Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 1)

by Phillip DePoy

  I smiled at her because she was shaking her left index finger at me. That’s the finger where she still wears her mother’s ring.

  I sighed. “I gotta go home.” I tossed back the last of the glass.

  She stood up. “Flap — this one’s stranger than most.”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m kinda sorry I called you in on it. I don’t want anything weird to happen.”

  “Too late. I’m into it.”

  “But I got a bad feeling.”

  I avoided her eyes. “And Southern women have a very high ESP quotient.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She sighed. “I really am a little worried, okay?”

  “Okay.” I hoisted myself up and took her elbow. “It’ll all be fine. Let me go home and do the thing and I’ll give you a call in the morning. Right?”

  She looked at me. “Flap…” But she didn’t finish.

  In an effort to smash the uncharacteristic awkward moment between us, I let her in on my new little number. “You know the folks over at the Golden Potala?”

  “Sure.”

  “They want me to help ’em with a little problem.”

  “Such as?”

  “They’re getting hassled by some nut. Probably just a one-shot deal. I go to a meeting, I toss a scare into the nut, I click my heels, and I’m back in Kansas.”

  And instead of asking a lot of questions or telling me what to do — her usual modus operandi — she slumped in her seat.

  “Oh.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Oh? That’s all?”

  She was almost wavering into some kind of angst. Very unusual indeed. “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.”

  What could I do? I gave her a little punch in the arm. “So you said, but I got a very good feeling about you, so it all balances out.”

  She shook her head, but I think she smiled a little.

  On my way out Hal waved at me. “Don’t forget to bring me some more stuff, Flap. Can’t have you floppin’ around in that inferior American crap.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Plus — I like havin’ you around, you know.”

  “Really.”

  “Gives the place a sorta seedy kind of atmosphere — the kids seem to like it.”

  I offered him a gesture straight out of Bukowski. “Happy to be of service.”

  He grinned. “Why does Dally even bother with you?”

  “Women like me.” I coughed. “I’m clean.”

  ***

  My apartment’s not far from the club. Five blocks down Ponce toward Peachtree and you got my street, Durant. Six or seven months out of the year it’s hooker central, but when the weather turns nice, they migrate to the park a couple of blocks north. The weather this November was rotten, and I could have had all the companionship a boy would want, except that these kids just made me nervous. They all looked desperate and hungry and cold, and they all had the sniffles.

  I got a special offer from a concrete angel in the doorway of my building, hiding from the wind. I was very clear with her:

  “The only thing I want you to blow is your nose.”

  She actually giggled, like a ten-year-old. I had a sudden impulse to feed her soup and take her shopping for a better coat. Instead, I went inside.

  My place is a lot nicer than I deserve. The building’s got only four apartments in it. All lined up from one end to the other you got a glassed-in sun room, a living room, a dining room with a bay window, what they call a galley kitchen, and two bedrooms. I use one for sleeping and the other for an office. I’m a professional. Plus, it’s an income-tax break.

  Most of my furniture comes from the side of the road or the Salvation Army thrift store. It gives the place a sort of hobo chic. I’ve got a great stereo, hidden from sight. A few really fine original art pieces are mixed in with the junk — although I’ve been told it’s hard to tell the difference.

  I tossed my overcoat on the chair closest to the door, popped on the light in the dining room, and sat at the table. It was a ladder-back chair, and it made me sit up straight. I started my breathing.

  You breathe in through your nose and imagine the breath curving upward into your skull and down to your solar plexus. Then you breathe out, continuing downward through the rest of your body, pushing the air with your diaphragm, like away from your privates. It’s relaxing.

  Then you open your eyes and unfocus, like you do when you’re trying to look at one of those 3-D Magic Eye pics in the funnies, and you see the golden curtain. Every so often I try to pull back the golden curtain and see what’s on the other side, but each time I do I just end up with a headache. Anyway — you see the golden curtain and you just sit and wait. Most of the time the angel comes to kiss you.

  I sat like that, I guess, fifteen minutes before the phone rang. I usually remember to turn it off. The noise brought me right out of the concentration.

  “Damn.”

  I went over and slowly picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

  “Oh…hey. I was expecting the machine. Um…Flap?”

  I was on the verge of recognizing the voice. “Yes?”

  “Hi. It’s me, Neena.”

  I guess it would have taken more than a feather to knock me over, I’m a pretty fair-sized guy — but a hurricane could certainly have done the trick. And there she was: Hurricane Dannen.

  I blew out a pretty healthy breath of my own. “Yeah, you know…in some bizarre way or other I coulda guessed this.”

  “So you’re glad to hear from me.”

  “No. Not in the least. Not even remotely.”

  “Don’t be that way; I’m calling to commiserate.”

  “You’re not calling from the Shell station, are you?”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that the last time I got a call like this, you were right around the corner.”

  “Oh. No. I’m in New Mexico.”

  “That’s a break.”

  “Be nice or I won’t console you.”

  “About…”

  “Jesus, Flap, the thing in Tibet.”

