by Laird Barron
Harold Lee cut a completely different figure. The wannabe Sinatra got around in a major way. To stretch my legs and give my aching eyeballs a rest, I visited several of his favorite places. Mainly Kingston joints—Tom Thumb’s, The Stocks, and a slick new watering hole called Falling Eagle. Lee also frequented Sable & Chic, a gentleman’s club out on the rough on Route 32. He’d done collection work for the management of The Stocks and acquitted himself well. A waitress at Sable & Chic recalled Harry in the company of a woman who closely matched Delia Labrador’s description.
The list of Harry’s friends, associates, and favorite locations shrank by the hour. Nary a discouraging word was uttered in regard to the departed. Nary an enlightening word either. He’d tipped adequately and kept his hands to himself. Women liked him; he evinced a sweet, paternal air and a sense of humor. Men liked him because he was easygoing, the polar opposite of run-of-the-mill thugs. Unlike most goons, a nickel in the pen for battery (what else?) imbued him with an aura of genteel danger that caused men to grin in camaraderie and women to get hot and bothered.
Folks who should’ve been wiser didn’t believe this urbane, mild-mannered gent actually cracked heads to make rent—no evil sneer, no knuckle scars. I didn’t bother to explain that Harry fancied a pipe over his bare hands. I certainly didn’t explain that Saint Harold had buddied up with a twisted psychopath and, eventually, under duress, participated in said psycho’s execution.
* * *
—
I STOLE MOMENTS HERE AND THERE to monitor the Trask crew. Elvira Trask slunk out of the woodwork and was seen at her usual hangouts, albeit far from Aubrey Plantagenet’s salon. Elvira sported a shiner and a new purple dye job. Rough girl. Under other circumstances, I might feel empathy for her.
There’s no rest for the ambitious private eye. I spent every other nightshift at Aubrey P’s apartment, planted in a recliner, marathoning old black-and-white samurai flicks and westerns. Kurosawa and Hawks are faithful amigos in the wastelands of boredom. Sometimes I brought Minerva for extra company, and as an early-warning system in case I nodded off and bad guys sneaked up on us. Clint Eastwood’s Toshiro Mifune could’ve used a loyal hound.
As I said, dull as dirt, albeit not without several annoying incidents, befitting the mentality of the shitheads perpetrating the terror campaign.
The phone rang at 1 a.m. four nights running. Heavy breathing on the other end before disconnection. Vehicles rolled by or parked across the street. The cars always left before daylight. I could’ve alerted the police or burned some of my capital to roust Elvira’s thugs. That would’ve merely kicked the can down the road. Trouble delayed is still trouble.
There are three primary impulses to journey into the darkness. To investigate and rectify. To seek knowledge. To hunt and bring down prey. I’m the third kind—a hunter. The hawk, the wolf, the spider. Other men gather clues and follow trails their own way. I observe as an animal does. I dream with the scent of prey in my nostrils; I plot trajectories and paths of flight. I bide my time, but my hindbrain is always working, chewing at the problem.
Therefore, I hung tough and waited for the Trasks to show their hand. The moment they did, I’d hack it off at the wrist. Domo arigato, Mr. Kurosawa, for your timeless inspiration.
* * *
—
WE ARE WALKING BLACK HOLES, Gene said. He’d resorted to wildly paraphrasing Itzhak Bentov while loaded. Our brains are receivers made of meat. Consciousness is a quantum field that trickles in from someplace else and interacts with our gray matter. Anyways, that’s my guess.
My subconscious sends angels to roost upon my shoulders. With increasing frequency, Gene K had winged back from the Other Side and taken up residence where the better angel normally sets up shop.
You can’t sleep on the troubles we see, killer. Keep your head on a swivel or it will wind up at the end of a pole.
Well past midnight found me dozing in Aubrey P’s recliner. I came to, startled by furtive movement. A shadow pressed against the window.
