Murder by Candlelight (36 page)

"Just an evening now and again. Like going
to a party, maybe. Seeing who's there."

"I could do that. The one thing a college
professor has is spare time. Not much money to do anything with it,
though."

"As for money ..." Z began doubtfully.

"Not important. It's the
fun of it that counts. The very
idea
that I could be a P.I. --
romantic."

And that was where they'd left it.

As for Z, he was
determined to give Calder's suggestion a try. Z
had
been drifting.
Thinking
too much and
acting too little. Whatever else, Z was going to get back in the
game again.
This
time as a
player
instead of a punching bag!

* * * * *

Chapter 20

It had been a hard two
days. Thinking was always hard; thinking about
planning
, even harder. (An early
payoff was that Z's nightmares had let up a little. At least, those
he remembered.) Now, with a warm, end-of-August rain pelting his
grimy office window, Z was ready to kick some ass!

His early plans completed, feeling the small
pleasure of sitting in his own dilapidated chair behind his own
dilapidated desk, he reached for his own dilapidated phone.

Picking up the age-dulled black receiver, Z
dialed the first of the series of numbers he'd need, numbers
sticking in his mind like burrs to a cowboy's chaps. (He'd heard
that expression in a B-western when he was a child.)

One ring. Two. Three.

Ten 'till nine was a good
time to begin phoning, was Z's thought, particularly if he made his
calls in the right sequence. Late enough for early risers to be up;
too early for them to have left the house for the day's rat race.
As for
this
call,
while he might not get his man, Z would at least be able to start
the process.

"Bateman College, how can I help you?"

"Social Science department."

"One moment, please."

Another ring. Then another ...

"Social Science department," said the
steel-cold voice of the department's sergeant-of-a-secretary, her
frosty tone declaring she'd refuse to buy any student's excuse for
missing class that started with: "There's been a death in the
family."

"Dr. Calder."

"Dr. Calder is in class. This is the
beginning of the fall semester, you know."

"Could I leave a message?"

"You one of his students?"

"No."

"Oh." A softer "Oh" since Z might be someone
of more stature than a lowly student. Like a book salesman. "If
it's really important, I could type a message." Said with a
put-upon sigh.

"Have Dr. Calder call Bob Zapolska. He has
my number."

"I'll tell him."

"When?"

"When he comes back to the office after his
class."

"And when will that be?"

"I don't have control of his movements you
know. I can't make him show up when he's supposed to."

"Appreciate it," Z said, hanging up before
the woman could say another irritating thing.

Z picked up the phone. Dialed Jamie's
apartment from memory, her school not starting until after Labor
Day.

Four rings. "What?"

"Jamie. Z."

"Shit!"

"I need you," he said, by way of
clarification.

"Sure. That's what they all say. A man will
screw you. Not call for weeks. Then breathe sweet-nothings into the
phone. 'I need you, baby. I can't live without you.'"

"Shut up!"

"What!?"

"I said, shut up!"

Followed by a long pause. Jamie, trying to
digest the unexpected insult.

"Listen, buster ...." But
that was all she could choke out, Jamie so stunned she
actually
shut
up
.

Women were strange. If you treated them
nicely, they ran all over you. If you treated them badly, they came
back for more. Not always. But more often than not. "I'm offering
to pay you," Z said, trying to make peace.

"What!? I've never been so
insulted in my life! I'm not that kind of girl and I've
never
been that kind of
girl."

Oh, oh. Quickly, Z rushed
in to repair the damage. "I didn't mean
that
. I don't want to have sex with
you."

"Are you
trying
to insult
me!?"

"What I mean is, I need your skills. As a
P.I., I need your special talents."

"Oh .... That."

"That."

Silence on the line. "What did you have in
mind?"

"Got a case I'm working
on. Can't do it by myself.
You
know ... things ... I don't."

"You'd have to be pretty
dumb not to have noticed
that
," she said dryly, still not
knowing what to make of the new Z.

"Yeah," Z admitted. "Not much money. Not to
start."

"I work for you? As a P.I.?"

"Part-time. This and
that.
Assist
me."

"Don't get your bowels in an uproar. I don't
mean to take your title from you." She laughed. Was OK again. "For
starters, how about paying me for all the help I've given you so
far?"

"No dice."

"I figured that."

"It's yes, then?"

"Depends. Though working
for a private
dick
does have appeal."

Z almost said shut up again. But thought
better of it. "What I got in mind is a small job. To see if you
like it."

"To see if I can
cut
it, don't you mean?"
Jamie was a hard lady to get the better of. Z was counting on
that.

"Got some other problems to work out first.
You'll hear from me soon."

Z hung up. Took a quick look to see if the
big hand on his "Mickey Mouse" watch was pointing up. Found that it
was.

If Z remembered when classes changed at
Bateman, Calder should be calling any time now, Z wanting to stay
off the phone when the professor was trying to get through.

Folding his arms, resting them on the heavy
oak desk, Z laid his head down. Though he'd been getting a little
more sleep, chasing off nightmares was a formidable task.

The phone rang. As he knew it would.

He picked up it. "Z."

"Calder, here. What's up? Need me for a
caper?"

Caper? Z winced -- remembered when he used
to feel "caperish" about the job. At the beginning. Before he'd
seen ... too much.

"Maybe," Z said.

"Maybe?" Calder sounded disappointed.

"You seemed ... uncertain."

"I was ... a little. I've never done
anything like this before."

"Maybe
practice
is what you
need."

"Practice?" Calder was puzzled.

