Peeper

by Loren D. Estleman

  “That’s what he said, Sarge.”

  “Don’t call me Sarge. You sound like Beetle Bailey. So who got croaked?” he asked Ralph.

  “Forget what I said. I’m drunk.”

  “You smell like it. Drive like it, too. If I was Traffic, I’d bust you. What’s the idea of rabbiting when you saw us in front of your place?”

  “What was you doing in front of my place?”

  “You first.”

  “I thought you was a process server. I had my fill of them.”

  “Who hasn’t?” O’Leary looped the Chrysler around onto the westbound Ford Freeway. “Step on somebody’s toes, did you?”

  “The fucking business I’m in is paved with toes. What’s in Ann Arbor?”

  “You mean the fucking business you were in. We stopped in at Lovechild. The lady told us about you getting fired.”

  “I quit.”

  “She said different. That woman hates your guts and the box they came in. What’d you do, mistake her office for the men’s room?”

  “I sent her some albums.”

  “Jesus, they must have been pretty bad.”

  “Not if you like yodeling. What’s in Ann Arbor?”

  “You weren’t home, so we knocked on your landlord’s door. He’s still out, or maybe he’s out again. Did you get to see him last night?”

  “No.” He said it too quickly. “No, I missed him. Maybe he got lucky.”

  “Not without a rabbit’s foot and the strongest aphrodisiac known to science. He looks just like that bald-headed kid that used to be in the comic strips. What was his name?” O’Leary glanced back at the uniform.

  “Don’t look here, Sarge. I’m a Doonesbury man.”

  “Don’t call me Sarge. Anyway, that’s why we waited for you outside, Poteet. I guess you want to know what’s in Ann Arbor.”

  “You read my mind.”

  “What’s in Ann Arbor is the University of Michigan Burn Center. Where they sent Lyla Dane?”

  “I remember you telling me.”

  “She came out of the coma this morning. The docs think she’ll make it. Trouble is, she won’t talk to any cops.”

  “Can’t think why not. She knows so many.”

  “Anyway, we need to find out who she made mad enough to try to fricassee her in her own apartment. She’s the only one who can tell us, only she won’t.”

  “So why am I going? Oh, shit.”

  “He’s got it,” O’Leary told the cop in the backseat, who grunted. “Any idea at all why she wants to talk to you and nobody else?”

  Ralph said, “I got a way with broads.”

  “That explains why you’re farting through silk in that penthouse apartment of yours, getting laid every other Tuesday by the wife of a General Motors board member.”

  “Maybe his member ain’t bored,” suggested the man in uniform.

  O’Leary ignored him. “I don’t know what you are to her, Poteet; friend, pimp, favorite John, what, it doesn’t matter. She wants to talk to you, which does. We need you to ask her who it was rigged that blast.”

  “Why the hell should I?”

  “Let’s just say if whoever it was isn’t you, we won’t have to bother you anymore about where you were night before last and who you were with.”

  “That why you brought reinforcements?”

  “Excuse my crappy manners. This is Officer Mileaway. Officer Mileaway, this is Ralph Poteet.”

  “Pleased,” said Ralph.

  “Yeah.” The uniform watched the scenery.

  “I brought Officer Mileaway along to remind you what it’s like when we bother you.”

  “I can live with it. Just drop me off at the corner there.”

  O’Leary drove past it. “Just for the hell of it I ran you through the computer downtown. The information just kept coming out and out. You’ve spent more time at headquarters than I have. I’m surprised I never saw you there.”

  “Too much smoke.” Ralph opened the window for air. The arson investigator had a cigarette between his fingers and another burning in the ashtray.

  “That disturbing-the-peace beef on Livernois last year was a hoot. How’d you get an ordinary camera to work underwater in a Jacuzzi?”

  “Saran Wrap. I was proud of them shots. I sent them to National Geographic but they bounced them back. I told them they were narwhals.”

  “Too bad that was his own wife State Senator Coopersmith was with.”

  “People that age shouldn’t be doing that kind of stuff in a public pool.”

  “I guess it’s okay, with a buddy.”

