A Bullet Apiece (5 page)

“How about your wife?”

His face hardened. “That's none of your business.”

I took that as a no. “Mr. Hanady, I was hired to help your wife find her daughter. If she's safe, that's good enough for me. But, if you don't mind, I'd like to see her myself.”

“No can do. She's not here.”

“And your wife?”

“In the house, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

He stood up. “I'll ask the questions here, fuckhead.” That voice. A warbly tenor trying to sound hard. I began to feel like I was getting reprimanded by a spoiled teenager.

“Hoss, here … I mean Meeki is your bodyguard, I … gather.” I jerked my thumb toward the bozo standing alongside me, but didn't look at him. Instead, I kept my gaze on Hanady. I squinted my eyes and pinched my lips into a smile. More of a grimace, really.
 
Didn't want the son-of-a-bitch thinking I was a pantywaste.

Hanady jerked his hand to his face and clawed at his lower jaw, like a grapple. I wasn't sure if he was trying to control his temper, or if he was thinking of a lively comeback. Eventually, he lowered his hand and his creepy smile reappeared.

“He looks after my entire family. And he's quite good,” he added with emphasis.

“Good help is so important these days.”

“Isn't it? Well, I think we're through here. I'll have my wife phone you in the morning. Meeki—”

“Why don't I just talk to her now? Since I'm out here and all.”

“I don't think so, Mr. Darvis. You've already overstayed your
un
welcome.”

“Not hardly. Can I get a drink for the road? Long way back to the city, you know.”

Hanady hesitated. His youthfulness arose in a flush. My guess was he thought he could put a little muscle on me and clear me out.

“I'm afraid I don't drink, Mr. Darvis.”

“That's funny, because your wife said—”

“You sure seem to know us well.” He must have given some signal to Meeki, which I missed. Just as I began to swell with professional pride, and was about to brag, when the back of my head exploded in pain, the room went sideways, and I felt my chin hit the desk. The last thing I remember is Hanady's face leering at me as he got up onto the desk, then his fist rearing back. Then it was lights out.

I woke up on my back. All I could make out were fuzzy, dark trees above my head, which felt like it was glued to the gravel beneath me. I tried to sit up, but quickly gave up that idea. Nice and easy, Ed, I told myself, as I raised one of my hands and felt the back of my head. My own precious, sticky blood. I put my hand back down on my chest. All I wanted to do was close my eyes. They felt as if they were weighted with bowling balls. Don't pass out, I told myself.

After a couple of minutes, I tried to sit up again, managing only to raise my head enough to see my .38 laying in my lap. The stem of a dying iris stuck out of the short barrel. Nice touch. I tossed the flower aside. Wincing as I sat up, I opened the gun chamber. It was empty. Of course. I looked around and found my binoculars, the lenses smashed. Meeki probably did that with a big toe. I patted my pants pocket for my wallet. It was there. Not moving my head, I pulled my wallet, brought it up to my face, and stuck my fingers inside. Meeki was nice enough to leave me my money.

I moved my jaw back and forth. Sore, but not broken. Hanady sure didn't have the Meeki strength. I tried to orient myself.
Hey, my car.
I reached up and grabbed the passenger door handle and pulled myself up. Much too fast. I retched into the gravel.
Orange pulp for the ants. At least the burger wasn't bugging me anymore. I panted and spat, leaning against the door, as I wiped my mouth with my sleeve. After a few minutes, I managed to walk gingerly around to the driver's side, using the car for support. It was still night.

Once inside, I leaned my head against the steering wheel and breathed. I raised up and peered into the dome-lit rearview mirror. My left jaw was swollen, purplish and pounding. I swayed my jaw from side to side. ‘You are
sooo
good lookin',' I told my ghastly reflection.

Just then, I remembered Officer Frederick. Even though I wanted nothing more than to go home and flop onto my own bed, I thought I'd better check on him. I started the Chevy, turned around, and pulled a short distance up the driveway. No sign of Frederick's cruiser. And no lights on in the house. It was time to do some hard thinking, and I'd need a little help to do it. I took Route 40 back into town, my car mixed in with a few tired-looking interstate travelers. I stayed in my lane. Mostly.
Sorry, bud
. I waved at the car as it passed. The driver mouthed ‘fuck you' as he gave me the bird. Such redundancy. At the first exit that looked reasonably seedy, I pulled off and found an all-night liquor store.

Later, walking into my apartment, I half expected to see it destroyed. Beat up the private eye and toss his apartment. Send him hate mail, too. But the inside was the same—although the sight of the orange peels on the table sickened me. I held my breath and swept them into the trash. Next, I pulled out a tall glass from the cabinet and filled it with ice. I poured in the scotch and drained away most of it in one gulp. I poured another. I'd sip this one.

