“Go on,” I shouted.
Bertie leaned over the table toward me and yelled. “Hanady never flies commercial. From Barranquilla he has access to the banana region. Bananas and cigars and hogs.”
“Sounds picturesque.”
"Hunh?" Bertie shouted.
I waved a hand and mouthed, ‘Nevermind’.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” the emcee began. He glared at the bandleader, who shrugged and brought his hands down for the band to finish. Smiling broadly, the emcee glanced down to his left and bowed. “And ladies, welcome to you, too. We can’t have too many of the fairer sex here.” He straightened up and continued. “Tonight we have a very special treat. Now, you’ll want to stick around until midnight, ’cause we’re gonna have one helluva midnight jamboree. Our Battle of the Burlesque Queens will feature not only Ann Howe, not only Virginia Bell, but also … Oh, boys! Boys!” At that, the emcee withdrew a large polka-dotted handkerchief and exaggeratedly mopped his brow. The cat calls began. “Yes, oh yes! The lady—”
Shouts of joy.
“—with the fifty—”
Wolf whistles.
“—thousand-dollar—”
A lone, plaintive yelp, and then most of the crowd of tipsy rowdies joined in to shout, "treasure chest!"
“Yes, ladies and gentlemen!” the emcee shouted into the mic, his voice distorting. “The lady with the $50,000 Treasure Chest . . . Evelyyyyyyyyn West!”
The cacophony transformed into mayhem. Fists pumped in the air, beer bottles banged on the tables, and pure animal yelps filled the room. I smiled over at Bertie and clinked my beer bottle against his. He just shook his head, but his eyes stayed riveted to the seam in the stage curtain.
“Now,” the emcee continued, “Evelyn's generously agreed to give all you hungry treasure seekers a little peep, a little eyeful of her doubloons.” The emcee leaned his head back and roared with laughter, and then he bent forward and slapped his knee, causing the microphone to produce staticy-feedback. “Whoa! Even the mic is hot tonight, fellas! And ladies, of course,” the emcee said, slyly, again leaning down over the stage eyeing a trio of bleached-blonde beauties seated up front. “So, ladies and gentlemen, just sit back, order another round, enjoy another song, and uh. . . ,” he looked side to side as though he were about to share some secret, “I'll just pop backstage and make sure Evelyn and her two breast friends are all ready!” Buh-dum-bum-bum. CRASH! Rim shot.
The band struck up a tango number, the trombonist laying it on especially thick. Men cheered. The emcee peeped through the curtains, turned back with a wolfish grin to the crowd, then slid through the opening. Moments later, the band came to a crashing halt. The curtains parted and the emcee peeked out at the crowd.
“Fellas. Wowee zowee is this gonna be something!”
The band recommenced.
I looked at Bertie's empty bottle and raised my eyebrows meaningfully. As if I needed to twist his arm. I raised my hand and caught the waitress's eye a few tables away. That is, I, along with about ten other thirsty guys. The band played more softly, maybe to facilitate drink orders.
“So, Bertie, tell me about Barawhatever.”
“Barranquilla. Plantation life, like stepping back a hundred years. There’s a mountain in the neighboring region. Nineteen-thousand feet plus. Named after Christopher Columbus.”
“How would that make finding Hanady?”
“Not sure.”
“Uh-huh. Where does Hanady go to do business?”
“All over. They have contracts along the coast of La Guajira. Not gonna spell that one. Beyond that, it’s forest and foothills, and then the mountain.”
“Plenty of places to hide.”
“If he’s hiding. He may be in what amounts to plain view and think he’s safe.”
“What else did you find on Meeki?”
“Meeki Osagae. Born in Nigeria, but living in the States since he was four.”
“He get the scars in Nigeria?”
“I wouldn’t know. His family had to flee Nigeria. Seems they organized against the British. His father led uprisings.”
“Geez.”
“Meeki is no one to fuck around with, Ed.”
I thought a moment. The waitress was detained at a table full of ass grabbers. “Bertie, what do you think Hanady is into? I don’t think it’s just bananas. And where does the daughter fit in?”
“I don’t know. But she’s the key.”
“I agree. So, uh … where does that leave me? Technically, I’m still in Mrs. Hanady’s employ.”