  Ralph got out a matchstick. “So I had a couple of run-ins with the law. It’s the job.”

  “Bonnie and Clyde had a couple of run-ins with the law. Two more weeks on the premises and you’d qualify for a departmental pension. What I can’t figure out is why you aren’t rich or dead.”

  “Luck.”

  “Which kind, good or bad?”

  “It evens out. Am I busted or what? ’Cause if I ain’t, this here is kidnapping.”

  “Technically it’s abduction. But that’s for private citizens. For a guy with your rap sheet it’s an afternoon drive. Relax and enjoy.”

  Ralph gave up. He had no place to go but home anyway, and if the bishop called, it would do him good to stew a little. Ralph watched the big Uniroyal tire display sliding by and jets taking off and landing at Metro Airport. He had never been on an airplane. He had had a chance once, but arrived late and it left without him, carrying a load of hijacked microchips to Colombia in trade for twelve hundred kilos of high-grade cocaine. On the return trip, a mechanical malfunction had forced the plane down on some jerkwater island in the Gulf of Mexico, where the pilot and copilot were immediately elected to head the revolutionary government. The U.S. State Department was currently considering sending $300 million in military aid to President Ziggy Blumberg and Vice President Oscar Torporino. Ralph had lied to O’Leary about his luck. He always got the short handle.

  Inside the Ann Arbor city limits they took the State Street exit and parked in a towaway zone outside the University of Michigan Medical Center. A nurse at the desk in the lobby informed them that the patient had been removed from intensive care and transferred to the third floor of the Burn Center. There a young resident in a white coat with a fresh crop of acne on his chin directed them to a ward at the end of the hall. He hesitated.

  “Er, there are rules against that,” he said, pointing. “Even if there weren’t, don’t you think it’s, er, inappropriate, considering why these people are here?”

  O’Leary apologized and dropped his cigarette butt into a pot containing a rubber tree.

  Outside the door to the ward, he showed his badge and ID to a uniformed officer and the three newcomers went in. It was a turquoise room containing four beds, two of them enclosed by curtains. A third was empty, and Lyla Dane lay in the fourth.

  Ralph had prepared himself for—what, the Phantom of the Opera? A lot of scars and oozing, anyway. However, except for the white bandages encasing her head like a chain-mail hood and the perennially surprised look of a face with its eyebrows singed off, she appeared to have sustained no frontal damage, for her face was exposed and unmarked. Ralph guessed that she had turned her head at the instant of the explosion. Her arms were swathed in gauze and a tube ran from one to a bottle suspended upside down in a rack beside the bed. Her eyes were closed.

  O’Leary bent over her and whispered something Ralph didn’t catch. Her eyes opened then and she nodded feebly. Straightening, O’Leary beckoned to Ralph. Ralph shuffled forward reluctantly. He wondered why she had asked for him. What could she have to say to the man who was supposed to have been blown up by the blast she had walked into?

  “Nng wu.”

  He bent down. “What?”

  “Ng yu.”

  “Say again?” He took off his hat and brought his ear very close to her lips.

  “Fuck you.”

  Chapter 13

  “Fuck yo
u?”

  “I beg your pardon?” A stern-faced nurse stopped in the act of passing O’Leary to glare at him.

  “Talking to a friend.” When she’d gone on, he lowered his voice. “Fuck you? That’s what she said, fuck you? She had us haul you all this way to say fuck you?”

  “I don’t think Hallmark has a card for that.”

  Ralph had told O’Leary the truth because he wasn’t sure how much he and Officer Mileaway had overheard. The three were standing in the hallway outside the ward, where the pimple-faced resident had herded them after Lyla Dane had delivered her message and gone to sleep. “Maybe she was delirious,” Ralph added.

  “I don’t think so. I can’t figure out this ass-backwards charisma you’ve got. People go out of their way to tell you what a scuzzbucket you are. How can one man mark up so many enemies before he’s sixty?”

  “I’m forty-three.”

  “No kidding? Jesus, what did you do to yourself?”

  “Hey, you ain’t nobody’s Bob Barker neither.”

