A Bullet Apiece

by John Joseph Ryan

We were alone. In the fluorescent light of the kitchen, he looked like a ghost. His eyes were red-rimmed, and stubble stood out on his jaw.

  “Follow me, Darvis.”

  I did as I was told.

  We walked past the door that led upstairs, toward another door. The one that descended to the basement. Not particularly fond of following him downstairs, I got nervous something was up. Jimmy opened the door and started down the stairs. If he had something in store for me, at least I was above and behind him. I could use my feet to kick him down the stairs, and then turn and bound up the stairs, if needed. He reached the bottom without turning around and strode through the dampness straight toward the freezer. A chill ran over me, despite the heat and humidity.

  Jimmy opened the door to the freezer and growled, “Look.”

  In any other situation it would sound funny or trivial: The Beef is missing from the freezer. This sight was neither of the above. Although I wasn’t particularly fond of looking at the cold dead body of The Beef, I leaned over and looked into the freezer and then back at Jimmy. “What’d you do with him?”

  “What’d I do with him?” He grabbed my lapels. “Not a goddman thing! I wanted to ask you the same damn thing!”

  “Don’t be stupid. Why would I take him out of here?”

  Enraged, Jimmy shoved me against a freezer rack. “Then where the fuck is the body?” I kept my hands at my side in a play for docility. “Kira said you were nosing around this morning. She said you pulled a fast one on her and left. Then after you left, she checked the freezer and The Beef’s body was gone.” He clutched my lapels closer together and squeezed, his knuckles pressing into my windpipe. His red-rimmed eyes bulged from his giant face. I thought how easy it would be for him to lay me out right there, put me in The Beef’s place.

  “Jimmy,” I managed to squawk, “Jimmy, I can’t breathe. Gimme some air.”

  “I’ll give you some air,” he snarled. “James Cagney style!” The thought of another bullet in me didn’t make me jump for joy, not that I could dream of doing that while in Jimmy’s hard grasp.

  He pulled back his knuckles, but kept my lapels roughly bunched. “Look, I did give Kira the slip. But I didn’t come down here. I swear to you. I went upstairs. For Godsakes, let up a little, Jimmy.” He stood there a moment and then released my lapels altogether when it registered I’d gone upstairs, not down. But he didn’t move from in front of me. I would have been just as comfortable in an iron maiden open just a crack.

  “Start talking.”

  “I brought the contract by, for you to sign. You know, for my services. Kira said you were sleeping. I didn’t believe her. So, I told her I’d just slip the contract under your door, but she said no dice. And since you were still supposedly sleeping since I’d seen you this morning, I had a funny feeling. When her back was turned, I snuck through the kitchen door and went up the stairs.”

  Jimmy slammed his hand against the shelf behind my head. Something toppled off and struck me. I winced, but held still.

  “I found your room. Jimmy, you were laying in the same position I saw you in earlier.

  “Earlier?”

  “Yeah, I’d climbed up the fire escape ladder and peeked in on you. I thought you were just sleeping then. The room was closed up. You were breathing all shallow. I got worried and left a window open. Then. . . ,” I let out a breath and breathed in the frigid air deeply, “I took the fire escape back down. That was it. I don’t know anything about The Beef.”

  “Why didn’t you listen to Kira, hunh? My wife, you bastard. You don’t come into my house. You don’t ignore her. I ought to beat the shit out of you.”

  “Save it, Jimmy. Save it for whoever is behind all this.”

  “I can’t think. It’s too fuckin’ cold in here! Get out of the way.” He shoved past me and began pacing the small space outside the freezer. I straightened my shirt and adjusted my jacket. I didn’t say anything for a full minute, while Jimmy paced and scowled.

  “Jimmy. Simple Simon was just in here. When I came in and sat down beside him, he was all hinky. And he left in a big hurry. I think his story doesn’t wash.”

  “What story is that?”

  “He said he left the bar before The Beef. A good half-hour before he did. He swears he took a bus home. I’m starting not to believe him. I think he’s involved in The Beef’s death.”

  “That little pipsqueak? That … that pussy?”

  “Why not? He was terrified of The Beef. He made it seem like he was entertained by him. But he wasn’t. Maybe his fear, the humiliation The Beef thrust on him, turned into anger. Maybe he wanted to see The Beef hurt, humiliated. Maybe even dead. Simon’s got motive running out of his ass.”

