“Detective Flashlight?”
I snickered, which came out more like a snort, really. “Did I say that? Sorry. Fleischman. Fleisch-muhhhn.” The word was becoming fun to say. Some painkiller chemicals were kicking into the bloodstream now.
Holland did as I asked. While he waited, I saw that there was a gin bottle and a sculpted piece of marble on the floor near Kira’s feet.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Hunh?” Holland asked, a little too forcefully.
“On the ground. What is that?”
“Oh. My sculpture. The piece I forgot before. I was bringing it down to show you. I used it to—” He couldn’t finish.
“Let me see it. I can’t get up just now.”
Holland gave me a peculiar look. Still holding the phone, he stepped past the weeping Ichiro and retrieved his sculpture. He handed it to me with utmost care, as though it were fragile and could perform no violence. But it had the weight of a shotput. A little smeared blood stood out on top of it.
“Is this…?”
“Yeah, it is,” Holland said. He raised his eyebrows and smiled, and then he looked at the floor. “Yes, thank you,” he said into the phone. “May I speak to Detective Fleischman please? This is urgent.”
“Nifty,” I said over Holland’s request. I peered closely at the detailed curvature of the sculpture: a man penetrating a woman from behind.
I told Holland to hide his sculpture and say he had used the unopened gin bottle to clock Kira instead. No sense in him going in on an obscenity charge as well. While he did that, I walked back in the bedroom, put my shoes back on, and turned on the fan in my bedroom window. If I was able to come back tonight, I’d want my room plenty cool.
Detective Fleischman arrived twenty minutes after the phone call with a uniformed cop and a plainclothes detective. They were from District 9, my territory. I recognized the plainclothes from a previous case. He didn’t exactly look delighted to see me. The uniform untied Ichiro, put him in cuffs, and sat him on the loveseat while sirens drew near the building. The ambulance attendants came in next. They loaded Kira on a stretcher. She was still unconscious but stable, as far as I could tell. Stable in that her brain kept her lungs functioning. The plainclothes, whose name just washed over me, instructed the cop I didn’t know to go along for the ride to Barnes Hospital. The Super arrived on the heels of the ambulance guys. His shocked and pained look told me I might need to find another place to live.
Fleischman scrutinized my face. “Do you want to see a doctor?”
“No, sir. But I wouldn’t mind if you’d crack open that gin.”
He nixed that idea immediately. “Evidence,” he grunted.
“Wait, but I’ve got more in the kitchen.”
He was curt. “Let’s not fuck around,” he said. “If you’re steady enough to walk, we’ll escort you to the station to process this whole mess. He can ride with us as well.” He indicated Holland. Ichiro was taken away by the uniform.
The Super was the only one left. He had only been able to identify himself, and after the cops established he wasn’t a witness, he was kept out of the way. As we walked out of my apartment, I asked him if he wouldn’t mind locking up. He gave me a sour look.
On the way to the station Fleischman confirmed that Broad Jimmy had posted Kira and her brother’s bail through a third party. Despite his heartbreak, he came through for her. Jesus. He’ll probably have to put a second mortgage on the bar—if he can. And for what, really? He still loved Kira, but couldn’t he know she never loved him? Well, I’m no one to say. Maybe she grew to love him. I flashed to his messy separate bedroom and thought differently.
Speaking of kind hearts, Bertie had pulled some strings for me. I don’t know what he said, or if he called in a favor, but Fleischman still didn’t bring an accusation against me for hauling The Beef to the freezer or the river—or anywhere for that matter. Holland was pretty frazzled still. He repeated what he saw and did several times. He was released from questioning before I was, but when I came out of the interrogation room, I saw he was still waiting around.
“I’ll pop for a cab and a drink,” I said. He gladly accepted.
On the ride back to our apartment building he grew more talkative, like someone coming out of shock and seeing life clearly for the first time. I felt guilty that he had to be involved, but took consolation in the possibility that his artistry might benefit. Holland, the struggling artist, who ended the struggle. Go figure. Maybe he’d sculpt wrestling figures after this. I owed him big for saving my life.
