By the way, the answer is about one hundred. Our ceiling fan makes roughly one hundred revolutions per minute on the low setting. Yours might be different.
The point, though, and believe it or not there is one, is that I had never gained a true appreciation for the meaning of the word “boredom” until I took the job working with my uncle. After wrapping up the investigation of my dad’s murder we had been sitting around the office playing sports trivia—which Uncle Brick always won because he asked questions from the 1940’s and ‘50’s—while waiting for another case to come along.
I had begun to doubt it was ever going to happen. In my own private version of hell, we were going to sit around the Callahan Investigations offices, asking each other stupid sports questions day after day, until eventually the bank would come knocking and repossess all our furniture and office equipment and we would find ourselves shooed unceremoniously out into the street. That would be bad enough in LA, but Boston gets cold in the winter!
“How can you just sit there?” I finally asked. “Aren’t you even a little bit antsy?”
“Why should I be?” Brick answered without taking his eyes off the Globe sports page. The Sox had just lost their fourth series in a row and Brick was certain he was going to get the call to manage the team any day now. “Waiting for a case to come walking through the door is nothing, kiddo. If you think this is tough, you should try sitting in a car with a faulty heater outside a seedy motel for three hours in the middle of a February snowstorm waiting for some dope to finish screwing his bimbo so you can obtain photographic evidence of his infidelity for his wife. Now that’ll make you antsy, let me tell you.
“Hang in there, kid, a case will come along eventually, they always do.”
Right on cue, the door to our second floor office opened, squealing in protest, reminding me I had told Brick I would oil the hinges. I hadn’t gotten around to it yet. We had been pretty busy, after all.
An older lady with a full head of snow-white hair—think Barbara Bush; the wife of George Senior, not the party-girl presidential daughter—peeked hesitantly inside as if worried she might be interrupting an important meeting or something. She had obviously never been in our office before; important meetings here were few and far between. She seemed unconvinced of her location, despite the fact CALLAHAN INVESTIGATIONS was prominently displayed on the frosted, pebbled window of the office door.
Instantly, Brick was on his feet, striding toward the woman with a welcoming smile as though he had been anxiously awaiting her arrival for the last few hours, rather than picking his teeth, which was how he had actually been spending his time. The newspaper he had been engrossed in simply vanished. I had no idea how he did that.
I finally got to my feet as Brick pulled the door open completely, ushering the woman inside with a courtly grace I knew I could never master if I lived to be two hundred. I felt like the class dullard.
“Welcome to Callahan Investigations,” Brick smiled, leading the woman across the office to a comfortable leather couch. She sat and began wringing her hands nervously. “I’m Brick Callahan,” my uncle continued, “and this young man is my nephew. How may we be of service to you, Miss—?”
Tears welled up in Barbara Bush’s eyes. She seemed mere seconds away from a breakdown. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Where are my manners? My name is Lillian Saunders.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms Saunders—“
“Mrs., please.”
“Very well, Mrs. Saunders, how can Callahan Investigations help you?”
“It’s my husband, Martin. He’s dead.” The dam broke and the tears which had been threatening to let loose rolled down the distraught woman’s face as a great wrenching sob shook her body. Uncle Brick produced a tissue, from where I had no idea, handing it to the grateful woman and waiting for her to compose herself enough to continue. Finally she did.
“He was found on a sidewalk in Chinatown next to an old apartment building. They . . . they say he got drunk and leaped from the roof.”
“And you don’t believe he killed himself.” Brick phrased it as a statement, not a question.
“That’s right; I most certainly do not. He wasn’t drinking and he had no reason that I know of even to be in Chinatown.”
Lillian Saunders continued, pausing every now and then to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. She adopted a look of grim determination, which she maintained until she had slogged through to the end of her narrative.
Her dead husband had been a highly successful real estate lawyer in the process of downsizing his business; spooling it down to a three-day-a-week enterprise in order to semi-retire while still retaining the ability to earn an income. According to Lillian, Martin came home from work three days ago, ate dinner, and then immediately went back out, telling his wife only that he needed to do a favor for his longtime secretary, whose daughter had found herself in some sort of unspecified trouble.
Martin refused to divulge any further information to his wife. “He didn’t want to worry me,” she said tearfully, before blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “It was the last time I saw him alive.”
“But you’re certain he wasn’t drinking.”
“Of course I’m certain!”
Brick was quiet for a short time, clearly deep in thought. I, too, was quiet, not so much because I was deep in thought but because I hadn’t a clue what to say. Finally my uncle asked, “Had you noticed any change in Martin’s demeanor recently?”
She nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact I had. He was much happier. The police claim he was despondent over the downturn in his business and that’s why he jumped off that building, but that’s just a bunch of bunk. He was thrilled to be cutting back his workload. He wanted to spend more time with me and the grandkids. Martin was murdered, Mr. Callahan, and I wish to hire you to prove it.”
