A Bullet Apiece

by John Joseph Ryan

  Fleischman released me, but again reminded me not to leave town. I would be subpoenaed to appear at Broad Jimmy’s trial. As I stood up to go, Fleischman gripped my arm, not hard, but tight enough to be meaningful nonetheless. I looked at him as he brought his face close to mind. The friendly dark sparkle in his eyes had cooled.

  “You’re lucky you have a friend in Bertie Albanese. Don’t forget that.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I said, and nodded at Fleischman. Some unspoken acknowledgment passed between us. Fleischman was warning me. He knew I was involved in The Beef’s disappearance. Or he suspected I wasn’t telling him everything, and I thought again of the lion giving one last warning to the lion tamer through the pressure of its jaws: I’m not taking your head off this time. But next time…. I didn’t offer Fleischman my hand as I left. Such gestures of civility are empty at a moment like that.

  As I drove back home, a few spare raindrops hammered my windshield before turning into a torrent, vengeful ghouls against the glass, every one a person I’ve let down or let die. I pictured Hamill sitting in his chair, dead, his throat bulging and bruised, until his half-lidded eyes suddenly spring wide, leaking blood, and he lunges for me to unite in death. I struck my fists against the wheel and then one against my head to shake the macabre image. I still didn’t know who killed him. I was inclined to believe Officer Downing didn’t do it. His motive for wanting to kill The Beef was pretty weak to begin with. He had the opportunity in the alley. He had the means with his nightstick. But motive? Talking trash about someone’s wife is never an invitation to a night of dancing and fine wine, but I didn’t think Downing was going back to Broad Jimmy’s to kill The Beef. To teach him a lesson, yes, but more than anything he ran afoul of Kira’s plan right at the time it was actually being executed. The secret to comedy might be in the timing, but in my business, it’s no secret that timing more often leads to tragedy.

  A tremendous crash of thunder and a fresh doubling of the downpour distracted me from any more philosophizing. I cursed my flimsy wipers and their deteriorating rubber. Looks like I’d have to delay replacing them after this case. I had to get off the highway at Jefferson and take surface streets back home. Some of them were washed out. Stalled cars blocked one or two low-lying spots. By the time I got home, nearly an hour after I had left the downtown station, my nerves were shot and my right arm was killing me. I was in a killing mood myself. Soon enough I’d have a bottle of gin in my sights.

  I parked in the garage, grateful I didn’t have to play the parking game out on the flooded streets. I climbed the back stairs to my hallway, glad to be out of the rain. The overhead light at the top of the stairs had been replaced, but now, the one at my end of the hall was out. Figures, I thought. Didn’t really matter, though. I’d always said I could find my way blindfolded to my apartment. Hell, I’ve certainly done it blind drunk before. Tonight, though, I was glad for the bit of grey light pouring in through the lone window that overlooked the street. Just as I got to my door, a flash of lightning spotlighted the dingy, white walls and the thinning green carpet. As I found the lock and drove the key in, another flash of lightning brought my attention to the carpet in front of my door. A fresh set of wet footprints greeted me. I backed up and felt for the wall behind me. Another lightning flash revealed that there were two sets of footprints leading from the stairway to my door. Knowing I only had two feet, I realized that someone had come to visit and might not have left.

  I automatically reached for my .38, which, of course, I had left at home when I went for my little interrogation with Detective Fleischman. In one quick motion, I faced the door, turned the key in the lock, and kicked the door open. I immediately swirled around away from the door, and plastered myself against the hallway wall and waited, more tense than ever. I could hear the box fans whirring in my apartment, no doubt sucking in rainwater, but nothing else. I ducked my head around into the doorway real quick, then retreated again in a flash, processing the glimpse of my living room and part of the kitchen. Nothing. The door swung back a little with its own momentum. It was too dark to see through the crack of the door hinge, so I crouched down and duck-walked forward, easing the door open as I did. If anyone was behind the door he was awfully patient. I sprang up, ready to attack as I swung the door toward me. No one was there. I immediately turned around and scanned the apartment. No sign of anyone. With my right fist reared back, I slammed the door with my other hand and tensed even more. No one there. I tiptoed over to the end table next to my armchair and pulled out my .38, checked the chamber mechanically, and then walked through the house, flipping on the lights in every room. I was just about to open the kitchen cabinet doors, and maybe even knock over the oven, when there was a knock on my front door.

