Blood and Bone

by William Lashner

  Pump and squeeze. As simple as that. At the distance he expected to fire, the shot pattern would be as wide as a small dog. Pump and squeeze.

  The Remington and his automatic were in a bag on his bed, cleaned and loaded, ready for Byrne. Along with the knife he'd used in the park. He glanced at his watch. Plenty of time. Enough time to keep working at the stain before he took the bag to the car and headed to the bar.

  Bubba's. What a dump. He had cased the place after he had hidden Malcolm's body with brush and leaves in the park. He hadn't gone inside the bar—he would be recognized, of course, from his previous visit. Yes, the fire had singed his skin and burned off his hair, but Bobby had made some additions and didn't now look much different than he had before. As soon as they saw him inside, they'd know what was up.

  So he had checked the streets and alleyways front and back to figure out the best place to wait. And he had found his spot, where he'd be facing the entrance almost head-on. He'd sit in his car, and when the senator left, he'd call her and let her know, and then, against her firm instructions, he'd follow the Byrne boy. If he followed him long enough, the boy would take him to the accomplice Bobby had seen go into the house before he burned it down. It was the accomplice who would be holding the file. Then he could take them both out and have the file for himself.

  Pump and squeeze and pump and squeeze.

  And that would be just the start. Because Bobby was in charge now, no longer sitting back and waiting for her orders. Whatever she thought about Robert—how she could exert her control over him, how she could offer him everything and deliver nothing and he'd still kneel at her feet panting for more—was now obsolete. Robert was gone, and Bobby was in his place, and Bobby had every intention to run free like an arctic wolf, to rut like a goat, to dance along the knife's edge, to rampage. He would kill the Byrne bastard and his accomplice, he would grab the file for his own, and then the rampage would begin. And it would start at her doorstep.

  He was still scrubbing the shirt, scrubbing as his hands turned raw and scaly, when he heard the footsteps in the hallway and then—

  Knock, knock.

  His head turned so fast his neck cramped. Who the fuck is there?

  CHAPTER 44

  KNOCK, KNOCK.

  Ramirez heard some sort of snarl inside, like a ferocious cat protecting its food. And then the creak of the floorboards as something approached. As she took out her badge, she placed her free hand on the grip of her revolver, knocking off the leather holster strap with her thumb.

  "Mr. Spangler," she called out through the door.

  She saw the light from the peephole disappear. "Yes?" came the voice through the door.

  "My name is Detective Ramirez, from the Philadelphia Police Department. I have a few questions to ask you."

  "You do?"

  "Do you mind if I come in?"

  "A police officer? Really?"

  She stepped back and put her badge up to the peephole. "Just a few questions. Can you open the door, please?"

  "Of course. Just wait one moment, will you? It would be a scandal if I open the door now. I need to dress for guests."

  Ramirez didn't like the sound of that. This Spangler's voice was strangely familiar, soft and almost effeminate. There was nothing threatening in it, but still he was going off to find either a pair of pants or something a bit more deadly. She backed to the side of the doorway, took out her gun, and wished she had waited for Henderson to come along. It had seemed like a wild-goose chase, not worth wasting two detectives' time on, but that didn't mean the chase didn't have its dangers or the wild goose a .44.

  The building, a run-down old place wedged between two taller and wider buildings off South Broad, didn't give her much comfort. Above the outside door was a stone lintel with the word APARTMENTS carved into it, as if to announce that the structure had never aspired to be anything grander than a cheap place to hang your hat. It now held a combination of longtime tenants lacking the wherewithal or the desire to find something better and transients struggling to slow the slide of their fortunes. By the yellowed state of the slip of paper with his name typed on it, she assumed that this Spangler was the former. The vestibule door was unlocked, the stairs were worn, the walls dark with decades of shoulders rubbing the paint on their way down, down.

  When the door opened, Ramirez stood by the side of the doorway with her gun drawn, waiting for something lethal to come through. It turned out to be an old man, slight and harmless. He wore a wavy dark toupee on his large, round head and had red, blotchy skin on his face and his slightly palsied hands. The man stuck his head out the door, looked right and then left. When he found Ramirez, his gaze drifted down to the gun, and then he smiled thinly.