We decided to sit in his apartment for our drink. I insisted on bringing over a bottle. By tacit mutual consent, he waited at his place while I went down the hall. I didn’t think he’d want to revisit the crime scene so soon. The Super had locked up. Great guy. There was a note on the door not to disturb the room. The note did everything but scream, Crime Scene! You’re evicted, asshole! I went in, despite the sign, and aside from the crimson patch on the carpet, everything looked as staid as it usually does. I retrieved the gin bottle, three-quarters full. We’d make a dead soldier of it before the night was through.
I stayed up till about 3:00 a.m. with Holland. He wanted to keep talking, replaying the evening’s events until they took on the gloss of a polished keepsake. He would tell this story for the rest of his life. I listened as well as I could, occasionally filling him in on what parts of the case I thought he’d want to hear. He grew chattier with the booze, while I found myself sinking down in my seat. Not easy to do in a rattan chair. Eventually, he was out of gas. It happened suddenly with a big yawn. I told him he’d better sleep. Tomorrow might bring a fresh round of questioning, especially when—or if—Kira regained consciousness.
Going back into my apartment, I stepped over the bloodstain like it was a puppy turd I was too tired to deal with. When this was all over, I’d have to spend a long time contemplating whether I wanted that emblem in blood to figure in my death, too. I think I already knew the answer.
I stripped off my clothes down to a tanktop T-shirt and boxers. The bedroom felt pretty cool, a little moist, but cool. I turned off the window fan and lay under a sheet. Looking up at the ceiling, I waited for unconsciousness to take over. The good kind. The kind brought on by booze, not a choking grip.
I woke up to the phone ringing. It might have been ringing for a while by the time I realized what insistent sound was disturbing my sleep. I picked it up and scratched at my balls.
“Ed? It’s Bertie.”
I felt relieved and tense at once. “Bertie, what’s new?”
“So, I've just heard quite a story. With your name attached to it.”
"I win the sweepstakes?" I swallowed dryly. My heart flopped and fluttered.
“Not quite. Attempted murder after forced entry. Happened on my turf, so I got the report.”
“I'd be the vic. Attempted, that is. I've already been grilled to a nice golden brown by your friends, by the way.” That sounded snide and peremptory. Before I could correct myself, Bertie resumed.
“Well this bright penny detective has got some answering to do. Not only that, he’s looking at a subpoena for two, maybe three trials. Coming soon to Market Street.”
I restrained myself from cursing. Bertie is so smooth he can guide the conversation from easy banter to gravity, all in the same effortless tone. It works on suspects. Now, he was working it on me.
“All right, Bertie. Who wants to meet me and when?”
“Well, I know I interrupted your beauty rest. It’s 10:15 now—you know, some people keep regular hours—how about noon? Start with Dave Fleischman at the Five and you can work your way around the illustrious districts of St. Louis’s Finest.”
“I've already had the honor. Last evening. And I have to thank—“
“Well, there’s more to come, so look sharp and don't be late.”
“All right. I'll, uh, I’ll be ready.” In the pause that followed, I could almost hear the disgusted look forming on his fa
ce. I got a sour feeling.
“Ed, that’s not all,” he began. “Bad news, depending on how you want to look at it.”
“Let me guess. Kira?”
“She died this morning. Cardiac arrest.”
I looked at my pale, flat feet. “Holland won’t take this well.”
“No, maybe not. He was saving you, though, don’t forget.”
“I know.” And I saved you, let us remember. “But think of it. He’s an artist, not in the life. Such as we call ours.”
“True.”
For a few seconds we didn’t speak. I pulled out a cigarette.“So now what?”“Well, Simon and Broad Jimmy are already in custody. Some of my men are interrogating this Ichiro. They’ll break him. Not that there’s much left to break.”
“What’s gonna happen to Jimmy?” I more or less knew the answer.
“He’s a cop-killer, Ed. Even with your testimony—which, I’m afraid, doesn’t add much as far as the judge is concerned—he’s gonna go up the ladder fast. If he feels lucky to be alive, he'll sit in a cell in Gumbo till he rots. Whether he feels that way or not, the State of Missouri might decide to make him a deterrent and give him the gas in Jeff City.”