"If you decide to help me, your part would
be going places I can't. Finding out facts easy for you, difficult
for me."

"Right. That's what I'd understood."

"I don't have need for you
now. Maybe not for some time." Z paused to let the psychologist
think about that. "The fact is, when I
would
need you, I'd have to be
certain you both wanted to do the work and that you
...."

"
Could
do the work." Calder was quick
on the uptake.

"Right. That's where I got my idea about
practice. Like training in the military." Z wasn't doing much of
job of explaining. With a mind like Calder's, though, Z didn't have
to be letter-perfect. "I'd like to give you an ... assignment."

"The teacher gets to do homework," Calder
said with a laugh.

Sharp. Very sharp. "Right. And here it is.
Just for practice, I'd like you to find some information about
someone."

"Who?"

"The type of person you have access to. For
instance, a colleague."

"I'd hate to ... spy ... on a friend,"
Calder said hesitatingly.

"I see that." Z paused, as if to think this
objection over. "How about someone you don't know? Better yet, how
about an ... enemy?"

"Sounds right. But who?"

"Here's the drill. As practice, and to see
if you like this sort of thing, find out about the dean."

"Dean?"

"The Vice Chancellor of Incremental
Augmentation Services."

"Ashlock."

"Ashlock."

"Find out
what
about
him?"

"Age, home phone number, address, marital
status, birthday. Plus his daily routine. Follow him. See where he
goes. And when."

"
Shadow
him." Calder had seen too
many gangster movies, Z decided. "But ..." Calder, turning serious,
"I can't follow him all the time. As I said, I've got classes to
teach."

"No problem," Z said quickly. "There are
other ways to discover where the dean is when you're tied up."

"I could ask someone if they'd seen Ashlock
during the hours I'm teaching."

"You're going to be a natural," Z said,
feeling Calder needed all the encouragement Z could provide.

"When do you want this info, tough guy?"

Calder had just morphed into Bogart. "A
couple of days."

"Number one son on the job, Pop." A switch
to Charlie Chan.

And that was
that
conversation.

Z looked at his watch. Time for an early
lunch at the Pizza Hut. Satisfy the inner man with an individual
double-pepperoni pizza and glass of Diet Coke. You just couldn't
beat the grease in pizza as a cheap fill-up.

After lunch, Z went to QuikTrip at 72nd and
Antioch to put gas in the Cavalier.

Inside, waiting in the short line to pay the
clerk, coming out again into the midday heat, Z checked his watch.
... A little early for the next call, but what the hell. Z knew he
wasn't going to complete it anyway.

Pulling away from the pumps, Z turned right
to nose the Cavalier in beside the QuikTrip public phone at the end
of the pump island. Getting a quarter from his pocket, Z reached
out the driver side window to hook off the chrome-plated receiver
and jingle the coin in the pay phone slot.

Getting a dial tone, he pushed the stainless
steel number buttons.

Ring.

Picked up. Always on the first ring.

"International Imports." As Z had come to
expect, the voice was "older woman" classy.

"I'd like to speak to John Dosso,
please,"

"I'm sorry sir, but no one of that name
works for International Imports."

"Tell him a high school friend called."

"I'm sorry sir, but no one of that ...."

Z hung up.

Always the same.

Time to go to the office.

Exiting QuikTrip's lot, he turned left on
72nd, then south on Antioch. Went East at the shopping center.
Crossed Vivion. Then drifted down bucolic Chouteau to the shabby
rehab where he parked, entered the building, and continued to limp
down the left hall and into his office.

Sagged back in his "executive" chair again,
patting his sweaty forehead and neck with an old handkerchief he'd
scratched out of the sticking desk drawer, Z decided he couldn't
make any more calls just yet. No way to do that until Calder
provided additional information ....

The phone rang.

"Z."

"Call ...." Followed by the number where Z
could reach John, Z off on another trip to a pay phone, the nearest
one in the Antioch Shopping Center.

"Hi there, Z-man! And
where might
you
be, this beautiful day?" The perfectly predictable question
John always managed to work in.

"Pay phone. Antioch Center."

"Good. Shopping never hurt anybody. Until
you buy something." John was in a good mood which should help
matters along.

"Need a favor."

"So you're collecting already, are you?"
Silence telling him he was right, John Dosso continued. "I have to
tell you, that's not like you, Z. You never let me do anything for
you. Oh, little things. A length of dynamite fuse here, a little
black powder there, a few phony licenses ...."

"Glad you reminded me."

"Reminded you of
what
?" John was
not
used to be
interrupted.

"I need a little more fuse."

"Wha'yu do with the last coil I got you?
Blow up a bridge?"

"No."

"Somebody's house, then.
Or a car? I saw on the TV that a pusher had his car blown up, along
with whoever was driving. There weren't enough pieces left to tell
who was who. Shocking waste of plastique, if you ask me. But
if
you
did that
hit, you got connections even
I
don't know about. If that's the case, you don't
need to ask me for favors no more. If that hit's
your
work, I'll be
asking
you
for
favors." John laughed. "But I won't ask. I'm the soul of
discretion. In my business, you got to be. Or you end up like those
poor dumb fucks. Litterin' the countryside." He paused to catch a
wheeze of breath. "I'll send you some in what they used to call a
plain brown wrapper. Remember that? When your sex magazines came to
you in a plain brown paper? So's the mailman don't blab it all over
the neighborhood you were reading that kind'a filth? Except that it
was a dead giveaway when mags came in plain brown
wrappers?"

"Thanks."

"So, what else you got in mind?"