Contract Killer

by Richard Hoyt

  I said, “Calm down, Juantar, and sit.”

  Juantar sat. “Good taste, Denson. I like blonds myself. Never had a bad one.” He licked his lips.

  “I need a favor.”

  “I used to go with a blond pretty regular,” he said. “She had these great tits.” Juantar held his hands in front of his chest to demonstrate. “They were like sucking on persimmons. Mmmmm! Yum!”

  I said, “Come on, Juantar, give us a break.”

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said to Janine. “I generally have a ravenous appetite, given to gluttony. I’ll be serious, Denson. I can do it, really, I can.”

  I said, “Juantar, I want to go through your basement entrance to the underground.”

  Juantar looked across the street at the pergola. “Cops came by and said be sure not to let people down there. This have to do with the guy being cut up? If the killer would come around here, I’d give him a price for his supply. Doesn’t make any difference what kind of meat you use in the chili. The spices cover it up. I’d do it. You know I would.”

  “It has to do with the goings-on across the street, that’s so,” I said.

  Juantar glanced at Janine, then me. “Leave me your corpses in your will.” He took a key from his ring and gave it to me.

  “You see Willie lately?”

  “He was in here throwing a while ago. He was looking for you. He’ll be back. He came in here with his brother, Rodney, and their friend, Prib somebody. Big guy! Looked like one of those sumos.” Juantar squared his shoulders and pushed his stomach out.

  “Rodney?” Rodney Prettybird lived in Astoria, Oregon, and on the rare occasions he did get to Seattle, he spent little time with his brother, preferring, Willie said, the company of fishermen. I’d never met him.

  “Looks like Willie, only younger, a little wilder, maybe. He’s been here throwing darts with Willie and Prib. They aren’t bad, Willie says. And where’ve you been, Brother Denson?” He leered at Janine, grinning.

  “Working, Juantar, I can’t make a living throwing darts.”

  Juantar checked his wristwatch. “Willie ought to be back in a few minutes. He said if you came in you should wait.”

  I told Juantar we’d wait. Twenty minutes later, Willie Prettybird and Prib Ostrow came in, with Willie unfolding the slender wallet-like leather case that held his darts. They were followed by a third man who I knew was Rodney Prettybird. Juantar was right; he looked just like Willie, only younger and tougher; he had what I can only describe as a mellow expression on his Indian features. For that matter, Prib looked pretty much in an up mood.

  “Ass Eyes! Where’ve you been? Janine!” Willie said. He was pleased to see us.

  I said, “Looking for you, Chief Dumbshit.”

  “It’s him, by God, the detective. We was talkin’ about you, Denson, wasn’t we, Willie?” Willie’s large companion was happy to see me, too. Ostrow was wearing his work clothes. His jeans and heavy boots were streaked with white stains from mixing lime and cement.

  I introduced them to Janine and shook hands with Rodney Prettybird. “The man who gives Doug Egan high blood pressure. Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  Rodney laughed. “Every once in a while you run across a white guy who’s a real asshole, but Egan’s the champ. My boats are laid up now, but I don’t care. Got my guys scraping hulls. I’m having a great time in Seattle, ain’t that right, Prib?” Rodney grinned broadly. “Hell with Astoria.”

  Rodney’s grin was no more euphoric than Prib’s. “You said a mouthful, man. You said a mouthful.”

  “‘Course Astoria’s got its advantages,” Rodney said. He put his arm around his big friend’s shoulders. They both looked happy.

  They both were on some kind of drug. It was apparently okay for them to drink alcohol because Rodney ordered two large pitchers of Henry Weinhards.

  Willie said, “Haven’t you got more class than to bring a civilized woman into a place like this, Buttocks Lips?”

  “You gotta respect these lips, Chief. They’ve kissed hundreds of women, beautiful and otherwise, redheads, brunettes …” I glanced at Janine. “… blonds, even. Twice that number of breasts — from little tungsten-hard numbers to great, flubbery swamps of yuch!”

  “Sure, sure,” Willie said.

  “These lips have eaten raw baby eels in Kyoto, uitsmiters in Amsterdam, jamon serrano in Seville.”

  “Peanut butter sandwiches I can believe.”

