Hot Ticket

by Janice Weber

  I accessed hospital records for September 5. The ER had admitted two black males, both in cardiac arrest, at 0935 that morning. This being an unusual coincidence for a pair of twenty-somethings, the warden had thought they were faking and had delayed calling an ambulance until it was nearly too late. Once the paramedics got their hearts pumping again, the victims had developed fever, mumps-size thyroids, and acute diarrhea. Doctors eventually blamed a tic carried by bats and ferrets, although neither victim had been near such animals. They had just been discharged from the hospital two days ago. Having coughed up bail, they were allowed home until their trials. Mohammed Jones may have bolted to Detroit, his listed address. Presumedly Donelle Boozer went to nurse his ragged rump in an apartment on Florida Avenue.

  I cut back to Figgis Cole at the district jail. The fool had flashed a Guatemalan passport but hadn’t demanded to speak with the Guatemalan ambassador about his incarceration. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer or a translator. He hadn’t gotten sick.

  Welcome to Washington, Dr. Bailey.

  I moved to another keyboard, this one connected to transmitters, receivers, Fausto’s phone tap. I was calm enough until I heard his voice. Then a virulent case of stage fright kicked in: didn’t know what I was about to hear. The next few minutes could kill me.

  For a man about town, Fausto spent remarkably little time on the phone. I caught him speaking with tailor, banker, landscaper. Then Justine Cortot called.

  “He’s becoming impossible,” she said, voice cold and edgy. “I can’t control him much longer.”

  “Your usual method isn’t working?” Fausto replied with equal warmth.

  “Do something fast. He’s losing it.” She hung up.

  Who was losing it? Duncan? Justine had made the call yesterday, late afternoon, just before I’d showed up to take Fausto to our concert. Maybe it hadn’t been nerves at all. His next call was to me at the hotel, around six in the morning. “I missed you,” he said. My stomach rolled all over again. “Terribly.”

  “Couldn’t wear my gown to breakfast, could I?” I had replied. Ball breaker! I replayed our conversation about Rhoby, breakfast guests…and Justine, who had just walked in. Fausto asked why she never brought Duncan with her to breakfast. “He thinks you’re trying to steal his job,” I had told him.

  “Duncan’s got nothing to worry about.”

  I had hung up in a huff. Stupid, but that’s what happened when you became too fond of your major suspects. After speaking with me, Fausto had made a few more inconsequential calls. Around lunchtime he’d dialed a number in Belize.

  “Koko’s,” a woman answered.

  “Eh, Florita. Is Simon there?”

  “I look.” Short pause. “No. We have not seen Simon in a long time.”

  “Did he leave a message for me?”

  “No. He just stopped coming here. His friends worry.”

  “Put one of his friends on, would you?”

  Please, oh God please, not James. “James here,” said a familiar voice. “That you, Fausto?”

  “Lost track of Simon, eh?”

  “He disappeared. I think he’s shacked up with a bird. That’s the only explanation.”

  “How so?”

  I nearly threw up as James said, “Last week some hot babe walks in at dinnertime. Simon takes one look and bets me a hundred bucks that her name is Leslie something or other and she plays the violin. I go to her table, chat her up. Not exactly a friendly sort, if you know what I mean. Anyhow, Simon’s wrong. Her name’s—shit, I can’t remember. It’s not Leslie, though.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Long dark hair. Green eyes. Little mole above her lip. Great body. Looked like she needed a bath and a good fucking.”

  Long silence. Maybe Fausto was throwing up. “Did you see Simon leave with her?”

  “No, but he followed her out. Couldn’t take his eyes off her ass. You know how he gets once that happens.”

  Another silence capped with a dreary sigh. “If he turns up, have him call, will you.”

  “Sure. Everything okay up there?”

  “Fine.”

