Angel With a Bullet

by M. C. Grant

  Mary Jane’s face lights up in an angry hue of crushed beet. “Why, you pig-headed, flat-chested bitch! For one thing, you don’t have balls. And for another, you’re delusional if you think the world sees you as some corporate-bashing crusader fighting for the soul of San Francisco. Your story’s about a guy who committed suicide; it doesn’t get any more self-absorbed than that.”

  Stoogan slaps the table with a puffy palm. It has all the effect of popping a marshmallow.

  “OK, kids,” he says. “Knock it off. I’m sure both your stories will be first rate …” He pauses to crack his lips into an evil smile. “Once I get through editing them of course.”

  Mary Jane glowers at me, and I wonder how long it will take to strangle her. I want it to be slow.

  I swallow the rest of my beer in one gulp and stand up. “I still have work to do,” I say and walk out.

  Twelve

  The lobby door is slightly ajar, hardly noticeable until you’re up close, its latch having failed to properly connect.

  I slip inside and up one flight of stairs to the three apartments that share the middle floor. Millie doesn’t pop out from her dwelling to inquire what I am up to, which means anyone could have easily done the same thing the night Diego died.

  So much for security.

  On the landing, I arbitrarily select the door farthest to my left and knock.

  A skinny, forty-something stockbroker type with over-gelled hair and a thin, though sporting, Clark Gable mustache opens the door. Even before his eyes scan my body and return disappointed, my first impression is jerk.

  He’s dressed in a neon yellow kimono adorned with red dragons, the front flap open slightly to reveal white silk boxers with purple yin-yang symbols. He is sucking on a hand-blown glass pipe, the smoke smelling sweetly of marijuana—medicinal, I’m sure. His feet are wedged inside Japanese slippers that look about as comfortable as two blocks of wood. My Godzilla slippers, even without batteries, could take them for breakfast.

  The dissatisfied look on his face says I’m not who he is expecting.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” I say. “But I wanted to ask a few questions about Mr. Chino.”

  “Who?”

  He tugs the flap of his robe closed. I try not to show my disappointment. It isn’t difficult.

  “Chino. Your neighbor?”

  “Which one?”

  I point skyward. “He was found dead early this morning.”

  “Damned nuisance.” He is clearly undisturbed by the news as his gaze wanders over my shoulder in search of an expected guest.

  “I take it you didn’t know him well, then?” I ask.

  “No.”

  “Did you hear the gunshot?”

  “No.”

  “Were you at home?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  I find it disturbing that when he talks, his mustache doesn’t move. It’s as though instead of being attached to flesh, it’s a separate entity hovering in place just below his nose. It makes me want to flick it away.

  “Did you notice anything unusual last night?” I try.

  “No. Now will that be all?”

  “Just a couple more.” I ignore his impatient sigh. “Do you have trouble with the lobby door? The latch isn’t fully—”

  “Christ, how should I know?”

  “Well, you use the door, I assume?”

  “Yeah, I use the door,” he snarls. “It’s handy for coming and going. Great invention.”

  “Then you would notice if—”

  “Are you done?” he interrupts.

  “Almost.” I try not to bare my teeth and growl. “Did you kill Mr. Chino?”

  He stares at me with dead, shark-like eyes, his nose twitching above motionless mustache.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Molly the meter maid?”

  I jump back as the door slams shut.

  After taking a deep breath, I knock again.

  The door opens.

  “The Karmic police called.” I glance down at his crotch. “They want their shorts back.”

  The door slams again.

  Pleased with myself, I turn to the next apartment just as a tall, raven-haired Goth with a ghost-white face and dangerous black lipstick floats up the stairs. She is wearing the navy blue uniform of a Japanese schoolgirl, but I doubt it has ever seen the inside of a classroom. The buttoned white shirt is at least two sizes too small—or her breasts are two sizes too large—and the pleated skirt is indecently short. I like the school tie, though. Very chic.

  “Your friend needs a spanking,” I say as we pass.

  “He usarry does,” she replies dryly.

  I hesitate, and then call after her. “You weren’t over here last night by any chance?”

  She stops and turns, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing with suspicion.

  “Fuck off.”

  Kids today.

  We both knock on our respective doors. Hers opens quickly, and she disappears inside with nary a giggle. After my fifth knock, a weary voice grumbles that it’s coming.

  A red-eyed man with a two-day growth of beard covering his creased face opens the door. He wears a wrinkled white shirt partially tucked into a pair of rumpled dark gray pants.

  “What time is it?” He rubs his eyes.

  I don’t smell alcohol on his breath, but I can tell he hasn’t gargled in a while.

  “It’s just after six. Sorry if I disturbed your nap.”

  “If it’s six in the morning, I guess it was a little more than a nap.” He shakes his head and is struggling to get his bearings.

  “No, evening.”

  “Evening?” He sounds shocked. “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Yeah, caught me by surprise too. It’s the one they snuck in between Tuesday and Thursday.”

  “Ah, crap! I’ve slept all day. My boss is going to flipping kill me.” He tries to focus his road-mapped eyes. “Are you from the office?”

