A Bullet Apiece Page 5

  Before I got out of the car, I assessed the woody incline. Time to go natural. I grabbed my binoculars from the glove box. I also took out my .38. I didn’t expect to need it, but experience had taught me that it was better to have it and not need it.

  The hike through the woods wasn’t too bad. It was too early in the year for crickets, but robins kept the treetops lively, and a late woodpecker bitched at me before flying out of view. After about five minutes, I could see a clearing in the twilight. To my right I could make out the break where the driveway stretched up. There, Officer Frederick’s car sat, a football field away. I caught chatter from his car radio. Sure didn’t sound like a police dispatcher. More like Harry Carey doing play-by-play. Frederick sure knows how to be inconspicuous. Idiot. Even the maid would get wise to his presence in a heartbeat.

  I skirted around to the back of the house along the tree edge. This gave me a nice panoramic view. There was the neat lawn, bordered by flower beds with a few spent irises nodding off. The house was a big stone affair with multiple chimneys. Atop one was a plaster mock-up of a stork in a giant nest feeding its young. Tall French doors opened onto a covered porch and ran the length of one side of the mansion. And although I couldn’t see it, I imagined the walkway led onto a well-furnished brick patio. There were only two lights on in the upstairs window, and one downstairs, in what looked like the kitchen. In back was a separate garage, done up in the same stone, all three doors closed. One of the perks of money. Tom Hanady didn’t have to share his garage, like I did. No one to open doors too wide and scratch your car’s finish, or park right on top of you so you had to slide your ass into the driver’s seat, while resisting the urge to key the hell out of your neighbor’s car’s own shabby exterior.

  I stepped out of the treeline in the gathering dark and squatted in the hedges. Through my binoculars, I saw the stove through the kitchen window. Something was cooking. A woman, portly, grandmotherly, came briefly into view. She stirred complacently for a minute. I trained the binoculars from her image up to the lighted windows on the second floor. One was covered by a shade. The other revealed books lined up in shelves, what might be a library, I supposed. Aside from the cook, there was no other movement for about twenty minutes. Then I thought I caught a movement in the shadow of the house. I stayed still, but nothing changed. Maybe the plaster stork flew off the top of the chimney to go on night patrol. A dog barked somewhere.

  As I got up and walked along the treeline, staying out of any ambient light, the chatter of the baseball announcer from Frederick’s radio came through clearer. Moron, I thought, do you not know the meaning of ‘undercover’? By this time, though, it was too dark to see inside his car. I paused just then, as the hair on the back of my neck stood up. It felt like the prickles of a too-close lightning strike. Then, I felt the pressure of cold, hard metal against my skull. Moron, I told myself.

  “Be cool. And don’t move a inch,” a deep voice commanded.

  I stood stock still, arms at my sides, binoculars around my neck. My .38 may as well have been a mile away in a dark ravine, for all the good it did inside my coat pocket.

  “Now. I’m gonna talk to you slow, so you understand. Get me?”

  I nodded with utmost care.The resonant voice came from what seemed three feet above my head. I’d never been accosted by a giant.

  “Good. Raise your arms and lock your fingers behind your head like you ’bout to do jumpin’ jacks. Only don’t do none."

  Funny guy.Wary of a hair-trigger, I slowly raised my hands to the back of my head. Without moving the gun, he pressed it hard against my skull, while he patted me down. Rather, I felt a sizeable hand beat my torso and slap my legs. In a split second, I was relieved of my gun and wallet. Next came the binoculars.

  A flashlight clicked on. The gun was still steady against my head. Nimble guy.

  He chuckled. “A private dick, huh?” Wow. Smart guy. Guess the crooks watch police shows, too. “All right, Mr. Darvis.” His tone and articulation both changed. “Take a step forward and then turn around reeeal slow.”

  The barrel left the back of my head, and just for an instant, I thought about some fancy moves. But I was smart enough to see who—or what—I was up against first.

  The night has eyes, they say. This hulking manifestation of night also had a big grin full of moon-white teeth. The man was indeed a giant. Six ten easy. His shoulders would make a linebacker weep. His chest was broad, covered in a tight black material. His pants were black, too, and his clown-sized shoes disappeared into the inky grass.

  “Look me in the eye.”

