Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Rosen tried to stand, but his legs were too weak to rise. He could only watch her go, not even attempt to call her back. Gritting his teeth he stared at the doorway, waiting in vain for her to return. He had taken a chance and accused her brother of the murder. Not that Rosen believed it, but he wanted to get Trac angry enough to tell what had happened to Van . . . and what was happening to her. Yet the anger only made her run away and leave him alone.

  After a few minutes, he walked to the bar, easing onto the stool, and ordered a beer. The three old fishermen looked away.

  Rosen felt he had to say something so, sipping his beer, asked the bartender, “Who won the game?”

  “Atlanta. They got two in the ninth.”

  “Damn. That makes the evening just perfect.”

  Glancing up at the television, Rosen saw a rerun of an old sitcom. He didn’t want to think about Trac, so he watched TV and concentrated on the damn Cubs blowing another one. They, in turn, led him to his daughter, who had probably tuned in the last few innings before doing her English homework. Sarah said she always did her reading last, because if she fell asleep, at least it would be with a good book. He needed to send her present, the ao-dai, tomorrow so it would arrive in time for her birthday.

  The present reminded him of Trac and the ao-dai she wore at her sister’s funeral. She stuck in his mind, a series of contradictory images—implacable at the wake, tender alone with him in bed, now half-crazed by drugs and fear. What was that fear she would not confide? Rosen brought the beer to his lips and caught sight of a “Special Report” bulletin flashing on TV.

  A moment later the screen was filled with flames lapping a small squarish building. Smoke billowed into the night, forming great gray clouds that blocked the stars, but just enough firelight illuminated a portion of the sign above the doorway—a hand holding a top hat. Someone in the bar shouted, “Christ, it’s Top o’ the Evenin’s place!”

  A reporter was saying, as firemen rushed past, “Police strongly suspect arson. Apparently the owner, known as Top o’ the Evenin’, discovered two men near the kitchen entrance in back. After calling for help, the owner was shot. The bartender came with a pistol and exchanged gunfire with the two suspects. Police arrived and killed one of the suspects, the other escaping. Police have not released information on the present condition of the popular nightclub owner, who was rushed about fifteen minutes ago to St. Isaacs Hospital. As you can see, fire has nearly gutted the building. Fortunately the customers fled in time, a few being treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation. We’ll have a full report on the eleven o’clock news.”

  Paying his bill Rosen hurried from the bar, got into his car, and drove toward the nightclub. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a connection between the fire and Basehart’s release from jail. What if Trac was right and Basehart was dangerous? Rosen had used all his guile to obtain the prisoner’s release; it would be his hands dipped in blood. What of Wilkes—he had gone along with the bail on Rosen’s say-so, a kind of blind trust. More than that, goodness motivated by a sense of justice over any selfish desires. Rosen believed Wilkes to be one of the few truly good men of this earth, and if Basehart had done anything wrong, the reputation of a good man would be ruined. There were few things as precious; Rosen possessed nothing equivalent to justify his own existence. That was why he sped down the highway fast as his clattering Dodge would carry him. To see for himself.

  He had worried needlessly about missing the turnoff, because at the intersection a squad car with flashing red lights had pulled onto the shoulder of the highway. A policeman leaned against his car while eyeing the traffic. He raised his hand—Rosen stopped after turning onto the side road—and walked toward the lawyer.

  “Nightclub’s closed, Mister. Been a bad fire.”

  “I know. I need to get in there. I’m an attorney in a case involving Top o’ the Evenin’.” When the policeman frowned, Rosen added, “Is Mr. Wilkes or Lt. Canary there?”

  He nodded.

  “Check with either of them. I’m sure it’ll be all right. I’m Nate Rosen.”

  The policeman looked him up and down, then, pushing off the door, sauntered to the squad car and made a radio call. A minute later he waved the lawyer ahead and settled back against his car.