I sat down on the couch, waiting, wanting the scotch to hit home, but I knew Bertie Albanese would be wondering about me. Before anything, though, I needed to call Officer Hamilton to see what he knew—and to find out if Frederick was all right.

I dialed the precinct.

“Officer Hamilton, please.”

“He's out. Who's calling?” More love from the desk sergeant.

I asked if Officer Frederick had reported. That was a negative. That worried me. I played most of my hand and gave a hazy version of what had happened out at the Hanady place. The desk sergeant was gruff, but responsive. If one of their guys was in trouble, they weren't going to screw around stonewalling me.

Next, I dialed my answering service. The operator told me I had just one call, from a solicitor. If I had a contract for every five solicitors, I could retire.

I got up and fixed a pressed-meat sandwich, and washed it down with some cold beer. Then I wet a towel and laid it across my neck. As I headed back to the couch, I flipped on the fans. Even though I'd left the windows fully open today, the apartment was still stuffy. I leaned back in my armchair to do some deep thinking about my next move, but next thing I new the phone was ringing.

I'm usually a light sleeper, but for some reason I didn't recognize the jangle of the bells as the phone. For a moment I sat there, blinking, trying to clear my head. Still dazed, I picked up the receiver and stared at it. Then I pressed the receiver to my ear and listened.

I knew it was a woman's voice on the other end of the line, but I didn't catch what was being said. At first I thought it was a joke—a woman speaking in a pale imitation of an Oriental accent. Then I got my head together. It was Kira Harto.

“Kira. Say that again. And slowly.” I fumbled for cigarettes that weren't on the side table.

“I tell you already, Misser Darvis. You listen or not? Is-s-s The Beef.”

“What about him?”

“He dead. Outside our tavern. Come quick.”

I swallowed and rubbed my hand over my face. “All right. Give me ten minutes.”

I made it to Broad Jimmy's in twenty, my head still throbbing. I expected to see police, and the press, vying for position outside the tavern, but the street was empty, save for a few parked cars. I didn't like the look of this. I took my .38 out of the glove box, thrust a few slugs into the cylinder, and tucked the works into the back of my pants. I pulled on my light jacket, just to cover the gun. Damn. Three in the morning and still probably eighty degrees. My armpits were already good and wet.

I walked up to the heavy oak door and tapped on the dark diamond glass three times. The door opened. If it weren't for the hour and the circumstances, I'd have laughed. There was Broad Jimmy, wearing a bright yellow terry-cloth robe loosely tied over his round, protruding belly. His grey chest hair stood out in a furry ruffle above the knot, and he looked sleepy. It would be easy to discount the power under that robe, but knowing otherwise, I had no trouble keeping a straight face.

“Jimmy.” He stared back at me like a sleepwalker. “Ed Darvis.”

“Yeah, I know you, asshole. Who do you think I told Kira to call? Get in here.”

Jimmy was a charmer no matter what time of day. I stepped inside and waited for Jimmy to make some gesture. Instead he strode behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of bourbon. It was only then I realized all the overhead lights were on. Maybe it was Jimmy's giant frame in the ridiculous robe that distracted my attention beforehand. I looked around as I walked in to join Jimmy. The walls were a dingy grey, and the ceiling was burnished brown by all the cigarette smoke and dust. A heavy brown HVAC system was perched on a reinforced shelf over one end of the room. I hadn't ever noticed that before. As I walked past the pool table, I saw that the Schlitz lamp above it was turned off, too, which is probably why the pool table's felt looked like pale, dried vomit. As I got to the bar, the colored lights usually illuminating the shelf beneath the bottles of hard stuff, were off, too. Seeing the room in that light just might be the first step to getting a guy off the bottle.

I took a seat at the bar in front of Jimmy. I guess expecting he would give me a drink was too much. He took a slug from the bottle of bourbon and then sealed it back up. I lit a cigarette and waited.

“The Beef is dead,” he said with a sigh of finality. I read both melancholy and relief in his tone.

“What happened?”

“Someone sapped him in the back alley and then slit his throat. Or vice versa. Either way the job was done.”

“Have you called the police?”

He gave me a look like I was a slow learner.

“What the hell for? They'd ruin my business for months. Maybe even do me for good. Nah-ah. I'm hirin' you.”

“I'm flattered, Jimmy, but this is a police matter. If we don't report this, you could be charged as an accomplice after the fact—or, at the very least, for obstruction of justice. Hell, it could go the same way for me.” I gulped some nervousness back into my gut. Jimmy's eyes narrowed further as I finished. “I'm not interested.”

