Bullet Beach (2 page)

‘Dead,' Harry said. ‘That's what happened.'

‘You kill 'em?' Shanahan asked.

Harry set the bottle in front of Shanahan and went to the back bar to pour him a shot of J.W. Dant bourbon.

‘No, I didn't kill 'em,' he said.

‘I was thinking the stew did it. You never got it right.'

‘No,' Harry said, suppressing a grin. ‘My stew didn't kill anybody. Might have made 'em wish they were dead, but it didn't kill 'em. What I'm sayin' is that they're all dying off, or moving some place where the sun takes the chill off their bones or where people look after them. Nobody left in the neighborhood. Not even much of a neighborhood left.'

Harry was right, though he wouldn't tell him that. It wasn't the same neighborhood and it wasn't the same times. People didn't go to neighborhood bars and drink the afternoon away anymore. Not like they used to, anyway. It had been happening little by little, year by year. And finally, Harry noticed.

‘It's the end of an era,' Harry said. ‘I can't make it here anymore.'

He couldn't. Used to be that there'd be three shifts of men coming into the bar each day. An old, early crowd – sometimes a few women with them. They went home just about the time the younger blue-collar workers came in after work. And there'd be the late night guys. Guys. Mostly guys – many of them like Shanahan was at the time, drinking a few beers to while away time they didn't know how else to fill. Shanahan thought of it as God's waiting room.

‘The lease is up first of the year.' Harry shrugged and it seemed to say that to continue was futile.

‘Oh crap, Harry.' There wasn't anything Shanahan could say. He'd like to say something a little more sympathetic, but he couldn't get it out and even if he could Harry would be uncomfortable. They'd known each other for decades and never said anything nice to each other, nothing consoling certainly.

‘Well enough of the schmaltzy stuff,' Harry said, poking at Shanahan's beard. ‘What's with you and your friend there?'

‘Going to go look for my brother.'

‘Your brother?'

‘Yep.'

‘Didn't know you had one.'

‘Practically speaking, I guess I don't.'

‘You're not making sense again.'

‘One night when I was young some people came and took my brother away. Never saw him again.'

‘And you're just now getting' around to lookin' for him?' Harry asked, suddenly animated with frustration. Shanahan would call Harry ‘excitable.'

‘Slipped my mind,' Shanahan said. There was no point going into it. It was hard enough for Shanahan to understand. Why had he waited so long? Why was his mind dredging it all up? Why was it so important now? ‘How about another shot?'

‘Where are you looking?'

‘Start in Bangkok?'

‘Thailand?' Harry looked shocked.

Shanahan nodded.

‘When?'

‘Tonight,' Shanahan said.

‘And just when were you plannin' on tellin' me?' Harry asked, wide-eyed.

‘About now.'

Harry shook his head.

‘And Maureen?' he asked.

‘She's going too.'

‘Why on earth would she go on that kind of trip with you?'

‘Brand new menu.'

Shanahan looked down the empty bar, shook his head. While things were slowing down for Harry, they were speeding up for Shanahan. He had a lot to do before the search for Fritz actually began.

After they switched planes in Chicago, Maureen and Shanahan would be off on a quiet, five-hour flight to San Francisco. The plan was to freshen up at a cheap hotel in San Francisco, spend a little time with Shanahan's son, daughter in-law, and a grandson for brunch and catch another late night flight to Hong Kong. From Hong Kong to Bangkok, last known address for a Fritz Shanahan.

TWO

Howie Cross never thought of himself as having a Good Samaritan-type personality. He tried to do the right thing, if he knew what it was, in any given situation; but he hadn't spent his life doing good things for people as a matter of course. True, he'd been thrown off the police force because he had trouble putting people away for possession of marijuana and he disliked the idea of hassling prostitutes who had entered that life willingly. Unfortunately these weren't the qualities the Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department wanted in a vice cop. On the other hand he wasn't volunteering at a soup kitchen or carrying a protest sign.

