[Rafferty 01.0] Rafferty's Rules

by W. Glenn Duncan

  Put that way, she had a good point.

  Chapter 17

  Rafferty’s Rule Six says: Don’t forget the money.

  I went to Dermott’s office for my six thousand dollars. Marge had phoned him, so the check was ready when I scaled the heights of Bryan Tower. Dermott looked at the check on his desk, looked at me, and said, “Should I ask how you earned this, Rafferty?”

  “You’re an officer of the court, right? Bound by the ethics of the bar association, sworn to defend justice, fair play, motherhood, apple pie, and Sunday school. Upon sober reflection, Counselor, I don’t think you want to know how I earned that.”

  He signed the check and I left him to the sanitary practice of law. Devising tax shelters, beating DWI raps, leasing deductible Mercedes; clean-cut honest work like that.

  I split the six grand into two parts. Enough for the final payment on the Mustang and two month’s house rent went into my checking account. I bought a six-month CD with the rest; it made me feel like a budding tycoon.

  Move over, Mollison. And, by the way, where do you find maids like Consuela?

  The noontime shadow-boxing with Ed Durkee had left a thought dangling. I went to see if I could tie a knot in the end of it and use it to reel in Turk and his band of merry men.

  The Dew Drop Inn looked even shabbier in the daytime. Without the blurred edges of night, it was only a tacky white building surrounded by patched asphalt. Across the street, where Mimi had flattened the motorcycles, the curb was empty.

  The hot Ford pickup was sure to be in the police impound yard. Were the motorcycles there, too?

  I walked around trying to look like I was detecting something and found that the stretch of curb wasn’t quite empty. There was a bright red plastic shard there, and a section of amber turn signal, and a dusting of headlight fragments. Rockford or Magnum or Mike Hammer would have been able to glance at the debris, say “Ah-ha!” and rattle off the motorcycle model, license number, mileage since the last oil change, and the shoe size of the rider.

  To me, it was just broken plastic and glass.

  Everything’s easier on television.

  The guy who ran the police impound yard was a civilian. He’d been around. He wasn’t impressed by real cops; private types like me bored him rigid.

  He had a shack outside the wire mesh fence. Inside the shack, he had a file cabinet, a chair, two Hustler centerfolds showing everything but the G-spot, and a shelf with a radio on it. A loud radio.

  What with the radio and a dead cigar stub in the corner of his mouth, he was hard to understand. He made up for that by saying only one thing. “You don’t have no release, you don’t get no car.”

  “Not a car, dammit. I told you already. Three motorcycles. Watch my lips—mo-tor-cy-cles. Look there, you’ve got me doing Dom DeLuise imitations, for god’s sake!”

  “You don’t have no release, you don’t get no car.”

  “Hey, it’s only a lousy insurance case. Three bikes. They would have come late last night, early this morning.”

  The soggy cigar shifted briefly to the center of his mouth, then darted back to the corner. I smiled at him and tried to look trustworthy and deserving. “I only want to see them. Just for a second.”

  “You don’t have no release, you don’t—”

  “Fifty bucks for two minutes with the bikes.”

  “Do I look like I work Vice? Get outta here!”

  “I think I understand now,” I said. “I don’t get no car.”

  “Jeez, it took you long enough.”

  I went home then and carefully went through my house. I had the cocked .45 in my fist. Even so, I caught myself tiptoeing around like a dowager wondering when that pesky mouse was going to run over her foot. There were no bikers hiding in closets or under the bed; nothing ticked or exploded. If Turk et al knew where I lived, they had done nothing except, perhaps, drive past and look.

  Actually, it was a trifle disappointing.

  I phoned Hilda, caught her at the shop and suggested a night on the town.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m ready for that.” She sounded preoccupied. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Drinks, dinner, and play it by ear from there?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hil, do you mind if we take Fran, too?”

  “What, now I have a kid sister? Be a sport, Rafferty, give her a quarter. Maybe she’ll go to the candy store and leave us alone.”

  “If you really don’t want her, that’s okay. I just thought it would be a way for you two to get acquainted on neutral territory.”

