A Bullet Apiece Page 9

  I got back in the Chevy and pointed it toward my office. As I drove by the bakery, I noticed Tim huddled over the counter talking to the woman behind it. She looked mean, like a mother chiding a disobedient child.

  Hamill’s story matched Kira’s. Except for one important detail, and that was going to cost him. No way he could have heard Kira calling for the cab. That would have been the dispatcher who took her call.

  Chapter 10

  Evelyn West & Her Pleasure Chest

  Back in my office, I checked in with the answering service. Three calls, the woman said. Bertie Albanese, no message. Another solicitor. And one from a police officer.

  “What was his name?” I asked. I could feel my heart wake up.

  “Matt Downing.”

  “Any message?”

  “No. He did say he’d be looking out for you.”

  “Thanks again.” I held onto the phone and thought a minute. I was sure Officer

  Downing wasn’t going to invite me to a pajama party. I didn’t like it. I dialed the operator and asked for the Yellow Cab Company again. The same dispatcher as before answered.

  “This is Ed Darvis again. I got a question for ya. Were you working the night before?”

  “No.”

  “Who was, if you don’t mind?”

  “Ben Hartog.”

  “He work most nights?”

  “Yeah. He’ll be on again tonight.”

  “Any chance you got his number?”

  “Sure. But I’m not givin’ it out to you.”

  That was odd. He had no trouble giving me Tim Hamill’s. “Not even for an investigation?”

  “Not unless there’s a subpoena.”

  “Well, in that—”

  He hung up on me again. Son of a bitch. I’d have to look up Hartog’s number myself. Or maybe I’d wait to call back tonight. In fact, it looked like most of the action would be tonight. It was 2:30 in the afternoon now. I yawned and looked out at the sunny street. I decided to go home and at least get a couple of hours.

  I pulled into the cool garage adjoining my building and trudged up the back stairs, desperate for some sleep. The music store below wouldn’t be open yet, so I didn’t have to worry about any horns squeaking through the floorboards. And the only other tenant on my floor, an artist, kept vampire hours, too. So, no problem there. Ah, sleep, that knits up the ravelled sleep of care. But no sooner had I opened the door and stepped into my apartment that I caught a quick glimpse of a black object coming at me. Right before, that is, searing pain radiated across my shoulder and I collapsed onto the floor. Instinctively, ignoring the pain, I rolled over to my left away from the intruder. I managed to stumble to my feet and swing around just as he slugged me again. Only this time, I deflected the blunt force with my forearm. Now in full attack mode, I caught a glimpse of a man in blue, right before I kicked him dead in the chest. He stumbled back, dropped the billy club, and howled. Then before the young cop could grab his service revolver, I’d fished out my .38 and leveled it at him.

  Even though I was still full of adrenalin, I managed, “Nice try,” through gritted teeth. Then, keeping my gun pointed dead center at his gut and drilling him with my eyes, I said, “Don’t move a muscle.” I took a deep breath to calm down, trying not to pant, or shake. The snarl plastered across my intruder’s sweaty face suggested he was going to get the better of me. My snub-nose .38 said otherwise.

  “There’s an arm chair next to you. Take a seat.” He looked at the chair, then at the nightstick on the floor, then at me. I smiled, daring him to go for it. Finally, thinking better of it, he complied with my request and sat.

  “Keep your hands where I can see ’em.” I motioned with my gun for him to raise his arms. He locked his fingers together and rested them atop his head. Smart man, I thought. So, for fun, I decided to see how far I could take this.

  “Actually, lay your fingers on your shoulders.”

  “What?”

  “On your shoulders. Like a ballerina.” With my free hand, I aped a ballerina stretching her arm and cupping her hand above her head, then bending it down to touch her shoulder. “Like that.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Now, officer. I usually don’t make it my business to point my gun at cops. That’s likely to get me killed—and I sort of enjoy my life. But in this case, I’ll be happy to make an exception.” I trained the gun on his forehead and pulled back the hammer.

  He shifted his hands down to touch his shoulders. In that pose, he looked more like some stupid collectible figurine, rather than a dancer.

  “Start talking.”