Lately, though, he was drawn in to these sorts of things. He had decided to take care of an orphan, originally thought to be his. Even though she wasn't he had grown to love her and felt the need to protect her. He spent weekends with her at his parents', where the young girl lived now, and where he began to repair his folks' aging, teetering farmhouse. Now he was taking his friend – and in some ways mentor – Deets Shanahan and his companion Maureen to the airport. He had also volunteered to take care of Shanahan's dog and cat. They weren't happy about the change in scenery, but they were familiar with it and would adapt.

Was there a Saint Howie, he wondered, hidden under his Peter Pan complex? He laughed in his empty car. After dropping the animals at his house and Maureen and Shanahan at the airport, he headed toward the Eastside where he would pick up Slurpy. The two of them would drive a little further east and then north to pick up a repo Lincoln near 21st and Drexel. No Saint Howie, he concluded. If there was some sort of post-life justice system, his worries were simply about which rung of hell he'd occupy for eternity.

It wasn't quite midnight, when Cross found Slurpy at Slurpy's home away from home. He was sitting on the steps at the bar's rear exit staring out into the parking lot.

‘Hey Slurp,' Cross said as the huge guy climbed into the passenger seat. Cross could feel the car dip to that side. Slurpy slammed the door shut. It wasn't an angry gesture. It was just the way he did things. Slurpy wasn't a bad guy. He was a little slow, seemed to have to be told everything twice and tended to behave as if all problems had physical solutions. This unfortunate set of characteristics and his – Cross guessed – three hundred and forty-five pound body made him unpredictable and extremely formidable.

‘Hey,' he said solemnly. ‘You said there's fifty in it.'

‘Yep.' Cross said, putting his Audi loaner in gear and getting back on the street. ‘And all you got to do is follow me to the car lot and I'll drop you back here.'

‘You doing the jackin'?'

‘Yep. Only, it's called repossessing.'

‘Whatever.'

This would be easy. Cross had already picked up a duplicate set of keys, keys kept by Irving Edelman, owner of the car lot from which the Lincoln was bought. Edelman was clever; he always kept a set of keys when he financed the loan. This allowed quick and easy entry, a quick getaway and best of all, no car alarm. It was to be an evening of surprises starting when Cross picked up the keys. He had caught Edelman pulling a bottle of vodka from behind a huge sailfish mounted on the wall over a tattered sofa. Cross had stepped too lightly into the darkened office. His sudden presence startled Edelman, who quickly shut his now not so secret compartment.

Cross didn't find the next surprise nearly as funny. The night was faintly lit by a half moon and there was a little light spill from a streetlamp on 21st Street. Cross could identify the silver Lincoln Town Car. He parked the Audi down the street, told Slurpy to get in the driver's seat and wait until Cross pulled out. Slurpy would follow.

One might think that it was cooler outside during evening hours. But it was like turning the light out in the oven. Perspiration gathered on Cross's neck.

He looked up and down the street lined with two-bedroom, post-World War Two bungalows. A few lights were on, but shades were drawn. No one was out walking and there was the steady hum of air conditioners to muffle any sounds on the street.

Cross had no sooner slipped into the leather seats and put the key in the ignition than he sensed a presence. At first he thought it must be Slurpy and some silly question. But it wasn't Slurpy. It was a slender figure, face hidden in the darkness, the light from the Lincoln's interior glancing off the shotgun.

‘It's the Cartier Edition,' the man said. His voice was both light and full of gravel. It had almost a breathless quality. ‘The Lincoln, a special edition. Lived all my life to have a car like this. It's not new, but it's really sweet. Nothing has made me happier.'

‘It's beautiful,' Cross said.

‘And you can't have it. It's mine,' the man said.

‘You know, I'm just doing my job. Seems as if you've missed a few payments. I'm sure you can work this out, but in the meantime . . .'

‘In the meantime, get outta my car.' The man had a shotgun.

‘I can do that.' As nice as it was, Cross wasn't going to put his life on the line for a Lincoln Town Car.

A third voice entered the conversation, this one behind the man with the shotgun.