  Jimmy stopped pacing for a moment. He smiled a sick smile. “Well, what are you waiting for, dick? Bring him in to me.”

  I stood regarding him. He looked dead serious, murderous. I unbuttoned my jacket.

  “Am I still in your employ then?”

  “You got that right.”

  I withdrew the contract from my pocked and passed it to Jimmy.

  Jimmy let me out a side door from the kitchen and into the now-infamous alley. I wanted to talk to Kira desperately, but with the crowd and her attitude toward me, I knew I wouldn’t get far. So, I took the alley and strode over The Beef’s murder spot. I walked up the block and got into my car. Should I go straight to Simon’s? Probably. I didn’t expect to find him, though.

  I got off Route 40 at Hampton Avenue and zigzagged around the narrow one-way Dogtown streets to Nashville. I parked at the top of the block, several houses east of Simon’s bungalow. The late evening sun was out of my eyes as I descended to Simon’s house. As the bright after-image cleared from my eyes, a few kids playing stickball materialized in the street. Someone was barbecuing. I flashed back to my own block when I was a kid in north St. Louis. We lived across from a meat-processing plant with a butcher’s in front. My old man would go over evenings and sweet-talk turkey necks and gizzards out of the proprietor for stew. Maybe a taste or two with the guy, which often led to a drinking bout, and gambling the dole, or some scrounged cash. My sister and I would watch for him to come back, both our stomachs growling, her falling asleep on the couch most of the time. Yeah, those were the days.

  Simon’s house sat on the north side of Nashville. I decided to case it before I knocked on the door. Facing the house, I took the breezeway on the right side of the house, my eyes on the windows. All were covered with shades. In back, a neglected yard gave up trying to grow anything before succumbing to a dilapidated garage. A rusted chain-link fence stretched to meet it. I stepped up onto the small back porch and peered into the back door window. Simon’s kitchen. It was empty, save for a sink full of dishes and a small Formica table. The hallway leaving the kitchen bent at an angle, so I couldn’t see any further. I could see the other side of the house, which was blocked by the chain-link fence, no gate. I creaked down the rotten porch steps and went around to that side. Just as I was about to hike a leg over the fence, I heard the motor of a car as it ran past the house, heading east, and then the sudden squeal of bad brakes. I ducked down and hurried around to the back of the house, and started back up the breezeway. But as I edged along the brick wall of Simon’s house, I heard a car door slam. I froze for a minute, listening. Then, I risked a look around an untrimmed yew.

  There, standing in the middle of the street on the driver’s side of a cab, was Simon, leaning over talking to the cabbie. His blue work shirt was soaked with sweat around his armpits and lower back. As he straightened, he slapped the top of the cab lightly, and turned to walk to his front sidewalk as the cab took off. I ducked back down behind the bush and waited for the cab to pull up the street. And what do you know. Tim Hamill was behind the wheel.

  I waited until I heard Simon’s footsteps on the cement steps, then I hunched over and skirted alongside the house to the front. Keeping low, I snuck along the unkempt yews to the front door. Then, just as Simon turned the key in
his lock and opened the door, I bolted onto the porch, grabbed him, and shoved him inside. He fell to the carpet and I slammed the door all in one motion.

  Simon rolled over and looked up at me. “You! You get away from me. I’m calling the cops.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Ask for Officer Downing.”

  He turned pale. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I ignored his question. “Simon, you were in an awful hurry to get out of Broad Jimmy’s. What gives?”

  “Nothin’ to do with you, creep. Now get out.”

  I took two steps forward and used one leg to put pressure on Simon’s ankle. He howled.

  “Gah—get off me!”

  “Not till you answer some questions and cut the bullshit.”

  “Fuck you!” He spat up at me. I applied more pressure to his ankle and he screamed out. I didn’t want to play it this way, but Simon needed to feel that I was in charge, not just know it. Even so, there were plenty of people outside. Someone might hear him howling and wonder what the hell was going on. So, I eased my foot up from his ankle. Just enough to stop his screams. The man was near tears. I looked down at his receding chin and graying beard. At once, I felt like a cheap hood.