  Although he sat still, he continued to scowl at me from behind rimless glasses, which were crooked on his nose from our tussle. Like most new recruits, he was clean-shaven, lean, muscular. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. He looked the type to smile at the little old ladies and wave to the kids on his beat.

  “You’re the one who needs to start singin’, shitbird,” he spat.

  “Tough talk for a man with a .38 pointed at him. What would you do if I put my gun down?”

  “Pull mine.”

  “I was afraid of that. I’ll let you keep it for now. But you make any moves and I will shoot you for an intruder.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Now, I don’t have all day. I’m tired. And I’m missing my beauty nap. And I’m really not so nice when I don’t get my beauty sleep.”

  “Looks like you haven’t had your beauty nap in a long time.”

  That’s it? I thought. Hell, the two fat ladies at the bakery gave the Irish maid better than that. Still, I was game to see where this would go. “So, that’s the way you want to play it? Okay. I get it.” I put the tip of my gun on his forehead, as risky a move as I could make. “What were you doing in my apartment?”

  The man didn’t blink. “Waiting for you.”

  “To sap me? That’s not real neighborly, Officer Downing.”

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised I knew his name.

  “Your name’s on your shirt.” Dumbass.

  He looked down and flushed. “Wise guy,” he muttered.

  “Lookit, if I wanted to rehearse dialogue from ‘Dragnet’ I would’ve done it last night. Start talking, else I’m gonna get Chief Inspector Bertie Albanese on the line and let you explain your unwelcome presence in my apartment to him. Or else I could just blow your brains out.”

  His eyes frosted over. “Take your pick.”

  That surprised me, but I didn’t let on. I reached for the phone on the end table as I pushed my gun harder into his forehead.

  “Operator. Yeah, get me the District 9 Police Station.”

  “All right, all right. Knock it off,” Downing said, his voice quaking.

  I didn’t acknowledge him. “Hello, this is Ed Darvis. Bertie Albanese, please.” The desk sergeant let me know in curt syllables that Bertie wasn’t in.

  “Oh, well, I was just returning his call. What? Maybe he’s on his way over?”

  Downing broke in. “All right, dammit. Hang up the phone!”

  “Sorry ’bout the commotion on my end, Sergeant,” I said into the phone as I stared at Downing. “Must be a neighborly dispute next door. All’s quiet now. Goodbye.” I hung up and gave Downing a playful grin.

  “You fucker,” he seethed.

  “Same to you. That’s for sapping me. Next time you decide to get frisky, I might get an itchy finger and fire this little piece.” I let this sink in, but I pulled the snub-nose away from his forehead. He was still sitting with his hands idiotically gripping his shoulders.

  “Can I put my hands down now?”

  “No. And for the last time, talk. I’m all ears.”

  He looked at his nightstick again. I kicked it behind me and then sat in the armchair across from him. Downing sighed in resignation.

  “Okay, fine. Word is you’re trying to finger me for a murder.”

  “Where did you hear this piece of news?”

  “That’s for me to know—”
<
br />   “Oh, I think I know. Let’s see,” I paused, placing my free hand against the side of my head as though summoning a message from the gods. “I’m seeing a deli. No, wait, it’s a bakery. And a woman. Scottish. No, that’s not it. Irish! And she’s reaching for a telephone. And . . . no, she’s putting it down, because someone she recognizes just came in. It’s a man. Dressed in a blue suit. Wait, no, it’s a blue uniform. He’s wearing eyeglasses and a friendly smile. Why, it’s Officer Friendly! No, that’s not right, either. I’m getting another name.”

  “Son-of-a-bitch.”

  “No, that’s not it. Ah! I got it! It’s Downing.” I let that sink in.

  “That goddamn cabbie.”

  “Cabbie? What cabbie was that?”

  Downing set his jaw. Red splotches crept up his neck to his forehead. I had him. “So, that was you in the alley,” I said. Give ’em just enough rope, they’ll tie their own noose for you. Downing pursed his lips together and ground his teeth. Yep, I still had it.

  Finally, he said, “Yeah, well, I’m gonna be talking to that rat, too.

  I walked over, keeping him covered, and picked up the nightstick. “You always let this do the talking?”