The would-be home invader was a skinny little bastard. He lifted the window inch by inch. Stealthy as could be. I let him get an arm, a leg, and his head through the opening before I struck. Put my back into it, starting from the floor, right between his bulging eyes that were reflecting the night-light in the hall.
Practically speaking, my concrete lump of a fist walloping his forehead had the same effect as a hammer stroke against the skull of a cow in the slaughterhouse gate. His bones gave. He flew backward as if sucked through a sudden hull rupture into deep space. Took the window frame, curtains, and a chunk of the wall along for the ride. I laughed because it felt good, and because I thought I might’ve killed him, which also felt good.
The front door smashed inward. I sobered up fast, grabbed the couch, lifted it chest-high, and hurled it in that general direction like a hammer thrower going for gold. The resultant crash and the scream were encouraging.
I bent my knees and got the .357 ready and slid sideways until my shoulder pressed against an interior wall. Glass broke in the kitchen. That would be the side door. I partially shielded my eyes, swung my arm, and fired twice—you can’t win if you don’t play—and immediately scuttled forward to avoid return fire directed at the muzzle flashes.
My vision quickly returned like a print developing in its acid bath; blots and floating stars, as opposed to a void of fiery darkness. I might’ve drooled, yes. It happens when my blood is up.
Several moments of quiet passed before I realized the attackers were either incapacitated or fleeing. Slamming car doors and a revving engine confirmed that at least a couple were alive and making their getaway.
I reached the front porch as a late-model Cadillac peeled rubber and barreled across the neighbor’s lawn. The driver crashed through a picket fence and roared around the corner.
“Jesus! Fuck!” Aubrey P shouted from her bedroom. Walter had worked a double at his dad’s latest project and wasn’t present. Did the Trasks plan their assault with knowledge of Walter’s schedule taken into account? The plot thickened.
Lights flickered on in the adjacent houses. Aubrey joined me on the steps.
“Oh God. Who’s that?” She pointed at a body lying motionless in the grass, cattycorner to where we stood.
I walked over and examined the skinny dude who’d tried to sneak in through the window. Shards of glass glittered around his head; drapes covered him. I kicked his thigh, hard. He was too far gone to complain, but his limbs twitched. The butt of a small, cheapo automatic protruded from his waistband. That was fortuitous.
“Oh God. Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Did you kill him?”
“Nope,” I said, slightly disappointed in myself. Nor did I find any corpses on the opposite side of the house where I’d directed a couple of bullets.
The cops arrived promptly after the excitement. I disarmed myself and made certain to raise my hands during the initial confusion. Private investigator performing legitimate security work thwarts home invasion. Shots fired put a slight damper on the report, although multiple attackers breaking in at night all but guaranteed I’d be cleared by the D.A.’s office. An ambulance team scraped the unconscious dude off the lawn and whisked him to a date with a trauma surgeon. His near future included a spinal halo, intravenous tubes, and traction.
Aubrey P was less than grateful.
“You goddamned gorilla,” she said once the cops finished debriefing me. “You could’ve killed that kid. You could’ve killed one of the neighbors.” Her eyes shimmered with rage and tears. “That’s it. I don’t care. You’re fired. You and Chuck and your drunk Army buddy can stay the fuck out of my house.”
Technically, she couldn’t fire me since I worked for her grandfather. Still, her wrath caused me to take a strategic step back.
“We’ll replace the windows,” I said. “Uh, and the sofa. Insurance company will be here in the morning; t
ake care of the whole schmear.”
“Fuck the windows! Fuck you!”
Anybody with an ounce of self-preservation declines to argue with a woman in that kind of mood. I escaped while I was behind and went home and slept.
The accountant woke me a quarter after 9 a.m. to confirm he’d finished his task and had left the report on my desk. I skipped breakfast and headed directly to the office.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
There’s a passage in The Prince wherein Machiavelli discusses the capricious nature of fortune and its propensity to screw with a ruler’s best intentions. He says something to the effect that while a man can’t control fortune’s flow, he can damned well dig a channel and shore up the dikes. Amen, Niccolò.