  End of conversation. End of my life: of all people on the planet, Fausto was the last one I would want to know about my trip to Belize. I cringed, remembering how he had stared at the stitches on my thigh last night. What had I told him? Biking accident? He hadn’t pressed the point then, but he sure as hell must be reconsidering now. I should have known the moment I walked into that trio charade that something was off. Fausto hadn’t said two words to me. Why should he? I had betrayed him. But then he had asked Rhoby questions that would lead me directly to Louis in jail. Why hand over that priceless information? Why the hell was everyone giving it away tonight?

  I sat very still, trying to digest the frozen watermelon in my gut. Nothing moved. Finally, with a mammoth shiver, I reconnected to the phone tap. After calling Belize, Fausto had dialed a number in Panama. “This is Fausto Kiss. Is Krikor in?”

  Tuna eventually came on the line. “Everything’s on schedule,” Fausto reported. “I’ll keep you fully informed.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  No further calls of significance. Fausto had probably spent the afternoon practicing Brahms, concocting retribution. He knew my secret. So did my masked assailant. Last stop, Smith. All out. I called the Queen. “I found Louis. He’s in jail under the alias Figgis Cole.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Chilling out until his hearing.” I got Maxine up to speed on the amazing detective work required to locate him, neglecting to mention that Fausto had fed me clues like pablum.

  “If Louis was willing to go to the FBI about a purported assassination of his brother, why is he hiding under an alias, in jail of all places?”

  “Before he even left Belize, he was spooked that someone was after him. Used a Guatemalan passport to enter the country. He didn’t go to jail on purpose. That someone attacked him in broad daylight in front of the FBI building would confirm his fears that he was a target. I say he’s lying low, trying to figure out his next move.”

  “Who would want to kill him?”

  “Tuna?”

  “Try again. Tuna wants him alive so he can get his poison.”

  Shit. “Louis is afraid of Fausto.”

  “He called Fausto first, before dialing the FBI.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid of Barnard. Must not know she’s dead.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Who were the two men he went to jail with? Accomplices?”

  “I’ll know in an hour.” I tried to keep the pout out of my voice. Difficult to do when Maxine belted me from endgame back to square one.

  “How’s Marvel?” she asked brightly after a pause.

  “I haven’t taken a bath with him yet, if that’s what you mean.”

  “How’s Duncan?”

  “Oblivious of anything beyond Justine’s tush.”

  “I hear Fausto’s a pretty good pianist.”

  The Queen knew musicians were my downfall. I might as well give her something to worry about. “I’ve tapped his phone. He’s been trying to reach Simon in Belize.”

  “Why would Fausto be contacting a mercenary?”

  No answer yet. “The good news is, no one knows Simon’s dead. The longer he rots in the jungle, the less chance there will be anything left to find.” Bad news was, Fausto knew I had been to Koko’s. No need to rile the Queen with that.

  “Speaking of rot,” Maxine said, “Jojo Bailey won’t last the week. I want you to wrap things up before Aurilla gets herself sworn in. You’ve been in Washington too long.”

  “I’ve had concerts.”

  “One concert. It’s over.”

  “Bobby likes me.”

  “Are you so naive to think that the president of the United States would take the risks he has just to see you?”

  “You weren’t in the back of a limo with this oaf’s head in your lap.”

  “Know what, Smith? I think you’re having so m
uch fun in the water that you don’t see the sharks coming at you from twenty directions.”

  I saw them all right. Trouble was, I’d have to wait for one of them to take a leg off before making my next move.

  “What’s happening with Aurilla Perle?” Maxine continued.

  “She hasn’t spoken to me since her party.”

  “She invited you for a reason. It wasn’t a musical one. Ever find out who’s sending you flowers?”

  Sure! I just went five rounds with him! “No.”

  “What’s Chickering up to?”

  “She’s threatening to sit on me if I go near her wife again.”

  “She sat next to you at Ford’s Theatre.”

  “So did Justine. The ticket came from Bobby. They’re all one happy family.”

  “How’s Paula?”

  “Nursing her arthritis.”

  A short guffaw. I braced myself. Maxine always saved her best questions for last. “What’s with Fausto? Skip the part about what a good pianist he is.”

