A Bullet Apiece (8 page)

Bertie dropped me at my office. I swore I'd go straight home and even made a show of unlocking my Chevy. But as his sedan disappeared around the turn by the welder's shop, I abandoned that effort and went straight into my office. Before I could follow Bertie's sage advice to clean up, I had another mess to take care of. I needed to call the taxi service and find out which taxi driver saw The Beef and then took off. Anyway, who needs sleep? A police roust is always good for the circulation.

I plopped my tired ass into the squeaky office chair and stared at the immense distance between my hands and the phone. Two cases at once. Well, if I did right by my new clients, I'd be able to keep the lights on and buy name-brand smokes. But I was nowhere closer to finding the Hanady's daughter, or solving The Beef's murder. I was getting beaten around more than I was comfortable with. The list of suspects was growing, and the body count was rising. In actuality, this feast of bloodshed was making my famine diet of cheap liquor and off-brand cigarettes look pretty good.

 
The squeeze on Simon this morning convinced me he wasn't The Beef's murderer. That didn't mean he wasn't involved somehow. But I also didn't feel bad about muscling him. I needed to show Simple Simon I was tougher than him, and a sick part of me wanted to keep him in his place in the food chain. Meeki had certainly shown me mine. I touched the welt on the back of my head, then ran my hand along my cheek. Hamilton made his bid known, too, on my jaw. It would never be the same. I belched the remainders of my greasy breakfast and picked up the phone.

The operator connected me with Yellow Cab. A dispatcher with a strong St. Louis accent answered.

“Yellow Cab. How can I help youse?”

“My name is Ed Darvis. I'm a P.I., hired to investigate a case involving one of your cabbies.”

“Don't know a thing about it.”

What'd I expect
,
a snappy ‘yes, sir'
?

“The name Broad Jimmy mean anything to you?”

“Yeah, sure it does. This's got nothin' to do with him, does it?”

“Let's just say he'd be very interested in your cooperation in this matter.” I lent some goomba inflection to my voice. Sure couldn't hurt.

“All right, I got no truck with Jimmy. This is a union shop, fella. Whadda ya need?”

Bingo
. “I need to know about a fare outside Broad Jimmy's last night. After closing time. Who was dispatched there?”

“Gimme a minute.”

I heard him set the phone down. Up close to the receiver, some papers shuffled around, then I heard what might have been an industrial fan roaring in the far background. A car engine turned over, then revved. An echo sounded through a cavernous space as the engine settled to idle. The dispatcher came back on.

“Tim Hamill. Name's Tim Hamill.”

“Gotcha. And where's he live?”

“He's not in any trouble, is he?”

“Just wanna talk to him.”

The dispatcher gave me his address, including the cross street. Tamm Avenue. Dogtown. Same neighborhood as Simple Simon.

“Well, isn't that cute,” I said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Thanks for the information.”

The dispatcher had hung up before I finished. In moments like that, I always want to call back and then hang up after “Hello.” The kid in me.

I closed up the office and got back into my Chevy, which had preheated to the seventh-circle-of-hell quite nicely during my field trip with my police buddies. One thing was for sure, before the day was out I'd be needing some cold refreshment, if not a deep nap for my poor sleep-deprived body.

I found Tim Hamill's place on Tamm, right across the street from St. James the Greater Catholic Church. Hamill lived in a flat over a bakery. He had his own entrance, right next to the front door of the bakery. I tried his door, found it locked, then rang the bell. Nothing happened over the next few minutes, even though I rang the bell three more times. Finally, I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through the glass in the door; then I rapped on the glass, hard. About the time I was going to bang on it again, another door at the landing on the top of the stairs opened up. Geez, another guy in a robe. This one blue.

He took a few steps down, craning his neck to see me. I gave a little wave. He straightened the cord around his waist and continued down the steps in a leisurely fashion. I was sure that seeing my broad tie and jacket, rumpled though it was, he'd probably already made me for a detective. He reached the door and opened it a crack, his face unshaven and expressionless.

“What is it?” he asked.

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

“Yeah, so?”

“Your dispatcher told me where to find you.”

He stared at me expectantly.

“Broad Jimmy hired me earlier this morning. Seems you were dispatched to his tavern to pick up a body.” At the word ‘body' he blanched.

“I don't know anything about a body.”

“Relax, bud, I didn't mean anything by it. A body. A fare, you know?”

“Let me see some ID.”

I shoved my ID and badge onto the glass. He shrugged.

“I'd like to ask you some questions about last night. Can I come in?”

“I don't think so.”

“Then why don't you come out on the sidewalk and we'll fry some eggs together.” He frowned. I crossed my arms and returned his look. When it was clear I wasn't moving, he sighed.

“Gimme a minute. Meet me in the bakery. They've got tables.”

I wasn't keen on discussing this case in public, but I needed this cabbie to be comfortable while I grilled him. At least for now.

I opened the door to the bakery and strode in under a chiming bell. Two overweight women stood in front of the counter, eyeing glazed donuts. A slim, attractive older woman in a gingham apron stood patiently on the other side. Above her, an angled mirror showed off some overly decorated cakes in the lighted display cases.

