Around 1:30, a dour nurse poked her head in, frowning at me and my smoke, before curtly announcing the end of visiting hours. I left the cards for Bertie, then paused at the door longer than usual when I said goodbye. Bertie’s composure made me nervous. Like my mother, he could tell something was eating at me, but he didn’t pry.
When I got back to the office, I looked up Ben Hartog from Yellow Cab in the phone book. He was listed as having a South City address, near Holly Hills. If it had been Dogtown, I’d have wet my pants. I called his number and let it ring. At last someone picked up.
“Yeah?” A sleepy voice.
“This Ben Hartog?”
“Yeah. What is it?”
I contemplated beginning my calls with offers of free sweepstakes tickets after today.
“This is Ed Darvis. I’m a private investigator.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Darvis?” Now there was a change. Either this guy was polite, or he had something to hide.
“I’m investigating a case that involves one of your drivers. He may have been witness to a petty crime, but this crime involves a VIP. You know how that is. I can’t really say much more.”
“Yeah, I understand. Uh, what can I do to help?”
“Were you working the late shift two nights ago?”
“I was.”
“Did you get any calls from foreigners? Oriental-sounding voice?”
“Let me think,” he said. A few seconds ticked by. “Yeah, there was one. German voice, though. Male. That work?”
“Not quite. Any others? A woman’s voice maybe?”
“Nope. Just the one German. I’d have remembered a woman’s voice. Oriental, you say? Especially that. I can’t understand what they’re saying half the time. Mr. Ferris, he manages our garage, he wanted to give dispatcher duty to this Jap driver. A guy from California. Ferris thinks his English is good enough. Can you imagine? He says ‘derivery’! No one can understand him. I mean—”
Irritated, I cut him off. “I get you. Listen. Anybody ever call cabbies directly? You know, have a favorite, and bypass dispatch?”
“Not that I know of. And Mr. Ferris would be pissed off to hear about it. We gotta log all our drivers’ hours and routes. There’s no pickup we don’t know about.”
“Okay, Mr. Hartog. You’ve been very helpful. Thanks.”
“Hey, don’t mention it.” He sounded like I had made his day. If that was the case, I felt sad for him. I hung up the phone and pressed my fingers to my lips. Unconsciously, I brought my index and middle fingers together as though I had a cigarette. A thought was about to break to the surface of my mind, but it would need a little nicotine enticement. I lit a cigarette and got up to pace in front of my desk. A few dust bunnies got wise and scattered.
Okay, the dispatcher said he didn’t get a call from a woman, so, let’s say Kira called the cabbie directly. Maybe they had a deal. She’d call him to pick up the drunks, he’d collect the fare, and split the profits with her. That would make sense. Hell, maybe they even had a deal where Hamill would rifle their pockets and split that kitty with her as well. Only one problem. Hamill claimed he didn’t recognize Kira. And he thought he might even stand to get robbed going to Broad Jimmy’s at that hour. So that didn’t fit.
I thought about the Closed sign outside the tavern. I pictured Broad Jimmy’s sleeping form in the closed-up room. That’s what made it click. I’ve been sweating all day. Jimmy was asleep in a sealed room with no fan. In this heat, a third-floor room of a brick building, downtown, would be hotter than a kiln. But I couldn’t see any sweat in my mind’s eye. His body had looked hairy, but dry.
The funny feeling I’d had outside the tavern returned, this time intensified. I jumped up, locked my office door, and got in the Chevy. The humidity punished me immediately, and until I got on Route 40 East, I cursed the sluggish traffic. Once on the highway, I opened her up. I made Locust faster than ever and parked at a meter without giving a thought to satisfying it. The sign in front of Broad Jimmy’s was gone. I got out and tried the tavern’s door. It opened. Inside, the usual low lights were on, the dirty ceiling swathed in gloom. A couple of suits were engaged in one-upmanship at a table in the center of the room, their faces red with laughter and drink. A few other singletons hunched over tables. A glance behind the bar showed me Kira Harto’s back, clad in regulation tight black. I walked up to the bar and sat on a stool. She turned around with two dripping shot glasses in her hands.