  But this was no time to get soft. “What were you doin’ hookin’ a ride with Tim Hamill? Hunh?”

  “What?” he cried out. “Since when does a man have to justify a cab ride?” Simon attempted to sit up, but immediately fell back as I again applied more pressure to his ankle. He groaned and wiped at his eyes quickly with the back of one arm.

  “If I let up on you, will you talk? Straight?”

  After a minute, he nodded. I removed my foot and stepped back, but stood ready to attack him, if need be. He turned over and crawled away from me over to the loveseat like a dog. As he rose up and turned to sit down, he flung something at me. I had just enough time to register the flash of steel before the knife struck my right kneecap and glanced off, and I fell on my back to the floor, pierced with pain. In an instant, Simon leapt off the couch and straddled me. At first, he went for my throat, but then he clawed at my face. He did everything but punch me. And that was his crucial mistake.

  Ignoring my pain, I grabbed the fingers of one of his hands and bent them backwards until he yelled and fell sideways, trying to escape me. That gave me just enough leeway to push him off of me. Still holding onto his hand, I pulled myself up on my knees. Only then did I let go of his hand. Then, ignoring restraint, I hammered relentlessly at his face with both fists. Within moments, Simon was slumped on the floor, blood oozing from his nose and the side of his mouth.

  Chapter 17

  Cab Ride to the Ninth Circle

  I sat panting in the heat. My knee went from numb to throbbing. I left Simon where he lay and went to find his bathroom. I had to take off my trousers to examine my knee. In the dim streetlight that came in through the window, I could see it was already swollen and purplish. Lucky for me, there was only a shallow cut where the knife nicked me. I grabbed a musty washcloth and stuck it under cold running water, and held it on my knee while I sat on the closed toilet.

  I had underestimated Simon. He’d taken me by surprise with the knife because of it. He was a bad aim, but probably not so bad up close and personal. I made him for The Beef’s killer. But could he have done it alone? Doubtful. But Simon’s little cab ride with Hamill was far from coincidence. I got up and hobbled back to the front room and found a phone.

  Simon was still out cold. As I waited for the operator to pick up, I looked down at him. He breathed irregularly, his face still holding the anguish of his beating in the gloom. His cheeks and lips were swelled up like balloons. Made my knuckles hurt just looking at him.

  “Hello, Operator? Can you get me the Yellow Cab Company?”

  No reply but the sound of the connection over the line. Then a gruff voice.

  "Yellow Cab, whatcha need?”

  I raised the pitch of my voice in an attempt to disguise it.

  “Hey, yeah, I need a cab right away.” I gave Simon’s address but changed the last number. “Ummm, listen. Is Tim Hamill working tonight? Yeah? Well, he’s an old buddy. You think you could dispatch him here? My grandmother has to get to the hospital to see my old man. You can do that? Great! Thanks so much, mister.” I hung up the phone. I needed Hamill back on the street, but not at Simon’s address, to divert any suspicion he might have.

  I stepped over Simon and walked toward his bedroom. The blackout shades were drawn. I clicked on a floor lamp and saw the room was in disarray, blankets strewn atop his bed. Girlie magazines sat open on the floor; a sticky-looking, wadded-up rag lay next to them. I opened his closet and found a bathrobe and removed the tie from the loops. “This’ll work just fine,” I said to myself. I turned off the light and headed back to the living room. I reached down and rolled Simon onto his face, pulled his hands behind his back and bound them together. I flipped him back over, grabbed him under his arms, and lifted him up onto the love seat. His breathing was interrupted briefly, but then resumed with a snort. I went around through the kitchen to the back door. I glanced up at Simon’s wall clock. It was close to nine o’clock.

  I opened the back door and walked through the dismal yard, and out to the back alley. I walked up the alley and then, just as I cut over to Nashville Avenue, I stopped. All of a sudden, this seemed like a foolish move. Sure, Hamill would be coming up the block, but then what would I do? Jump out and accost him in the middle of the street with my gun? Too many kids playing stickball still out, darkness be damned. I shook my head. All the crap I’d been involved in the last two days must have addled me. I turned around and headed back down the alley to Simon’s.