Brick nodded. “We will take your case, Mrs. Saunders. I don’t know whether Martin was the victim of foul play or not, but I will be happy to look into the matter for you. Now, about our fee—“
“I have plenty of money,” the brand-new widow replied, “and I would be more than happy to spend it all, if that’s what it takes, to find out what happened to my Martin, and to bring his murderers to justice.”
“I don’t think bankrupting you will be necessary,” Brick answered. “Is there anything else you can think of that might be helpful?”
“Only this,” she said, handing a small white object to my uncle. “The police returned it with Martin’s things when they closed the case following their so-called investigation. I’ve never seen it before, and can only assume he picked it up while he was out and about on the night he was killed.”
Brick glanced at it for just a moment before handing it to me and escorting the distraught woman to the door. I examined it as he offered his assurances that we would get to the bottom of the matter, and sooner rather than later. The object was an ordinary matchbook, plain white, and on the front was emblazoned the words, The Little Devilz. The “i” in “Devilz” was printed to resemble a pitchfork, and holding the pitchfork was a cartoon devil, horns sprouting from his head, leering madly at the world.
The rest of the matchbook was entirely unadorned, front and back. It was plainly a cheap promotional item, undoubtedly manufactured by the thousands, and I had no idea what use it might be to us. I stuck it in my pocket as Brick returned.
“Let’s take a drive,” was all he said.
***
The murdered man’s secretary was named Madge Simpson, and I couldn’t help but picture the blue-haired mother from the long-running animated television show with the same last name as we navigated the busy city streets. Brick drove, as always.
You might think an eighty year old man would be overmatched mixing it up with Boston’s notoriously aggressive drivers, but not Uncle Brick. His driving style, if you could call it that, was to go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted, changing lanes seemingly at random, squeezing his silver Mercedes into spaces
that seemed much too small for a Matchbox toy, much less a real, eighty thousand dollar automobile. When he drove, he left in his wake a nearly-continuous cacophony of angry honking horns, with a full slate of shaking fists and protruding middle fingers tossed in for good measure. He seemed blissfully unaware.
We pulled into a tiny driveway outside a small, single-family home in Revere, a gritty blue-collar city located just north of Boston, not far from Logan Airport. The pavement was rutted and cracked, badly in need of repair, a clear testament to a down economy and a family with more pressing monetary priorities than a repaved driveway. The intense heat struck like a fist as we exited the air-conditioned car and walked to the front door. The neighborhood seemed deserted and the heavy air felt moist and dirty and somehow ominous.
Madge Simpson opened the door, looking nothing like I had pictured. She was short and squat, close-cropped auburn hair framing a wide, remarkably unlined face. My uncle introduced us, telling her we were investigating the death of her boss and she smiled, the act more a display of dogged determination than genuine good humor. She was clearly stressed, working hard to hold herself together.
Mrs. Simpson invited us into her shabby but squeaky-clean living room and we took seats around a butcher-block style coffee table, Brick sitting in an overstuffed easy chair and me taking a seat next to the frazzled woman on the couch. Without waiting for a question, she exclaimed, “I feel so guilty about poor Mr. Saunders. Whatever happened to him was all my fault!”
I waited for my uncle to take the lead in questioning Mrs. Simpson. I figured his half-century of experience in private investigations probably trumped my half-month. “Mr. Saunders’ widow,” Brick began, “is convinced her husband did not commit suicide. She said he left home immediately after dinner last Friday night to handle some sort of business for you involving your daughter, is that right?”
“That’s exactly right. And you want to know what he was doing.”
“It would seem to be the key to unraveling this mystery, wouldn’t you agree?”
The woman sighed, the sound deep and heartfelt, her despondence clear. “Of course,” she answered, and then was silent for a moment.
“It’s just that I didn’t know where else to turn” she finally continued. “I went to the police about my situation first and they did nothing, so I simply asked Mr. Saunders if, what with his legal background and all, he might take a look into the matter himself. You know, maybe throw his lawyerly weight around a little.”
Brick smiled politely and nodded, as if this cleared everything up in his mind. I had no idea what the woman was talking about and I assumed neither did Brick, but I had learned a long time ago you could never be too sure with Brick Callahan.
“I see. And what matter would that be?” Phew. My uncle was as confused as I was; he was just better at hiding it. I hoped that once I developed a little experience in this mystifying world of private investigations, I would be better able to roll with the punches, too. At least these punches were figurative ones rather than literal. So far.
“It’s my daughter, Phoebe,” she said to Brick. “You see, she’s only fifteen and she’s turned into quite a handful. She’s a good girl, really, but she’s at such a difficult age. Anyway, Phoebe and I have been fighting recently and, well, she ran away a couple of weeks ago. I recently discovered she has been hired as a dancer at one of those . . . those awful . . . adult entertainment places.”
“Your fifteen year old daughter is a stripper?”
I couldn’t help it; I blurted it out before my brain even realized what my traitorous mouth was saying. I mean, in fairness to me, that was the last thing I had expected to hear. Brick shot me a look like I had just set my hair on fire and he couldn’t wait to douse it with gasoline.