  Hilda sighed. “No, it’s okay. She can come along, I guess.”

  When I dialed Hilda’s number, the phone rang for a long time before Fran answered. “Hi,” I said, “did I catch you in the shower?”

  “I wish you had. I’m cleaning the oven. I’ve got yucky brown foam all over my hands. If we get cut off, it’ll be because the phone melted.”

  “Good girl,” I said. “Fran, it’s Friday night and time to party. I’ll pick you girls up about seven-thirty.”

  “Oh, great!” she said. “Uh, have you talked to Hilda yet?”

  “Sure. She’s looking forward to it.”

  “I hope so. This morning was kind of … oh, I don’t know. Weird, I guess.”

  “I wouldn’t say weird, Fran. I thought it was funny. You two were so busy walking around each other saying ‘excuse me’ and ‘pardon me’ and ‘after you,’ it sounded like an etiquette class.”

  She giggled. “It was tense, wasn’t it? It’s your fault, though, for pushing Hilda into letting me stay here. She’s awfully good to you.”

  “She’s the best there is, Fran. I’ll see you later.”

  “Hey, wait a minute! Where are we going tonight? What am I going to wear?”

  “Talk to Hilda when she gets home. She’ll have an idea.”

  “Rafferty!” she wailed.

  “Bye, Fran.”

  Women have the damnedest problems.

  I made coffee, lit a pipe, and cleaned the .45. If the Colt had been registered, I might have worried about whether the cops had recovered the slug that went through Frog.

  Instead, I wondered how to handle Turk, Stomper, and Smokey Joe. There seemed to be two possible ways to approach the problem. I could wait for them to find me, drag any survivors to the cops, and hope Fran’s testimony—and a confession?—would be enough to convict. Or I could find them first, drag any survivors to the cops et cetera, et cetera.

  Going after the bikers was probably the cleanest way to wrap up the Mollison case. It would get Fran out of Hilda’s hair faster, keep the bikers off-balance, and maybe keep any bystanders from ending up like Joe Zifretti.

  And, in accordance with Rule Six, it would put another nine grand in my bank account.

  There was also the off-chance they would run, not fight. That would be the most peaceful solution. It was open-ended, though, and unsatisfying. It would cost me money, for one thing. For another, I was like Marge Mollison. I wanted to know when it was over.

  I reassembled the Colt, dry-fired it, reloaded it, put it down, and smiled at it. I always liked that big ungainly cannon. The army has replaced it now with a wimpy little 9mm Beretta. Dumb.

  I checked in with the answering service. Surprise, surprise, there were calls to return. I had forgotten about my biker-bashing newspaper ads. Not that they had been needed. Since Turk and his followers had surfaced in Dallas, I didn’t expect much from the half a dozen country people who left messages. I noted the numbers anyway, looked at the list for a minute, then said the hell with it. It was Friday evening and I liked the sound of a weekend off.

  I watched bits and pieces of the news while I showered and changed. The Bobbsey Twins at Newsroom Corner ooh-ed and aah-ed over the Dew Drop shooting. They called it a gang fight, read corny jokes off the auto-cue, and chuckled their way into a commercial break. During the first commercial, a car dealer with big teeth promised me his salesmen were the easiest pushov
ers in Dallas. He dragged a salesman on screen to prove it. Guy looked like a grave robber to me.

  I put on dark blue slacks, a new pale yellow shirt and a lightweight sports coat. The ensemble also included a stylish shoulder holster and a .38; I decided it made more sense to not need it than to not have it.

  I went out the door with my chest stuck out, feeling clean and tough and ready for anything. Wearing a shoulder holster does that to you for the first few minutes.

  Hilda answered her door wearing a flimsy yellow summer dress with a black belt that picked up the dark secrets of her eyes and hair. She smiled and said, “Come on in. This may take a while. She’s dressing.”

  “You two getting along all right?”

  “Well enough. She’s trying, no doubt about that. The kitchen is spotless. I’m just not used to coming home and having anyone here.”

  “I’m here sometimes.”

