To Find a Killer

by Charlie Vogel

  Harry’s gaze slowly swung up to mine. I dropped into one of the dining room chairs. Lori stood in the kitchen doorway, her eyes shiny and round.

  “It’s Charles, isn’t it?” She whispered.

  Something tightened in my chest then hardened. I stared at Harry. “We are going to find out what is happening here, by God! If this Frank Harper is behind whatever it is, I want his ass.”

  Harry nodded solemnly as he punched computer keys and shut the thing down. He had no sooner stood up than the phone rang. He picked it up and handed it to me on his way to the kitchen.

  “Robert? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Henry. What do you want?”

  “I’ve been trying to get through to you, but your line’s been busy. Something terrible . . . The police want me to identify . . . They think Charles committed suicide, jumped in the Missouri River.”

  “I just heard on TV they found a body in a chauffeur’s uniform. Said he was unidentified—”

  “Weren’t you listening? That’s what they want me to do! It’s . . . incredible! Why would the man kill himself?”

  That finally registered. “Yeah, why would he do that? Hard to believe. Will you be handling arrangements?”

  “Of course, not! I called his family in Wisconsin. Well, I may have a memorial . . . or something. I’ve tried to reach Lori on the car phone. Do you know—”

  “She stopped by here and fell asleep.”

  “If she is truly his niece, she will want to know of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “But, please tell her I do need her to take up Charles’ responsibilities until I can hire a suitable replacement.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Back up, Henry. You knew Lori was here. You know who she is.”

  “I didn’t attain my position and power by accident, Robert. I do not tolerate being played the fool. I knew from the beginning. I just wanted to see how long you all wanted to play the identity game and why.”

  “Would it surprise you to know we did it for Chucky, ah, Charles?”

  “Knowing what a sentimental fool you are? Not really.”

  “If we’re into confessions here . . . Before I put her on the phone, what’s with you and the Pink Horn?”

  “Ah, so she’s also spying on my private life . . . which happens to be none of your business. The Pink Horn is a sanctuary of sorts, a place I escape the pressures of all that position and power of mine. Get a drink, smoke a cigar, take a restful nap.”

  “Bullshit, Henry! You forget who Lori is and her connections. It’s a goddamn queer joint and they do nasty things there.”

  “And your point, Robert?” I heard a heavy sigh and knew he was rubbing the bridge of his nose like he always did when trying to be patient with lesser people. “Their establishment has two separate areas, one provides tasteful entertainment, the other is reputedly, oh, wilder, shall we say. But, the bottom line is that my patronage is still my business, my private business. Charles respected that and I expect Lori to do the same or her employment will be very short. Since you have become her dear friend, do you want to explain those financial facts of life, or should I?”

  “It’s your money, Henry. I’ll let you do the honors.”

  Chapter 11

  A seductive smile is a tough thing to ignore, but I was on to Lori. She used her “wares” when she either wanted me to do something or she knew something she didn’t want me to know. She sat across the dining room table with that smile. I sipped my coffee and tried to remember how I used to deal with teenage girls in the classroom who pulled the same stuff. This was more irritating because Lori knew what I had going.

  As if I had not heard her the first time, she repeated herself. “He lied to you. Henry did not know me until he came out of the Pink Horn. Someone in there recognized me and told him.”

  I resisted the urge to call the bastard. He would only get pissed off and take another thousand out off my allowance. Why would he lie about knowing Lori? To divert my attention from his sexual preferences? Hadn’t he made it clear my opinion didn’t matter, one way or the other?

  Harry spooned more sugar into his coffee. “So, are you going to drive for him or not?”

  She shrugged. “Why not? I can pick up some gossip and get paid. What have I got to lose?”

  “Your ass, Lori,” I reminded her. “You do what you want. Just know that old man knows only one word, ‘Yes.’”

  “I think maybe that’s why Charles ended up in the river.”

  We drank our coffee in silence. Since the three of us were together, I decided we needed to discuss our next move.