“True. If she contacts you.”
“No idea of her whereabouts?”
“Nix. She hasn’t been back to the estate. Plus, Marconi ordered you to stay put.”
“That’s why I took a police escort to the Stardust.” I gestured to Bertie.
Bertie frowned. “Don’t play tough. Hamilton has it in for you. So does Enshaw.” I figured he must have been the other cop who rousted me at my office. At this point, I didn’t think it was in my best interests to mention Downing's little visit. Didn't want Bertie to form an unfavorable impression of my overall relationship with the boys in blue.
“What about Detective Marconi? Does he have it in for me, too? ” I couldn’t forget the detective who played nice in the sweat lodge.
“He’s a buddy. He believes your story, at least from what I can tell. But his first priority is solving Frederick’s murder, not looking out for you.”
“I wasn’t asking to be babysat. Look, Bertie, I need to talk to Mrs. Hanady.”
“I won’t stand in your way. If you find her, you know we’re gonna want to talk to her, too.”
“I’m gonna go to the office."
"Right now?"
I turned my bottle upside-down. “This bottle ain't gonna refill itself. Plus, our waitress has other matters to attend to. If you need me, you know the number.”
“Yeah, but, uh. . . .” He gestured towards the stage. “The show?”
I smiled down at Bertie as I stood up. “I've seen Evelyn's big, beautiful, Lloyd's of London-insured boobs so many times I could draw ’em from mammary. Ha, get that, Bertie?” I patted his shoulder. “You enjoy the show, though.” I dropped a twenty on the table. “That should cover the drinks. There might even be some left over. If you know what I mean.”
Bertie avoided my gaze, but there was a glint in his eyes. Might have been the beers, but I doubt it.
I worked my way through the swaths of smoke and the young, laughing and crowing men in their ties and shirtsleeves, and pressed past a waitress who gave me a neighborly little bump with her behind. Before I got to the front door, I cast a glance back at Bertie. Our waitress had finally found his table. She was smiling down at him, and he was chattering animatedly at her. I slid out the door past the bored bouncer.
Chapter 11
Hell Hath No Fury
I snicked a match to a cigarette and drew a deep breath, sucking in the smoke. The air outside was humid but refreshing after the hot, smoky club. My Chevy hadn’t moved from where I parked it—a hopeful sign—and I got in, turned the engine over, rolled down DeBaliviere Street, then headed west on the parkway towards the office. As I drove along and checked my rearview mirror, a sometimes necessary habit, I noticed a car a couple of blocks behind seemed to be following me. Probably nothing, but then, that hunch hasn’t paid off for me lately. I slowed down, flipped a sudden Uey on a cut-through, turned back across DeBaliviere, then headed west again, this time on Lindell. As I approached the Washington University hilltop campus at Skinker, I sped up and then slammed on the brakes and doused the lights. I scanned the roadway. Intermittent traffic on Skinker. No sign of the car following me. A bag man loping in silhouette under a street light was all I saw.
Ten minutes later, after my little paranoid vigil, I drove away towards Maplewood, into the industrial court where my bleak little office lay. Occasional street lamps lit the road up and down the roadway. Most of the buildings were dark, except the p
aperclip factory, which ran night and day, supplying all the world’s goddamn paperwork. Which reminded me, I had been neglecting my own.
As I got out of my car, I glanced around to see if I had been followed. I opened my office and decided against turning on the light. I lit a cigarette, grabbed a cold cup of coffee on my desk, and walked over to the window. Just then, headlights shined in the window. I stepped back from the glass and watched as a police cruiser eased by. Were they looking to sweat me some more? Just as the car passed, I caught just a glimpse of a head turned my way, but couldn’t see who it was.
I stood there for maybe ten minutes when, Bingo, the cruiser showed again. So predictable. This time it stopped just shy of my car. The driver’s door opened. A uniform stepped out, playing a flashlight along the length of the Chevy, then inside it. I still couldn’t see if he was someone I knew. He fixed the beam on the front door glass of my office. I held still. Even though it was dark, I didn’t know if the cop could see inside. After a few seconds, the beam moved away. The cop got back in the cruiser, put the car in gear, and then drove off slowly.