‘Fair warning, fool. I'm gonna snap your neck you don't put down that piece.'

‘I don't think you've got the picture just right,' the man said. ‘You make one move, your friend doesn't have a head.'

‘Listen Slurpy, we can . . .' Coming back the next day with the sheriff wasn't a big deal. Dying was. Cross's attempt at pacification was about to fail.

‘Hey,' Slurpy said, interrupting, ‘my friend here? We ain't that close.'

Slurpy reached around and took the shotgun from the man's hands. He turned the slender man around and gave him a shove. The man fell back on his butt in the street. The guy was in a suit. In the dim light, Cross couldn't tell whether he was a light-skinned black or a dark-skinned white. He was between forty and sixty. Maybe.

Shotgun in hand, Slurpy walked back to the Audi.

Cross climbed in the driver's seat of the Lincoln.

‘Look at it this way. You could have been arrested,' Cross told the man.

The guy got up and Cross drove off. He checked the rearview mirror to see the Audi headlights. Slurpy was moving in behind him.

Things turned out all right. But Cross wasn't happy with Slurpy's intervention. It worked this time. But the danger was unnecessary especially when the stakes were so low.

Cross hit the interstate off Emerson and exited on Washington where Edelman had his car lot. The car was a dream. Unfortunately it wasn't a smart car for a private investigator. It stood out. Better for a lawyer. Or a pimp.

Even on this short little multi-lane jaunt, hitting a cruising speed and riding for a distance without stoplights relaxed him, let him gather his thoughts. And what were his thoughts tonight, he asked himself. The thoughts he had were about himself. They were the same as they often were: about how his life was a continuous loop, a short loop because he was going nowhere. He was marking time. He wasn't getting wealthier. He wasn't falling in love. He wasn't having fun, particularly. He was in the same place he was ten years ago and it was the same place he'd be ten years from now. Cross felt no sadness. It was a cold assessment of his life. And after reviewing the situation he did what he always did. He shrugged. Better than being dead. Better than being in prison.

He pulled into the lot and then behind the buildings. The instructions were to leave it in the locked garage behind the office. The previous owner might return to reclaim his car, so keeping it off the lot and behind locked doors was advisable. He'd collect from Edelman tomorrow or take it out in trade – another loaner off the lot when the time was right. The deal prevented all those complicated tax calculations.

The light from the Audi caught him and illuminated the garage door. Slurpy remained in the car. Cross opened the garage door and got back in the Lincoln. He was about to pull it in the garage when he saw the red and blue flashing lights coming in behind the Audi. Cross wasn't worried until the sirens began and there were more lights. Cross got out of the car and – being familiar with how jumpy cops can be, especially at night – raised his hands immediately and waited for instructions, which he was inclined to follow to the letter. But his stomach sank as he realized Slurpy was in the Audi. Worse, Slurpy was in there with a shotgun.

‘Get down on your knees,' said the voice behind the lights now aiming at him. Cross did. ‘Now lay down on your belly.' Cross did. He was tempted as anyone would be to ask for some sort of explanation or to tell them who he was. But he knew better than most that this wasn't the time for anything other than doing what you were told. He'd have time to show them his license and explain their presence on the car lot past midnight. He understood. They had to secure the scene. ‘Now put your hands behind your head and keep them there. Make no moves.' Cross followed instructions.

‘You!' came the voice. ‘You in the car.'

Cross couldn't see what was happening.

‘Get out of the car slowly, keep your hands where we can see them.'

‘I want a lawyer.'

Cross recognized Slurpy's voice.

‘Jesus,' Cross said to himself. He had a bad feeling.

‘Get out of the car slowly, keep your hands where we can see them.'

This was going down by the book.

‘Go fuck yourself,' Slurpy said.

‘Do as you're told, Slurpy,' Cross yelled.

‘This is the last time we will tell you. Get out of the car slowly, keep your hands where we can see them.'

Cross heard the car door open.

‘Now get down on your knees,' the same voice said.