  “These lips have told outrageous lies. I once climbed K-2 without an oxygen tank. Bet you didn’t know that. From these lips have issued philosophical insights that remain unappreciated: for example, a man who would lie to his friend is a jerk of the worst sort.”

  Willie laughed. “White man speaketh the truth. Well said, Fart Breath.”

  Willie Prettybird was true. Had to be. It was hard for me to believe that Willie could call me Buttocks Lips and still lie to me. For him to call me Fart Breath in public was a gesture of friendship that precluded lying. A failure of character of that magnitude was rare. But not impossible.

  Rodney Prettybird said, “I want to thank you on behalf of Willie and Prib. The thing is, I know who the asshole is. No sense you guys wasting all your time running around town.”

  “You do? Who?” I asked. Willie winked at me. The wink said I should ignore Rodney.

  “I told Willie I had the guy fingered. Any son of a bitch does something like this to a man’s sister, threatens her like this, a guy’s got a responsibility to take care of the matter. You know what I mean?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” I said. “You know I read an article in the Times about a guy in Kansas or somewhere who kept getting his hardware store ripped off. It was getting so bad he couldn’t afford insurance. The burglar was driving him bankrupt. So he rigged a trip wire across the door and hooked it up to a shotgun. The burglar broke in again, triggered the shotgun, and got his leg blown off. The burglar sued the store owner and won the case — got something nuts, three hundred thousand dollars, I think it was.”

  Rodney looked beatific. “I’m gonna get the fucker!”

  Prib giggled. “Damn right!” he said.

  I said, “The thing to do is turn him over to the cops. They’ve got laws against that kind of thing. See his ass behind bars.”

  Janine said, “John’s right, Rodney.”

  “Cops!” Rodney said.

  “Pah!” Prib muttered.

  Rodney said, “Bars, my ass! Sure, they’ll maybe send the little whoopie-goo to jail. Give the little sweetcake a couple months.” Rodney’s voice turned sweet. He made little kissing sounds with his lips much as Willie had made when we learned of the coming of Le Cuisine de Pacifique. “Pat his little heinie! He says he’s oh so sorry and promises not to do it again.”

  Prib said, “Ha!”

  “Give his cock a real good twist.” Rodney looked happy.

  “Lift him right off his feet and make him squeal like a stuck pig, Rodney says. Wee! Wee! Wee!” Looking at Prib, you’d have thought Prib had gotten a second helping of mashed potatoes. He glowed.

  “I’ll beat your ass in cricket,” Rodney said to Prib.

  “Bullshit!” Prib got up to get Juantar’s bar darts.

  When Prib and Rodney were at the dartboard and out of earshot, I asked Willie what they had been taking.

  Willie looked chagrined. “The Latin name is Amanita muscaria; it’s a mushroom that’s all up and down the coast this time of year. Nutty stuff.”

  Janine was interested. “Amanita muscaria?”

  “The common name is Fly Agaric — that’s either because you can mash it up and put it in milk to kill flies, or because the ancients once associated flies with madness. Nobody knows. The muscaria part of the name refers to muscarine, a nerve poison. They contain it in small amounts. There are Siberians who routinely get high off them but the Soviets don’t like the idea and want them to drink vodka instead. Northwest Indians used these things in religious ceremonies, but I didn’t really
know anything about them until Melinda married Mike Stark. You learn a lot about mushrooms being around Mike, I’ll say that. He’s a shroom freak.”

  “What kind of ceremonies?” Janine asked.

  “There have been all kinds, not only here but in Europe. For example, there’s evidence that the plant god Soma worshipped by the Aryans about 2000 B.C. was the Fly Agaric. Only the priests got to eat the shrooms. Everybody else got high drinking the priests’ pee.”

  “Probably’d taste better than beer,” I said.

  “At Plaincourault, France, there is a Romanesque fresco in an abbey that apparently depicts the Fly Agaric as the Tree of Knowledge.”

  Janine said, “Have you ever eaten one?”

  “Oh, yeah. I tried it out. It made me queasy at first then I felt elated, perfectly wonderful. Then I went to sleep. My girlfriend vomited then felt euphoric. You can eat too many though. An Italian diplomat ate two dozen of them for breakfast in 1893 and it killed him. A lot of people think the Vikings and the ferocious Berserks worked themselves into a murderous frenzy by eating it.”