True to their word they were keeping me close. I sat down at my desk, splayed my feet forward, then let my body slouch down. I didn’t like being watched. Feeling hemmed in made me crabby, as did a little punk from a few beers and no food.
Just as I reached for the cold cup of coffee again, another set of headlights appeared, weaker and closer to the ground, like a feeble beast crawling to its death. But I sat up at the sound of a gear stretched to its limit before shifting up. Whatever was coming wasn’t weak after all. Some other car was zooming down the twisting road of the industrial court, its low-slung lights belying its high rate of speed. As it drew near my offfice, the familiar low rumble of a Cadillac coupe reached my ears. Son of a bitch. Jerri Hanady.
She screeched to a halt next to my Chevy. I walked over to the door, and just as I pulled it open, she rolled down the window of her coupe.
“Mrs. Hanady?”
“Get in,” she hissed.
I walked toward her car and leaned down. “Why don’t you come inside?”
“There’s no time, dammit. Get in!”
That’s when I heard another car barreling up the road, tires screeching.
I jogged around to the passenger side and got in. Before I’d shut the door, she gunned the motor as if she were an Indy driver. I felt like I was crammed into a clown car.
She sped away from the car bearing down on us. Mournful sirens overtook the sound of her grinding through the gears. I looked back to see the swirl of blue and red lights gaining on us.
I returned my attention to Jerri Hanady. “Mrs. Hanady,” I said. She didn’t respond. “Uh, Mrs. Hanady, that’s the law behind us.”
“Hang on!”
Before I could even think about hanging on, she yanked the steering wheel to the left, slamming me against the door. The car careened sideways as we shot out onto Manchester Road.
“Damn, lady, hey!”
She glared over at me, jammed the gearshift down mercilessly to turn north on Hanley, and then really opened her up. The cruiser, only a half a block behind us, kept up.
“That son-of-a-bitch! That bastard!” she hissed.
“Mrs. Hanady, who? What’s going on?”
She glared at me again. “Tom! He’s got Rachel! And he’s … Aggh!” She slammed the gearshift into third and jetted onto the Route 40 on-ramp without looking for oncoming cars.
“Watch out!” I yelled. The driver of the car in the outer lane lay on the horn and swerved just in time to avoid kissing our car. Mrs. Hanady seemed not to notice. She shifted again and swerved out into the fast lane. I stared at her in awe. Then I glanced down at the speedometer. Eighty-five miles an hour and climbing.
To keep my mind off the coffee threatening to come back up, I yelled, “Is Rachel all right?”
“How the hell should I know?” She was on the point of tears. The car rattled as she zig-zagged from one lane to the next. The cop car struggled to keep up. But one thing I was sure of—he would have gotten backup by now. We were going to be in deep shit if we got caught.
She gasped out something and beat the top of the wheel with one fist. With her left hand, she maneuvered behind a truck in the fast lane and then laid on the horn.
“Move, move!” she shouted.
At this speed and with her emotional state, we were inches away from pulling a James Dean. My life wasn’t great, but shit, I still wanted to live it. Just when I thought the car wouldn’t handle another abrupt lane change, she jerked the wheel, sending the coupe across both lanes, ran over the grass at an exit ramp, and righted the car in time to pass through a yellow light at the intersection. We were outside the city limits.
As she pulled down an alley behind some stately homes, she had the wherewithal to douse the lights. Even though she’d slowed down and we had no guiding light, she continued to rip down one residential street, then another. And another. I assumed—I hoped—she knew where she was going. So, for that, I kept quiet. Besides, like Mrs. Hanady, I was in emotional overload. No sense adding to her reckless disregard for our lives. As it was, my gut was roiling. And if I’d opened my mouth, I would have thrown up. When she pulled onto a two-lane road in a wooded area, she flipped the lights back on and brought the car up to about fifty.
I looked around past the trees still zooming by and studied the road behind us. Then I turned back around and said, “We’ve lost him.” When she didn’t slow down, I put my hand on her forearm. “Mrs. Hanady,” I said in a gentle tone, “think of Rachel. Please. Slow down.” Of course, I was thinking of me, too.