  “Harry, do you think this Frank Harper had something to do with killing Eileen?”

  “Yeah, he would be my first suspect, Bob.”

  “To cover up the insurance fraud?”

  “Yup, I’d say so . . . but he wasn’t in the Stop and Go that day. Big shots usually hire scumbags to do it for them. I bet he also sent someone to that secretary’s apartment. I can tap into some Bison computer logs, find out if anybody was checking up on her . . . and if she changed Eileen’s access code. It may lead back to Harper . . .” He shrugged.

  “So you’re into all that computer shit, huh? I never woulda guessed.” Lori blinked those big eyes at him.

  Harry sat up a little straighter. “I got all kinds of talent you don’t know about.”

  “I ain’t no talent agent, fella!”

  Before they totally changed back to their street talk, I jumped in. “Lori, does Henry go to Bison, like on a regular basis?”

  “I’m just his driver, not his friggin’ secretary.”

  “Okay! But have you taken him there?”

  “Yeah, once. He had a board meeting. Ordered me to get coffee in the employee cafeteria. I didn’t even have to pay.”

  “So you were allowed into the building?”

  She smirked at me then went into that smile again. “I get it! You want me to find this guy Harper . . . well, his office. If I’m caught, should I say I was hired to ‘entertain’ Mr. Harper?”

  Harry choked on his coffee.

  I just rolled my eyes. “Depends on who catches you, I guess, and what you’re doing at the time.”

  Lori leaned on her elbows and thought about that. “This could be . . . fun. Say, I wonder if Henry has an office there, too.”

  “No, he’s just on the board. Why do you ask?”

  “I saw a fancy-assed office in a movie one time. That one had a bedroom, bathroom, bar, the works just like a high priced hotel. Thought Henry might keep clothes there like he does at the Pink Horn.”

  “He keeps clothes at the gay place? Who told you that?”

  “My friend there. It’s not like Henry as a room of his own. He just has this suitcase of clothes. And Bernie said they joke about his passport and a million bucks being locked up in the safe—”

  “For a quick get away,” Harry interrupted. I frowned at him. “Think about it, Bob! Why would he keep clothes in a place like that, unless he wants to go in and disappear out the back.”

  “Better question is ‘Why would he want to?’”

  “Bobby Boy, I think we are getting into deeper shit than Eileen being shot in my convenience store.”

  “Yeah.” I sipped my coffee, feeling overwhelmed and not liking it. Too late now, Norris! “So, either of you want out?”

  “Hell no!” They chorused, then laughed.

  “So, Lori, when you drive Henry to Bison next time—”

  “If I last that long. He told me flat out that he didn’t think I would be suitable for ‘long term employment.’ He’s advertising for a ‘professional like Charles.’”

  “In other words, someone I am not connected with, the bastard!”

  The front door vibrated under a loud knock. Nobody moved.

  “Would you answer it, Harry?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a computer operator now, not a goddamn butler. Anyway, whoever it is, they’d a
sk for you. I haven’t gotten a call or a visitor since I been here. Neither has Lori! Your door. You answer it!”

  I stomped across the living room and yanked it open without checking the peep hole, like the two people at the table had drilled into me. Worm stared at me. I took a step back from his body odor.

  “Fox sent me.”

  “I would ask you in, but I’m out of room deodorant.” The hall would hold his smell, though. For a second I thought of the run to the elevator holding my breath. The image died when I saw his eyes narrow. “So, what does Fox want?”

  “You . . . to meet him at the Tickled Pink in one hour.”

  I checked my watch then glanced over at Harry. He nodded his head once. “Okay, sure. Tell him I’ll be there.”

  Worm pointed a cocked finger at me before turning. I closed the door, my hand fanning the air under my nose. Harry headed to the bathroom while Lori picked up our cups.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked her.

