Searching for Harpies

by Charlie Vogel

  “Sometimes I wished I did.”

  Lori’s spoke up, “Tommy, who said we would protect you?”

  “Why, my cellmate. I never learned his last name, but he introduced himself as Greg.”

  “Big guy, red hair cut real short?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Greg Bogart, one of Fox’s men. Bob, I bet Greg was planted to give Tommy the warning. Get this car headed back downtown. We need to call Fox for a meeting.”

  “We may be delayed.” I swung into the empty curb lane despite the parked cars ahead.

  “They’re almost on our bumper,” Lori shouted.

  I accelerated in front of a slow car. Brakes and tires squealed behind us. I sensed the other westbound cars noting the not-too-funny cat and mouse game between us and the Lincoln. Brake lights and swerving cars opened up a weaving route ahead.

  “Our Father who art in heaven . . .” Fr. Manning’s voice strained with the tension we all felt.

  “That’s not helping, Father,” I panted, shifting my eyes from rearview mirror to the street to my speedometer. The black Lincoln was coming on faster now. As I made a tilting U-turn onto Leavenworth Street, the Mercedes’ tires squealed and Manning shut up. Cars continued yielding to me. I stepped on the gas again, flying low with Christmas tree-like brake lights and shifting cars ahead of me.

  “Lori?”

  “A block away. Fuck! They just ran a red light. Almost got a van. Where’s the goddamn cops when you need ‘em? Er…eh, excuse the language, Tommy.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, hunched down in the seat with his eyes closed.

  “Turn someplace, Bob, before they get closer.”

  “I have a better idea.” I swerved into a drive on Park Avenue and screeched in a circle around the filled lot, barely missing the parked cars. I glanced at the priest gripping the arm rest in white fingers. A moment later I exited the opposite side onto another street, drove half a block and made a 90-degree turn into a dead-end alley. When I stood the Mercedes on its nose, the real priest slammed into the dash at the same time Lori hit the back of my seat.

  “Jesus Christ!” Lori groaned. “You trying to kill us before they do, Bob?”

  The white-faced Manning climbed back into his seat. In exaggerated movements he fastened the seat belt then looked at me. “What’s next?”

  I craned my neck to look out the back window. “As soon as they pass, I’ll count to ten then follow them. You call the police, Lori, on that handy cell phone of yours and maybe they’ll get to us before the assholes discover we’re on their tail.”

  “And if the fucking cops are slow?” she asked.

  “You can hold those fake beads and Fr. Manning can finish the Lord’s Prayer.”

  My eyeballs burned as I stared at the street waiting for the Lincoln as Lori made her call. Finally, the pimp-mobile slowly drove past our hiding spot. I think Lori and Manning counted with me. I backed out and turned eastbound hoping all the prayers worked. We weren’t that lucky. The Lincoln had pulled into another lot only one block away and now simply waited.

  Lori sighed, “I think they want to introduce themselves.”

  “Back up,” the panicked priest whispered.

  In the mirror I saw the light behind us had changed and cars approached. I had no choice but to pull to the curb.

  “Stay here, you two,” I directed as I got out.

  “Lord have mercy,” Manning murmured, looking as worried as I felt.

  “Bob?” Lori had opened her door to join me. Watching the tinted window just as intently, she grabbed my arm. “I’m the one with fight skills, remember?”

  “Yeah, but you’re kinda restricted by the outfit, Sister.”

  “You are not doing this alone, Fr. Dumb Ass.”

  The Lincoln’s rear door opened when we were about ten feet away. As I considered knocking Lori to the sidewalk, she pushed ahead of me. A large fat man stood up, towering above the car. He held a gun at his waist, hidden from the passing traffic by the door.

  The next moment Lori turned into a black and white blur like a penguin sliding across ice. Her skirts flew up and a Nike-covered foot kicked above her head at the same time she twisted like a corkscrew in mid-air. Damn, I wished she wore underwear.

  Lori’s foot connected with the man’s face in a thump like a melon cracking. As she dropped, I saw his features left in a mass of blood. Her right hand whipped up, hitting his gun arm. The black pistol clattered to the parking lot asphalt and bounced under the Lincoln.

