A Bullet Apiece (18 page)

I automatically reached for my .38, which, of course, I had left at home when I went for my little interrogation with Detective Fleischman. In one quick motion, I faced the door, turned the key in the lock, and kicked the door open. I immediately swirled around away from the door, and plastered myself against the hallway wall and waited, more tense than ever. I could hear the box fans whirring in my apartment, no doubt sucking in rainwater, but nothing else. I ducked my head around into the doorway real quick, then retreated again in a flash, processing the glimpse of my living room and part of the kitchen. Nothing. The door swung back a little with its own momentum. It was too dark to see through the crack of the door hinge, so I crouched down and duck-walked forward, easing the door open as I did. If anyone was behind the door he was awfully patient. I sprang up, ready to attack as I swung the door toward me. No one was there. I immediately turned around and scanned the apartment. No sign of anyone. With my right fist reared back, I slammed the door with my other hand and tensed even more. No one there. I tiptoed over to the end table next to my armchair and pulled out my .38, checked the chamber mechanically, and then walked through the house, flipping on the lights in every room. I was just about to open the kitchen cabinet doors, and maybe even knock over the oven, when there was a knock on my front door.

I tensed again, and searing pain shot down my arm. I shook it off. I don't get many visitors, but I've also never had a polite intruder. Even so, and with thoughts of Downing's surprise visit yesterday still fresh, I approached the door with my gun leveled at its center.

“Who is it?” I asked. I croaked like a sick frog.

“Ed? That you?”

At first I couldn't place the voice. “Yeah, it's me. Who is it?” I kept the gun pointed forward.

“It's your neighbor, Holland.”

My artist-neighbor. I let out a loud breath and felt my body relax, pouring its tension into my gun hand. I hadn't realized it until I lowered my right arm that it was beginning to shake. A spasm shot down the length of my arm to my fingertips. I pocketed my gun, wiped my face with my handkerchief, and blew out another hard breath of air.

“Hold on a minute.” I shook out my arms and opened the door.

Holland stood there looking damp and unhappy. His longish hair was wet and slicked back, a few drops falling off his nonetheless handsome face onto his dark suit, open collar, some kind of silver medallion around his neck.

“What's up?” I asked. I had to look up a little to meet his eyes. He was a pretty big guy.

“Hell, man, I got locked out. I have an opening tonight and I was loading some pieces in my friend's car.”

“Why're you all wet?”

“We were leaving the block when I remembered a sculpture I'd left behind. I told him just to wait, and I made a dash for it in the rain. Didn't think I'd get this wet.” He grinned at his appearance. I wasn't ready to grin at mine.

“The Super around?” I asked.

“I just checked. His office is locked up. Shit. Of all nights.”

“I'm sorry about that, Holland. What can I do?”

Holland looked at his watch.“Damn. At this point, nothing. If I don't leave now, I'll be late. So, I'm gonna just have to forget about that piece. It's a shame, too. An erotic little number.”

I smiled at that. “Yeah, I'm sorry, too. Can I offer you a towel or something? How 'bout a drink?”

“I'll take the towel. My buddy's waitin' in the car.”

“All right. Hang on a minute.”

As I walked away, Holland said, “Hey, maybe I'll take that drink later on. You gonna be up around ten?”

“That's up to the gin,” I said.

Holland laughed. “All right. Tell you what, you let me borrow a towel, and I'll be back later tonight with a fresh bottle—and your towel.”

“You got a deal,” I said before going into the bathroom. At once, the idea of a normal neighborly visit gave me a surge of joy and relief. I could have the ordinary night I didn't even deserve. Maybe the ghosts would haunt somebody else.

I gave him the towel and he thanked me. I closed the door and locked it, still feeling overly cautious, but a helluva lot more relaxed than a few minutes before. I stashed the .38 back in the side table drawer and went to the bathroom to take a leak and wash my face. As I walked back into the bedroom to turn off the box fan, I kicked off my shoes. The window sill in front of the fan was wet, but that looked like the extent of it. No water on the floor or, worse, the bed.

Next, I headed straight to the kitchen. On the double for a double. I grabbed a cigarette, even whistled a little tune as I poured myself a glass of gin. By the time I got a cigarette lit and had a slug of gin in me, I crashed into my easy chair. I wasn't ready to call life good, but this moment would do.