  O’Leary lit a cigarette and flipped the match back over his shoulder, narrowly missing Officer Mileaway’s left ear. “Back to square one. Where were you night before last?”

  “The Vinegaroon on Cass from five to eight-thirty. I got into a chug-a-lug contest with a colored guy named Arvil. Lost by half a mug.”

  “What was the bet?”

  “Loser sprang for the pay toilet.”

  “No good. You could have gone to Lyla Dane’s apartment anytime between eight-thirty and sunup and rigged the switch. Where else?”

  “The Macedonian Room from a little after eight-thirty till about ten. A broad belted me with her purse when I followed her into the ladies’ room. It was an honest mistake.”

  “It’d be the first honest thing you ever did. Name?”

  “She didn’t introduce herself. She had a butterfly tattooed on her ass, if it helps.”

  “Which cheek?”

  “Both of them. It was a big sucker.”

  “Anyone else who might remember you?”

  “Everyone within earshot of the ladies’ room.”

  “What about the bartender?”

  “Big guy named Sam. No, wait a minute, that was Gunsmoke. They get that all-western channel on cable. I don’t remember.”

  “We’ll check the place out. Then where?”

  “Florentino’s, for about five minutes.”

  “What can you do in a bar in five minutes?”

  “Get tossed out of it by Tino, if you can’t pay your tab.”

  “Next.”

  “Blind pig on St. Antoine. It’s a Christian Science reading room out front. I left there around midnight. They’ll remember me. I was the only white raisin in the box. I called Lucille Lovechild at home just before I went out, to settle a bet with a guy named Slade.”

  “Slade what?”

  Ralph shrugged.

  O’Leary looked at Mileaway. “We got anyone in the mugs named Slade?”

  “They’re all named Slade.”

  “’Kay. Next place.”

  “Richard’s, on John R. Richard remembers me, also a geek named Andy. Buy him a Pepto-Bismol and he’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  “When’d you leave there?”

  “Around one.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Straight home.”

  “So who were the two guys your neighbor Mrs. Gelatto saw you with at four?”

  Ralph had a sudden urge—most unfamiliar—to tell the truth. So far he was guilty only of withholding evidence, the kind of charge that got lost in the shuffle whenever the cops cracked a case. Possibly there was a city ordinance against improper disposal of a monsignor; but he could beat that too. Vinnie getting dead made him wonder about how good the photographs he had taken were for insurance purposes. At the same time, the fact that Carpenter (for he was sure it had been no other) had strangled Vinnie while in pursuit of the photographs convinced him of their value. Ralph sighed involuntarily at this near brush with good citizenship.

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  “Holy shit. How come?”

  “What do I know how come? I forgot.”

  O’Leary was one of those cops who scribbled notes on folded sheets of paper. He brushed ashes off his and unfolded to an old section. “Yesterday you didn’t even know where you’d been the night before. Today you remember places, times—Christ, even the butterfly on some broad’s ass—”

  “It might of been a gypsy moth.”

  “—everything but the names of the two guys who might alibi you out of an attempted-murder beef. Tough break.”

  “What makes you think old lady Gelatto seen what she says she seen? She’s as blind as an elbow.”

  “Come on, Poteet. What were they, fags? You some kind of Dutch door?”

  “Do I look like I swing both ways?”

  “No, but neither does my brother-in-law, and he marched on Washington last year. You might’ve seen him on the news, dotting the second i in ‘Alternative Lifestyle.’” He snapped his butt at the rubber tree and missed. A little curl of smoke rose from the carpet. “Personally, I don’t think you did it. You couldn’t change a light bulb without frying your dick.”

  “Thanks. Sarge.”

  “Don’t call me Sarge.”

  Ralph put on his hat. “How’d the memorial Mass go? I forgot to ask.”

  “Too many candles. Those cathedrals are firetraps.” O’Leary stepped out of the way of an intern rushing to empty a pitcher of water over the smoldering carpet. “But it was nice, as those things go. My wife says they ought to make a saint out of Monsignor Breame.”

  “I think somebody already made him.”

  “What?”