She started sobbing uncontrollably. Her hands slid down to the bottom of the steering wheel, and she hung her head. Thinking she was going to let go completely, I seized the chance to grab the wheel. When I did, she brought her hands up and covered her face. “Mrs. Hanady, put on the brakes.” As we slowed, I gripped the wheel and steered us onto the shoulder of the road. Then, as if her anger surfaced again, she slammed the brakes, hard, and I had to throw my hand to the windshield to keep from lurching into it. Finally, the car stopped. I leaned over and turned off the engine, pulled the key from the ignition, and yanked up the parking brake. Then I leaned back against my seat, closed my eyes, and wiped the sweat from my forehead. I realized then, that I’d been holding my breath.
I let her cry for a few minutes. Damn me for not packing a handkerchief. I tried a comforting hand on her right shoulder. She let it stay.
“How about I drive?” I said.
She nodded. I got out and came around to her door. When I opened it, she just sat there. “Mrs. Hanady, please.” She took my offered hand and I steered her over to the passenger side. I hurried back around the car and stepped in behind the wheel and started it up. As I pulled onto the road again, keeping it to a reasonable speed, I looked over at her. She was staring out the windshield. Blank as a sheet of paper. The car purred and hummed under my touch, and I found I was perfectly at ease driving it despite the circumstances.
She broke the silence first. “Turn at the gravel road up ahead on your left.” Her voice was stripped of tone. I found the road and turned. The headlights played off tall oaks and underbrush. A rabbit darted ahead of us and then disappeared to one side. At the top of a rise, I saw a shack.
“Pull around behind it. Just go over the weeds.”
I did as she said, then stopped the car and hit the lights, but kept the engine running. I glanced over at her.
“Turn off the engine.”
I hesitated before following her order. Our friendly cop could still have found us. And I didn’t like that I had no idea where the hell we were—making a getaway a crap shoot.
We sat for a minute in silence. There were no sounds outside the car. Maybe it was the absence of squealing tires and the roar of internal combustion altering my sense of hearing, but it seemed as though the insects were holding back their racket, waiting, watching us.
“Mr. Darvis, ge
t out. We need to get out and walk.”
She opened her own door this time. I came around to her and offered an arm, but she nudged it aside. “Wait here.” She stepped onto the porch of the shack The shack was so old it could have dated to slave times for all I knew. These grounds might have once been worked by forced labor. The thought was not a consoling one. Mrs. Hanady pulled something off a window sill. A flashlight. She shined the beam on a foot path that led further up the incline and began to follow it. I walked behind her.
We went this way in silence for about five minutes. Up ahead I could make out the blue-black space of a clearing. The tall, wide silhouette of a building framed the night. The Hanady garage.
She led me to the back of it. She produced a key and opened a door, then started up a set of stairs. I followed her again. My nervousness returned. My last visit here hadn’t been exactly pleasant. At the top of the stairs, she opened a door. And there we were, in the same ugly hallway I had been pushed into before. Only this time, we were on the opposite end. She walked forward and opened the door to Tom Hanady’s office. And me without a gun.
Now composed, she entered and flipped on the lights. The same dull orange exuded from the ensconced lamps, but the two chairs in front of Hanady’s desk had been shoved out of the way and overturned. His desk sat at an odd angle from the back wall. A file drawer was open, and papers were strewn around on top of the desk.
“Drink?” she asked as she walked over to a cabinet.
I’d never seen a woman go from hysterical to deadpan indifference in such a short period of time. I didn’t know if I should be appalled or impressed.
“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I think I better have one. Pour yourself one, too.” She looked at me coldly, then produced a bottle of bourbon and two crystal glasses from the shelf. I walked over to Hanady’s desk, and noticed a half-empty glass sat on the desktop. I picked up one of the chairs and sat it upright. I watched her walk back over to me. In the orange light, she looked like an overcooked sunbather. I had never seen her so much as unkempt outside the preschool. But now, her brown hair was disheveled, and I saw a line of grey along the part. Dark lines of mascara ran from under her eyes, giving her the appearance of a ghoul. Her blouse was rumpled and stained over one breast. Her skirt, non-descript and a little baggy, was a far cry from others I’d seen her wear. She didn’t seem to notice, or care. She handed me a glass and sloshed some liquor into it, then poured one for herself and gulped until the glass was empty.
A Bullet Apiece Page 10