  I tensed again, and searing pain shot down my arm. I shook it off. I don’t get many visitors, but I’ve also never had a polite intruder. Even so, and with thoughts of Downing’s surprise visit yesterday still fresh, I approached the door with my gun leveled at its center.

  “Who is it?” I asked. I croaked like a sick frog.

  “Ed? That you?”

  At first I couldn’t place the voice. “Yeah, it’s me. Who is it?” I kept the gun pointed forward.

  “It’s your neighbor, Holland.”

  My artist-neighbor. I let out a loud breath and felt my body relax, pouring its tension into my gun hand. I hadn’t realized it until I lowered my right arm that it was beginning to shake. A spasm shot down the length of my arm to my fingertips. I pocketed my gun, wiped my face with my handkerchief, and blew out another hard breath of air.

  “Hold on a minute.” I shook out my arms and opened the door.

  Holland stood there looking damp and unhappy. His longish hair was wet and slicked back, a few drops falling off his nonetheless handsome face onto his dark suit, open collar, some kind of silver medallion around his neck.

  “What’s up?” I asked. I had to look up a little to meet his eyes. He was a pretty big guy.

  “Hell, man, I got locked out. I have an opening tonight and I was loading some pieces in my friend’s car.”

  “Why’re you all wet?”

  “We were leaving the block when I remembered a sculpture I’d left behind. I told him just to wait, and I made a dash for it in the rain. Didn’t think I’d get this wet.” He grinned at his appearance. I wasn’t ready to grin at mine.

  “The Super around?” I asked.

  “I just checked. His office is locked up. Shit. Of all nights.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Holland. What can I do?”

  Holland looked at his watch.“Damn. At this point, nothing. If I don’t leave now, I’ll be late. So, I’m gonna just have to forget about that piece. It’s a shame, too. An erotic little number.”

  I smiled at that. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too. Can I offer you a towel or something? How ’bout a drink?”

  “I’ll take the towel. My buddy’s waitin’ in the car.”

  “All right. Hang on a minute.”

  As I walked away, Holland said, “Hey, maybe I’ll take that drink later on. You gonna be up around ten?”

  “That’s up to the gin,” I said.

  Holland laughed. “All right. Tell you what, you let me borrow a towel, and I’ll be back later tonight with a fresh bottle—and your towel.”

  “You got a deal,” I said before going into the bathroom. At once, the idea of a normal neighborly visit gave me a surge of joy and relief. I could have the ordinary night I didn't even deserve. Maybe the ghosts would haunt somebody else.

  I gave him the towel and he thanked me. I closed the door and locked it, still feeling overly cautious, but a helluva lot more relaxed than a few minutes before. I stashed the .38 back in the side table drawer and went to the bathroom to take a leak and wash my face. As I walked back into the bedroom to turn off the box fan, I kicked off my shoes. The window sill in front of the fan was wet, but that looked like the extent of it. No water on the floor or, worse, the bed.

  Ne
xt, I headed straight to the kitchen. On the double for a double. I grabbed a cigarette, even whistled a little tune as I poured myself a glass of gin. By the time I got a cigarette lit and had a slug of gin in me, I crashed into my easy chair. I wasn’t ready to call life good, but this moment would do.

  I pulled on the cigarette, enjoying my respite, and certainly enjoying the waning of the storm. With the lightning, now more distant and intermittent, and the thunder just a sated growl far in the distance, I relaxed and mused. Hamill, Hamill, Hamill. Who killed you? My brain matched my body’s fatigue. I needed to eat. I decided to fry up a hamburger and boil some potatoes. I’d ease up on the gin, too. Brew coffee instead. What the hell, I’d stay awake for Holland later.

  It was around eight o’clock after I’d eaten. I didn’t have the concentration for reading, so I clicked on the TV and let a situation comedy dull my wits further. At nine, I turned off the TV and put on a jazz record to keep me conscious. I splashed a little bourbon in my coffee to liven things up a little, too. I sat. I paced. I scribbled on a crossword puzzle from the morning paper.