  She puckered up for a kiss. “That’s different.” She screwed a fingernail into my ribs. “How you doing, big guy?”

  “Tolerable, ma’am, tolerable. Especially now that I got me a date with the new schoolmarm.”

  Hilda backed away with a wry smile. “Well, don’t forget Miss Kitty. She’s coming, too.”

  We sat on the couch and held hands. Hilda told me she was working on a job for Fran. She might know something definite on Monday. I thanked her. She said her monumental effort was a direct result of my surprise incentive program. I patted her thigh and said, “There, there.”

  “Wrong,” said Hilda. “It’s not there-there at all. And if you don’t finish this case in a week as promised, you’ll never see where-where it is again.”

  “Now that’s what I call an incentive program.”

  Fran came into the living room. She had the shy eagerness of a young girl ready for the junior prom. She wore a tan shift with big buttons down the front. It was a touch casual, perhaps, but she made up for it with excitement.

  I liked that Fran even more than the hausfrau model. And it was hard to imagine her half-naked, hustling the Dew Drop Inners for watered drinks.

  Hilda’s BMW was better suited for the occasion than my weary Mustang, so we drove to the Hyatt Regency with Teutonic efficiency.

  During the meal, Fran watched Hilda before she selected a fork or decided which bread plate to use. I wondered how many times she had eaten anywhere more uptown than a Denny’s or McDonald’s.

  I ordered Caesar salad. The waiter assembled it on a cart at tableside, which fascinated Fran. “Hey,” she said, “imagine having a salad made right here, especially for you.”

  “Ah, stand by for dessert.”

  We had Bananas Foster, Crepes Suzette, and Cherries Jubilee, flambed simultaneously on three different carts. It cost me twenty bucks in tips and our corner of the room looked like the burning of Atlanta.

  Fran loved it. So did the waiters; they discreetly leered at Fran’s chest between abracadabra moves with brandy bottles and matches.

  After the meal, we strolled across to Reunion Tower for after-dinner drinks. When the high-speed elevator did its “we have liftoff” number, Hilda swayed against me and I put my arm around her. She noticed the shoulder holster and flipped my coat open. “Did you have to wear that thing?”

  Fran had been watching the numbers light up over the elevator door. She turned and said, “Excuse me?”

  Hilda tugged open my coat again and jerked her thumb at the shoulder holster. “The big guy brought his substitute penis.”

  Fran goggled at Hilda and me; she looked shocked. Hilda said, “No, wait a minute. That’s just a figure of speech.” She babbled something about Freud and male macho psychology; Fran got it almost immediately and began to giggle.

  “What a dummy,” she said. “I thought you meant …”

  The pair of them were whooping and wiping their eyes when the elevator stopped and the door swooshed open. A middle-aged couple in evening dress frowned and stood aside while we stepped out.

  “I caught these kids playing with the elevator,” I said. “Call the cops, will you?”

  “Call two cops,” Hilda chortled. “And we will not accept substitutes.”

  Fran turned red and chewed on her hand.

  The fancy-dress couple ignored us, entered the elevator, and studied the overhead light until the door closed. They were very interested in that light.

  A slim black girl in a long red dress led us around to a table on the outer rim, next to the tall windows. We sat in soft comfortable chairs and ordered drinks. Irish coffee for Hilda; a moment’s hesitation, then the same for Fran. Scotch for me.

  When the hostess turned away, Fran soberly studied the circular room and said, “Pretty high caliber place, eh?” The girls broke up again.

  Somewhere, Emily Post whirled in her grave.

  After they settled down, Hilda and Fran soaked up the view. They stared out at the city revolving below us and pointed out places to each other. Fran thought just maybe she could see where her apartment was.

  Dallas is a pretty city at night and Reunion Tower is high enough to let you see all of it. I watched the lights, and the dark patches, too, and wondered where out there the bikers were hiding.

  We drove back to Hilda’s long after midnight, content and a little boozy. Fran dozed in the back seat.