  She said, “Muscarine is what does it, then.”

  “Well, it turns out that muscarine is not the principal poison in Fly Agaric. That honor goes to something called ibotenic acid and muscimol, which are similar.”

  “What do the mushrooms look like?” I asked.

  “They’re gorgeous, Denson. Stunners. Their caps range in color from a reddish-orange to a bright, shocking scarlet, as red as a hooker’s fingernails. Their stems are an unbelievable virgin white with a skirt. Those red caps have white specks on them. The red shines. You can see your reflection in the red.”

  “That’s what they’ve been eating.” I looked at Rodney and Prib throwing darts.

  “I think Rodney brought a few up with him from Astoria. He dries ‘em. They’ll be okay as long as Rodney was careful when he picked them and didn’t get the idea of trying some Amanita pantherinas.”

  “What would happen then?”

  Willie laughed. “They have the same poisons as Fly Agaric, only more of ‘em. Rodney’s got more sense than that, though. Also I don’t think we should pay any attention to his story about knowing who the thug is. I think that’s so much talk.”

  I saw that Rodney and Prib were starting another game. “Willie, a cop told me that one of the guys who got beaten up for being in bed with Melinda was Kim Hartwig, Moby Rappa-port’s law clerk.”

  Willie looked chagrined. “I know. I know.”

  “Hartwig was reported missing the same time as Rappaport. Why didn’t you tell me he was one of the victims of Melinda’s tormentor? Why, Willie?”

  Willie refilled his glass from the pitcher. “Melinda asked me not to.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Willie, I asked you to tell me the whole truth. Why didn’t she want you to tell me?”

  “She said people would jump to the conclusion she was sleeping with him to get information about the Cowlitz lawsuit and no good would be served. She said she knew she shouldn’t get involved with him but she couldn’t help herself.”

  “And you went along with it?”

  “She’s my sister, Denson. His being Rappaport’s clerk doesn’t have anything to do with the other guys getting beaten up. Melinda does not lie to me. She doesn’t.”

  “I just don’t know, Chief. Look at it from my point of view. How would you feel? What would you think?”

  Willie slumped in the booth.

  “I’ve got another question. Why didn’t you tell me you and Rodney had tried to buy the SalPacInc cannery? Foxx Jensen’s your opposition in that. In order to check out people with motives I have to know who they are.”

  Willie said, “Yes, yes.” He was miserable.

  “You knew I had that Hillendale’s job. You knew I was going over to that cannery. And yet you didn’t say anything? Janine and I have a right to some straight answers, Willie.”

  “Denson, you have to believe me: I just didn’t think it was relevant. I don’t talk about moves like that because if the wrong people find out, it can cost me money. We’ve got a bundle riding on the line. Who needs to blow a lot of bucks through loose talk? We’re talking about thugs beating up Melinda’s boyfriends, not our bidding for a cannery.”

  “We can’t help you out unless you tell us the truth — the whole truth, Willie.”

  “Don’t call me Willie. Call me Chief Dumbshit.”

  I sighed. Try as I might, I couldn’t suspect Willie Prettybird of committing any kind of crime. He didn’t have it in him. He was my friend. “Okay, Chief Dumbshit it is,” I said. “Man you sure act like it sometimes.”

  Willie Prettybird grinned, “Master of Zen Darts, my ass.”

  Just then Juantar came jaggle-jooging along, doing little herky-jerky steps. “Friends! Friends! Praise Jesus! Praise the Lord!” He waggled his eyebrows salaciously. “Madame, how are you holding up over here all alone?” His wrists went limp. “With all these hunks,” he lisped, and blew us two kisses. “How’s your dart, Big Boy?” he asked Willie, who was playing with his dart case.

  I didn’t hear Willie’s reply. I wondered just who had set me up with the man who claimed to be a Hillendale’s buyer — Foxx Jensen or Willie Prettybird. The odds were that it was Jensen, still …

  Juantar said, “Let us consult the Holy Book of truth for the truth shall set us free. Praise God! Yes, it shall. Yes, it shall. Set us free. That’s what we are told. Isn’t that rich? Isn’t that wonderful? We’ll all be saved, Praise God, and the truth shall set us free.” Juantar gestured toward the pergola across the street. “I wonder if that dead gentleman across the street knew the truth? Did he, I wonder? Did he? Do you reckon, friends, he would have been better off knowing the truth?” Juantar pulled on his ear and wiggled it and went hee, hee, hee. Oh, the mirth, the gesture said.