  At ten, there were three rapid knocks on the door. Damn, for an artist Holland possesses no sense of fashionable lateness. I unlocked the door, and as I did I could swear I caught a whiff of perfume. Too late to process unfortunately. The second I unlatched the lock, the door was forced open, and there stood Kira Harto with her brother, Ichiro. A beauty like that, wet with rain. Be still my beating heart. My confusion at her presence gave Ichiro the witty idea to force the door further open. I was off balance and stumbled back a step. Ichiro, a wary look in his eyes, stayed in the doorway while Kira stepped inside. She had a gun in her gloved hand. How neat.

  Chapter 19

  Back Beneath the Black Boughs

  “Mr. Darvis, it really is a pleasure to see you. For perhaps the first time in my life,” Kira said. Her gaze was even with mine, deadly. Her gun hand was steady and she pointed the automatic right up at my chest.

  “It’s always been a pleasure for me, Kira. Up until now.”

  “Sit down, Mr. Darvis.” She indicated my easy chair. I moved towards it, sitting slowly. I flicked my eyes from her to Ichiro. Any trace of meekness had left his eyes. He remained rooted in the doorway.

  “Well, if you’ve come here to make good on my contract, the gun isn’t necessary. I’ll take a check.”

  “You’re funny, detective. I guess you realize I’m not here to pay you.” She turned her head slightly to Ichiro and hissed something in Japanese. Ichiro stepped forward, leaving the door open. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of rope.

  “So, you’re here to tie me up? In my own apartment? Go ahead. There’s a couple bottles in the kitchen. I guess you’ll need whatever liquor you can get for the tavern, now that Jimmy’s put away.”

  “It’s not liquor I’m after, and you know it.” She spoke to Ichiro again. He drew out the rope and wrapped each end around his hands into a short tight rope, then snapped it taut for good measure. My heartbeat doubled and pumped ice water through my body.

  “So, I’m the loose end, hunh, Kira?”

  “That’s right. I can’t have your testimony contradict mine, Mr. Darvis.” She gave some kind of command in Japanese to Ichiro. He began advancing towards me.

  “Hold on a minute, Kira.” I held my hand out toward both of them. “Stop right there, brother.” She held her right arm up and Ichiro stopped coming toward me. He kept the rope taut between his hands. “You can at least explain a couple of things to me.”

  “Why bother? In a few minutes, you’ll be dead. And you won’t care.” She let loose one wicked laugh through barely-opened lips. I grew colder.

  “Yeah? And how? You’re going to risk shooting me? How’re you going to get away?”

  “I’m not going to shoot you, Mr. Darvis. Unless I have to. Then I will. Ichiro,” she began and continued in Japanese.

  “Hold on! At least give me the dignity of hearing the last words of my life in English.”

  She grinned like the assassin she was. “Okay. Ichiro. Strangle Mr. Darvis.”

  Ichiro came forward again. He was three feet away from me when I looked directly in his eyes.

  “You don’t have it in you,” I snorted. “You’re a punk. A mama’s boy. Just like you didn’t have the balls to kill The Beef. Go back to California. You’re a baby, not a killer.” That last statement was a desperate final attempt. My words caused an imperceptible wrinkle in his expression. Maybe it was doubt. Maybe it was more rage.

  “Oh, he has it in him. He’s finally proven his worth,” Kira said calmly.

  And then it hit me. I pictured Hamill’s bruised throat. Ichiro. So, he wasn’t a knife guy. He was a strangler. And here I was seated in my own apartment, just like Hamill.

  “This isn’t going to help you get away, Kira.”

  “Oh, I think it will.”

  “How the hell did you get out?”

  “Jimmy posted our bail.”

  “And where’s he?”

  She grinned again. “Still in jail. He could only spring the two of us apparently.”

  “Kira. It doesn’t have to be like this. I know that Simon killed The Beef. You’re hot to pin it on Downing. Downing’s dead. The only other accomplice left alive is Simon. Why not let him hang and leave me out of it.”