I pulled on the cigarette, enjoying my respite, and certainly enjoying the waning of the storm. With the lightning, now more distant and intermittent, and the thunder just a sated growl far in the distance, I relaxed and mused.
Hamill, Hamill, Hamill. Who killed you
? My brain matched my body's fatigue. I needed to eat. I decided to fry up a hamburger and boil some potatoes. I'd ease up on the gin, too. Brew coffee instead. What the hell, I'd stay awake for Holland later.

It was around eight o'clock after I'd eaten. I didn't have the concentration for reading, so I clicked on the TV and let a situation comedy dull my wits further. At nine, I turned off the TV and put on a jazz record to keep me conscious. I splashed a little bourbon in my coffee to liven things up a little, too. I sat. I paced. I scribbled on a crossword puzzle from the morning paper.

At ten, there were three rapid knocks on the door. Damn, for an artist Holland possesses no sense of fashionable lateness. I unlocked the door, and as I did I could swear I caught a whiff of perfume. Too late to process unfortunately. The second I unlatched the lock, the door was forced open, and there stood Kira Harto with her brother, Ichiro. A beauty like that, wet with rain. Be still my beating heart. My confusion at her presence gave Ichiro the witty idea to force the door further open. I was off balance and stumbled back a step. Ichiro, a wary look in his eyes, stayed in the doorway while Kira stepped inside. She had a gun in her gloved hand. How neat.

“Mr. Darvis, it really is a pleasure to see you. For perhaps the first time in my life,” Kira said. Her gaze was even with mine, deadly. Her gun hand was steady and she pointed the automatic right up at my chest.

“It's always been a pleasure for me, Kira. Up until now.”

“Sit down, Mr. Darvis.” She indicated my easy chair. I moved towards it, sitting slowly. I flicked my eyes from her to Ichiro. Any trace of meekness had left his eyes. He remained rooted in the doorway.

“Well, if you've come here to make good on my contract, the gun isn't necessary. I'll take a check.”

“You're funny, detective. I guess you realize I'm not here to pay you.” She turned her head slightly to Ichiro and hissed something in Japanese. Ichiro stepped forward, leaving the door open. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of rope.

“So, you're here to tie me up? In my own apartment? Go ahead. There's a couple bottles in the kitchen. I guess you'll need whatever liquor you can get for the tavern, now that Jimmy's put away.”

“It's not liquor I'm after, and you know it.” She spoke to Ichiro again. He drew out the rope and wrapped each end around his hands into a short tight rope, then snapped it taut for good measure. My heartbeat doubled and pumped ice water through my body.

“So, I'm the loose end, hunh, Kira?”

“That's right. I can't have your testimony contradict mine, Mr. Darvis.” She gave some kind of command in Japanese to Ichiro. He began advancing towards me.

“Hold on a minute, Kira.” I held my hand out toward both of them. “Stop right there, brother.” She held her right arm up and Ichiro stopped coming toward me. He kept the rope taut between his hands. “You can at least explain a couple of things to me.”

“Why bother? In a few minutes, you'll be dead. And you won't care.” She let loose one wicked laugh through barely-opened lips. I grew colder.

“Yeah? And how? You're going to risk shooting me? How're you going to get away?”

“I'm not going to shoot you, Mr. Darvis. Unless I have to. Then I will.
Ichiro
,” she began and continued in Japanese.

“Hold on! At least give me the dignity of hearing the last words of my life in English.”

She grinned like the assassin she was. “Okay. Ichiro. Strangle Mr. Darvis.”

Ichiro came forward again. He was three feet away from me when I looked directly in his eyes.

“You don't have it in you,” I snorted. “You're a punk. A mama's boy. Just like you didn't have the balls to kill The Beef. Go back to California. You're a baby, not a killer.” That last statement was a desperate final attempt. My words caused an imperceptible wrinkle in his expression. Maybe it was doubt. Maybe it was more rage.

“Oh, he has it in him. He's finally proven his worth,” Kira said calmly.

And then it hit me. I pictured Hamill's bruised throat. Ichiro. So, he wasn't a knife guy. He was a strangler. And here I was seated in my own apartment, just like Hamill.

“This isn't going to help you get away, Kira.”

“Oh, I think it will.”

“How the hell did you get out?”

“Jimmy posted our bail.”

“And where's he?”

She grinned again. “Still in jail. He could only spring the two of us apparently.”