  Rosen hadn’t driven very far, when his eyes began to tear from the acrid smoke. A thick charcoal haze hung in the air, below which were the blackened remnants of Top o’ the Evenin’s nightclub. The roof had collapsed, taking down two of the sides, the other two bulging obscenely under its weight. Everything had lost its color except a few red sparks that leaped from the ash heap and danced triumphantly until disappearing into the night air. Firemen were loading equipment into their trucks, while a team of lab technicians sifted through the ashes. Lt. Canary and Wilkes stood near what had been the nightclub’s entrance.

  Parking his car nearby, Rosen approached the two men. “I came over as soon as I heard the news on TV.”

  He glanced from one man to the other, searching for the slightest sign of reproach. They merely looked puzzled.

  “How come you’re here?” Canary asked.

  “Why, Top o’ the Evenin’ . . .” Rosen realized that neither man knew about his meeting with Collinsby and the nightclub owner nor of Big Ben’s visit to his motel room. For a moment he considered withholding the information but saw no purpose in that. Besides, he had already committed himself.

  “Top o’ the Evenin’ said he would try to find Nguyen Van Van and discover if there was a drug connection between Van and his sister’s death. I was planning to see Top tonight.”

  “You sure do get around,” the policeman said lighting a cigarette. “Collinsby put you on to him, huh. Being Lu’s kin, I’m surprised Cowpie didn’t come with you. Think he’d be interested.”

  “We weren’t together this evening. How’s Top?”

  Canary gave a slight jerk of his head, and the two attorneys followed him to the rear of the rubble, where the charred remains of the back door wobbled precariously. A few yards away lay the nightclub owner, eyes closed in the peaceful sleep of death. His body had been untouched by the fire, but on either side of his breastbone were two splotches of drying blood, rust-colored upon his starched white shirt. A plainclothesman was snapping photographs from various angles.

  Rosen sagged, hands cupped over his knees, and felt his stomach turn as the sweat slid under his shirt. Wilkes led him away, holding him steady until the waves of nausea passed.

  Rosen mopped his face dry. “The newscaster said Top was shot and taken to the hospital. He never mentioned . . .”

  “The man was killed instantly,” Wilkes replied. “It was Lt. Canary’s idea to withhold publicizing the murder.”

  “Why?”

  A smoke ring drifted between them, followed by Canary who said, “We’re still looking for one of the killers. Figgered he wouldn’t be running so fast if he thought he hadn’t done any killing.”

  Rosen had forgotten about Basehart. Once again his neck grew damp. “The . . . reporter said one of the arsonists was killed. Is that true?”

  Canary nodded toward an ambulance nearby and yelled to the driver, “Open the bag, Clint, and let him take a look!” To Rosen, “This should interest you. He was a playmate of yours.”

  Rosen tried to read Wilkes’s face, but the other attorney looked at the ground. Walking to the ambulance he watched the attendant try to open the body bag. The zipper stuck but, after several attempts, he succeeded in unzipping the sack as far as the neck. “Go ahead,” Clint said with a halfway grin, “he won’t bite you.”

  Swallowing hard Rosen drew close and peered inside. It was Pelham’s friend Rupert, the man he had fought at Basehart’s bait and tackle shop. Like Top, Rupert seemed at peace. His death was no loss to humanity, and Rosen wanted to feel the satisfaction of having one less bigot in the world. Yet his eyes could only see the Torah written across the dead man’s face—God would allow no rejoicing over the death of Pharaoh’s ar
my, for they too were His children.

  “Can I close the bag now?” the driver asked.

  Rosen walked back to the other two men. He asked Canary, “You’re certain Rupert set fire to the nightclub and shot Top?”

  The policeman flicked a long ash. “You see a fox near a henhouse with chicken feathers sticking out his mouth, what do you think?”

  “You weren’t able to ask him any questions?”

  “He didn’t feel like talking.”

  Wilkes said, “He was firing at the police. Lt. Canary killed him.”

  Rosen looked at the policeman, who stared back with a small smile, then said to Wilkes, “Rupert would’ve been an important witness. He could’ve helped Basehart’s case.”

  Canary snickered loudly. “How? You got a connection between Rupert and the murdered woman?”

  Rosen felt his face grow warm. “I told you. Top o’ the Evenin’ was looking into . . .”