  "There you are," he said in a drawly, affected voice. "And you're holding a gun. Oh, my. What terrible things must I have done."

  Gay? she wondered. With that mop of fake hair, probably yes. And definitely not frightening. If they got into a dustup, one elbow to that outsize head and he'd be on the floor in a heap.

  "I'm sorry," she said as she put the gun back into the holster. "In my business they train us to be careful."

  "As they should, Detective, because one never knows. One never does know. You said you had some questions?"

  "Yes. Can I come in?"

  "Of course. How rude of me." He opened the door wider and beckoned her inside. "I wouldn't want to be rude."

  She entered a dark old apartment, its walls papered in faded yellowed paisley, dusty red tassels hanging from its lampshades. There was a creepy, anachronistic feel to the place, as if by stepping through the doorway she had spiraled through time into some spinster's house in the nineteen fifties. Black-and-white family photographs on the walls, an old-style console television, a loaded Super 8 projector set up behind the couch and pointed toward a stained white sheet tacked up on the wall above the television. A skirted couch and chair, upholstered in a greasy plaid fabric, was undoubtedly inherited from a grandmother and untouched out of sheer sentimentality. Ramirez wouldn't have been surprised to find the grandmother herself in a closet, untouched just as long for the selfsame reason.

  "Sit, please, make yourself at home," said the man.

  She did as he asked, sitting on the edge of the couch. The man was standing before her, in suit pants and a cardigan over a very nice shirt, with the soft folds of his cuffs just peeking out from the wool. He was younger than she had thought at first, maybe late fifties, early sixties. He leaned toward her, hands clasped together like an insect. He was a strange sight, with his gray pallor beneath the red and blistered skin, his bad toupee, his dark and arched eyebrows. She took a closer look and realized with a start that the eyebrows were drawn on, crudely, as if with a Sharpie. Her holstered gun began to dig into her hip.

  "The face of the police department certainly has gotten prettier over the years," said Spangler. "It's a welcome change, I must say. Very welcome."

  Was he flirting? Ramirez fought against her instinct to cut him down with flippancy, even as she began to feel sorry for the man: stuck in this tomb of an apartment, desperately holding on to a self-image that was as sadly off base as it was ridiculous. She shook her head at the emotion, as if trying to shake Henderson out of her consciousness.

  "That's very nice of you to say," she said. "I understand you're a lawyer, Mr. Spangler."

  "That's right," he said as he backed away from her and sat down in the easy chair catty-corner to the couch. He settled in, tilted his head down, and put his hands on the armrests like Lincoln in his memorial. In that moment Ramirez had the sense that she had seen this man before.

  She took another scan of the apartment. There was a kitchenette, its sink filled with pinkish soap bubbles, and at the end of a short hallway a bedroom. A black bag was sitting atop the bed. Spangler was about to take a trip. Interesting.

  "Are you still practicing?" she said.

  "Until I get it right." His chuckle sputtered to life for a moment, like a sick outboard m
otor, and then ran out of gas. "But only odds and ends now. Just a little family business."

  "Do you have an office?"

  He waved his hand around his entombed apartment. "I do most of my work here. I have a few friends remaining in the profession who let me use their clerical staffs if the need arises."

  "I'm wondering if you have a client named O'Malley."

  "O'Malley?" he said. "No, I'm sorry."

  "Do you know a Mr. O'Malley? Thomas O'Malley, I believe it is."

  "O'Malley? O'Malley?" He exaggerated the name as if the query were one of the great mysteries of the universe. "No, I don't believe I do. Why are you asking me these questions about a Mr. O'Malley?"

  "There is a man named O'Malley that we are looking for in connection with a homicide."

  "A homicide. Oh, my. Who died? Someone I know?"

  "Laszlo Toth," said Ramirez. "Also an attorney."

  "Ahh, yes. I heard of his murder. I thought it was a robbery."