I nodded my head to her when she looked at me, and she smiled in return. It looked genuine, so I relaxed a little. For some privacy, I took a seat at a round glass table in the corner furthest from the front door. As the two customers continued some dispute about which donuts to get, I pulled out a cigarette and held it to my lips in a gesture of permission. The proprietress shook her head, then returned her attention to the two women. I inserted the cigarette back into the pack and continued to wait on Hamill.

At last he showed up. I had kept my eye on his cab parked across the street, just in case he decided to duck out on our date. He walked in, freshly shaven, hair slicked back, wearing blue jeans and a white button-down shirt, tucked in no less. Some kind of dime-store cologne washed over me as he sat down. He arranged his gangly frame in the chair opposite me.

“They got table service here, Tim?”

He looked surprised to hear me speak his name.

“No. We've gotta order at the counter.”

The two women had settled their donut wrangling and were paying up. I offered to get coffee and went up to the counter. The proprietress gave me another warm smile.

“Sorry ye can't smoke in here. It affects the quality of the baked goods.” She spoke with a first-generation brogue, not quite Maureen O'Hara, but close.

“No skin off my lungs,” I said and winked. She laughed and covered her mouth. I ordered two coffees. In half a minute, she brought forth two steaming cups. I paid her and told her to keep the change. She smiled again. Maybe I should hang up my .38 and sell restaurant equipment instead. Get all the love.

I returned to the table with our coffees. Tim nodded and sipped at his cup, not looking at me.

“All right, Tim. Broad Jimmy and Kira Harto told me you were the one who found the body.” I kept my voice low. Some Irish reel was playing quietly behind the counter.

“Yeah, I did,” he admitted. “Whose body, by the way?” His abrupt acknowledgement of The Beef's corpse didn't put a wrinkle on his placid face.

“You didn't recognize him?”

“He was face down in his own blood. I didn't do a character sketch.”

I chuckled. “No, I guess not. Tell me about the other man. The one who ran out of the alley.”

“Aw, man.” He brought his cup back up to his lips and blew at the steam rising from it. He looked out at his cab like it was rigged to blow. “Well . . . ,” he looked at me and then whispered, “It was a cop. A
cop
for chrissakes.”
 

“How'd you know?”

“Man,” Hamill uttered again. He looked like he was going to clam up.

“Hey, Tim, you're a good Catholic, aren't you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, Father Doherty baptized me.” I nodded my head towards St. James. “I've been able to help him out in the past. He's been known to look out for me, too.” I let Hamill think that over.

“C'mon, buddy. I don't need this.”

I leaned over the table and stared at him without blinking.

“All right, all right. He's a local guy. At least, Dogtown is part of his beat.”

“What's his name?”

“I'd rather not say.”

“Shall we go over to the good father and make a confession.”

He didn't say anything; just gripped the coffee cup.

“Or is it you'd rather obstruct an investigation?”

“Downing.”

“Hunh? Didn't catch that.”

“Downing, Downing. Officer Downing.” Hamill slunk down in his seat.

“You know him well?”

“No. Just enough to recognize him. He walks along Tamm Street most nights. He's got a pretty easy beat, if you ask me.”

“Why's that?”

“Nothing happens around here. Sometimes kids steal car radios, but everyone knows who does it. He keeps his eyes on a couple of houses in the area. No dads around, you know. One set of lesbian grandmas.”

“
Lesbian
grandmas?”

“Yeah. This boy Bobby, he lives with his older brother, kid sister, and his grandma. She has a live-in woman they also call Grandma, but she's a fuckin' dike.”

The woman behind the counter gasped. I looked over and saw her mouth hanging open. For a split second, I felt embarrassed for her.

“I get the picture,” I said to Hamill, “but keep it down. Now, about this Officer Downing. You're sure it was him you saw outside Broad Jimmy's?”

“Positive. That's what makes this so….” He trailed off, at a loss for words.

“Uncomfortable?” I offered.

“Yeah. Say, who was the poor schmuck? The one that died?”

“George Reynolds. You ever hear of him?”

“Don't shit me. The Beef?”

“One and the same.”

“God.”

“I wouldn't say he's seated at his right hand right now.”

“No, I guess not.” Hamill sighed. His cologne was nauseating.

“Let me get some things straight. Kira told me you came to the door all nervous. Tell me what you saw.”

“I pulled up front and looked around. I wasn't sure about getting out. Sometimes these late-night pickups are a ruse for a robbery.”

I decided to test a theory simmering in the back of my mind. The rest of this conversation depended on how he answered this question. “You didn't recognize Kira's voice on the phone?”

“Why should I? I don't hang out down there.”

Gotcha, asshole.
“Go on.”

“I was sitting there making up my mind if I should get out of the cab, when this guy comes wheeling out of the alley.”

“Officer Downing.”

“Yeah. Him. He was in his civvies, though. He looks right at me, then covers his face and takes off running the opposite way. I thought that was strange to say the least. I got out of my cab, real slow, walked around to the other side, and called out, ‘Hello?'” Hamill laughed ruefully. “I must have sounded like a victim in a horror flick. But no answer, and the cop was long gone.”

“Then what?”

“I walked over to the alley and peeked around the corner.”

“Pretty brave for a nervous guy.”

“I'm no punk, mister. That's when I saw the body.”

“And then you ran back and pounded on the door of the tavern.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me what you whispered to Broad Jimmy.”

“What?”

“Kira said you whispered something to Broad Jimmy and then took off.”

“Oh, yeah, that. I told him who I saw running out of the alley.”