  “Harry and me agreed Fox would’ve killed you a long time ago, if he wanted. A word of advice: Be on time. I’ll carry these in the kitchen . . . but like Harry said about the door, it’s your place, you wash ‘em. I’ve got to get ready to pick up Henry. Don’t wait up. Remember he’s a party animal. Animal. Get it?”

  “Spare me your sick wisecracks . . . and be careful. Something weird is going on. Until we figure it out . . . I don’t know. Don’t put yourself in a corner.”

  “Ah, you care,” she said with exaggerated sarcasm. “I’m the one rubbing elbows with the rich. You’re the one meeting the city’s dirtiest pimp.” She switched her rear at me on her way to the kitchen.

  I sat on the couch just staring at that damn paperback, thinking how Lori had contrasted the rich and the pimp, I wondered which kind was more dangerous, especially in the game we seemed to be playing. My stomach rolled. A game where people ended up dead was not exactly . . . a game.

  The scent of spicy aftershave got my attention. Harry stood beside me, working the buttons of a clean shirt, the one long sleeve neatly pinned up.

  “On your way to work?”

  “Have to go in early. The afternoon clerk isn’t coming in. Some damn poor excuse.”

  “When did you find that out?”

  “Supervisor called while you were in the can.”

  “So you do know how to answer the phone?”

  He went out the door without bothering to answer.

  Lori emerged from her bedroom wearing the tailored uniform.

  “Want a lift? The limo might impress Fox.”

  We trotted down the hall to the elevator. When the doors opened on a higher concentration of Worm’s smell, without a word we both turned to the stairs.

  In the almost deserted garage, I slid into the passenger side of the front seat. The soft leather felt good and smelled better. Lori gunned it as we left the garage ramp, hydroplaning across the sidewalk and dropping onto the street with a rocking bounce. Mostly because of the rain, I buckled myself into the seat belt. When she took the corner too wide, I stared into the rain-glare of oncoming headlights, gulped, and grabbed the dashboard. She swerved. My foot stomped invisible brakes. The swing around another corner headed the limo down a less traveled street.

  “What’s your goddamn hurry? You want to kill us?”

  “I don’t bitch ‘bout the way you drive!”

  “And I bet you don’t drive like this when Henry’s in the car!”

  She squinted through the wiper blades and hit the brakes. A horn sounded behind us. Her finger pointed. “Tickled Pink.”

  “Call me on the car phone later, if you want to find out what Fox says.”

  “Yeah, and you can find out if poor lil’ ol’ me has survived the city streets.”

  “You get funnier every time you open your mouth, Lori.”

  “And you don’t! I can drive and I can take care of myself, hayseed!”

  The limo tires squealed as I slammed the door shut.

  Inside, I headed toward the empty table under the cowboy painting. Pam waved as I passed. She bent over the nearby table, her skimpy shorts showing more than they covered. At the table, I pulled out a chair and faced the entrance, like Harry had taught me. I pictured myself in a western hat, brim pulled down, my hand on the gun at my hip, my spurs and boots propped on the table. Too much, Norris. Gotta be ready to move. Not a game. Not a game. Not a . . . .

  A short, fat man walked in. He slid onto a barstool like a regular customer. Pam called out to a couple coming through the door. I looked at my watch. Fox was late.

  “You’re still drinking from the tap, right?” Pam asked as she set a glass of the cheap beer in front of me. She smiled as if she knew moving my gaze from her skimpy halter top to her face strained my optic nerves. “Where’s everyone else?”

  “Ah, working. I’m here, ah, waiting for someone.”

  “Need a pitcher then?”

  “No.” I resisted the urge to burp at the thought of it. “Oh, I see Worm coming in now.”

  “You ain’t going to drink with that sonofabitch are you?”

  “Not if I can help it. I’m waiting on Fox.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be right back with his drink.”

  Worm stepped back out the door. A moment later, a broad-shouldered man with a full head of thick curls entered and walked directly toward me. The dim bar lighting shadowed the long scar reaching from just below his left eye, across his nose and down the right cheek to his chin. Considering his size, I tried to imagine what he did to his attacker in return for that scar. Then I remembered the one time I had seen him at parent-teacher conferences. What I had imagined then was tame to what I imagined now.

