

“I was afraid of that. I'll let you keep it for now. But you make any moves and I
will
shoot you for an intruder.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Now, I don't have all day. I'm tired. And I'm missing my beauty nap. And I'm really not so nice when I don't get my beauty sleep.”

“Looks like you haven't had your beauty nap in a long time.”

That's it? I thought. Hell, the two fat ladies at the bakery gave the Irish maid better than that. Still, I was game to see where this would go. “So, that's the way you want to play it? Okay. I get it.” I put the tip of my gun on his forehead, as risky a move as I could make. “What were you doing in my apartment?”

The man didn't blink. “Waiting for you.”

“To sap me? That's not real neighborly, Officer Downing.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprised I knew his name.

“Your name's on your shirt.”
Dumbass
.

He looked down and flushed. “Wise guy,” he muttered.

“Lookit, if I wanted to rehearse dialogue from ‘Dragnet' I would've done it last night. Start talking, else I'm gonna get Chief Inspector Bertie Albanese on the line and let you explain your unwelcome presence in my apartment to him. Or else I could just blow your brains out.”

His eyes frosted over. “Take your pick.”

That surprised me, but I didn't let on. I reached for the phone on the end table as I pushed my gun harder into his forehead.

“Operator. Yeah, get me the District 9 Police Station.”

“All right, all right. Knock it off,” Downing said, his voice quaking.

I didn't acknowledge him. “Hello, this is Ed Darvis. Bertie Albanese, please.” The desk sergeant let me know in curt syllables that Bertie wasn't in.

“Oh, well, I was just returning his call. What? Maybe he's on his way over?”

Downing broke in. “All right, dammit. Hang up the phone!”

“Sorry 'bout the commotion on my end, Sergeant,” I said into the phone as I stared at Downing. “Must be a neighborly dispute next door. All's quiet now. Goodbye.” I hung up and gave Downing a playful grin.

“You fucker,” he seethed.

“Same to you. That's for sapping me. Next time you decide to get frisky, I might get an itchy finger and fire this little piece.” I let this sink in, but I pulled the snub-nose away from his forehead. He was still sitting with his hands idiotically gripping his shoulders.

“Can I put my hands down now?”

“No. And for the last time, talk. I'm all ears.”

He looked at his nightstick again. I kicked it behind me and then sat in the armchair across from him. Downing sighed in resignation.

“Okay, fine. Word is you're trying to finger me for a murder.”

“Where did you hear this piece of news?”

“That's for me to know—”

“Oh, I think I know. Let's see,” I paused, placing my free hand against the side of my head as though summoning a message from the gods. “I'm seeing a deli. No, wait, it's a bakery. And a woman. Scottish. No, that's not it. Irish! And she's reaching for a telephone. And . . . no, she's putting it down, because someone she recognizes just came in. It's a man. Dressed in a blue suit. Wait, no, it's a blue uniform. He's wearing eyeglasses and a friendly smile. Why, it's Officer Friendly! No, that's not right, either. I'm getting another name.”

“Son-of-a-bitch.”

“No, that's not it. Ah! I got it! It's Downing.” I let that sink in.

“That goddamn cabbie.”

“Cabbie? What cabbie was that?”

Downing set his jaw. Red splotches crept up his neck to his forehead. I had him. “So, that
was
you in the alley,” I said.
Give 'em just enough rope, they'll tie their own noose for you
. Downing pursed his lips together and ground his teeth. Yep, I still had it.

Finally, he said, “Yeah, well, I'm gonna be talking to that rat, too.

I walked over, keeping him covered, and picked up the nightstick. “You always let this do the talking?”

“When I have to.”

“I figured as much. You might get a bit further with a softer touch, you know.”

“Not when my rep is on the line.”

“Why did you kill The Beef?” I wanted him off-balance.

Downing leaned forward, but with my gun still on him, he didn't get up. “I didn't kill him. And that's the truth.”

“
Were
you at Broad Jimmy's last night?”

“Yeah. Earlier in the evening. So what?”

“Were you on duty?”

“What do you think?”

“I'll take that as a ‘no'. What time did you leave?”

“About ten. I've got a wife at home.”

“Lucky gal.”

“Nuts to you.”

“What were you doing all the way down at Broad Jimmy's?”

“I walk a Dogtown beat; I'm not confined there. Jimmy's is a good place.”

 
“Funny,” I said, “I've never seen you there before.”

“Well, I've been there.” He glanced at my scotch bottle next to the phone. “I'm just not there getting blind drunk every night.” I ignored the insinuation and kept at him.

“Why didn't you talk to the cabbie already? Why'd you come after me?”

“How do you know I haven't?”

“You keeping up, officer? You just said you were ‘gonna be talking to him, too'.”

“Go to hell.”

“You either talked to him already, or you didn't. Which is it?”

Downing stayed mum. I opted for a different tack.

“Were you at Broad Jimmy's after hours?” Downing stared back at me. “Look, I'm all for presumption of innocence. Just like you should be. If you weren't at Broad Jimmy's late last night, I'll believe you weren't. But then why would anyone want to implicate you in some has-been's murder? You don't look the type to be into vengeance killings.” Downing winced and stiffened. I'd hit a nerve. Sometimes, with a bit of fishing, I get lucky.

“Yeah, well I'm not,” he said. “And I already told you. I didn't murder The Beef.”

“I might believe you for now. Did you know him?”

“Just from the fights. My dad and I used to watch him.”

“He ever give you any trouble?”

“No, like I said, I didn't really know him. Not personally. Just from watchin' bouts.” He said that too quickly. It came out like a lie.

“So, tell me then, why did the cabbie put you in the alley? He ID'd you, you know.” Of course, he already knew, but I wanted him inflamed at Hammil again, ready to tip on him.

“How the hell should I know? Convenience? The guy's a dope.”

“You know him, then?”

He paused, eyeing me, trying to figure me out.

“He lives in Dogtown. I see him on my beat. Guy always gives me the creeps. Pedophile, if you ask me.”

I decided to play on his side to see what it could get me.

“His cologne might confirm that observation.”

Downing smiled.

“Anyone wears that dimestore shit's gotta have a thing for kids,” I continued. “You ever knock him around, just to see what he'd give up?”

Downing stopped smiling, but didn't retort. I changed the subject again. “So, you knew how to find me. What's the Irish gal's name? The one at the bakery.”

He again regarded me for a moment. I could see his wheels turning, devising another lie.

“What's it matter to you?”

“I might want to hire her. She had good instincts, calling you.”

He sighed. “Mary Hanlen.”

I grinned. Gotta hand it to the Irish. All warmth and welcome until you cross one of their thin lines.

“Look, Officer Downing,” I said, waving my gun about for emphasis, “I'm in the truth business. I want to catch The Beef's killer. What about you?”