The Nebraska Quotient (A Nebraska Mystery Book 1)

by William J. Reynolds

  He looked up from a manila folder as I came through the doorway. A cigarette burned in an ashtray, surrounded by its fallen comrades. I sank silently into the company chair and Oberon took a drag from the cigarette before smearing it out. “So it’s you.”

  “So it is. The lollipop guild made it seem pretty important. Not to mention mysterious.”

  “There’s no mystery to it.” Oberon’s voice was tired and tight, totally empty of the wry reasonableness that was usually there. Something was wrong and, though I didn’t know what it could be, I had a feeling I’d soon be informed.

  “No mystery at all,” he continued. “I asked you very nicely to keep your nose out of the Copel case. Next thing I know there you are with your nose in the Copel case.” Anger—and, I have the conceit to think, hurt—throbbed just beneath the surface of his words, pumping up the volume behind them. His voice echoed from the hard walls. Self-consciously, he reduced the decibels, which only made him sound all the more dangerous. I had known Ben Oberon for ten or twelve years; this was the first time I’d ever thought of him as dangerous. I didn’t like it. Primarily because I knew he was completely justified.

  He lit another cigarette, his watery eyes locked on me. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t lock you up and lose the key.”

  In Eddie Bell’s apartment I had had the same eerie feeling I was getting now—like I was looking right at something but couldn’t see it, an aggravating what’s-wrong-with-this-picture sensation. Until things started to sort themselves out, I decided to curb my natural tendency toward smartassery.

  “Because I’m not guilty,” I said reasonably.

  “What’s that, then?”

  “I’m answering your question. We should be friends again because I’m not guilty. I’m not nosing into your investigation.” Well, not exactly.

  “Goddammit, man, don’t fuck with me!” The words erupted like a thunderstorm, and this time there followed no attempt to quiet them. “Vice had a guy poking around a place called Studio 69—you’ve heard of it, I assume—on a prostitution complaint.” I recollected the two browsers in that first store and wondered which it was. “He overheard you mention Copel’s name, and the name clicked. He called me, gave me your description, and I knew it had to be you, you bastard.” Suddenly his temper burst again; the folder in his hands flew against the wall like a Frisbee and spilled multicolored report forms onto the scruffy beige linoleum. “You bastard! You damn son of a bitch, I believed you when you said you’d keep the hell out of this.”

  Ouch.

  “Look, Ben, I don’t blame you for being pissed. I’m sure that to you this looks like I’ve gone behind your back. But it’s not that at all. In fact, I was on my way over when your dynamic duo buttonholed me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not surprised you don’t believe it.” Of course not; it was a lie. “But it’s true. The fact is, I took on a client today. A missing-persons thing. And as I started following up some leads it began to look like there might be some connection with your case. That’s why I was asking after Copel. As it is, I came up with goose eggs all the way around—but, naturally, if I’d turned up anything that could’ve even remotely been useful to you, I’d’ve told you about it right away.”

  “Aren’t you generous.” If you could bottle his tone of voice you’d have a dandy little paint remover on your hands.

  “What can I do to convince you, Ben?”

  He thought about it over his cigarette. “Who’d you say this client was?”

  “I didn’t and I won’t. You’ll have to believe me when I say there is one—I don’t work without someone to pay the way—but beyond that, well, you know how it is.”

  Oberon snorted. “Yeah, like I know how long that’d stand up in court. Okay, how about this supposedly missing person?”

  Moment of truth. I was a little reluctant to part with that information, too. But I estimated I’d gotten away with about all there was to get away with. I’d already told Oberon there might be a link between his case and mine; it was only logical he’d want a glimmer of what that link might be. To deny him that was to spend the night—at least—in the slammer. I gritted my teeth and gave the information. “Fellow by the name of Eddie Bell, bee, ee, double-el, as in Alexander Graham. Appears to be something of a lowlife who vanished from the scene a couple weeks ago.”

  Oberon was frowning, but in concentration. He seemed to be studying a white chalky mark where the corner of the file folder had hit the dark wall. “Bell … Bell … .”

  “Is it ringing one?”

  He launched himself out of his swivel chair. “Hang on a minute.”

  I was glad of that; it gave me a chance to relax and concentrate on getting my heartbeat down to a level I could hear over. I did a quick stress-reducing exercise: went limp in my chair, eyes closed. Took a deep, full-capacity breath and let it out, saying under my breath, “One.” I repeated it twice, after which, as usual, I felt astonishingly relaxed. The key is in concentrating on “one”: it blocks out distractions, including other thoughts. Of course, the word can just as easily be “word” or “om”; concentration is the key.

  Oberon was back directly with another manila file. I didn’t interrupt as he came in and sat down, still reading it. Presently he folded it closed and looked up at me. “You have any idea what you’re getting into here, boy?” Something a lot like concern had taken up residence in his voice over the last five minutes. It made me concerned in return. “If it’s the same Eddie Bell, dirty picture pusher”—I nodded—“the word on the street is that he ran afoul of some local muscle.”

  “How? I mean, in what way?”

  “They’re not saying, or at least not in our earshot. The word simply is that Bell got into trouble with the Mob.”