  I did. He continued to grin. “What say we take a little walk up to the house?”

  With my hands still on top of my head, I jerked my head sideways. “How about Johnny Law over there?”

  “We won’t be needing to disturb him. C’mon. You walk in front of me, and you can be sure I’ll be right behind you.”

  I didn’t doubt that. I started up the hill towards the house. “He’ll see us, you know.”

  “Naw. I took care of that.”

  That gave me my first chill. “Mrs. Hanady at home?”

  “Now, what business is that of yours?”

  “She hired me this morning. To see about recovering her daughter, Rachel.”

  “Aw, isn’t that nice?”

  Pissing off a giant with a gun in my back wasn’t too smart. So, I decided to shut up. For a big guy, I barely heard him behind me as we came up to the patio.

  “Stop here,” he said. He let me feel the gun again, this time in the small of my back. “Turn towards the garage in back.”

  Up close, the garage was a house in its own right. It had an upper floor—like a carriage house—that is, if your carriage was a limousine and you had three of them.

  “Nice place. You live here?” I asked.

  The giant made no reply. Instead, he steered me towards a door to the left of the garage doors.

  “Open it,” he commanded.

  I did. Ahead of me, a bleakly-lit staircase led to a landing. The hoss of a man shoved the gun harder into my back and said to march up the stairs. Once on the landing, I had thoughts of making a mad leap over the rail, or turning to plant a few well-aimed kicks at my escort’s groin. That would have been a good way to die. And I wasn’t ready for that yet. Instead, I continued up three more steps. Ahead of me, at the end of the hallway was a big window. Three doors lined the way between me and that only other escape: a plunge through glass to the bricks below.

  The giant stopped me right before we got to the first door and told me to face the wall. He walked around me, his gun moving along the small of my back, but then pressing hard into my kidney. When he was alongside me and the door, he removed the gun and leveled it at my midsection. He kept grinning. Now I could see him a little better, thanks to the faux-torchlight near his head. As he knocked on the first door—three times, pause, three more times—his eyes never left my face. And mine never left his. I was a little shocked to see some kind of patterned scarring on his cheeks. The cuts looked deliberate, like tattoos. His hair was neatly kept in little nubs atop his head. And the gun—a beaut of a .45, shining, black. My own confiscated gun and wallet were nowhere in sight, but he had the binoculars hanging rather sportingly from one shoulder. From inside the door, a muffled voice said, “Come in, Meeki.” Meeki? Nothing meek about this guy.

  Meeki opened the door and gestured for me to enter first. With his gentlemanly wave, I might have been going to see a man about a loan.

  Two dimly lit, pale orange shades, ensconced on the wall, gave the room a hunting club intimacy. Typical dark oak panelling. A modest wood desk, fronted by two dark leather chairs. A man reclined in the chair behind the desk. No mistaking it, even in this light: Thomas Hanady.

  He looked up at me a little surprised. He relaxed when he saw Meeki looming over my shoulder, gun in his massive grip. Guys who relax with guns pointed at people have never been my type.

  “Who are you?” Hanady spoke
with a soft, almost adolescent voice.

  “Ed Darvis. I’m a private investigator. Your friend here found me outside.”

  “Snooping around, Mr. Hanady,” Meeki cut in. He held up my gun, wallet, and binoculars in one of his big mitts.

  “Set those on the desk, Meeki. And keep our Mr. Darvis here covered.”

  Meeki complied. Hanady picked up the gun, held it up and sighted it directly at me. And then smiled. I didn’t. He lowered the gun, opened the chamber, emptied the rounds, and dropped them into his desk drawer. He set the gun back down. Then he opened my wallet. His smile had disappeared.

  “So, you are a private investigator, Mr. Darvis. And what brings you all the way out to my humble home?” He picked up the binoculars and peered at me through the long end. His smile reappeared. Sweet man, my ass.

  “Your wife. She hired me this morning. After your daughter disappeared.”

  If Hanady was ruffled by this, he didn’t show it.

  “She hasn’t disappeared. She’s quite safe.” He set the binoculars down. “I love my daughter.”

  “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 unwelcome.”

  “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.

  Chapter 6

  The Lady (Ain’t) From Shanghai

  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.r />
  “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.