  "We're still looking into it."

  "I didn't know him personally," said Spangler, "but by reputation, of course."

  "All we have to locate this O'Malley is a name and a phone number. From the phone records, the only calls he's been getting have come from your phone."

  "My phone?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "And only mine?"

  "The only ones we can't account for."

  "Ah, I see. When did I make these calls to Mr. O'Malley?" said Spangler.

  Ramirez took a sheet of paper from her pocket, unfolded it. "Last Friday, at 6:02 P.M., 6:49 P.M., 7:12 P.M. . . . . I could go on. But you called that number repeatedly, Mr. Spangler, almost obsessively, one could say, over the course of two or three days."

  "Obsessively, hmm? That doesn't sound like me. And those calls were to an O'Malley?"

  "They were to a number that we have connected to a Thomas O'Malley, yes."

  "Because I was trying to call my brother."

  "Your brother?"

  "Yes, my twin brother. He lives in Des Moines. Lovely town. Have you been?"

  "No."

  "You mustn't miss the cow made of butter at the state fair. My brother recently was given a new cell phone, and I've been trying to reach him but have gotten no answer."

  "Did he give you the number?"

  "Yes, or my aunt did. Someone. I must say, I didn't recognize the area code. Do you suppose there was a mix-up of sorts?"

  "I'm sure that's it. Could you tell me your aunt's name?"

  "My aunt?"

  "Just for our information."

  "Gloria," he said. "Gloria Spangler."

  "Do you have a phone number for her?"

  "Not offhand, but I could get it for you, I suppose."

  "Thank you."

  Spangler stared at her for just a moment, as if waiting for her to say it was not necessary. She stared back flatly at him until he finally stood and walked to a little table by the television console. He flipped the pages of an address book and read out a number for Ramirez.

  "Is my brother in trouble?" he said, still standing by the television.

  "No, Mr. Spangler. I'm sure it is just a mix-up. But why were you calling so frequently? Over and over?"

  "He's been sick lately, and I've been quite worried."

  "Nothing serious, I hope."

  "But it is, I'm afraid. Quite fatal. And as a twin, I can sense his emotions and well-being. Those things you've heard about us? All true. And more. What I sensed was a shift taking place. So you can see the reason for my distress. But if the number is wrong, then I am quite relieved. That explains why he wasn't answering."

  "I'm sure that's it. I notice some blisters on your hands and face. Were you in a fire recently?"

  "Fire?" He stared at his hands, turning them over as if they were fascinating artifacts that he had never in his life seen before. "No, these are not burns, Detective. The condition of my hands comes from a disease I have. Chronic psoriasis. Heartbreaking, actually."

  "So they say. Are you going on a trip?"

  "Why would I . . ." He stopped, swiveled his head toward the direction of the bedroom. "Ahh, so you've seen my bag. You are a detective, aren't you?"

  "It's part of the job to be observant."

  "And someone's been training you well. I'll have to write my councilman about the improvements in the force. Yes, I am going away, actually." He took a watch fob out of his cardigan, gave it a quick look. "In fact, I need to be going. Off to Des Moines to visit my brother."

  "Flying?"

  "No. I can't afford such luxuries. And being in an airless tube hurtling through the heavens makes me nervous. I'm a bit of a scaredy-cat, I'm afraid. So I'm driving."

  "Long drive."

  "Not as long as if he lived in Omaha."

  "I suppose not," she said, forcing out an appreciative laugh. There was something very strange going on here. She'd like to look in that bag, she'd like to look in that sink or see what the movie was in the projector. But he had the right to refuse to allow a search, and if she pushed, he might sense her suspicions. It was better not to kick this sleeping dog while she tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

  "Thank you, Mr. Spangler," she said, standing. "I so appreciate your help."

  "It is no problem," he said, standing himself. "Especially being interrogated by someone as pretty as you." He dipped his chin, gave a strange, devilish grin, smoothed a fake eyebrow with the flat of his finger. "You wouldn't perhaps want to have coffee sometime, would you, Detective?"