I’d dug a channel and shored the dikes. Now, synchronicity followed the path of least resistance. Wonders never cease.
In addition to several manila folders of potential goodies, I checked the machine. Delia Labrador had left a message. She offered to meet at a café in Stone Ridge and save me the drive. Call it a lunch date. I combed my hair and everything.
Since it was still early, I spent two hours poring over the files and taking notes. A certain pattern emerged. I required more time to study and internalize the data before drawing any conclusions. Suffice to say, I began to seriously ponder the mysterious intersection of coincidence and fate. Not for the first time either.
* * *
—
THE STONE ROOSTER was one of those restaurants that served breakfast, closed during the afternoon, and reopened for the dinner crowd. Bay windows splashed sunlight on a checkerboard marble floor, granite bar, and a scattering of iron tables painted white. A gold-and-green wooden rooster stood watch near the front door. The carving’s detail had worn away beneath flaking paint. I’d read somewhere that certain cultures believed wooden roosters protected buildings from fire.
I arrived early and ordered the chicken, of course, and the house ale. I had the meal on the ropes and started on the second beer when Delia waltzed into the room. Her bodyguards remained on the front steps like a couple of vampires who hadn’t been invited inside. I waved. The less surly one of the duo waved back.
Delia wore a dark jacket, slacks, and sandals. She’d piled her hair and wrapped it in a shawl. Her natural blonde self today. Hollywood shades with bright red frames, brighter red lipstick, and a shiny red clutch completed her flawless ensemble.
“I have decided to assist you,” she said. “Lucky duck.”
Immediately suspicious, I smiled winningly.
“Against your better judgment.”
“Against my worse judgment, dear. Misgivings notwithstanding, I truly am excited to help.”
“You want to help bring Harold Lee’s killer to justice? Commendable.”
“Screw justice. I want sweet, sweet revenge.” She ordered a glass of white wine. She tasted the wine and dabbed her lips on a napkin she removed from her clutch. Her nails were also red. She leaned forward and said in a stage whisper, “Before we proceed, I must ask—will it be a problem? My dating your best friend?”
“I’m confident it will be a problem for somebody. Not necessarily me.” I nodded toward her manservants on the porch. “Jekyll and Hyde won’t be overjoyed.”
“Jekyll and . . . Ha-ha, how clever. They’re not jealous.”
“They should be worried. Lionel has terrible luck and is a magnet for trouble. You being a likely example.”
“Of course, dear Lionel is plagued by misfortune. Poor farm boys flock to the military for a reason. My guards might not love your friend, but he’s a true-blue patriot. They absolutely loathe you.”
“Hyde has such a friendly smile. Thank you for holding them at bay so we can have our chummy talk.”
“You’re welcome. Hyde really is ready to shoot you through the window should I require rescuing.”
I tried to read her expression. Her big dark glasses thwarted that—by design. The pupils and the lashes, the corners and crinkles, tell a story. I watched her nostrils and the muscles around her mouth instead. Her mannerisms were faintly reminiscent of elite gangster molls I’d met, divided by what one might logically expect from a ruthlessly spoiled heiress.
“Is Lionel aware that you’re meeting me?” I said.
“Hmm. We’ve had one inconclusive date. Unless he slipped a tracking bug into my purse . . .”
“Taking that as a no.”
“Sergeant Robard is oblivious.”
“Lady, truer words were never spoken.”
“This is more fun anyway.” She abruptly reached across the 38th Parallel that divided our place settings and clasped my hands. Stronger than she appeared. “Secrecy is the special sauce of a whirlwind romance.” She settled back, dug into her purse, and passed me a full-color brochure with ZIRCON CORPORATION printed on the front cover above a fanciful starburst zircon stone. “Have a souvenir. It’s not available to the general public. Every time the Feds investigate Father, or some P.I. with delusions of grandeur comes sniffing around, I give them a door prize.”
“Zircon receives its share of attention, no argument. What, a dozen Federal inquiries since the Reagan presidency?”