  But that was ninety percent of the puzzle. Where to begin, what to omit? I had to be extremely careful here: Maxine’s forte, besides puncturing my theories, was connecting the dots and hanging me with the line. “Two nights ago, after the fundraiser, he played a private recital for Marvel and Justine. Strange thing was, there was no Secret Service around.”

  “Ain’t easy for a president to slip out of the White House.”

  “He’s done it before. Nearly cost him his job. But he did it again.”

  “Gee, that sounds a little cagey for the innocent sex maniac you’ve been seeing.”

  “I didn’t say he was totally stupid.” Damn, where was I. “When Fausto left the room, Marvel took the opportunity to fuck Justine.”

  “I thought he was besotted with you. And I thought Justine was servicing Duncan.”

  “Maybe it’s just a habit.”

  “Nothing you’re saying makes sense. But continue.”

  “Who comes down the driveway but Tuna. He meets with Bobby for about ten minutes then splits.”

  “Why would Marvel secretly meet an arms dealer? Was Fausto in on the meeting?”

  “No, he was outside while they talked. I think he only set it up.”

  Maxine sighed profanities. “Too bad you couldn’t tap more than Fausto’s phone. Would have been nice to hear what went on between Marvel and Tuna.”

  “Give me a break. Fausto’s with me every second I’m in his house. I was lucky to get away with a phone tap.” One Pandora’s box at a time, for Christ’s sake! “Could you look up a Richard Poore and Lydia Varnas for me? He’s a tugboat captain. She’s a piano teacher. Both in London. If they’re alive, they’re old.”

  “What does this have to do with Louis?”

  “It has to do with Fausto.”

  Momentary quiet. “Just remember that your primary mission is to identify Barnard’s killer and get out of there. You’re spending too much time with Fausto.”

  I sighed in frustration. “Everything seems to revolve around him.”

  “Absolutely not. Everything revolves around Bobby Marvel.”

  “I’m telling you, he’s not that smart!”

  “Exactly what Barnard said,” she replied. “Look who’s still walking. Watch your ass at the jail.”

  Talking with Maxine was more exhausting than playing chess with Deep Blue. She had the advantage of distance and dispassion while I was the grunt in the trenches. At least she hadn’t told me what to do. She never did: the Seven Sisters always got to step on their own grenades. Nearly one in the morning but now I had a little errand to run. A futile one, perhaps, but better than standing like Bambi in front of oncoming headlights. I took a cab about three miles east on Florida Avenue.

  “Sure you got the right number, lady?” the driver asked. “I ain’t goin’ wait for you in that neighborhood. And you ain’t goin’ find a cab back neither.”

  “Tell you what,” I said, dropping a hundred bucks into the front seat. “How about selling me that crowbar I know you’re sitting on.”

  He pocketed the bill. “It’s a bowie knife.”

  “I’m not choosy.”

  With each block, Florida Avenue lost glass and gained graffiti. Must have been a nice place to live during the Civil War. Pretty coned dormers, high windows, inset doorways … now a cockroach would think twice about moving in. The liquor stores were armed fortresses. We passed cars without tires, buildings without roofs, squares of neon hawking tarot, lotteries, tattoos … this was a jungle within a jungle. Different animals but same Darwinian struggle, and without a gun I could not consider myself among the fittest here. Only two slim points in my favor: the rain and my lethal curiosity.

  No idiot, the cabbie didn’t directly unhand his bowie knife. Instead he opened his door, left the knife on the street, and U-turned back to civilization. I tucked the bowie in my belt and looked around. Nothing moved but the stormclouds and a twitching police flasher two blocks away. Donelle Boozer didn’t live far from the hospital where he had just spent a wonderful three weeks shitting his brains out. I rang the doorbell of a brick tenement: no buzzing inside. As I waited, heavy raindrops spattered the jalousies. Someone was trying to eke one last tomato out of the vine in the milk box. Lightning whitewashed the street for several seconds before a loud, close boom.