“Kira. It doesn't have to be like this. I know that Simon killed The Beef. You're hot to pin it on Downing. Downing's dead. The only other accomplice left alive is Simon. Why not let him hang and leave me out of it.”

She eyed me cooly. “Because you like justice too much.”

“And you don't?”

“No. I like revenge.” She turned her attention to Ichiro again. “Kill him, Ichiro. Do it!”

“I'm gonna fight him,” I exclaimed.

“I'll shoot you,” Kira countered.

“I'll take a bullet over a rope from this punk.”

“Last words are over, Mr. Darvis. Kill him, Ichiro!”

Would I really prefer a bullet? My split-second of indecision gave Ichiro the chance to rush me and wrap the rope quickly around my neck. I got one hand in the way just as I brought my feet up. Two of my fingers hooked in the rope as I felt its pressure against my Adam's apple. Seated, I couldn't get enough force to maneuver Ichiro away. I kicked fiercely at his groin. He yelped, but kept tightening the rope, his wet hair dripping on my shirtfront. My own fingers caught in the rope were worthless. I would end up being party to my own strangulation. My vision was getting blurry. Kira had not moved from her position near the doorway, but she kept the gun on me. If I could kick Ichiro towards her I might have a chance. I tried two or three times. If only I hadn't taken my loafers off. He took the kicks, which, for me, did no good. Goddamn he was strong. I was starting to see crimson and white stars in the blur of figures. This was not how I anticipated dying. I gave one last kick with my remaining strength. Just before blacking out, I saw another figure appear in the doorway. I heard a woman's scream, then my consciousness was cancelled.

I came to with someone slapping me in the face. I reached a weak hand up to grab my assailant.

“Ed? Ed!” I heard my name through the fog between conscious reality and unconsciousness. “Ed!”

I squinted and focused on the face in front of me. The slaps stopped at the same time. Holland, my neighbor. “You all right?” he called, needlessly loud, I thought dumbly.

“Yeah. I'm not 'onna do any jumpin' jacks for you.” Holland's face was pure white. He appeared to be shaking, too. When I looked down I realized why. He was kneeling on Ichiro's prostrate form. Ichiro was wiggling underneath him, but he was no match for my tall neighbor. The term artistic temperament came into my fuzzy mind. I wanted to laugh, but my face felt like it was detached and hovering away from me.

“Gun,” I managed.

“What?”

“Gun. I havva gun. Drawer there.” I turned my eyes slowly to the left. Holland opened it and produced the .38. The way he held it between two fingers belied the shocked look on his face. “Here. Give it t' me.”

Holland complied. I reached out my numb right hand and grasped the .38. I cocked it and gave what I hope was a reassuring look to Holland, then pointed the gun at Ichiro.

“Hollan', go 'head and get offa him.” My throat strained on the words. My face felt a little less disembodied now, and began to throb, right along with my head. Holland got up slowly, grabbing Ichiro's rope as he stood. Ichiro, back to his old ways again, began to sob. I looked past him and saw Kira sprawled on her left side. Her eyes were closed and her gun hand was pressed underneath her. Just above her head, blood oozed out onto the carpet.

“Tie him up. Hands behind his back.” My words were coming more easily, but now the constriction of my throat joined the head pain. My face was back now, too, no longer seeming to float in front of me. But it felt as if it were sealed on with a hot glue gun as the pain intensified. Most likely from the blood flow again going to my head. Holland bound Ichiro's hands. Ichiro was blubbering now, his face pressed into the carpet. He made no attempt to resist, nor did he even move.

“What'd you do to her?” I indicated Kira.

Holland looked at me like I had just caught him in something bad. I guess I had. He looked over at her, as if for the first time.

“I hit her from behind. I … I came down the hall and saw her back to the door and, and, you were in the chair, and he was choking you. I just hit her. Right on the head. Oh my God, do you think I killed her? Oh, no!” He stepped over Ichiro and felt Kira's neck. For a moment his moist eyes were riveted to mine. At last he spoke.

“I think there's a pulse. I'm … I'm not sure. Wait. Yes. Yes, she's breathing. Ed, what the hell is going on?”

“It's a long story, Holland.” I couldn't think of standing up. “Call the operator. Ask for District 5. Ask for Detective Flashlight.”

“Detective
Flashlight
?”

I snickered, which came out more like a snort, really. “Did I say that? Sorry. Fleischman. Fleisch-muhhhn.” The word was becoming fun to say. Some painkiller chemicals were kicking into the bloodstream now.

