by P. N. Elrod
The four of them had supposedly been playing poker. Small cash and cards were all over a rickety table. Some beer bottles, cigarette butts. One man still had a cigarette end in his mouth, and it had smoked itself down there, burning. The other three, slumped over the table or back in a chair or slipped off to the floor with their chests blown open, didn’t make as deep an impression on me as that one sorry son of a bitch with his scorched lip.
13
FOR Lena Ashley’s memorial service I wore a somber black suit with an expression to match. Since both were appropriate to the surroundings, Bobbi hadn’t yet noticed anything off about me. It also helped that she was distracted by the proceedings, busy making sure everything ran smoothly. I was glad, wanting the freedom to think through the previous night’s disasters without having to answer a lot of questions on why I was so quiet.
The chapel of the funeral home she’d chosen was a nice one, respectable. Dark-stained oak was everywhere, elaborately carved, and in some spots covered with gilt, particularly the speaker’s podium. Deep red curtains cloaked the walls behind it, and long stained-glass windows depicting lilies and roses protected us from viewing the outside world. As there was no body, a gold-framed picture of Lena stood at the front where the casket would have been. It was the same photo Escott had gotten from Lieutenant Blair. The easel was draped in black ribbon and flowers; dozens of wreaths and bouquets in vases stood around it on tables and on the floor. The afternoon editions had squeezed in a story about the services and John Q. Public had generously responded. Candles burned on either side, and the organist filled the room with a series of well-practiced hymns.
I’d told Bobbi not to worry about attendance and was proved right; the place was packed. Reporters, curiosity seekers, and cops filled all the pews, so latecomers had to stand. Since I was reluctant to get my picture in the papers again, my seat in the chapel was in a screened-off alcove usually reserved for the deceased’s family. I had a good view through the loose weave of the curtains, but no one could see in unless they were crass enough to come around and look inside. Of course several members of the press had done just that, only to find it empty. There was a decided advantage about being able to vanish at a second’s notice.
Physically, I was recovered from the impromptu floor show Coker and his clown circus had given me in Lady Crymsyn’s lobby. I’d made a stop at the Stockyards just before dawn for another long drink, then home for a day’s worth of healing oblivion in my basement sanctuary. Though unaware of the passage of time, it still helped put the horrors at a distance. When I awoke, the tremors no longer troubled me. It was just too bad I couldn’t as easily rid my mind of the image of that one dead man and his burned-down cigarette.
Gordy and I got ourselves away from the barbershop, returning to the pool hall, but Gris was gone by then. The bartender informed us that Coker had come by. Gris seemed surprised, apparently expecting someone else, but went along with him, suitcase in hand and no questions asked.
“That’s all she wrote,” said Gordy as we drove off.
“We can’t assume Shivvey killed him.”
“No, but I wouldn’t take any odds against. I know who runs that Florida betting shop he was supposed to go to. Give ’em a call in a day or so. If Gris doesn’t show . . .” He gave a small shrug.
“Drag the river?”
“If you wanna go to all that trouble.”
An idea popped into my head. An ugly one. “Take a right here. I need to check on someone.”
He made the turn, following my directions without comment, perhaps having come to the same conclusion. My heart clogged itself midway up my throat for the whole time until he braked in front of Rita Robillard’s hotel. He cut the motor and waited while I bolted inside.
Thankfully, Rita was exactly as I’d left her hours before. At the sound of her healthy breathing my heart crept back to its normal spot. She was in a deep, sodden sleep and quite unharmed. I wondered how long that might last. Coker had made a lot of threats against her earlier. After what he’d done to his own men I knew she shouldn’t be left alone. Gordy could help there.
On my way out, I noticed a small alteration in the general disorder of her living room. The man’s tie that had been carelessly discarded on the couch was gone. I looked around, hoping that it’d just fallen on the floor, but nothing doing. As it seemed unlikely anyone else would have business here, it must have been Coker who had come calling to check up on her. He didn’t exactly need his own key, since Rita kept one over the outer door. For some reason he’d chosen not to wake her up, chosen not to kill her.
Aside from Rita there was only one thing here besides a discarded tie he might be interested in—providing that he knew about it. I went to the radio, pulled the backing away enough to see in. The little records book was gone.
Huh. So that’s how it was.
Gordy had about the same reaction when I told him.
“Think he’s gonna use it against Nevis?” I asked.
“It could come in handy to a smart operator. I know I wouldn’t want something like that floating loose. The Treasury boys could get real happy over that kind of evidence.”
I wondered if Coker also knew about the fifty-two grand. Probably not, or he’d never have left it lying there for Rita to accidentally find as I had. “We gotta find where he lives.”
“I already know.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I make a point to spot troublemakers, keep tabs on ’em. Started back when he was still working for Welsh Lennet. But Shivvey ain’t gonna be home, not until he’s sure of being clear of the heat for what he did back there.”
“How about an anonymous call to the cops? Those four in the barbershop—”
“Can wait. Shivvey thinks you’re dead. Use it. Give him some slack, then yank the noose.”