“Closer to two dozen. Zero indictments.” She made the zero with her thumb and forefinger.
“The government twice investigated your granddad for industrial espionage. Two of your uncles seem like chips off the old block. Uncle Zebulon is liable to run out the clock in Federal prison for corporate espionage and arms trading; Uncle Ephraim was probably also bound for infamy. As a kid, he had numerous encounters with the law. A juvenile delinquent, some say. Except, he died young—car accident, wasn’t it? No insider trading or corrupt politicking for him.”
“Uncle Ephraim was allegedly antisocial,” she said. “He passed through the Pearly Gates before my time. Uncle Zeb, he’s sweet. Prison is treating him well. We converse once a year around Christmas. Every family has its scoundrel. Surely you can relate.”
“No shortage of scoundrels in your family. Daddy’s been probed by law enforcement agencies so often, he’s a major investor in petroleum jelly futures.”
“The price of success. Zircon suffers a fair bit of scrutiny. My family too. It’s a farce. Whenever a Labrador sneezes, somewhere a politician reaches for the phone to assemble a congressional oversight committee.” She watched me riffle the pages of the pamphlet. “Let’s talk about me. You are pretending to be an authentic detective, aren’t you?”
My contacts had come through nicely. I’d gotten my mitts on her transcripts, among a slew of other documents. Collating the information would be a bear, as old mountain men of my acquaintance would say.
I cleared my throat.
“Thirty-three, graduated from Vassar, majored in film. Trained at the Arrington School of Performing Arts—voice and dance. You travel. Italian ski resorts are your weakness. Engaged briefly to a Sicilian magnate. It ended poorly.”
“He couldn’t ski,” she said.
“Neither can Lionel. Be forewarned.”
“Fortunately, I’m not interested in skiing with him.”
Volley to the lady.
“You sit on several department committees within Zircon and are assistant chair to the Arts and Sciences Council. All this to keep your claws sharp. It’s not as if you have to lift a finger to make rent. Your net worth is considerable and will compound once Mommy and Daddy shuffle off.”
Delia clapped politely with the tips of her fingers.
“Bravo, my dear. It’s for show, alas. I’m the prodigal daughter. The powers that be assign token roles to keep me from underfoot. Assistant chair sounds important. It’s nothing of the sort.”
“Daddy isn’t keen about your dirty dancing,” I said. “Or your cavorting with thugs such as Harry. Or ex-soldiers.”
“He isn’t keen on a great many of my hobbies. We are both old
enough to realize nothing will change. My idols are incorrigible women. I do as I please. Or as much as I can get away with.”
“How did you and Harry become acquainted?”
“Someone introduced me to Harry in the flower of my youth. A year or so after college. Impressionable me versus a dashing older guy with an edge. We frequented the same clubs—”
“A millionaire chick and an arm breaker patronized the same nightclubs?”
“He had connections and I slum. We met in the middle. Flirted for years. I was chasing industrialists, remember? Nothing romantic until recently. Bad, bad scene at a party. A coked-up D-list celebrity put his hands on me. Harry knocked the man’s teeth down his throat. You would never in a million years guess from looking at him that he was capable of such an act.”
“Turn-ons include brutality,” I said.
“Sweetie, you haven’t any idea.” She signaled for a fresh wine, though her first glass remained nearly full. “I have a question. Who hired you? Surely not his estranged wife or children.”
“Ms. Labrador, your dead boyfriend is hardly a sympathetic character in this drama. This isn’t news to you. Whatever their faults, Harry’s family deserved better, and I’m not interested in hashing out their infelicity to his memory.”
A hint of color bloomed in her cheeks.
“Ouch! Over to you, then. Coleridge CV highlights? You contracted for the Mafia and now you don’t. Well, as far as we know, you don’t. You weren’t a common hitman. Your file indicates a significantly higher class of assassin. One with social graces and specialized training to smooth over those rough edges. The Chicago mob invested time and resources in your tutelage. Not a hooker, but a courtesan.”