Holland did as I asked. While he waited, I saw that there was a gin bottle and a sculpted piece of marble on the floor near Kira's feet.

“What's that?” I asked.

“Hunh?” Holland asked, a little too forcefully.

“On the ground. What is that?”

“Oh. My sculpture. The piece I forgot before. I was bringing it down to show you. I used it to—” He couldn't finish.

“Let me see it. I can't get up just now.”

Holland gave me a peculiar look. Still holding the phone, he stepped past the weeping Ichiro and retrieved his sculpture. He handed it to me with utmost care, as though it were fragile and could perform no violence. But it had the weight of a shotput. A little smeared blood stood out on top of it.

“Is this…?”

“Yeah, it is,” Holland said. He raised his eyebrows and smiled, and then he looked at the floor. “Yes, thank you,” he said into the phone. “May I speak to Detective Fleischman please? This is urgent.”

“Nifty,” I said over Holland's request. I peered closely at the detailed curvature of the sculpture: a man penetrating a woman from behind.

I told Holland to hide his sculpture and say he had used the unopened gin bottle to clock Kira instead. No sense in him going in on an obscenity charge as well. While he did that, I walked back in the bedroom, put my shoes back on, and turned on the fan in my bedroom window. If I was able to come back tonight, I'd want my room plenty cool.

Detective Fleischman arrived twenty minutes after the phone call with a uniformed cop and a plainclothes detective. They were from District 9, my territory. I recognized the plainclothes from a previous case. He didn't exactly look delighted to see me. The uniform untied Ichiro, put him in cuffs, and sat him on the loveseat while sirens drew near the building. The ambulance attendants came in next. They loaded Kira on a stretcher. She was still unconscious but stable, as far as I could tell. Stable in that her brain kept her lungs functioning. The plainclothes, whose name just washed over me, instructed the cop I didn't know to go along for the ride to Barnes Hospital. The Super arrived on the heels of the ambulance guys. His shocked and pained look told me I might need to find another place to live.

Fleischman scrutinized my face. “Do you want to see a doctor?”

“No, sir. But I wouldn't mind if you'd crack open that gin.”

He nixed that idea immediately. “Evidence,” he grunted.

“Wait, but I've got more in the kitchen.”

He was curt. “Let's not fuck around,” he said. “If you're steady enough to walk, we'll escort you to the station to process this whole mess. He can ride with us as well.” He indicated Holland. Ichiro was taken away by the uniform.

The Super was the only one left. He had only been able to identify himself, and after the cops established he wasn't a witness, he was kept out of the way. As we walked out of my apartment, I asked him if he wouldn't mind locking up. He gave me a sour look.

On the way to the station Fleischman confirmed that Broad Jimmy had posted Kira and her brother's bail through a third party. Despite his heartbreak, he came through for her. Jesus. He'll probably have to put a second mortgage on the bar—if he can. And for what, really? He still loved Kira, but couldn't he know she never loved him? Well, I'm no one to say. Maybe she grew to love him. I flashed to his messy separate bedroom and thought differently.

Speaking of kind hearts, Bertie had pulled some strings for me. I don't know what he said, or if he called in a favor, but Fleischman still didn't bring an accusation against me for hauling The Beef to the freezer or the river—or anywhere for that matter. Holland was pretty frazzled still. He repeated what he saw and did several times. He was released from questioning before I was, but when I came out of the interrogation room, I saw he was still waiting around.

“I'll pop for a cab and a drink,” I said. He gladly accepted.

On the ride back to our apartment building he grew more talkative, like someone coming out of shock and seeing life clearly for the first time. I felt guilty that he had to be involved, but took consolation in the possibility that his artistry might benefit. Holland, the struggling artist, who ended the struggle. Go figure. Maybe he'd sculpt wrestling figures after this. I owed him big for saving my life.

We decided to sit in his apartment for our drink. I insisted on bringing over a bottle. By tacit mutual consent, he waited at his place while I went down the hall. I didn't think he'd want to revisit the crime scene so soon. The Super had locked up. Great guy. There was a note on the door not to disturb the room. The note did everything but scream,
Crime Scene! You're evicted, asshole!
I went in, despite the sign, and aside from the crimson patch on the carpet, everything looked as staid as it usually does. I retrieved the gin bottle, three-quarters full. We'd make a dead soldier of it before the night was through.