  “Top’s dead. So’s Rupert. So what you got . . . nothing.”

  “If you hadn’t killed Rupert, maybe I would’ve had something.”

  Canary only grinned.

  “What about Pelham?” Rosen asked. “Don’t you think he was the other man involved in Top’s murder? Have you got him in custody yet, or would that be too much exercise for you?”

  Wilkes said, “We’ve alerted the police to bring him in for questioning, as well as that other one who hangs around the bait and tackle shop—Burl. There’s nothing more you can do here. Why don’t you go home and get some rest.”

  “No, not yet. Is Top’s widow here? I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “I think so. This way.”

  The two attorneys started back toward the ambulance, leaving Canary puffing contentedly.

  Wilkes said, “You may be right about Pelham being involved. This afternoon I ran a check on his blood type, like you asked. Type O positive, the same as Van’s and the same as what was found on the soiled tissues. Of course, it’s the most common blood type of all. The lab technician said more than a third of the people working in the courthouse, from my boss to my secretary, are O positive. Not very conclusive, but it’s something.”

  He spoke encouragingly, shoring up Rosen’s case by knocking away the props from his own. Rosen wanted to thank the other attorney but held back. What if even Wilkes was somehow mixed up in the murders? Rosen was a lawyer even before he was a man, and the one thing a lawyer could never afford to be was a fool.

  He said, “Canary was pretty quick on the trigger, killing Rupert.”

  Wilkes stopped abruptly. “You can’t think he had anything to do with the Nguyen woman’s death? He may be crude and overbearing, but he’s a good police officer. My God, you’ve got to trust someone.”

  “Those cigarette butts at the dead woman’s apartment were Bushnells, what Canary smokes.”

  “As do hundreds of other men around here,” Wilkes replied, his face reddening. “Guess I’m lucky I don’t smoke Bushnells. Excuse me. I have some work to do.”

  “I didn’t mean . . .” Rosen began, but Wilkes was already gone.

  Turning, Rosen walked a few steps then stopped abruptly, fascinated by what lay before him. It might have been a painting, the sharp lines falling away in obtuse angles from the center—Lu’s large shoulders huddled as she sat upright in a chair, hands held prayerlike before her lips. The bartender Big Ben knelt on both knees and, eyes closed, rested against her, while Top o’ the Evenin’s walking stick leaned from the ground to her hip. She wasn’t crying; her eyes stared at Rosen with a terrible lucidness. Her breathing was so shallow, she appeared motionless.

  Approaching cautiously he heard a soft moaning, and it was another moment before he realized the sound was coming, not from Lu, but the bartender. The man trembled slightly, one hand clutching the hem of Lu’s skirt, while the other lay open on the ground like a dead animal.

  “Lu,” Rosen whispered.

  She remained still, but Big Ben cried out, “I tried to save him! If I could a’ just got there a half minute sooner,” he shook his head violently, “I might a’ saved him!”

  Slowly blinking Lu laid a hand on the man’s head, stroking his hair. “Shh, Ben. You did everything you could.”

  “If I just could a’ got there sooner. Top was the best. I tried, Lu, I tried.” He cried softly into her dress.

  “Shh, I know,” she murmured. “Nothing more to do now, Ben. Go on home. Your family must be worried ’bout you.” He looked up at her like a sad-eyed dog, and she said again, “Go ’head. Go on home.”

  “Ye . . . ah,” he replied with a cough. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, the bartender got up. “You just call if you need anything. Anything, you hear.”

  She nodded, more a jerk of her head telling Big Ben to get on with his life. Once again coughing, he turned and walked away.

  Rosen approached as close as the bartender had been and knelt beside her.

  Her eyes narrowed. “You here to say how sorry you is, I suppose. There’ll be lots a’ that now. His folk’ll be coming up from Raleigh, and his old army buddies from New York. Even his ex-wife, I guess. Everybody saying how sorry they is. I best be getting the house cleaned. My sisters can help with the cooking. Lord, we’re gonna need to cook up a mess a’ food. Children need new clothes. Henry’s suit coat’s all patched at the elbows.”