He apologized to the woman before I could even react while I made a mental note not to say another word until we were back in the safety of the office. Judging from the look on Brick’s face I thought even that might be pushing my luck.
“What my nephew was trying in his unique way to say, Mrs. Simpson, is that there are laws in place to prevent such things from happening to an underage girl. I believe you said you informed the police?”
“Yes, of course, that was the first thing I did! But like I told you before, that was a total waste of time. They conducted what they called an “investigation” in just a few hours, claiming she was completely unknown to the management of the club. But I know a lot of people in this town, Mr. Callahan, I grew up here and have lived here my whole life, and I have it on very reliable information that she is in fact working there. I just want my daughter back . . .”
It looked as though we were going to be dealing with a weeping woman for the second time in a matter of a couple of hours, but to her credit, Mrs. Simpson somehow pulled herself together at the last moment and managed to continue the conversation. “The name of the club is—“
“The Little Devilz.”
“Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”
Brick ignored the question. “So following the inaction of the police you went to Mr. Saunders and asked him to threaten legal action?”
“Well, yes and no. I don’t care about taking legal action; I just want my little girl back. I asked him to make it clear to the vultures running that . . . that snakepit that if they continued to employ underage dancers—Phoebe in particular—we would take them to court, file lawsuits, basically make their lives miserable until they came to their senses.”
Once again Brick nodded like it was all starting to fall into place. I had a feeling it really was for him this time, because I was starting to get the picture, too. It was a dirty and frightening picture, involving an aging real estate lawyer in over his head against some very, very dangerous people. After my little performance of a few minutes ago, though, I decided now would not be the time to inject myself into the conversation, so I put what I hoped was a look of sage wisdom on my face and waited for my uncle to continue.
Instead, he rose to his feet, clasping Madge Simpson’s hands in his own and smiling warmly at her. “Please try not to feel guilty about what happened to Mr. Saunders,” he told her. “No mother can be faulted for wanting to rescue her child from the clutches of these people. You were not responsible for the death of your employer; the people who killed him were responsible.”
She breathed in sharply. “So you really believe he was murdered?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, I do.”
***
“You must have had trouble retaining clients in your accounting business if you were as reckless with your mouth after inspecting their financial records as you were back there inside Mrs. Simpson’s home.” I had known Uncle Brick was going to bring up my little misstep, and I didn’t have to wait long. We hadn’t even gotten as far as the Sumner Tunnel yet. My uncle raised his voice to make himself heard above the angry honks of frustrated drivers and the accompanying squeals of their protesting brakes as Brick forced himself into the line of cars moving sluggishly through the toll booths.
“I’m sorry about that, Uncle Brick. It’s just that of all the things I thought might come out of that poor woman’s mouth, her fifteen year old daughter stripping for money was pretty much last on the list. How is that even possible? Why would a club risk being shut down by the authorities for hiring such a young girl in the first place?”
“Excellent question, my boy. And I accept your apology, by the way. I was taken a bit by surprise myself. But to answer your question, The Little Devilz isn’t risking anything. Or at least they weren’t until they graduated from sleazy hiring practices to premeditated murder.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You would have no way of knowing this, having spent the last decade-plus on the West Coast laundering the finances of the rich and famous, but the management of The Little Devilz has had the local authorities in their pocket practically since the first day they opened their doors.”
A middle-aged man in a battered green Toyota pickup
screamed an impressive—not to mention creative—string of profanities through his driver’s side window at Brick, who ignored him as though he didn’t exist. The guy seemed to forget in his fury that his window was closed, smacking his forehead and raising a red welt, which, unsurprisingly, seemed to further anger him. “They’ve been permitted to operate with impunity,” Brick continued. “If I had to venture a guess, I would say Phoebe Simpson is not the first underage dancer to have taken their stage. It’s going to be up to us to make sure she is the last.”
“But how can we possibly manage that if even the police refuse to take action?”
We burst out of the Sumner Tunnel and into the steamy afternoon sun, Brick traveling much too fast as usual. He made the right and left turns toward Government Center with one hand on the wheel as he turned to face me, seemingly paying no attention to the traffic, of which there was a lot. I was suddenly sorry I had not waited until we were back at the office to ask my question.
“It’s one thing,” Brick said, “to grease a few palms and convince the authorities to look the other way regarding your hiring practices—as repugnant as they are—or the ages of the customers you allow through your door. It’s another issue entirely, though, to take a man to the top of an apartment building and toss him off simply because he is asking too many questions. This the police cannot ignore.”
“Okay, I’ll buy that. So what do we do?”
“Simple. We convince the responsible party to admit he’s a murderer.”
***
Sure, it sounded simple when Brick said it. What self-respecting scumbag wouldn’t want to admit to a private investigator that he had committed an act of cold-blooded murder this past week?
We were lounging in the office eating a late lunch and planning strategy, which is another way of saying that I was eating and waiting for Brick to tell me what we were going to do. He had been quiet for a while now, thinking hard, and I could see he had pretty much settled upon a course of action. What that course of action might be, I couldn’t guess.
Postcards from the Apocalypse Page 15