“Hey, soldier. You here earlier than usual. What you have?” She had raised her voice to say this, so no one would suspect anything unusual.
I looked deep into her eyes. She didn’t betray anything but a casual acquaintance with me. I pulled out a cigarette and looked around at the two drunken businessmen on the other side of the pool table. One laughed loudly, and the other gripped the tabletop. They were lost in their own bluster. I looked back at Kira and spoke in a low voice.
“Where’s Jimmy?”
“He sleeping. He got to work late tonight,” she answered, in the same loud tone.
“Cut the act, Kira.”
She glared at me over her tight smile. Leaning close she whispered, “Fuck you. And like it.” She stepped back and picked up the shot glasses. Without taking her eyes off me, she started drying them.
I blew smoke in her face. She wrinkled her delicate nose, but she didn’t say anything.
“I wanna see him.”
“Who?” she asked stupidly, and sarcastically.
I remembered the contract. “I’ve got that contract for Jimmy to sign. How about I just go up and slip it under his door?”
“I’m perfectly capable of bringing a slip of paper to my husband,” she muttered.
“I know you are, Kira. That and more, I’m sure. I just feel better putting the paper in my client’s hands. You know.”
“That’s as good as saying you don’t trust me,” she returned.
“Not at all. Just one of the few formalities of my job I let myself enjoy.”
“Well, you can give it to me, or wait until tonight. He’s sleeping. He’s not feeling well.”
“I understand. The Beef was a heavy lug.”
She shoved her drying towel forcefully into one of the glasses. I just sat there and watched her for a moment, taking long drags and blowing the smoke out slowly.
“Okay, Kira. I’ll come back tonight. Say, your bathroom working at this hour?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” she said in a harsh stage whisper. The two businessmen were oblivious. I smiled at her, stubbed out my cigarette, and returned the contract to my inside coat pocket. I went towards the John, taking my time opening the door. I looked back in her direction, but she had turned around to grab some more soapy glasses. It’s now or never, I thought.
I ducked down out of her line of sight and scurried along the back wall away from the bathroom door and towards the far end of the bar. Kira’s back was still turned. I scooted under the hinged bar top that separated the bar back from the main room, and slipped between the curtains to the kitchen. I’d only been back here once before. The body in my arms had distracted me from the décor. Yeah, a dead body would do that. The usual white pickle buckets, silverware, and metal drying racks greeted me. I waited just inside the curtain for a couple of seconds to see if Kira had noticed me. Luck struck for the second time today. That gave me one more bout of it for later. I had a feeling I’d need it. Good things aren’t the only things that come in threes.
I knew I’d have to act fast. I found a door at the rear of the kitchen and pulled it open. A flight of stairs led up to the second floor. I took the steps two at a time and came to a landing with another door. It was locked. So, I hurried up the next flight and found a door there open. But I had to stop. In between ragged breaths, I cursed the stifling heat and my lack of endurance in taking the two sets of stairs in record time.
When I walked through the doorway, it was like an intersection leading to three different rooms. I peeked into the roo
m on the right, which led to a small kitchen. I walked over to the next one. It led to a living room. A quick calculation told me that the door on the left was Jimmy’s room, the one I’d seen earlier from the fire escape. I knocked loudly on the door a couple of times, then waited. No sound. Nothing. I turned the knob and eased the door open. The stifling, stale heat overwhelmed me. Across the room was the window that led to the fire escape. To my left was Broad Jimmy’s bed. He was still there, lying in the exact same position I had seen this morning. I didn’t waste time with speculation, but reached for his wrist and felt for a pulse. There was one. A very weak one. Maybe because I knew his blood had slowed, his body temperature seemed cooler than the air. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen a drugged man. Must have taken horse tranquilizers to keep him down this long. I thought about what to do. One thing for sure, I had to get some air into this room. It felt like an attic in summer, which is basically what it was at the moment. I walked to the window and opened it. Funny when summer humidity is a welcome respite. I let the air run through the window a minute. I knew Kira would start wondering what I was doing for so long in the John. And I wouldn’t put it past her to pry open the men’s room door, or have one of the business lushes go in after me. I walked over and closed the door to Jimmy’s room. Then I stepped over the sill and onto the fire escape. I thought about closing the window, but I worried about Jimmy. He could die in there in his state. I left the window up and descended the stairs. The retractable ladder gave up from its stuck position with some more sweat on my part. I jumped down to the alley and left the ladder down this time. I realized I was leaving Kira a trail, but right then, I didn’t care. Just call it returning the ‘fuck you’.