  I took a few steps back, saw an open window above the porch. Climbed up to a small, hot room where a black man, naked, slept alone. A dozen bottles of medicine cluttered the night table. He hadn’t yet removed the bandage over his IV drip. I took the largest bottle to the window and read the label. Take two teaspoons every three hours to relieve diarrhea: Boozer all right.

  He slept on his stomach. Nice ass. Didn’t look dangerous, but his eyes were shut. According to his rap sheet, Donelle was a fifth-rate hustler who had never graduated beyond unarmed robbery and friendly pimping. Couldn’t be too dangerous if he slept with the windows open. With a few of his polyester ties, I secured one wrist and two ankles to the bed frame. “Donelle. Hey.” When he lifted his head, I straddled him, twisting his free arm back. “Don’t even try to get up. You’re tied to the bed.”

  A couple of tugs convinced him that this succubus was real. He didn’t seem to mind. “You’re wasting your time, woman,” he said calmly. “I got no cash at all. I been in the hospital with a very nasty disease.”

  “I know.” Outside, intense lightning. Thunder shook the house. “I have a few questions about that.”

  “Look, if you’re here about that guy, I’m sorry. He was one motherfuckin’ tornado. I’ll give you a refund soon’s I get back on my feet.” Donelle struggled to look at me. “You a cop?”

  “Worse.” I shoved his face back into the pillow. “I’m the sanitation crew. Clean up everyone’s mess. And you messed up.” I laid the bowie knife on the sheet a few inches from his nose. “Start from the top and stick to the facts.”

  “Can I go to the bathroom first? You got my insides all riled up jumpin’ on me like that.”

  “You can crap all you want after I leave. How’d you get this gig?”

  “Someone phones me four o’clock in the friggin’ morning askin’ if I’m lookin’ for quick easy work. Two grand cash was waitin’ in my milk box downstairs. All I do is haul myself down to the FBI in half an hour. If a thin honky shows up, I shove him into my car and drive to the cemetery down the block.”

  “The Congressional Cemetery?”

  “Whatever’s down by the jail. I said I couldn’t do it without help since I never saw this guy and what if he’s a strong sucker? So I get my cousin Mohammed to come along.”

  “How’d you get this job?”

  “I got a little network, you know what I mean.”

  “Sure. So you and Mo get to the FBI building and see this guy.”

  “Yeah, a tall honky, thin as a coke straw. Little round glasses like those revolutionary dudes. Stank real bad. Me and Mohammed mosey up nice and slow like, one on each side. But he’s expecti
n’ us and starts swingin’ and spittin’. We can’t get a good grip on him. ’Fore you know it, he’s jumpin’ in the bushes and throwin’ dirt. Then a police car comes by. Shittin’ bad luck.”

  Outside, a long flash followed by gigantic ripping sounds and cascades of rain. “So you all go to the police station. Then what.”

  “Me and Mo tell the cops we just walkin’ by mindin’ our own business and this guy starts hammerin’ us. That don’t cut no mustard since the cops know me. So we get brung to jail. Me and Mohammed bein’ very good, very polite, ’cause we know we done nothin’. Then all of a sudden I get these motha pains in my chest. I think I am goin’ die. I was chokin’ for air. Then Mohammed gets it too. We rollin’ on the floor and goin’ out fast when the ambulance finally come. Me and my cousin spend three weeks in a hospital with a stomachache and the runs to die. I still hurtin’ bad all ova.”

  I dismounted but kept Donelle’s arm in a twist. “What was supposed to happen once you brought this guy to the cemetery?”

  “Why you askin’ me? I jes’ do my job and clear out.”

  No use asking if he knew who had hired him. “Any idea why you got sick?”

  “Sure! This guy, he done it. He bite me here, on the hand. And he bite Mohammed on the arm.”

  “Try again. He’s not a dog with rabies.”

  “He somethin’ odd, you believe me. Hot like hell and he wears rubber gloves. And he smells so bad, like a dead skunk. Not a people smell at all.”