  “Big trouble?”

  “The kind for which they make sure you never get into trouble ever again.”

  “Wow. What do you have on Bell?” I held out my hand for the folder.

  Oberon’s baggy face looked sour. “Be serious.” He skimmed through a few sheets. “Nothing much, and nothing serious. We know that he’d drift in and out of town every so often. Supplied the local shops with dirty pictures. Real big-time; I’m surprised he doesn’t have a villa in Rome. Didn’t, I guess I should say. Well, we busted him for pot a couple of times, a couple of times on open bottle. Held and released in a kiddie-porn investigation. Seemed to be clean on that score, at least.” Oberon closed the file and leaned back in his squeaky chair. “Definitely small potatoes. There are a dozen guys just like him here—here and everywhere else. They never make any money at it. We have better things to do with our time than chase around after every clown with a Polaroid who gets his girlfriend to strip and go along with his fast-buck scheme. But you mentioned something to do with a homicide investigation. …”

  “Yeah. I have reason to believe that Copel was looking for Bell, too, up until the time he was killed. Until Copel was killed, I mean.”

  Oberon stopped rocking in his chair, stopped dead still, but other than that made no sign he’d even heard me until he said, “What makes you think that?”

  “Because my client tells me he or she hired Copel to look for Bell.”

  “Terrific—Copel had no license.”

  No point telling him I thought my client preferred it that way. “It’s like a driver’s license: you can’t drive without one—but you can.”

  The lieutenant chewed on it a minute. Then: “You think Copel’s murder has anything to do with Bell, or his investigation into Bell’s disappearance?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t. But now you tell me that Bell might be dead, too—though you can’t tell me why. That’s an awful coincidence.”

  Somewhere along the way Oberon had lost his cigarette. He reached for the pack on the desk, shook one out, then apparently thought better of it. He leaned back in his ch
air again. “Sure as hell is,” he said quietly. “Now you see what kind of trouble you’re flitting around in.”

  “It’s a little early to say. So far I’ve infiltrated a half-dozen sex shops, with nothing to show for it.”

  “Trying to pick up Bell’s trail? How’d you know where to start? I don’t figure you as the type who has a great deal of familiarity with these places.”

  “Thank you for that.” I told him about the list I had found in Bell’s room. Of course, through it all, I scrupulously avoided any mention of Adrian Mallory or the pictures of her Copel had when he died.

  Oberon cocked a narrowed, bloodshot eye my way. “Nebraska, tell me I’m not going to have to be concerned about a breaking-and-entering here.”

  For someone who professes to hate lying as much as I do, I certainly engage in an awful lot of it—and I’m disturbingly good at it, if I say so myself. “Of course not,” I said breezily. “My client provided me with a key.”

  “Wasn’t that thoughtful? And isn’t it a swell coincidence that your client just happened to have a key?”

  “No coincidence. My client has a right to the key; in fact, Bell gave it to him or her. To say anything further would be telling, though.”

  Oberon grunted. “Gee whiz, we wouldn’t want that. So I’ll just settle for the key.”

  That’s the trouble with lying, beyond the moral considerations: it’s too easy to get caught. “The key, Gracie?”

  “Come on, man, I’m trying to do my job and I’m trying to give you a break. The key to Bell’s place, let’s have it.”

  I screwed up my face in what I hoped looked like serious pensiveness. In fact, that’s what it was: I was thinking furiously of a way to keep Oberon from calling my bluff. “I’m not too sure about that, Ben,” I said gravely. “Technically, it’s not mine to give; it’s my client’s property.”

  “Your client’ll get it back.” He waited patiently while I stewed over the nonexistent key. Then, an unmistakable edge came back into his voice. “It’ll save me some work, you know. Now that we know there’s a connection between the cases we’ll want to go over that Eddie Bell’s place. That is,” he added with a sour, sarcastic look, making the loose skin over his eyes and under his mouth bunch up, “if you’re quite through with it now.”

  I sighed, reached into my pocket, took out my key ring and started working off the key to the storage locker in the basement of my apartment building. “You realize, of course, this is going to put me in a bad way with my client, who’s expecting this back.”

  “I’ll write you a note. Besides, I said he’ll get it back. He’ll get it back. Quit stalling, already.”

  I handed over the key. “The thing is, Ben, you already have a copy of that.” He gave me a look. “In with Copel’s effects. My client previously gave Copel a copy of the key to Bell’s place; did Copel have a key ring on him when your guys catalogued his stuff?” I knew damn well he did, having gone through his pockets myself first, but it was good theatre. “Well, there you have it—it’s probably on that ring, probably sitting in an envelope in the basement of this building even as we speak. So how about doing me a favor? Give me back that key and use the one you already have.”

  Oberon toyed with the key, tapping it abstractedly on the manila folder that held Bell’s file. “It seems to me I’ve already done you a big favor by not tossing you into the pokey.”

  “And I appreciate your generosity, Ben, even if I’m not certain you’d’ve been so gracious if not for the fact that we both know you haven’t got anything on me. However, I’m still grateful, and I’m counting on your famous generosity this one more time.” I flashed him my Pepsodent smile, the one Erik Estrada wishes I wouldn’t use. If you’re going to lay it on, lay it on thick.