I got back in the Chevy and drove away from the tavern and back onto Locust. I decided to skip my office for the time being and get something to eat at home. Tonight would be busy.
Chapter 16
A Missing Package
I came up the back stairs of my building and walked down my hallway. The cleaning service flyer was still stuck in the doorframe where I had left it. Even so, I unlocked my door and pushed it all the way open before entering. The apartment was airy with its windows open after trudging along the stuffy hallway. I pulled out my .38 and held it at arms length in front of me. I swung the gun behind the door and looked before I moved on. Out of obsessive practice, or maybe it was the unwavering prickling along my neck and back, I investigated each room—the front room, the hallway, my bedroom, and part of the kitchen. Not a sign of anyone. Nothing out of place. But that feeling kept cropping up. Finally, convinced I was just wrung out and nervous from the odd scene at Broad Jimmy’s, I sighed and went into the kitchen. Another pressed-meat sandwich and a cold beer later, I felt like I could sleep. I sat down in the armchair in the front room and laid the .38 on the end table. I put my feet up on my hassock and faced the door. If anyone decided to try me, I’d at least have a sporting chance. With that, I fell into unconsciousness.
I woke up with the late-afternoon light, and with a nice quantity of drool down my chin and my shirtfront. My neck ached from the odd angle with which it rested against the back of the chair. I stood up, tasting stale cigarettes, and burped pressed meat. The only thing to chase the twin tastes was a fresh cigarette and a strong drink. I had both, then undressed and showered. I shaved carefully and got dressed. My kitchen wall clock said six-forty. I’d slept longer than I planned to, but my body knew what I needed, and I was grateful. Besides, what difference did it make? If my body believed it was a new day, maybe it would go to work on my mind, too.
I walked out of my apartment, put the cleaning service flyer back in the crack, and locked up. Between my recent shower, the humidity in my apartment, and the closeness of heat in the hallway, sweat broke across my forehead. I flashed back to Jimmy lying unconscious in his room. I started to worry that maybe just leaving his window open hadn’t been enough. Maybe I should have splashed some water on him and then run like hell. I couldn’t risk calling for an ambulance, which might bring police. And if they came and put the screws to Kira, I wouldn’t put it past her to finger me for involvement in The Beef’s slaying, or subsequent handling. No, I had to leave Jimmy. But it felt rotten.
I got to the garage and started up the Chevy. Traffic was tied up on the surface streets, and rolling down my windows just let the swelter in, but once I made Route 40, it was clear, and I got a hot breeze to dry my face. Suckers on the other side were parked in the jam, heading away from downtown. I pulled off on Jefferson and connected with Locust. I could do this route on autopilot now.
I parked out of sight at Broad Jimmy’s. I didn’t want my car to be spotted, although I couldn’t say why. I walked up around the other side of the block and drew near the alley. The fire escape ladder was still down as I had left it. Looking up, I saw that Jimmy’s bedroom window was closed. I looked at my watch: 7:18. Jimmy’s would be hopping now, with the happy hour crowd gone full bore—which was a good time to mingle and see what was up.
I walked through the door. The place was awash in smoke, the clink of glasses, and the seagull chatter of happy drunks. Kira was behind the bar, smiling demurely at some sap. At the end of the bar, where The Beef had lorded it over his audience yesterday, only one man sat. Simple Simon.
I walked along the bar, dodging elbows, and the totter of a gesturing businessman. I looked Kira’s way and gave her a tight-lipped smile. Her expression barely changed when she saw me. I went straight to Simple Simon’s side. His usual nervousness reached a peak when I sat down next to him.