  “When I have to.”

  “I figured as much. You might get a bit further with a softer touch, you know.”

  “Not when my rep is on the line.”

  “Why did you kill The Beef?” I wanted him off-balance.

  Downing leaned forward, but with my gun still on him, he didn’t get up. “I didn’t kill him. And that’s the truth.”

  “Were you at Broad Jimmy’s last night?”

  “Yeah. Earlier in the evening. So what?”

  “Were you on duty?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no’. What time did you leave?”

  “About ten. I’ve got a wife at home.”

  “Lucky gal.”

  “Nuts to you.”

  “What were you doing all the way down at Broad Jimmy’s?”

  “I walk a Dogtown beat; I’m not confined there. Jimmy’s is a good place.”

  “Funny,” I said, “I’ve never seen you there before.”

  “Well, I’ve been there.” He glanced at my scotch bottle next to the phone. “I’m just not there getting blind drunk every night.” I ignored the insinuation and kept at him.

  “Why didn’t you talk to the cabbie already? Why’d you come after me?”

  “How do you know I haven’t?”

  “You keeping up, officer? You just said you were ‘gonna be talking to him, too’.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You either talked to him already, or you didn’t. Which is it?”

  Downing stayed mum. I opted for a different tack.

  “Were you at Broad Jimmy’s after hours?” Downing stared back at me. “Look, I’m all for presumption of innocence. Just like you should be. If you weren’t at Broad Jimmy’s late last night, I’ll believe you weren’t. But then why would anyone want to implicate you in some has-been’s murder? You don’t look the type to be into vengeance killings.” Downing winced and stiffened. I’d hit a nerve. Sometimes, with a bit of fishing, I get lucky.

  “Yeah, well I’m not,” he said. “And I already told you. I didn’t murder The Beef.”

  “I might believe you for now. Did you know him?”

  “Just from the fights. My dad and I used to watch him.”

  “He ever give you any trouble?”

  “No, like I said, I didn’t really know him. Not personally. Just from watchin’ bouts.” He said that too quickly. It came out like a lie.

  “So, tell me then, why did the cabbie put you in the alley? He ID’d you, you know.” Of course, he already knew, but I wanted him inflamed at Hammil again, ready to tip on him.

  “How the hell should I know? Convenience? The guy’s a dope.”

  “You know him, then?”

  He paused, eyeing me, trying to figure me out.

  “He lives in Dogtown. I see him on my beat. Guy always gives me the creeps. Pedophile, if you ask me.”

  I decided to play on his side to see what it could get me.

  “His cologne might confirm that observation.”

  Downing smiled.

  “Anyone wears that dimestore shit’s gotta have a thing for kids,” I continued. “You ever knock him around, just to see what he’d give up?”

  Downing stopped smiling, but didn’t retort. I changed the subject again. “So, you knew how to find me. What’s the Irish gal’s name? The one at the bakery.”

  He again regarded me for a moment. I could see his wheels turning, devising another lie.

  “What’s it matter to you?”

  “I might want to hire her. She had good instincts, calling you.”

  He sighed. “Mary Hanlen.”

  I grinned. Gotta hand it to the Irish. All warmth and welcome until you cross one of their thin lines.

  “Look, Officer Downing,” I said, waving my gun about for emphasis, “I’m in the truth business. I want to catch The Beef’s killer. What about you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ve been hired to investigate The Beef’s murder. If you’re clear of involvement, I’ll look elsewhere.”

  While he pondered what I said, I thought to myself, Sorry, Jimmy, too late to keep the cops out of this.

  “Tell you what, I’ll let you leave. And this little chat will just stay between the two of us. How’s that sound?” I twirled his nightstick. “But I’ll keep this as a souvenir. I waved my gun at him. “Go ahead. You can get up. Leave. And if you don’t mind, close the door behind you, real polite-like.”

  Slowly, he lowered his arms, unsure what my real intentions were. I just smiled and kept my gun level on him. No sense in taking any chances. He didn’t take his eyes off me as he stood up and smoothed the creases in his uniform.

  “Watch your step,” he said and pointed his finger at me. I let him have the last word, but kept my gun on him as he opened the door and backed out of it. Hell, he even closed the door all gentle, like he didn’t want to wake a sleeping baby.