  Ducking to see the second man, I glimpsed Lori levering herself on the Lincoln’s trunk to jerk back the big man’s chin. I couldn’t help but grimace when his neck bones cracked.

  Smoke poured from the Lincoln’s rear tires as the driver gunned the engine, pulling out away from Lori and her victim. The car sped into the street and away, toward downtown.

  Lori held onto the man’s head, his hair and bloodied face cradled against the habit’s white cowl. She crouched, slowly letting his body weight slide to the ground. When she released the head, the limp hulk flopped like a dead walrus. As I continued to stare, she casually picked up the dropped gun and returned to my side.

  “Um, that was, ah . . .” I cleared my throat. “Ah, how did you learn to break a man’s neck like that?”

  “I haven’t been taking fucking ballet for two years at that gym. I’m a third-degree black belt. And the next time we go anywhere, Fr. Dumb Ass, how about one of us goes armed?”

  “Oh, your lethal Nikes aren’t enough? Shit! I hope I’m not around if you ever have a bad day of PMS.”

  Fr. Manning cautiously walked up to peer around us at the body and glance down the street where the Lincoln had long ago disappeared. Looking back at the body, he made a half-hearted sign of the cross in the air.

  Lori stood straighter, “I hear the cavalry coming. Late as always.”

  I turned to see the approaching lights of at least three cruisers.

  Manning clutched my arm. “Think we’ll all go to jail now?”

  * * *

  A few hours later, we walked out the front door of the police station and stepped to the curb where the Mercedes had been parked. I opened the rear door for Sr. Mary Catherine, who climbed in and immediately peeled off the veil and blood-smeared cowl. I envied her because my neck was raw from sweating into my tight collar. Deep in thought, Father Manning carefully adjusted his seat belt as I took my place behind the wheel.

  “Well, gang,” I began as I started the car and cranked up the air conditioning, “our joint ass was grass with Slominski until Roy walked in. At least he didn’t out us in front of the rest of the investigators. We sure owe him.”

  Looking worried instead of relieved, Manning stared at me. “I don’t know how I could possibly repay his kindness.”

  Lori fluffed her loosened, sweat-soaked hair. “Don’t worry, Tommy. We’ll take good care of him. Too bad they couldn’t identify the fat guy before we left.”

  Sighing heavily, the once again liberated priest closed his eyes and settled into his seat. “At least they allowed me to anoint him and pray for his soul before hauling us down here.” He rubbed shaking hands over his face. “Bob, I’m on the edge of a breakdown. I’m surprised I can speak coherently. Please take me to St. Anthony’s. I need to consult with my superior and the bishop.”

  Lori talked on her cell in a low voice. A block later she called out, “Fox will be at 10th and Dodge in five minutes.”

  “I can be there in three.”

  Once again Manning gripped the arm rest. A series of green lights appeared in the blocks ahead but the closest light had just turned yellow. I stomped on the gas, passing a slow Ford. Brakes squealed, followed by the slam of metal on metal. I ignored the “Our Father” coming again from the passenger seat.

  Fox’s limo sat empty, taking up two parking spaces under the building’s faded words of Dodge Street Outfitters. I turned into the lot and parked over the dividing lines next to Fox’s limo.

&nb
sp; “Hope you’re hungry, Father. Don’t know if you’ve ever eaten here.” He shook his head. “Well, then, welcome to Jake’s.”

  I held the door for the priest and Lori, once again in her soiled nun costume. The humid summer air fought with the smells of the greasy-spoon restaurant. Lori motioned her head toward Fox at the far end of the room. He sat at a large round oak table. We took seats facing him. Drumming his fingers on the plastic menu, he stared a moment at each of us then sneered, “Hello, Father, Father and Sister. Did you call me here for Mass or just a prayer meeting?”

  I clasped my hands on the table. “Fox, meet Fr. Thomas Manning. And we’re here for you to tell us why someone wants to hurt him.”

  Fox took a sip from a big glass of milk. “Harpies is looking for him. She has an army out there, well-paid and not showing off. I don’t know who they are. I got people protecting my turf, but she ain’t interested in nothing of mine. At least not since Roxanne and Penny.”

  “Why is she after Fr. Manning?”