  She eyed me cooly. “Because you like justice too much.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “No. I like revenge.” She turned her attention to Ichiro again. “Kill him, Ichiro. Do it!”

  “I’m gonna fight him,” I exclaimed.

  “I’ll shoot you,” Kira countered.

  “I’ll take a bullet over a rope from this punk.”

  “Last words are over, Mr. Darvis. Kill him, Ichiro!”

  Would I really prefer a bullet? My split-second of indecision gave Ichiro the chance to rush me and wrap the rope quickly around my neck. I got one hand in the way just as I brought my feet up. Two of my fingers hooked in the rope as I felt its pressure against my Adam’s apple. Seated, I couldn’t get enough force to maneuver Ichiro away. I kicked fiercely at his groin. He yelped, but kept tightening the rope, his wet hair dripping on my shirtfront. My own fingers caught in the rope were worthless. I would end up being party to my own strangulation. My vision was getting blurry. Kira had not moved from her position near the doorway, but she kept the gun on me. If I could kick Ichiro towards her I might have a chance. I tried two or three times. If only I hadn’t taken my loafers off. He took the kicks, which, for me, did no good. Goddamn he was strong. I was starting to see crimson and white stars in the blur of figures. This was not how I anticipated dying. I gave one last kick with my remaining strength. Just before blacking out, I saw another figure appear in the doorway. I heard a woman’s scream, then my consciousness was cancelled.

  I came to with someone slapping me in the face. I reached a weak hand up to grab my assailant.

  “Ed? Ed!” I heard my name through the fog between conscious reality and unconsciousness. “Ed!”

  I squinted and focused on the face in front of me. The slaps stopped at the same time. Holland, my neighbor. “You all right?” he called, needlessly loud, I thought dumbly.

  “Yeah. I’m not ’onna do any jumpin’ jacks for you.” Holland’s face was pure white. He appeared to be shaking, too. When I looked down I realized why. He was kneeling on Ichiro’s prostrate form. Ichiro was wiggling underneath him, but he was no match for my tall neighbor. The term artistic temperament came into my fuzzy mind. I wanted to laugh, but my face felt like it was detached and hovering away from me.

  “Gun,” I managed.

  “What?”

  “Gun. I havva gun. Drawer there.” I turned my eyes slowly to the left. Holland opened it and produced the .38. The way he held it between two fingers belied the shocked look on his face. “Here. Give it t’ me.”

  Holland complied. I reached out my numb right hand and grasped the .38. I cocked it and gave what I hope was
a reassuring look to Holland, then pointed the gun at Ichiro.

  “Hollan’, go ’head and get offa him.” My throat strained on the words. My face felt a little less disembodied now, and began to throb, right along with my head. Holland got up slowly, grabbing Ichiro’s rope as he stood. Ichiro, back to his old ways again, began to sob. I looked past him and saw Kira sprawled on her left side. Her eyes were closed and her gun hand was pressed underneath her. Just above her head, blood oozed out onto the carpet.

  “Tie him up. Hands behind his back.” My words were coming more easily, but now the constriction of my throat joined the head pain. My face was back now, too, no longer seeming to float in front of me. But it felt as if it were sealed on with a hot glue gun as the pain intensified. Most likely from the blood flow again going to my head. Holland bound Ichiro’s hands. Ichiro was blubbering now, his face pressed into the carpet. He made no attempt to resist, nor did he even move.

  “What’d you do to her?” I indicated Kira.

  Holland looked at me like I had just caught him in something bad. I guess I had. He looked over at her, as if for the first time.

  “I hit her from behind. I … I came down the hall and saw her back to the door and, and, you were in the chair, and he was choking you. I just hit her. Right on the head. Oh my God, do you think I killed her? Oh, no!” He stepped over Ichiro and felt Kira’s neck. For a moment his moist eyes were riveted to mine. At last he spoke.

  “I think there’s a pulse. I’m … I’m not sure. Wait. Yes. Yes, she’s breathing. Ed, what the hell is going on?”

  “It’s a long story, Holland.” I couldn’t think of standing up. “Call the operator. Ask for District 5. Ask for Detective Flashlight.”