  “No, I’m investigating the death upstairs.”

  “Death? Who died?”

  “Diego Chino. He lived above you.” The man leans against the door to steady himself. He looks ready to vomit. “Didn’t you hear the shotgun blast?”

  “Shotgun?”

  I nod again.

  The blood drains from his face and without warning he turns and bolts.

  I hear the clang of toilet lid against porcelain before his stomach empties. I enter the apartment and close the door.

  The condo is orderly and neat. No severed heads peering out from glass jars in the bedroom or dismembered bodies hanging from hooks in the kitchen. In fact, the whole place has the cozy, relaxed feel of a high-income bachelor who enjoys his solitude.

  I am studying his extensive CD collection—heavy on jazz and obscure Icelandic metal—when he emerges from the bathroom. His forehead is beaded with sweat, but some color has returned to his cheeks.

  “You want coffee?” he asks in a raspy voice.

  “Sure.”

  “I’m all out of Colombian. French roast OK?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  I follow him into the kitchen and watch as he pulls a tiny brown paper bag out of the freezer, opens it, and measures five teaspoons of finely ground coffee. He sprinkles the coffee into a flat-bottomed, cone-shaped metal basket, inserts it into a gleaming drip coffee maker, pours in water from a filter system on his tap, and switches it on.

  It’s all so boringly civilized.

  In combination with the sparkling cleanliness of the kitchen, I figure either he’s gay, hides his mom in one of the bedrooms, or is a domesticated cast-off from a ball-breaking bitch who grew bored a
fter he bent to her will.

  “What happened last night?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “The last thing I remember is getting settled on the couch to go over an annual report. Not the most exciting project, but … after that, you started banging on my door and telling me I’ve missed a whole day.” He pauses, his mind still struggling to get the gears moving. “I better call the office.”

  He picks up a cordless phone from the kitchen counter, hits speed dial, and waits. When someone answers, he babbles.

  After hanging up, he scratches his head.

  “That was Janine,” he says. “Apparently, she’s been calling all day. They assumed I was sick.” He slumps his shoulders and drops his head into his hands.

  “Go sit down,” I say. “I’ll get the coffee.”

  He nods and leaves the room. When the machine stops sighing, I pour us each a cup, add a drizzle of milk, and carry them through to the living room.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he says, while accepting the coffee gratefully.

  “Dixie Flynn. I work for NOW.”

  “I’m Paul. Paul Gibson.”

  “What’s the last time you remember, Paul?”

  “I put my feet up around nine. That was last night. Yesterday.”

  “Did you take any sleeping pills? A hit of E? Spoon of heroin?”

  He shakes his head with a confused smile.

  “Any visitors?”

  “No, I was planning a quiet night.”

  “Did you have anything to drink?”

  “A small cognac. Just the one.”

  I point to a bottle of Remy Martin VSOP sitting on top of an antique oak sideboard beside an unlit gas fireplace.

  “Is that it?”

  He nods.

  I cross to it, pull the cork, and inhale. It smells fine. Wonderfully so. I splash a drop onto my finger to taste. My tongue tingles and my taste buds dance. Pete Townshend of the Who thanked Remy Martin in the liner notes of one of his albums for making the damn stuff so expensive that it prevented him from drowning himself in it.

  “Do you think it’s drugged?” Paul asks.

  “I can’t tell.”

  Suddenly, the absurdity of the comment makes me laugh out loud. “I don’t even know why I tasted it,” I say. “I’m a reporter, not a chemist. I’m sure it’s fine.”

  Paul smiles. “And why would someone want to drug me anyway? I’m an accountant for gosh sake. Not even an important one at that. Most of my clients are funeral homes.”

  I feel foolish. “You should go to the hospital for a checkup. Blackouts can be caused by high blood pressure and that’s a killer—especially in men.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. My mother has been bugging me to get a physical too. I’ll have a shower first, though. I feel like … well, not pleasant.”

  I smile and head for the door when a nagging whisper enters my brain.

  “Do me a favor, Paul. Let me know what the hospital says. Just out of curiosity.”

  I hand him a business card.

  “Sure thing.” He accepts the card. “And thanks for waking me. I’d hate to be the Rip Van Winkle of San Fran.”

  _____

  There is no answer at the next apartment or either of the ones on the ground floor beside Millie’s.

  As I dig in my pocket for another business card to slip under the door, Millie opens hers.

  “That one isn’t occupied,” she says, her words sounding slightly slurred. “Helen has it up for sale. She moved in with her fiancé about a month back. Handsome fellow, and Helen’s no beauty, but she comes frae money. I told her to be careful, but she says it’s love.”

  “Maybe I should rent it,” I say with a smile.

  “Oh, we don’t rent roon here, dear. Too much chance of riffraff.”

  “Ahhh.”

  That’s me told.

  “Would you like a wee martini?” Millie asks. “I use pickled onions instead of olives. Gives you a tingle in the nethers.”