He made sense, but only so far as I was concerned. A picture of that man with the cigarette floated back into my brain again. I could almost smell the scorched meat and stink of urine. Too bad I couldn’t hypnotize myself into losing this particular memory. “Rita needs to get scarce. He could change his mind and come back for her.”
“Shivvey would notice. Might make him jumpy. You don’t want jumpy.”
“Then someone’s gotta keep an eye on her. I can’t during the day.”
“You,” he said, fixing me with a frown, “have done enough. There a phone in that hotel?”
“Just left of the entry.”
He grunted and heaved out. It was a minor mystery to me whether Gordy carried a book with all his phone numbers in it or if they were all in his head. The latter, I concluded, since he didn’t like anything on paper. I waited and watched the street signals change themselves until he returned some ten minutes later.
“All set,” he said. “There’s a couple guys coming over to play babysitter. She won’t know about them. I got another couple going over to his hotel just in case he turns up there. If he does, they scrag him and leave.”
“Just like that?” Sometimes his cold-bloodedness got to me. I should have been used to it by now.
“Just like that, but it won’t happen. He’s got what he wants from her. He’s pulled a hole in after him. Not much we can do until he comes up for air.”
“I’d rather not kill him, Gordy.”
“Then what?”
“I just want to beat him until I get bored.” And let him live with the broken bones. Every time it rained he’d remember me.
“We’ll see what happens. But if you find him first, I get the leftovers. I can’t have a disrespecter running loose. Bad for business.”
Coker had used that last phrase himself when referring to Gordy getting involved in matters. Too bad for him he’d forgotten about it.
Another determined-looking man in a dark suit approached my alcove and peered in. I vanished with time to spare. He went away, disappointed like others before him.
Coker didn’t show for the service, but Gordy came, sitting well in the back. In the fron
t row sat Tony Upshaw, resplendent in a perfectly tailored masterpiece of solemnity. Next to him was Rita Robillard, in a black dress dusted with matching sequins, the veil on her hat covering her face.
Bobbi, also in black, but without the sequins, was seated in front next to the organist. She caught some signal from the funeral director and stood. A flashbulb went off, the photographer garnering disapproving looks from some. He was too busy changing bulbs to notice. The organist launched into “Rock of Ages,” and Bobbi rendered a moving solo of it. Halfway through, Rita pulled out a handkerchief. Upshaw put an arm around her. Neither of them seemed to be acting.
The hymn finished, Bobbi resumed her seat, and a middle-aged minister with thinning blond hair approached the podium. He asked everyone to stand and say the Lord’s Prayer with him, then we all sat, and he delivered a eulogy about a woman he’d never met. It struck me—not for the first time, for I’d attended a few funerals over the years—how at best hard or at worst cynical it must be to say something nice about a complete stranger. A murdered stranger at that. This one made a game effort, taking a theme about universal tragedy and how any death diminishes us all. It seemed to work; Rita was audibly crying. The photographer burned up another flashbulb to get that image, kneeling right in front of her.
Instead of a mere dirty look, he got something he couldn’t help but notice. Rita lashed out with a velvet purse the size of a satchel and smacked him right on the bean. He tipped backward, landing square on his ass, holding his camera high to keep it safe. Didn’t work. Rita was out of her seat and caught the thing with the kind of kick that would have got her a first string spot at Notre Dame. There followed an expensive-sounding crash and clatter of breakage. The man recovered and came up cursing, but stopped short when he saw Upshaw and a couple other guys standing next to Rita, glowering down at him. With a sick, pasted-on smile of apology, he backed off, palms out, and hastily gathered what was left of his equipment.
“Goddamn vultures,” Rita snarled. In the shocked silence it carried throughout the room. This sparked a round of suppressed laughter, most of it from the photographer’s cronies.
Somewhat wide of eye, the minister cleared his throat, and everyone settled and resumed the face and form of proper mourning. The small army of reporters bent over their notepads, scribbling greedily. The sermon continued, we all recited Psalm 23, said “amen,” sang “Amazing Grace” with Bobbi leading, and that was the end of it. A general milling-around process began as some left to file stories and others walked up for a better look at Lena’s photograph.
Bobbi got surrounded by a knot of men—nothing startling about that—but they were all reporters hoping for an interview. She managed to graciously ignore them and went over to Rita, who was now hanging on to Tony Upshaw’s arm, using him as a shield against her own assault. They exchanged quiet words, then Bobbi detached Rita and led her over toward the alcove. Reporters followed, but I was already out the door in the back. I waited until Bobbi and Rita came through, then shut it fast. A few diehards banged loud protest, calling questions, but I jammed my foot against the base, effectively holding them at bay.
“You?” said Rita, looking at me with no small surprise. “I thought it was the funeral director wanting to talk to me.”
“Jack just wanted to keep out the vultures,” said Bobbi. “I’ve got things to see to, so . . .” She whisked off down a long, plain hallway, her heels clacking on the brown tiles.
Rita recovered fast enough. “What’s this about? Who’s she? And why are you—oh, never mind. I don’t give a damn anymore.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a fresh handkerchief, then soundly blew her nose.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” I said.
“Yeah, me, too. It was a nice service even if she couldn’t be here to see. What are you doing here? Why you hiding out?”