“Dammit.” I drew on the cigarette. It tasted like a mildewed rag. “Not even his service will be a mitigating factor?”
“I don’t care to speculate, Ed. Now, you will be a help against Ichiro and Simon. Problem is, Simon alleges you broke into his house and beat him senseless. If that’s true that doesn’t help your case out much.” He waited on the line, as though his last statement were a question.
“You know how I operate sometimes, Bertie.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I do. And I’m not—I can’t protect you on that one.”
“I know.” And I wouldn’t ask. I don't think I’ll be able to ask again. “What about The Beef?”
“Let’s just stick with the known facts. Broad Jimmy hired you to investigate his killing. That’s all I’ve told anyone about.” I could imagine something distasteful had crawled up his throat. “Simon was his murderer. You helped uncover that. Maybe the end will justify your means.”
“Simon out of the hospital yet?”
“Yeah. He’s in a holding cell in District Four. They’ll transfer him to our jurisdiction later today.”
“Why don’t I feel good about any of this?” It was a rhetorical question.
“Something I’d like to know is what Officer Downing was doing at Broad Jimmy’s. What he was really doing there.”
I considered what to say. “The Beef pissed him off. He was contemplating a little off-the-clock time with him. Not murder—and I’m confident of that. He got tangled up at the wrong time.”
“Downing was a good beat cop. Young. No violations of protocol. He’s got a wife. Everything was in front of him for the asking.”
“Believe me, if there’s anything I could have done at that moment—”
“I know that, Ed. Look,” he paused again as though prolonging this conversation could only hurt him. “I'm gonna pass you the name and number of that attorney. He’s done a helluva job for some of our guys.”
“You included?”
Bertie waited. “No. I’ve never needed him.”
That's fair.
“I'm gonna ring off. They're gonna let me walk around outside today. They say it's cooled off. I might even be released in a couple of days. Stay at home or the office. Don’t stray from the known numbers, all right?”
“Sure.” I didn’t bring up the resumption of our card games, or promise to visit again.
“See you later, Ed.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. He hung up before I had a chance. I ran my fingers through my thinning hair. Sorry, Bertie. Don’t cut me out.
I showered and got dressed. I made coffee, again doubling the usual heaping quantity of grounds. I popped some aspirin, too. The combination of strangulation and gin made for a neato headache. My tongue felt like it had spoken its fill, giving voice to the rotten thoughts swirling in my mind.
I pulled into my office in the industrial court around 11:30. The sky was washed of storm clouds and pollution, leaving a beautiful blue with high fans of cirrus. It was cool out, too, just like Bertie had said—maybe in the seventies. I unlocked my office and sat behind the desk. My old chair swayed back on its creaky springs. I put my feet up and lit a smoke. From this vantage point the Bradford Pears outside screened the blue sky, but I could see the street and the preschool. I wondered where Rachel Hanady was and if she’d be back at school anytime soon. What the Feds had discovered, if anything, about the adoption operation in Columbia. How Jerri was doing. I watched the school entrance until my eyes blurred, then rubbed them hard and they cleared.
But no amount of rubbing will clear away the grey in which I live and operate. It covers me. Envelopes me. Keeps me alive—so far, at least. But it can also blind me to the stark black and white, the unadulterated good and evil where they do exist, independent of and resolutely opposing each other. But regardless of my failures of discernment, maybe Kira was right about one thing. I do like justice too much.
About the Author
John Joseph Ryan’s short stories have appeared online in Akashic Books’ “Mondays are Murder” series, Shotgun Honey, Out of the Gutter, Suspense Magazine, and MARGIN, Exploring Modern Magical Realism. A verse noir poem appears in Gutter Books’ recent anthology Noir Riot. His poetry has appeared in various print magazines, including River Styx and Black Buzzard Review.
John’s collaborative story, Hothouse by the River, which introduced private detective Ed Darvis, was produced in a limited letter press edition at the University of Iowa School for the Book. He lives in St. Louis with his wife and two children.
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