“For a dick you don't notice a lot.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Big man or no, I still had some pride.

“I know who did The Beef.”

“Then what'd you call me for?” I was regaining some composure with a lungful of cigarette smoke.

“Because it ain't that easy. Kira!” he shouted, turning to face the kitchen off to the side of the bar. The red curtain parted and out came Kira in some kind of pajama-kimono. As ridiculous as Jimmy looked in the robe, Kira looked sexy as hell in silk. My eyes must have registered this incontrovertible fact, because Jimmy growled at me low and menacing. “Get your hard-on somewhere else.”

I said nothing, but loosed a lungful of smoke in the direction of the puke-colored pool table.

“Kira, tell Mr. Darvis what you saw. And no ching-chong crap!” Kira ignored him and looked at me. Even at this hour her face was damn near immaculate.

“You want drink, Misser Darvis?”

“Funny you should ask—”

“No drinks! The goddamn story!” Jimmy's arms flapped in the air, one tattoo on his forearm looking cheap and ink-smeared in the direct light, as his sleeve slid up. Kira poured me a shot of bourbon anyway from the same bottle Jimmy had just corked. I fought my usual smile in her presence and slugged the shot. I set the glass down hard, and for a moment only the concussion of glass against wood lingered in the air.

“Now tell it,” Jimmy commanded. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon and took a fast drink. He seemed overly nervous to me.

Kira looked from me to Jimmy. She folded one arm atop the other across her chest. Not folded exactly, because her palms lay flat; more like she was summoning some energy—or maybe nerve—to begin. I stubbed out my cigarette and kept my eyes on her. She looked back to me.

“I cleaning the bar top. Jimmy, he go in kitchen.”

“Kira,” Jimmy growled. He took hold of her shoulder. “Drop that crap!” She snatched herself away from him.

“All right, Jimmy,” she said in a tone of affection—laced with poison. “Here's what I saw, Mr. Darvis. George was the last one to go tonight. I woke him up myself. He was mumbling and looked as though he could barely see. But he smiled at me. I remember that. And he muttered something about a fight he threw.” Kira paused and looked at me fully. Maybe it was the light, but she seemed to have grown three inches before my eyes. And her English had sharpened, as though a warped record had been straightened. It had a practiced lilt, the consonants crisp and jagged, and the vowels clothed in ice. Even in the stark overhead light, with Jimmy scowling in his ridiculous yellow robe, I couldn't help but stare at her face and bask in this new voice. I could feel Jimmy looking at me over the bourbon. But for once, he was quiet. This was Kira's show, and she had us both by the balls.

“I helped him to the door. I've done that a few times.” Kira stopped and shot a look at Jimmy. “And no, he's never made any advances on me, Jimmy. He said good night, and when he opened the door, he looked as though he were making up his mind which direction to go. I decided I should call him a cab; so, I came back in to use the bar phone. I went back out a minute later, but didn't see him. Then I heard him in the alley. He was muttering, half singing. I walked towards the alley, but I heard urine hitting the wall. I decided he wasn't going anywhere, at least for the moment. So, I yelled over to him, ‘I call you cab, Beef!' I thought he said ‘All right', but it was slurred. I went back inside and closed the door. I kept cleaning. Jimmy had gone upstairs about ten minutes earlier. Pretty soon a cab pulled up out front. I heard a car door slam, then nothing for a moment, then a pounding on our door.” As Kira continued, the story picked up speed and the sequence of events tumbled out. “I opened it and saw a cabbie there, looking terrified. ‘Miss', he said, ‘are you alone?' I told him no and got suspicious. ‘Jesus God', he said. Just like that. I've never heard that expression before.”

“Go on with it, Kira.” Jimmy sounded tired and resigned.

Kira continued. “He wouldn't say anything. He just kept glancing towards the alley. Oh, and he was shaking the whole time. I wasn't about to let him inside.” She glanced at Jimmy. “I told him to wait outside. ‘Beef around the corner,' I said, and I locked the door to go get Jimmy.”

For the first time since I'd shown up, Jimmy seemed to be aware of how he was dressed. He pulled the yellow robe together across his massive chest, and I fished out another cigarette to spare him the embarrassment.

 
“When Jimmy and I came outside, the cabbie was at the door of his taxi, looking like he was scared out of his wits. Jimmy confronted him in his inimitable style, shall we say.”

‘Inimitable'—I liked that. I wondered if Jimmy thought he might be getting insulted.

“The cabbie pointed at the alley, but refused to move from his car. Jimmy went into the alley and I followed. That's where we found George Reynolds. On his stomach, a pool of blood circling his head and shoulders.”