  Half a block from the house, I saw a figure standing on the dark sidewalk. I nosed the BMW into the curb and flicked on the high beams. It was a tall thin man in gray trousers and a white shirt. He shielded his eyes with one hand and called softly. I couldn’t hear what he said. Then a fat black Labrador came tail-wagging out of the bushes. The man and his dog hurried away.

  Feeling foolish, I backed clear of the curb and drove four doors down to Hilda’s.

  Inside, Fran stepped out of her shoes and went dreamily toward her bedroom, holding her shoes with two fingers hooked through the straps. “Night,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  I drank a glass of milk in the kitchen and watched Hilda pull off her earrings and scratch her head sleepily. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And now I feel guilty about that kid sister crack. She’s all right, isn’t she? She tries so hard. Did you see how careful she was at dinner?”

  “She spent a long time on the back of a bike, Hil. She’s going to make it, though. She wants to. That’s important.”

  “You might be right. Come on, let’s go to bed. Rub my back.”

  l rubbed her back, then we fell asleep nestled together like two spoons.

  Chapter 18

  Saturday morning. I mowed Hilda’s lawn. When I stopped to refuel the mower, Fran brought me a beer.

  “Here,” she said. “You look hot.”

  “Sweating off that meal last night. Thanks.”

  She sat cross-legged on the lawn and squinted up at me. “Can you drive me to my place this afternoon? I forgot a few things in the rush.”

  “Sure. I may have to go out anyway. Let me make a call first, then we’ll pick a time.”

  “Okay, thanks,” said Fran. “Maybe Hilda would like to come, too.”

  “No, she’ll stay here. I don’t think there will be any trouble, but it’s not Hilda’s fight.”

  “Oh.” She looked down.

  “Don’t get uptight and read too much into that,” I said to the top of her head.

  She nodded and tugged at a hand-sized patch of crabgrass. “You two aren’t married, right?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “Get married?” I said. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “It doesn't seem necessary. Being married didn’t help you and Tony much, did it?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s the people that count, not the paperwork, Fran.”

  “Sure,” she said.

  She fiddled with the crabgrass. I drank my beer. Finally, she looked up at me and said, “What made you feel you had to help me get away from the bikers the
other night?”

  “I hereby invoke the streaker’s defense. It seemed a good idea at the time. Besides, there was nothing good on the tube, so …”

  “Not good enough,” Fran said. “You’re joking because you're embarrassed.”

  “Me? The man who once mooned a presidential press conference? No way!”

  “You never did that.”

  “Well,” I said, “it was on Channel Eight at the time. Did I forget to mention that?”

  Fran said, “You joke, and recite those silly rules, too, but you feel strongly about obligations and honor and things, don’t you?”

  I drained the beer and crushed the can. And remembered my teenage days, when crushing a beer can with one hand required a little work. They must make them out of tinfoil today.

  “Okay, Fran,” I said. “You got me. I am embarrassed. A little. Because you’re getting into ethics and feelings and why I do things. Stuff like that. And it’s hard to talk about such things without sounding like a pompous jerk.”

  “Try. Please.”

  “You were in a tight spot. I put you there by asking questions and poking around. So I had to get you out. I owed you.”

  “I don’t know anybody else who would have thought that,” she said.

  “I don’t know anybody else who has to look me in the eye when I shave.”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Fran.

  “No, probably not,” I said. “But that’s all you’re entitled to for one lousy beer. Now get lost, woman. I have a lawn to mow.”

  “Yessir!” She got up, brushed off her bottom. “Let me know what time we’re going, huh?"

  After I finished the lawn, I phoned the cop shop. Ed Durkee was off for the day; Ricco was due in at four.

  Fran and I went to her apartment; there was no one around. I wasn’t exactly disappointed, but I did wonder why Turk and his buddies had been so quiet for the past two days.

  Back at Hilda’s, after lunch, I took a nap on the couch. I woke up an hour later to see Hilda and Fran across the room whispering about an old oil lamp on a corner table. It was a handsome lamp, converted to electricity in the twenties or thirties, according to Hilda, and it had a big green glass shade I liked. They looked at it and whispered, flipped pages in a soft cover antique book, and whispered some more.