  This was often the case with our girl. She never began at the beginning. She was a middle jumper from way back. But you’d have to admit it was very strong in the too-much-of-a-coincidence department.

  “I thought you said you were in New Mexico. And what do I need with all this consolation and commisery?”

  “The Panchen Lama, the Red Chinese, the deal in Tibet!”

  “Sorry. You’re gonna have to be very specific about this one.”

  “Unbelievable. I thought you, of all people, would be on the edge of your seat about this thing.”

  “Because…”

  “What, you’re not Mr. Zen thing anymore?”

  “I don’t know that I ever was Mr. Zen…thing.”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “There’s a new Panchen Lama.”

  “I’m happy.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “I’m not?”

  “They got the wrong guy.”

  I sat down. I knew, as they say, from bitter experience that this thing would have to play itself out. I had little choice but to listen.

  “Neena, could you do me a favor and just this once start from the beginning and tell me why you’re calling?”

  She sighed. Suffering fools gladly was not in her compendium…marrying them, yes, but being patient with them — nearly out of the question. “Okay, from the beginning” — rife with irony — “First the earth was nothing but a molten ball of ooze. Then plankton appeared —”

  “Skip on down.”

  “Then the godless heathen Red Chinese Commies took over the spiritual center of the universe in Tibet and sent the Dalai Lama —”

  “— taking it on the lam out of Tibet and over to Richard Gere’s house. I know this part too; skip on down.”

  She decided to give me a break and turn off t
he sarcasm. “Okay. About six years ago the old Panchen Lama died. He was the highest-ranking spiritual leader to actually stay in Tibet after the Chinese takeover.”

  “The Dalai Lama left in, what…fifty-nine or something?”

  “Right. So you’ve got the Dalai Lama here in the States trying for Tibetan independence and the spiritual good of humankind, and then you’ve got the Panchen Lama on the inside, still captive in Tibet, trying for the same thing.”

  “Only he dies.”

  “About six years ago. So the Dalai Lama starts doing what he does, casting bones or reading tea leaves…”

  “Neena…”

  “Okay, it’s a metaphysical probing into the mysteries of the universe or whatever, but he comes up with the successor — for some reason, a six-year-old boy…”

  “Gotta be six, see, because the belief is that the kid is the old guy reincarnate, in the flesh. And it’s not tea leaves and it’s not mumbo jumbo; it’s very scientific, in its own way.”

  “Come on.”

  “No, really. They lay out all the old guy’s stuff along with a bunch of other junk and then parade all the kids who are likely candidates in front of this mountain of paraphernalia, and the real guy will pick out all of the dead guy’s things. He’ll say, like, ‘This is my plate. That’s my shirt.’ Stuff like that.”

  “Whatever. I mean, any kid who did his homework could memorize a list of things and beat the system.”

  “Yes, I can see that you would think that, given your penchant for prevarication, but in Tibet —”

  “Whatever, but the point is: The Dalai Lama picked the successor last May or something…wait.”

  I heard her rattling newspapers or something. Then: “Here it is. He picked a little six-year-old guy by the lilting name of…Gedhun Choekyi Nyima. Nyima…isn’t that a John Coltrane song?”

  “‘Naima.’ Close.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  “Somebody’s name, is all.”

  “Well, it’s pretty.”

  “I’m positive you haven’t gotten to the point.”

  “Oh, right. Well, the problem is: The heathen godless Red Chinese have also picked a Panchen Lama of their own. Also a six-year-old with the equally unpronounceable name of” — more paper rattling — “Gyaincain Norbu. And guess which one is on the throne or in the temple or wherever they keep these guys?”

  “The stooge of the Red Chinese.”

  “Bingo. And the true Lama? The one the Dalai picked? He’s been missing since July.”

  “That’s right. Along with his whole family.”

  “And the Chinese stooge?”

  “They just installed him as the…here it is: ‘Eleventh reincarnation of the Buddha Amatabha — the new official Panchen Lama.’”

  I leaned back in my chair. “Wow. Does it say there how the other monks and the Tibetans are taking it?”

  “I think the phrase grim-faced appeared more than once.”

  “So the Red Chinese have their own kid on the throne of the highest religious authority in the country. That’s it. Tibet is screwed.”

  “Oh, it’s much worse than that. I mean, the heathen godless Red Chinese don’t give a damn about the religion, right?”

  “Right.”

  “They just want a controlling interest, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I believe they only want to continue to undermine the religious beliefs of the people at the top of the world.”

  “I agree.”

  “So there’s a trade agreement developing to sell off the great treasures of the Tibetan world for the economic gain of the state.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d know that the Lamas have accumulated incredible wealth…much greater than the Vatican.”

  “No, I don’t know that. And neither do you.”

  “I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah…so this is why you called?”

  “Well, plus, you are Mr. Zen thing and I thought you’d want to talk about it.” Beat. “And I was thinking about you. Judy and I aren’t getting along —”

  “I’m busy. I’m working. I got no interest.”