  Oberon barked a short laugh and began to resemble the cop I knew. He flipped the key over to my edge of the desk. “Criminy, here, already. Anything to shut you up.”

  “Thanks,” I said and meant it. The key went immediately into my coat pocket. Out of sight, as they say.

  “Okay. Probably couldn’t’ve gotten a search warrant anyway.” He fiddled with a Ticonderoga pencil, tapping the erasing end nervously into the palm of his left hand. “Look, I …” he started, then stalled out. “I mean—ah, hell, I’m no good at apologies. I’ve been sitting on you pretty hard, and I guess I’m trying to say I’m sorry. We’ve known each other a long time and I suppose I should’ve given you the benefit of the doubt. But things have been really shitty around here lately and when it looked like you played me for a sucker, I guess I just blew my top, you know?”

  I shrugged. “I know. And I don’t blame you. It would’ve looked the same to me, to anybody. Forget it. I just hope what little I’ve given you helps on the Copel case.”

  He made a disgusted sound and a face to match. “Yeah. Well, like I said, I probably can’t even get a warrant. Latest bullshit from downtown. Seems there are too many unsolved homicides—too many for an election year, at least. Our marching orders are to clean up the long-outstanding investigations first. Mayor’ll look better that way when he debates his opponents. Never occurs to them that if they increase budget and manpower we just might be able to solve more cases altogether. Given the present situation, anything we put on the back burner is liable to fall right down the back of the stove.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “That’s electioneering. If your unsolved investigations only go back two, three months, it’s easier for the man to debate on TV than if they go back a year or more.” He must’ve changed his mind about the cigarette, because now his long fingers snared one and set it afire.

  “I thought you gave up that vile habit years ago.”

  “So did I. Guess it’s like riding a bicycle—once you learn you never forget.”

  “Ah. Well—listen, if there’s anything I can do, or even if you just need someone to watch you let off steam …”

  “Thanks. Really. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.

  “But now listen.” He was all business again, stabbing the air with the orange end of his cigarette for emphasis. “I still don’t want you poking around this case—thing—whatever it is—especially now. If the word from the street is right, your missing person isn’t liable to get found. They’re saying he was taken out by Al Manzetti. You know Manzetti?”

  “By reputation only.”

  “Try to keep it that way. They call him Crazy Al, but not to his face. He was the toughest torpedo in Chicago, back when they used to have torpedos, back in the old mob. Homicidal maniac if there ever was one. In fact, the man’s too screwy even for the Mafia these days. They don’t like gaudy headlines. And I think they’re scared of him. Our sources say Manzetti went crazier than usual about three years ago, cut up a ward boss’s girlfriend and dumped what was left of her in the Chicago River. It cost a lot to hush that up, and it landed in the papers anyway—no names, of course. That would’ve been the end of just about anyone but Manzetti. He had too many friends in high places—or at least he had the goods on them—and he was too high up himself. So they busted him and sent him down here—made him a second or third banana on a second- or third-string team. What I’m saying is, this is a guy who doesn’t need very much provocation to kill, and now on top of everything else he’s carrying a grudge the size of Mt. Etna. He may be the one who took out Copel—Bell, too, maybe. Steer clear of him.”

  “Don’t worry. If I get in a jam I’ll call Eliot Ness.”

  Oberon’s eyes rolled back in his head. “That’s right, make a joke of it. I’m sure this all seems real comic book to you, wiseass, but these guys exist and they mean business. You fuck around with them and you may find yourself up to your eyebrows in big trouble. I ought to lock you up for your own good.”

  “Which is where I came in.” I stood. “If that’s it, I’ll split now—you seem too determined to let the city put me up for the nigh
t.” I stopped in the doorless doorway. “Hey, thanks for everything, huh?”

  “Uh-huh. And look, what I said goes. Even if this case is on hold, you screw around with it and I will lock you up. Like I said, for your own damn good.”

  “My pal.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Marcie Bell lived in the top half of a twenty-five-year-old duplex in Westgate, a middle-class neighborhood off Eightieth Street and the Interstate that wasn’t even in the Omaha city limits when the house was built. Now it’s practically downtown.

  The house was white with faded blue trim. A couple of old oaks shielded it from the last light of the day. I matched the address on her check to one of the two identical doors at the front of the place and mashed the buzzer. I heard or imagined activity upstairs. Somewhere a door opened and a voice called, “Come on up.” I tried the door before me; it was unlocked, opening to a small entry and a long flight of stairs running straight up to another door—at which stood Marcie. “Hi! This is a shock. Well, come on up!”

  I went on up. It was hot on the stairs, and I noticed Marcie’s dark hair was damp and clung to her face and neck, which were also moist. It was a look I never found appealing in the fashion ads, where it’s used a lot. On her it was distractingly attractive. “Don’t tell me you have anything to report already?” I opened my mouth to respond but she preempted me. “Wait, wait. At least come in and sit down first.” I went past her into the tiny apartment, into a wall of heat and music. “Make yourself uncomfortable,” she advised as she closed and locked the door. “I was just making some tea, but it looks like you can use something stronger.”