“She was found in my club, so it seemed the right thing to do, but I didn’t want a bunch of newsmen all over me again.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re telling me.”
“If I’d known one of them was gonna try blinding you, I’d have had you seated in the family area.”
“Don’t worry. I enjoyed kicking the hell outta that asshole. Just wish I’d hit him instead of the camera.”
“Trust me, you hurt him more with that than you could ever imagine.”
“So what is this? You fishing for another date or something?” She lifted her veil back over her hat.
If I’d never met Bobbi, I’d have been sorely tempted. Rita looked good tonight. Better than last night. Despite the recent fracas, she seemed calmer somehow. For one thing, she hadn’t been drinking. Maybe some of the stuff I’d planted in her head was having a good effect on her.
“I just have a couple more questions,” I said.
This time she didn’t launch into an argument. She just nodded with her new calmness, and a moment later I captured her full attention. It seemed best to put her under. I didn’t know how long we had before Upshaw might come looking for her, and wanted to hurry things. I also didn’t care to explain to her conscious mind how I’d acquired certain pieces of information.
“Does Shivvey know about that little records book you have hidden in the radio?” I asked.
“Sure he does,” she said, without any hesitation. “I showed it to him when I found it in Lena’s things.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I didn’t know what it was at first. We figured it out, though.”
“Did he tell you to continue making entries?”
“Yeah. Said it’d be good insurance.”
“Insurance? Against Booth Nevis?”
“Yeah. If he should decide he didn’t need me working anymore, then I could use it to make him change his mind. That’s what Shivvey said we could do with it.”
“Very neat. You get to boss Nevis around, and Shivvey doesn’t even come into the picture.”
“I never bossed nobody. Don’t have to.”
Not yet, anyway. Shivvey could call the shots through Rita, and she’d be the one to take the fall if Nevis objected. If Nevis played along, then doubtless Shivvey would get a generous cut of whatever Rita got. That had changed, though. With Nevis in the clink, Shivvey could give the book to the cops and keep him there. “What about those extra numbers that Lena had in one of the columns? All those twenties and fifties?”
Rita, her eyes not focused on much of anything, shook her head. “I donno.”
“What about Shivvey? Did he think she was skimming cash?”
“Skimming?”
“Did Shivvey ever ask you to look for money? For Lena’s money?”
“Yeah . . . I looked. Shivvey helped me. Din’ find squat.”
And both of them had missed the treasure trove in the bookcase. But back then the glue on the end papers had been fresh, and Lena had been very, very careful about concealing her work. Five years of drying had made a world of difference.
“Do you think Nevis found out Lena was stealing from him?”
“Stealing?”
“Suppose Nevis caught her stealing and decided to punish her.”
Rita didn’t like that idea. She began to blink and shake her head, a sleeper trying to wake herself. “No, he loved her. He loved Lena.”
My idea for a motive did seem thin and extreme, but if Nevis was in love, then thought himself betrayed, emotions would win out over common sense. I’d seen worse things happen for less. Hell, the night before I’d barely survived such an extreme.
Awareness came back to her eyes, rather quickly. Awareness and agitation. “What were you saying? You think Booth woulda—no. Oh, no.”
“Rita, you have to listen . . .”
She pushed away a few steps and put her back to me. “No, he’d—no, you don’t know anything.”
I followed. “Rita, look at me and listen a minute.”
She made a small moan of frustration and began to turn. Then the alcove door opened, and Tony Upshaw came through. He gave us e
ach a look, his gaze settling on Rita.
“You okay, doll?”
She snuffled into her handkerchief. “I wanna go home.”
“Sure thing. He bothering you?”
“No, let’s just get outta here.”
He gave me another look, one that conveyed his certainty that I was the cause of her distress, and sauntered past to take her arm. He managed to just brush me on the return. It was meant as a challenge. I chose not to take it. Rita had told me all I really needed for the time being. No telling how much she would recall of my questioning, and no way to make sure of it now.
“Rita,” I said before they made the door. They paused; she glanced back. “Stay clear of Nevis and Shivvey. It’s important.”
“What d’ya mean?”
“Things are happening. You don’t want to be in the middle of them.”
Upshaw frowned at me, very aware of what I wasn’t saying. How much did he know?
“You got that?” I said.
“Yeah, sure I got that,” she mumbled in a thick voice. Upshaw guided her out, beating a path through the still-present reporters.
I took Bobbi’s hall route toward the front and found her standing in the entry next to Gordy. His massive presence was enough to prevent further interview attempts.
“How did it look to you?” she asked, referring to the service. She had her hat on and purse in hand, ready to leave.
“Just great. You sang like an angel.”
“But that camera guy—”
“Just a bit of color, don’t worry about it. The rest was very tasteful.”
She gave a huge sigh of relief.
“Still think you needed a couple hundred chrysanthemums, big orange and brown ones,” said Gordy.
She gave him a narrow look, lips pursed tight together.
“Okay, white then, but really big, the size of bowling balls.”
She started to respond, then shook her head, giving up. She motioned at the hall I’d just emerged from. “How’d it go with that gal?”
“Well enough. I heard pretty much what I expected. Thanks for helping.”