“What’s new, Simon old buddy? How was work today?”
Simon stiffened and gave me a fatigued, edgy look. His grey beard looked more ashen than his face. A few stray hairs jutted out from his jaw and towards his neck, like desperate saplings losing purchase on an eroding slope.
“What do you want?” he muttered.
“Simon, you gettin’ tough on me? The Beef ain’t here now.” I wanted him even edgier, to put the press on. “I’m surprised you got your back to the door.”
He turned on his stool and eyed the front door, and then looked back at me. “What do you mean?” Simon jumped when a glass shattered and cries of delight, as well as pity, swelled over the seagull chatter.
“You got good reflexes. You’re not half-crocked yet.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” He glared at me, his face turning hard. That surprised me. The Beef was less than twenty-four hours dead and Simon was already looking to step into his spats.
“That’s what I’m doing, Simon.” I left it at that. I stood up, clapped him on the back, and walked toward the other end of the bar. I got some of the same jostles going back from the business yegs. The place was packed, and no one seemed the wiser that a crime had been committed here not twenty-four hours before. I took a seat at the corner of the bar—where I could see the door—and lit up a cigarette. Kira Harto was still playing the coquette. I watched her work for a few minutes, impressed with her act. Every now and again I heard her voice over the hubbub. “You no say?” “You go on, big guy!” “Hi, soldier, what you have?” I felt an impulse to clutch her neck and squeeze, but it passed. At last she walked over to me. She stood in front of me, but she wasn’t looking at me. She mumbled something.
“I didn’t quite catch that, Kira hon,” I said.
She leaned over the bar. “I said ‘Go away’.” She gritted her teeth.
“I said I’d be back later. You know. With the contract.” I patted my coat pocket, but didn't smile.
“Jimmy’s asleep.”
I leaned in near her neck. “We know that’s a lie,” I whispered harshly. “Now, go get him.”
“What if I don’t?” she returned, just as hard.
“Then I’ll just invite Officer Downing over for a few drinks on me.” She stiffened, then looked down. “Yeah, that’s right. He paid me a little visit. And he wasn’t exactly happy to be fingered as The Beef’s assassin.”
She looked
up at me finally. Someone sitting at the middle of the bar called out, “Where’s that Bud, baby? Man’s thirsty.” Jesus, it was my uncle Charles. I motioned for her to go serve him; I picked up a copy of the Globe-Democrat, half wet with beer, and pretended to be interested in what I was looking at. When I looked around a minute later, my uncle had joined a group of other blue-collar guys near the pool table. Kira had gone to the far end of the bar, near Simple Simon—and the kitchen entrance. She was turned in profile to him but her back was to me, so I couldn’t tell if she was communicating anything to him. But he looked up at her in all the noise and then shot a look down at me. After that he stood up and made his way to the front door. I got up and intercepted him, blocking his exit.
“Stay away from me,” he hissed.
“Where you going so fast, Simon? I was just about to order a round for the both of us.”
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
When he sidestepped me, I grabbed his right arm, exactly where the nerve near his elbow was and squeezed.
“God . . . damn!” he yelled as he started to sag toward the floor. A guy seated near me looked up and said, “Hey.” I ignored him and looked back towards the kitchen. Broad Jimmy stood in the doorway, still wearing a tank-top, the bottom hanging loosely from his belly and over a pair of dark slacks. He looked like he’d been run over, propped up, and bull-whipped. I let go of Simon.
“N-next time I’ll cut you, you bastard,” he said as he ran out the door. Fat chance, I thought.
I pushed through the crowd toward Jimmy, making sure to stay close to the bar, and away from my uncle. Fortunately, he didn’t see me. My eyes locked on Broad Jimmy’s. He mouthed the word “You” and gestured for me to come over. When I got to the hinged bar top, he leaned toward me and said, “We’ve got a big fuckin’ problem.” He turned and headed back into the kitchen. I lifted the bar top and followed.
A Bullet Apiece Page 14