  He was . . . oh, my gosh, he was preening like a movie star and asking her on a date as if he were a genuine lothario. There was something unnerving, and terribly sad, in the disconnect between his self-image and his reality. But it could be useful, too. "I'm not sure I'm allowed, Mr. Spangler," she said, putting a girlish note in her voice.

  "Call me Bobby."

  "I don't know, Bobby. We're prohibited from fraternizing with witnesses we meet on the job."

  "Is that what I am? A witness?"

  "Yes."

  "How exciting."

  "And there are rules."

  "Oh, rules," he said with a dismissive wave of his blistered hand. "It's only coffee. And we can discuss your Mr. O'Malley a bit further."

  "Well," she said with a smile of her own. "Maybe you're right. Coffee does sound nice." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card.

  As he reached for the card, the sleeve of his white shirt extended from the cardigan. A French cuff. She held on to the card a few seconds to take a better look. A round silver cuff link. And was that a spot on the cuff link? Dark. Like a drop of something. Something like blood. She looked up at his face, at the deranged eyebrows and the lidded eyes that were hiding everything but their dementia. In a strange way, she wanted to hug him like a lost child even as she wondered where he was in such a hurry to get to.

  Still holding on to the card, she stared into his eyes and said, "What's your brother's name, Bobby?"

  He licked his lips. "Eugene."

  "Eugene Spangler of Des Moines, Iowa."

  "He's in a home now, a hospice, preparing for his death. They overcook the green beans."

  "Please give Eugene my best wishes," she said before letting go of the card.

  "I'll do that . . ." He glanced at the card, looked back up at her.

  "Lucia."

  "Give me a call when you get back," she said in a voice as breathless as Marilyn Monroe's. "I'll be waiting."

  CHAPTER 45

  A SENATOR WALKS INTO A BAR.

  The amazing sight of Senator Francis Truscott IV walking into a joint like Bubba's seemed so surreal to Kyle that it could only be the setup of a joke.

  A senator walks into a bar. He orders ten martinis lined up in a row. "What's the occasion?" says the bartender. "I'm celebrating," says the senator. "I just raised a million dollars for my reelection campaign."

  Truscott, a tall man in his late forties, wore a pair of jeans, a leather jacket, and a baseba
ll cap, trying hard to hide his senatoricity. But the jeans were pressed, and the leather of the jacket was butter soft, and it was a Phillies cap he was wearing, which was like a sign saying NOT FROM HERE. And of course there was the gaunt and severe face, chiseled by the gads of press coverage he had garnered over the years into something like a monument.

  "Congratulations," says the bartender as he lines up eleven martinis side by side. "Have another on the house."

  "No thanks," says the senator. "If ten don't wipe out the taste of all the dick I've been sucking, I don't think eleven will either."

  Or something like that.

  Kyle was waiting for the senator in a booth, alone. But not entirely alone. There was Skitch at the bar, throwing dice with Old Tommy Trapp while keeping an eye on things. And Kat was parked in a car across the street, ready to call the police if something looked fishy. And there was Bubba Jr. himself, unhappy as hell that Kyle had volunteered his place for the meeting, but behind the bar all the same, with his shotgun oiled and loaded. They were all there just in case the senator had ideas of being a bit too clever.

  And of course when did a senator ever not think himself a bit too clever?

  The senator walked into the bar with a hesitant step, like a tenderfoot walking into a Wild West saloon, ready to duck if a spittoon were hurled at his head. While he looked around, Bubba and Skitch made an effort not to stare, but Old Tommy Trapp couldn't help himself.

  "Pussy," said Old Tommy, in a whisper loud enough to have been heard in Cleveland.

  Kyle raised a hand and nodded Truscott over to his booth. The senator swiveled his head guiltily, before slipping into the bench seat across from Kyle.

  "Are you Kyle?"

  Kyle nodded.

  "Pleased to meet you, Kyle," said the senator, smiling and holding out his hand as if the bar were a campaign stop. "I knew your father."