  The street lights were on—the ones that worked, anyway. I reentered through the back door and reached Simon’s front room to wait. I didn’t turn on any lights and the windows were closed, which made me crabby. My stomach started growling, too. I checked my watch: 9:25. Hamill should have been here by now. I looked back at Simon. He was still out cold. I wondered if I’d gone too far in pummeling him with my fists. Nah, I thought. I walked over and picked up the phone again to call Yellow Cab.

  “Yeah, I called about a cab over a half-hour ago. Well, the driver isn’t here yet. And my grandmother’s getting nervous about getting over to the hospital. It being late and all. She’s afraid they won’t let her….”

  The dispatcher broke in. “I remember you. We couldn’t get ahold of Tim Hamill. We’re sending another driver.”

  “What do you mean?” I changed my tone and resumed the higher pitch, having forgotten about disguising my voice. Guess that didn’t work anyway. “Isn’t he working tonight?”

  “He should be, buddy, but he’s not answering the radio. You want the cab or not?”

  My nervous system reminded me of how much it loves to be in my body. I felt my heart flutter and my chest tighten.

  “Uh, yeah. It’s just … never mind. We’ll figure somethin’ else out.” I hung up and looked at Simon. Hamill’s flat above the bakery was less than a mile from here. I made up my mind to leave Simon and hope he didn’t come to while I was gone. I slipped out the back door and headed back to the alley. I figured I’d take the alley up the block to stay more hidden, then loop around to get to my car. But just then, I caught a pair of headlights shining down Nashville. The car stopped in front of Simon’s. I hurried back to the worn-out garage and pressed myself against one side of it, hoping it wouldn’t choose now to collapse. I risked a look along the breezeway. All I could see was the front end of the car out in the street. Its headlights were still on, and I couldn’t tell the make for the darkness, nor could I see who was driving. The driver got out and shut his car door. A few minutes passed before I heard anything else. Crouching down, my knee throbbed and felt as if the swelling was getting worse, but I knew I couldn’t move. And at this point, I didn’t want to go back into the house. I’d had enough confrontations for the night. Hell, I’d had enough for a lifetime. That’s when I heard a v
oice that could have been Simon’s, followed by the slam of two car doors. The car roared away, tires squealing, as the mystery driver shot up the block heading east.

  I had a hunch the mystery driver was Hamill, but I couldn’t be sure since I hadn’t seen him. If I wanted to make sure, I needed to get to my car, fast, and follow him. I’d have to chance it that Hamill revived Simon and hustled him out of there. I hightailed it back to my car as best as I could with my gimpy leg. If I was lucky, maybe Hamill would head back to his house. Kill two birds with one stone, too. That is if Simon was actually with him.

  Although my knee hurt like hell, I made it to Tamm Street and West Park in record time. I parked just outside the darkened bakery and proceeded to Hamill’s apartment. I rang the buzzer and waited. Nothing happened. Peering through the door leading up to Hamill’s apartment, I could see Hamill’s door was ajar. Light from the apartment spilled onto the stairway landing. I opened the screen door and tried the front door. It was unlocked, so I went in and closed the door behind me.

  “Hamill? Tim Hamill? You here?” No answer. I yelled again as I made my way up the stairs. As I continued, I pulled my .38 out of its holster and held it at ready in front of me.

  Once on the landing, I bobbed my head around the doorway for a quick peek into Hamill’s apartment. Nothing. No sound. No movement. Still pointing my gun ahead of me, I pushed the door further open with my free hand. Before I entered, I leaned back and looked through the crack where the door was hinged. Didn’t want to give someone the chance to shove the door and take me by surprise. As I entered the room, I fanned my gun in a semi-circle and scanned the surroundings. All clear. That’s when I saw him.

  “Hamill?”

  He was leaned back in a swivel chair, his eyes glazed, staring at nothing. His mouth hung open, and his tongue protruded over his lower lip. Dead. Deader than dead. Still, I felt his neck. No pulse. But he was still warm.

  I holstered my .38 and gave Hamill the once-over. There was a cut on his right cheek. Not much blood. So, it couldn’t have been that little nick that killed him I lifted his head off the back of the chair and examined it from all angles. Nothing there. Then I looked at him straight on. Pay dirt. His neck was red and swollen. Right over the jugular vein bruising was evident. Looked like a pair of fingerprint bruises. He’d been choked to death.