  24 - PARTICLES OF CLAY, TRAINED DOGS

  The pall of melancholy about Richard Willis was so heavy that even in his vested, bow-tied outfit — which ordinarily would have made a bookie blush — he had about him the air of an undertaker. He ordinarily looked as sharp as the crease on his trousers. He looked rumpled now. He glowered. He pursed his mouth. His lips whitened. He let me wait opposite his desk. I didn’t mind. I understood the reasons behind his depression. He wondered how far he should go in his agreement with me. He felt pushed, pressed. He had little choice but to work with me.

  Richard Willis’s only chance to rescue his career was to catch the butcher before his tormentors did. “Close the door, will you, Denson. The bastards around this place have ears everywhere. We have to talk.”

  I closed the door. “That’s why I work alone,” I said. “It costs me more for medical insurance and I have to invest in my own retirement fund, but I don’t have to endure what you’re going through.”

  “I talked to Harner for you.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “Something interesting.”

  “Well?”

  Willis shook his head sadly. “You know, Denson, it’s a good thing you’re a forthright kind of guy. You could get yourself in trouble. This is a perfect example of why we’re a trifle cool on private investigators around here.” Willis looked malicious, then thoughtful. He was having fun tormenting me. We were partners now, and partners tormented one another. “On the other hand, a little jail might do a guy like you some good. You ever stop to think of that?”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes. I told Harner everything I know.”

  “Level with me, Denson, just how many loud-voiced little Southerners do you know who work for Hillendale’s and walk around wearing a white cowboy hat and fancy black gloves? Be honest, now. I’m curious.”

  “If he’d come wearing a three-piece suit and talking about drinking cauwfie and driving cahs, I’d have been more careful. He was just too odd not to be true.”

  “He waved an easy buck in front of your face.”

  “Well, there’s that, too.” I dug my wallet out of my hip pocket and gave Willis t
he card on which I had scrawled the number of the Hillendale’s employee I’d talked to. “You call this woman and see if she doesn’t remember an odd call from a private detective. It was a call from Seattle, Washington. How could she forget? To a New Yorker, living in Seattle is like living on Pluto or Saturn. So what is it? I was set up without even knowing it. Is that it? I’m Willie’s friend, blame me, blame him. Let me tell you there’re a few people out there who don’t like the Prettybirds.”

  “Like maybe Foxx Jensen?” Willis asked. “He’s one.”

  “The Prettybirds sell salmon to that cannery. As a matter of fact they’ve been trying to buy it. You’re a friend of Willie Prettybird’s. Did you know somebody’s been fucking around with the machinery in Jim’s cannery?”

  “Davis mentioned they’d been having trouble when we were there.”

  “Denson, the reservation cops and the FBI were watching you every second you were in that cannery. Davis was working with them.” Willis pulled a photograph out of an envelope and showed it to me. “Is this the guy?”

  It was Augustus Poorman. “My ol’ pardner,” I said.

  “His real name is Ross Trumble. He’s a con man with a rap sheet a yard long. He’s a friend of Foxx Jensen’s too; Harner’s got the two of them on tape making all kinds of fun little bargains.”

  “Well, now!”

  Willis opened a roll of Tums. “Yes, sir! You’ve got that right. Do you know what Poorman did while you were standing there at that canning line thinking about how you were going to spend your Hillendale’s check?”

  “No idea.”

  “He was lacing those open cans with botulism, that’s what he was doing.”

  What could I say. “Oops!”

  “Lucky for you Davis let Harner know when you called for the appointment, so Harner and the FBI had people watching the action. You were clear, no problem.”

  “A little trashing to bring down Jim Davis’s asking price. The only problem is if the Foxx brings down Davis’s asking price, he brings it down for the Prettybirds too.”

  “Sure, unless he’s able to blame the trashing on Willie and Rodney Prettybird,” Willis said.