  “I said maybe he’ll get made one yet,” Ralph said.

  “Yeah. At the Temple of Lard. After the rosary they’ll have to hire a U-Haul to take him to the cemetery. He must’ve been a tight squeeze in the confession booth.” He put away his notes. “Oh, this was on the sidewalk where you fell out of your car. I guess you dropped it.”

  Ralph stared at the item in O’Leary’s hand. It was the notepad from the St. Balthazar rectory, with its gold-and-pigskin cover. “Thanks.” He reached for it. O’Leary examined it.

  “Pretty fancy. What was it doing in your pocket?”

  “Gift from my sister.”

  “The one in the booby hatch? I thought they made potholders and stuff.”

  Ralph said nothing. O’Leary gave it to him.

  “Sergeant O’Leary?”

  The arson investigator turned toward the girl who had called his name. Ralph had seen her out of the corner of his eye—couldn’t help it—standing a little apart from a group of interns and nurses at a drinking fountain. She was about Ralph’s height and very trim in a bright orange blouse, tan slacks, and high-heeled sandals, a brunette with hair that fell straight down her back to her waist. Her features were fresh and pretty and somehow familiar, although Ralph was certain he had never seen her before. She looked to be about eighteen. When he saw who it was, O’Leary’s features softened the way they never would for Ralph.

  “Yes, Miss Dane.”

  “One of the nurses told me Lyla’s conscious. Can I talk to her?”

  “Maybe later. They just sedated her.”

  “That makes sense.” She pulled a face. Then she saw Ralph. “Hi. I’m April Dane.”

  “Lyla’s sister,” O’Leary said. “Say hello to Ralph Poteet, one of your sister’s neighbors.”

  “The private detective. I heard the policemen talking about you before.” She held out a slender hand.

  Ralph took it. It was cool and dry, unlike his own stubby paw. “Yeah. Uh, I didn’t know Lyla had a sister.”

  “I guess I’m not surprised. I haven’t talked to her since I was little. Our parents hung up on her when she called. They’re born-again Christians.”

  “I always wondered how that worked.”

  “It’s kind of like rede
corating, only noisier. Right now they think I’m in my poly-sci class. I’m a freshman at Michigan.”

  “We’d appreciate it if you stayed in touch,” O’Leary told her. “Maybe she’ll talk to you when she conies around again.”

  “Probably not. We’re strangers. But when you tracked me down as next of kin I had to come.”

  “Can we give you a lift?”

  “My place is just down the street.” She turned liquid brown eyes on Ralph. “Mr. Poteet could walk me.”

  Ralph missed the matchstick he was lifting to his mouth and bit down on his thumb. Officer Mileaway glanced at his superior, who chewed on a cheek.

  “Catch a cab?” O’Leary asked Ralph.

  “I guess.” He sucked his thumb.

  Her hair hung straight down as she walked, with Ralph trailing a little behind. Most of the rest of her was in motion. “Listen,” he said, “I ain’t got much cash on me.”

  “I could lend you some for the cab. Oh, you think I’m like Lyla.”

  “Ain’t you?”

  “No. There’s too much disease and stuff out there, and you get arrested. Other than that I think it’s a neat way to make a living.”

  “I guess you ain’t born again.”

  She pulled another face. “God’s okay, if you don’t make a religion out of it.”

  “That’s what I told my old man, right before he threw the Old Testament at me.”

  “He quoted from it?”

  “No, he really threw it. I had my jaw wired shut for a month.”

  “Was he born again?”

  “Naw. They tried, but there was too many pieces missing.” Ralph pressed for the elevator. “He was a preacher.”

  “I guess we’re a couple of Bible brats.”

  “I guess.”

  “I bet you had to wear your shirts buttoned to the neck like Beaver Cleaver.”

  “And a cap.”

  “No dating till you were sixteen.”

  “Or after.”

  “Prayed before every meal?”

  “All but the last one.”

  The bell rang. When the doors opened he held them for her and followed her into the car.

  “Are you a real private detective, like Spenser?”

  “Spenser ain’t real.” They started down.

  “Well, you know.”