  “Thanks,” I say slowly, not quite sure I heard correctly. “But I need to get home. Date tonight.”

  “Oh, you girls today.” Millie beams. “Is he handsome?”

  “Very.”

  “Hmmm.” She presses her lips together into a thin, wrinkled line. “Be careful, then. The handsome ones can take advantage.”

  I cross my fingers. “Here’s hoping.”

  Millie opens her mouth in shock and then covers it with both hands as she has a good old-fashioned giggle fit.

  When she catches her breath again, her face is flushed and her tongue is darting around dry lips.

  “You sure about that martini?”

  I nod. “But,” I say, “what can you tell me about the Japanese prostitute with the short, short skirt? Does she visit often?”

  Millie looks at me quizzically, and I’m not totally surprised when she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

  Thirteen

  The taxi drops me at home under the protective gaze of King William. From his perch on the window ledge, William has a clear view of his kingdom and all its subjects.

  I tip an invisible hat to him and am rewarded with a wink. I even hear the throaty rumble of a purr, a sure sign that I am one of his special humans.

  No sooner have I entered the lobby than the apartment door to my right opens and Mr. French beckons me inside.

  Despite my weariness, I oblige.

  As I follow the short man down the narrow hallway, past bathroom and bedroom, puffs of smoke rise above his head like the Hogwart’s Express. The puffs smell deliciously of black licorice.

  When he stops at Baccarat’s cage and turns to watch me greet his feathered pet, I see his latest burl pipe is a fierce Chinese dragon polished in such a vibrant shade of red it could make a Ferrari look drab. This causes a brief and disturbing image of Mr. French in the yellow kimono with red dragons to flit through my brain.

  At least it wouldn’t be short on him.

  “Long day, Ms. Flynn?” Mr. French asks as he settles onto the couch beside the long coffee table and pats the cushion beside him.

  I nod and sit.

  “Gathering the first threads of a story is always the toughest part,” I say. “The fun doesn’t begin until you find the right one and begin to tug.”

  “And then it all unravels.” A smile adds delight to smooth, chubby cheeks.

  “Precisely.”

  He claps his hangs together. “Oh, Baccarat and I enjoy that.” He turns to his bird. “Don’t we, Baccarat? Yes, we do.”

  The bird chirps in response and flutters its wings, sending several small, multicolored feathers flying through the air.

  Mr. French turns to me expectantly, and I wonder if I am meant to applaud.

  “Clever,” I say.

  Mr. French beams and two large puffs of licorice smoke erupt from his pipe before being sucked away toward the air purifier in the corner.

  After a second of contemplative silence, Mr. French removes the pipe. His face turns serious.

  “The paper,” he says, referring to the note I dropped off that morning. “I believe I have found the initial source and departure point.”

  “Initial source?”

  “The manufacturer,” he explains. “There was a small watermark on the paper that gave me the name of the parent company. From there I was able to uncover its West Coast distributor and with a few discreet inquiries track it to the departure point.”

  “Departure point?”

  “The local store from whereupon it was most likely purchased.”

  “Ahh.”

  “And the news gets better.”

  “Go on,” I encourage.

  “The store owner is a fellow co
llector. I have made an appointment with him for the morrow. With access to both his memory and his bookkeeping, we shall soon uncover the name of the likely purchaser.”

  “Very impressive.”

  Mr. French puffs out his chest. “Baccarat was rather pleased when I told her too. She often worries about me, little dear, so these exercises assure her my mind is still sharp.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I stand to leave, but Mr. French leaps to his feet, face stricken.

  “Forgive my dreadful manners, Ms. Flynn,” he says. “I was so caught up in my own news that I failed to offer a pick-me-up after your laborious day. Would you care for a whiskey, a wee dram as the Scots like to say, before you go? I have a rather smoky eighteen-year-old malt from the Isle of Skye, or Isle of Mists as the locals call it, that I believe you will find most pleasing.”

  I waver, but only slightly, as the only Scotch I can usually afford doesn’t bother announcing its age on the label.

  Mr. French beams with delight when I accept his offer. He quickly busies himself pouring generous measures of barrel-aged single malt into two crystal glasses.

  _____

  Upon returning to my apartment, I turn the faucets to fill the bathtub and set iTunes on the computer to play a soothing mix of Coldplay, Travis, Lissie, and James Morrison.

  The taste of fine malt lingers on my tongue, igniting desire for another dram. However, I don’t want to spoil the taste with the cheap blend I keep under the sink. Instead, I pour a cold glass of tap water, drop my clothes on the bathroom floor, and climb into the wonderfully deep clawfoot tub—the one true luxury of living in an older building.

  Easing my body against the tub’s curved back, I feel the grime of the day begin to soak away. A sprinkle of bath salts turns the water to liquid silk, and I close my eyes to sigh contentedly.

  There is a knock on the front door.

  Bloody hell.

  Opening my eyes, I strain to see the clock in the other room. It’s only seven. Declan is early. I begin to pull myself out of the tub.

  “Dixie. Dixie, are you in there?” Kristy calls, attempting to sound sweet.