  With Downing gone, I felt my gun hand begin to tremble. I strode over to the door and locked it. I put the .38 into the side table drawer and blew out a breath. Holding a gun on anyone sometimes gave me the shakes. Putting it to a cop damn near gives me the DT’s. I breathed deeply to get my composure. But then my rage mounted, at Downing’s impudence, at these two cases, at my lack of sleep. I didn't know whether to have a good laugh, or kick a few holes in the plaster. Instead, I erupted into a ferocious yawn. One thing was for sure: I liked to be the guy pulling the plunger on the little silver ball that bops off the cops and robbers, not violently pin-balling between them. SS So, for once I took some advice from one of the good guys—aspirin, and rest. God knows, I needed both. Just then, pangs that could have been hunger, chewed at my gut. Or maybe it was just the acids eating what was left of my stomach lining. I decided to ignore the churnings and breakfast on pain killers instead.

  I took a shower and gingerly scrubbed the back of my head. Meeki had left me a killer welt. Maybe he had meant to kill me. My right arm still ached, and I had a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my bicep from when The Beef punched me. The rest of my arm felt none better after being sapped by Downing.

  Somewhat refreshed, I walked back to my bedroom. The alarm clock said 4:00 p.m. I hadn’t seen my bed in over twenty-four hours. I didn’t even drop the towel or turn down the covers. Before my head hit the pillow, I fell into a dead sleep.

  When I woke up, it was getting dark outside. I had that strange disorientation of the mind that wanted it to be morning. If my phone rang while I was knocked out, I didn’t hear it. I headed to the kitchen, the damp towel slipping off as I did. Not bothering to pick it up, I brewed coffee and made some toast. My stomach was growling, but I wanted to take it easy. I chewed on the good side of my jaw, letting the coffee soften each bite. The pain in the back of my
head was a dull thud now. After I finished a few bites, I lit a cigarette and pretended to enjoy it. Next, I called the answering service. No new calls. I decided to try Bertie again.

  This time he was at his desk. He sounded pissed off.

  “Ed, what the hell? I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour.”

  “I took your advice, Bertie. I’ve been dead to the waking world. What’d you find out?” I was hopeful for some dish on Hanady, not back-channel chatter on Downing.

  “I reached the secretary at home. She played innocent the whole time. A little coy, too,” he added.

  “Yeah. That must be her thing.”

  “I did find out where Hanady goes in Colombia.”

  “All ears.”

  “Lookit, I get off in a few minutes. Why don't we meet somewhere halfway and have a drink. I can fill you in. In fact, you can buy me a few drinks for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”

  “I don't think I could buy enough drinks to cover that, Bertie, but yeah, you're on.”

  “Wanna do Jimmy’s?”

  I swallowed. “Uhh, naw. My uncle will be there, good and drunk. We’ll have to fight him off.”

  “All right, where then?”

  “How ’bout the Stardust?”

  Bertie laughed. “I don't know, Ed.”

  “C’mon. Louise doesn't have to know.”

  “She'll ask.”

  “So, tell her you went to Broad Jimmy’s.” Dumbass. “I mean Musial’s.”

  “That wouldn't make my wife feel much better about the ambience in either case.”

  “No matter. It’s the Stardust. We’ll work the details out when we get there.”

  The sound of typewriters and the ringing phones filled in the silence; then I heard a sigh. Then the line went dead.

  * * *

  Bertie leaned over the table and said, “Hanady flies into Barranquilla.”

  “Bar-a what?”

  Bertie spelled it out over the noise of the club. “It’s on the northern tip of Colombia. Big enough to handle small aircraft.”

  The four-piece band was vamping while we all waited for the tardy emcee to appear. Cymbals clashed, and the trumpeter laid on the mute—on, off, on, off—like he was masturbating the bell of the horn. A shaky spotlight stumbled upon the emcee as he jumped onto the stage. Dressed in a shabby, sequined dinner jacket, topped off with a bold-red bow tie, he looked like a cross between Benny Goodman and a pimp. He brought a hand down to signal the quartet to stop, but they ignored him.