  At the sound of her son’s name, Lu swallowed hard and her eyes grew moist. Clearing her throat she continued, “I know you must be busy, Mr. Rosen. Nice a’ you to come by like this.”

  Rosen said, “Lu, if you don’t want to talk now, I understand, but I need to ask some questions. Why did this happen?”

  She looked at him strangely. “What do you mean? You don’t know much for a lawyer, if you have to ask that question. Like Top used to say, ‘Take a miracle for a nigger to die in his bed.’” Her breath caught in her throat. “Old Top . . . he knew.”

  “You think this happened just because he was black?”

  “Reason enough in this world. Besides, that man the police killed. He was a member a’ G.U.N. They hated us folks.”

  “You know about that group?”

  “I heard Top mention them on the phone.”

  Rosen leaned closer. “When?”

  “Just the other day.”

  “When . . . before or after I visited the nightclub and heard you sing?”

  She touched her forehead. “It was . . . after. Two, three days ago, I think. He was talking to someone, and the name come up. I remember Top laughing. He was talking ’bout G.U.N.-toting cowboys riding horse.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know . . . Top was talking ’bout horse . . . heroin.”

  Rosen sat on the ground, arms drawn around his legs, trying to fit the conversation into the puzzle. If Top had been following a lead on the Basehart case . . . he must’ve been, otherwise why mention G.U.N.? If drugs were involved in Nguyen Thi Nhi’s murder, that led away from Basehart and to . . . Van? What about Senator Dickerson and his lovable son, Junior? And of course, the biggest piece of the puzzle—Billy Lee Pelham? Almost certainly Pelham or his friend Burl was the other man helping Rupert, but why? Pelham should have done everything in his power to stay out of trouble until after the trial. It didn’t make any sense, unless . . .

  “Lu, did you hear Top say anything else on the phone?”

  She shook her head.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “No, not right away. Later after he hung up, he was all grinning. Saying how pretty soon we was gonna have all the money we needed to fix the place up real nice, just like a big city nightclub.”

  “Did he say where the money was coming from?”

  “Top was always talking like that. Didn’t mean nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Did he say?”

  “Something ’bout . . .” She paused a moment to think. “It was funny, the way Top said it. Like . . . getting paid not for what you know but for what you don’t know. Can you fi
gger that one out, Mr. Rosen?”

  “Maybe. It may take awhile, but I think so. Lu, I’m really sorry about Top.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know why Top was killed, but if it had anything to do with the case I’m working on, I promise you that the murderers will be brought to justice.”

  Lu stared at him for a long time. Her eyes finally softened. “Don’t need to trouble yourself none. Don’t make no difference anyway. Not too many cared ’bout Top.”

  Rosen repeated what he had said once to Wilkes. “Each man is a universe unto himself. The murder of any man is like destroying an entire world.”

  Lowering her head Lu murmured, “My world, my world.”

  He listened to her grief lap against him, wave upon wave, each one carrying the piece of Top’s death into the puzzle and turning it, turning it, until it almost fell into place.

  Chapter Fourteen – THURSDAY MORNING

  Feet propped upon his desk, Wilkes thumbed through the report of Top o’ the Evenin’s murder. Twelve hours had passed, yet there was still no progress in the investigation. He tossed the file aside. Everything was unraveling. Both Pelham and Basehart were still missing, and the trial was set to begin next week.

  There was a knock at the door. Wilkes brought his feet down as Martha walked into the room.

  “Mr. Simpson just buzzed,” she said. “Wants to see you in his office now. He was most insistent.”

  Frowning, Wilkes asked, “How did he sound?”

  “Not good. You’d better get in there pronto. Wouldn’t hurt to run a comb through your hair.” Martha fixed his tie and, as he walked past her, squeezed his elbow. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  Although he tried to maintain a smile after leaving the office, it weakened then disappeared as Saunders, perched atop his secretary’s desk, looked up from a report.

  “Hi, Jimmy. Haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  Wilkes nodded. “What’s that you’re reading?”

  “What? Oh, this . . . it’s the report on the death of that nightclub owner. You know Edgar’s assigned me to the case.”