  “A package was delivered to me a few nights ago. She paid me in cash for profits lost on Roxanne and Penny. Said to think of it as something like a pay-off on life insurance. I’m still confused as hell why she thought I needed money for two dead girls, since I am who I am in this town. But she added a little note saying she’ll put up five grand for me to deliver the priest here to her unharmed.”

  Manning sat forward both indignant and rattled. “What does she want with me? I know nothing about this Harpies. Who is she?”

  Fox slowly put the glass of milk to his lips, letting the seconds tick by as he finished drinking. “Since this is happening on my turf, I’m trying to find out, otherwise I wouldn’t give a shit, Father. Worm left me a message a few minutes before you got here. The man Lori took down was named Moon. A hit man up from Kansas City.”

  Lori and I frowned at one another. “News travels fast. How did you know about him?”

  “His death is old news. TV guys all over it this afternoon.” He waved to a set mounted in the corner near the ceiling. “The reporters are talking about a Catholic nun, who karate chopped a robber in self-defense. Half hour ago Worm recognized Moon from an old mug shot they put up. Seems it took longer for the fancy lab people to run his prints than it took to leak the I.D. to the goddamn blood hounds. Kansas City?” He humphed. “We got plenty of damn good hit men right here. An import deserved what he got.”

  “I know someone who goes to Kansas City once or twice a month, but a lot of people drive down there. No, I can’t believe she would hire—”

  “Ann,” Lori interrupted softly.

  Manning looked at us like we were crazy. “Mrs. Piston?”

  “No, no, Father, “I tried to calm him. “She wouldn’t . . . I mean, she’s a housewife. I’ll never believe she would even know how to find a killer for hire.”

  Lori frowned at me. “But the excuse she uses to go to K.C.? Shopping? And have you really looked at the clothes she wears? You can buy that shit on any discount rack here in Pecatonica.” She bit her lip and glanced nervously at Fr. Manning. “Bob, you heard her say she would kill Penny for . . . well, you know.”

  I held up my hand glancing at the curious Fox and disbelieving Manning. “Okay, but, if everyone thinks the same person killed Roxanne, what would be her motive there?”

  The priest gripped my forearm. “Stop it. Please.” He looked from face to face. “You’re talking about Harry’s wife, a sweet woman, a devout woman. How can you? All of you are trying to judge by-by guessing. I don’t want to listen to any more of this.” His jaw stubbornly hardened as he glared at me. “I want you to take me to St. Anthony’s. Now!”

  Chapter 7

  The cooing of the strutting pigeons intensified when Lori showered another handful of popcorn over the half dozen bobbing heads. Wings fluttered with incoming birds and the flock doubled in size, crowding closer to our feet. I leaned against the wooden slats of the park bench and stretched my legs, careful of the droppings on the sidewalk. A white pigeon with gray wing tips hopped up on the toe of my Giorgio’s. When I moved my foot downward, the bird stretched as if thinking of flight, then stepped off and drunkenly walked back into the pigeon crowd.

  A young woman jogged past on the asphalt path of Eugene Leahy Mall, her long blond ponytail swaying like the rear of a show horse. Our disturbed audience gracefully fled upwards in a wave of bodies, beaks and wings. My mind took a snapshot and I considered how I would put the image on canvas. Oil, not charcoal. When I turned to see Lori staring at me expectantly, I realized I had been thinking while watching the runner’s tight butt moving away down the path.

  Rather than comment on that “caught you” look, I turned my attention to the three ducks cutting across the park’s smooth pond. The shallow, artificial waterway curved to the east. Opposite our bench, in the dark green grass, two lovers locked lips on a blanket. I wondered if the downtown’s foot patrol cops would interrupt their still PG-rated play. A short distance to our right, children attacked the slick jumbo slide, their laughter turning to shrieks when their butts hit the sharp dips. At our backs, the park’s steep incline of well-mowed grass led to the busy traffic on Farnum Street. The rude sounds of tires, car horns and the never ending swish of traffic played as background music to the kids’ nearby voices.

  Just as a few pigeons settled back to strut for more treats, a boy raced by on his bike. He had stripped it to just enough essentials to keep it working. His errant steering scared the brave birds, just as the runner had. In a moment of silence, I enjoyed the distant sound of the pond’s waterfall tumbling into the bigger riverfront lake far to our right.