  She, on the other hand, was suddenly very interested. “Really!” Very hushed: “What’s the caper?”

  I was equally as whispery: “None of your business.”

  “Come on, I told you about the end of Tibet. The least you can do is tell me about your case.”

  “Nope.”

  “I heard you haven’t worked in ages. You have to tell me about it.”

  “Nope.” I marveled at her ability to so adroitly switch from the end of Tibet to gossipy curiosity.

  She began to whine. “Jesus, Flap, what’s the big secret?” Then she changed her tune. This was much brighter. “Is it about me?”

  “Right, Neena. Everything’s about you.”

  “No, I mean, is that why you won’t tell me?”

  “I won’t tell you because it’s none of your business.”

  “Fine. I tell you just about the most important thing in the universe today, and you won’t even share your stinky old case with me. I guess you got it from Dalliance.” And she said Dally’s name in the most pejorative possible way I could have imagined.

  “Neena, listen — I appreciate the news from the top of the world and everything, but I was actually trying to concentrate on my business here…so —”

  “Oh! Were you in the middle of your thing?”

  “What?”

  “Were you in your little trance-state-picture-puzzle thing?”

  “I knew, even at the time I was telling you, that I should never have said anything to you about that.”

  “And they locked me up for a nut.”

  “You were a nut.”

  “Was not. I just needed a little time to myself.”

  “You were a filbert.”

  “I just needed to be alone.”

  “With Dr. Schlag.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’re still together, you know.”

  “No, we’re not, and I’ve got the papers to prove it.”

  “No, I mean me and Nete. We’re still together.”

  “Ah. I heard you were battin’ for the other team.”

  “I am — but it’s no reason to lose a perfectly good husband…”

  “…who doesn’t want to get lost.”

  “Are you telling me you wanted to get lost, Flap? Hey, isn’t that a Chet Baker song, ‘Let’s Get Lost’?”

  “Yes, it is.” I lowered my voice. “Okay. ’Bye, now.” And I almost hung up.

  “Flap?”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “What?”

  “Aren’t you even glad I called?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not even for the news?”

  “You’re asking me if I’m glad you called to tell me this hideous news?”

  “No, I meant, you know…aren’t you glad to hear from me?”

  I sighed very deliberately. “Neena, the melodrama of this poor-little-me-I-just-called-to-say-hello-and-you’re-the-meanest-man-on-the-planet thing means so little to me. I know you don’t mean it. Not even for even a fraction of a second.”

  She waited. I could actually hear her thinking over the phone. Finally, very clear and spry: “Well, you have to admit it usually works.”

  And that, of all things, made me like her better. “Yeah, it’s pretty good when you get it revved up.”

  “It’s broken the back of many a lesser man.”

  “This I believe.”

  “It’s good to talk to you, Flap.”

  “In some very bizarre way it’s good to talk to you too.”

  “Good luck on the case, or whatever.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for the news flash. It actually means something to me, believe it or not.”

  “Sure. Turn on a TV or pick up a paper once in a while. They might be trying to tell you something.”

  “G’bye, N
eena.”

  “So, tell me again how come we got divorced.”

  “Because I had sense enough to ask you and you didn’t have sense enough to say no.”

  “Right. Now I remember. ’Bye, Flap.”

  She hung up. I sat around for a minute or two in the silence. Silence is good. But I knew there would be no golden curtain or magic trick or sudden solution to the caper at hand, not tonight. All that had been blown to hell by Hurricane Dannen — just when you thought it was safe to answer the phone again. I gave up right away trying to see the big picture and turned on the little tube. I fell asleep watching Jeopardy! In retrospect, it seemed appropriate.

  Chapter 13: Teeth Marks

  When I woke up I went back to Decatur. The afternoon sun was warm and we were back to a more typical kind of weather for a Georgia November. I’d called just to check up on old Teeth — see if I was wrong about the cops and all. Turns out they’d called just before I had. They were on their way for a little visit. He seemed kind of glad to hear from me. I think he was glad I was coming over too.

  When I got to his house he was in the front, on his knees, digging around his mailbox with a little spade. I parked on the street and got out of the car.

  He didn’t even look up. “Never too late for pansies.”

  I watched him dig. “You gotta plant ’em every year?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why don’t you go for perennials?”

  “Well…” He got to his feet. “Once I plant these pansies they’ll bloom from now until the really hot weather starts in late spring next year. Most perennials bloom only a week or two. More work equals more bloom.”

  “I thought if you did right with the perennials, you could have color all season long.”

  “You been talking to Tony.”

  “Okay, maybe I have.”

  He headed for the house. “He’s the one got me into gardening.”

  “Yeah, I’m thinkin’ about it myself.”

  “But my favorite is spices, and he knows nothing when it comes to them.”

  “Yeah, I know you got mint all over the backyard.”

  We got to the porch. I waited while he took off his shoes and dropped them on the steps. He sighed. “Mint was Ruby’s idea.”

  “So…the police called?”

  He opened the door. “On their way.”