  Lori’s arm bumped me as her fingers reached inside the skimpy leather bra of her street outfit.

  I smiled. “You looking for a cigarette?”

  “Well, yeah, damn it. You don’t expect a whore to sit here talking to a prospective john and not smoke, do you?”

  “Doesn’t anyone in your profession try to quit?”

  She shrugged. “Has the Pope quit praying? Shit, I need just one more and then, I promise, I’ll quit for good.” Her big, dark eyes turned artificially pleading.

  I shook my head and went back to looking at the ducks gliding and nibbling at one another . . . not too different from Lori and me. “You haven’t had one for three days. Can’t you try for another day?”

  “You ever tried talking to a real bitch?”

  “Not until now. Pull yourself together. Down the walk. I think it could be a real john.”

  She barely glanced at him. “Naw, he’s not the type. He’s wearing a wedding band.”

  “How can you see that far? And, what if he is? You told me most of your customers were married.”

  “I can spot the ring-finger a half block away. The men I would trust as a john don’t fuck another woman with it on. See? He’s crossing the street to get in his car.” She lounged back on the bench, her arms stretched on the top railing. “I don’t see why we’re here. Fox was certain Harpies has killed the people she wanted and Tommy is gone to Missouri.”

  I considered a moment. “To you it may seem we’re wasting time, but someone in this area has seen this woman. My gut just knows it. It takes patience to hear gossip. It’s not going to come to us easy or quick. We have to look for it. That’s what we’re here for.”

  Lori stretched, giving me an eyeful of those gorgeous breasts threatening to pop out of the leather bra. She then stood, purposely bending so her perfect ass pointed at me. Under the edge of the leather skirt I saw she wore a black thong. The four-inch heels shaped her ankles and positioned those long legs so God, me and every male in the area could sigh with appreciation.

  Pushing the hair from her eyes, she straightened the blond wig and murmured. “Here comes an old friend.”

  I turned to watch an elderly woman pushing a grocery cart across the street toward us. The wire basket looked filled with garbage collected from God knew where. Despite the summer heat, she wore a flapping coat over a man�
��s sweater. Unlaced gym shoes flapped on her feet.

  “Who is she?”

  “Huh? You don’t recognize her? It’s Harriet Pierce.”

  She stopped a few feet from us. The lop-sided straw boater shaded her sad, dark eyes. Securely tied under her chin, a red scarf held back her long, gray hair under the hat. “Hello, Harriet.” I called out, extending my hand.

  She stared hard at me. “Do I know you?”

  Lori giggled and sauntered closer to her. “Of course you do. Bob and me visited your apartment last week. We met all your cats.”

  “Yeah? Wait. Oh, you’re, ah, Lori. You and Penny. Sad to tell you but Penny’s sick. She ain’t come down to see me for a few days now. I thought I’d get her some food. The Gizzard and Wings down the street throws out a lot of meat that makes good soup.”

  “Harriet, do you remember Bob coming with me? He asked you about Harpies.”

  She wiggled her fingers in a feminine wave. “Now, that Harpies is doing well. I just seen her back in the alley.”

  I held up a finger to silence Lori. “Just now? Can you show us?”

  “Sure thing” She leaned closer to Lori. “But you don’t say nothing to her. She ain’t liking strangers now days.”

  She pushed the rattling cart back the way she’d come while we followed. Our little parade of three mismatched people drew curious stares from passing pedestrians, the people who actually had real business downtown. Every once in a while I made eye contact and grinned at the gawkers. They tended to hurry on.

  We ambled along for two slow blocks before Harriet turned into a shadowed, garbage-and-urine reeking alley. I glimpsed a rat burrowing into a split black plastic sack. The aging brick warehouses towered three stories up on both sides of us. Side-stepping the alley’s black puddles and broken cement, I kept close to the grocery cart, hoping the wheel’s squeaking noise would scare any curious rodents, especially the big kind. They scurried here and there, making me shiver. God, I hated rats. Lori hadn’t given them a glance. Just as we reached it, an oversized cardboard box moved. I jumped aside. A low-to-the-ground, four-legged furry animal emerged. It took off in a waddling run to a building crevice and disappeared.