  Fox sat across from me, angled so he too could look up at the door.

  “Want a beer?”

  “No thanks.” His raspy voice didn’t sound so intimidating outside the close quarters of his Lincoln and, of course, he wasn’t holding a shotgun. “Can’t drink the stuff. Eats my stomach. The broad at the bar is getting my usual.”

  Silence fell as Pam placed a tall glass of milk in front of him.

  I waited until she moved off. “For your ulcers?”

  “Ain’t got ulcers. I just like my scotch mixed with this stuff. Norris,” he leaned forward, his voice dropping, “I found a guy who can talk to you about your wife.”

  I sat up straighter, my chest tight. “Okay. Appreciate it. Can you take me to him?”

  “No, you have to go on your own. Don’t want him knowing that I put you on him . . . unless you need to pressure him.”

  “You could have called me and told me that. My phone works fine.”

  “Relax, Norris. You look uncomfortable here. I just wanted to get to know you a little better.”

  I took a long drink of the beer. “Excuse me, but you wanted to kill me. Remember?”

  “History. Misunderstanding. Thought we got that straight. Found out I owed you and now I’m making good my debt.”

  Finishing the beer, I leaned my elbows on the table and lowered my own voice. “So tell me about this guy.”

  “His name is Trout. He picks up petty cash at gas stations and corner stores, if you get me. I think you met him . . . when he pointed his shotgun at your one-armed friend.”

  “You think he’ll tell me who the other gunman was?”

  Fox shrugged. “Depends on how tough you come off.”

  “How do I find this Trout?”

  “He’s got a routine. Gets off work at eleven and stops at the Alibi Bar.”

  “He works?” My voice rose a notch. “You mean he has a goddamn job? I thought he held up places.”

  Fox’s big hand squeezed my arm to quiet me. “That’s his job, Norris. He’s a stick-up man who puts in regular hours. Sometimes he’s just watching and planning a hit. Then he does his thing. But he puts in regular hours. His wife thinks he’s got an honest profession, doing some kind of messenger service.”

  In silence, Pam sat dow
n another milk-‘n-Scotch and beer then took our empty glasses. We waited until she reached the bar.

  “So where’s the Alibi?” I asked.

  “Down by the river, on the corner of Third and Poppleton. I’m feeling like a burger and fries. How about you?”

  Over the next couple of hours, I learned about Fox’s territory, his interests beyond pimping, and his sincere pride in his son. I also learned he ignored the hamburger fat dripping from his chin and his disgusting treatment of cigars. He liked to deep-throat the brown cylinder, then twist it around in his mouth. Pulling it out, he bit off the end and carelessly spit that on the floor. He then moved the flame of a silver-plated lighter back and forth along the length of the cigar. Once he finally lit the smelly weed, he puffed like a steam engine until a cloud surrounded his head and me.

  Between the raunchy beer, the greasy burgers, and his cigar, I imagined myself pouring gasoline over him. Then he stirred my sympathy with talk of his family, how he visited his totally straight wife at least once a week and how he phoned his son every Sunday evening, without fail. In the next breath he launched into the details of his business rounds. He checked his girls every half hour. If they weren’t at their assigned spot, he assumed they were making money. On the next round, he collected their earnings. As if instructing me in how to handle whores, he emphasized the easy record keeping of who was up and who was down. The third time he repeated his stories I realized he was drunk, but didn’t care because I had become his friend. I wondered what Henry would think of me being a close friend to the city’s leading pimp. I burped the cheap beer then laughed. Fox pounded me on the back and laughed, too.

  When Worm appeared at the table, I appreciated the smoke for the first time all evening. Fox threw some money on the table, shook my hand, and left with his street man to begin his rounds.

  My watch showed 11:05. I waved down an empty cab and a few minutes later walked into the Alibi. Billiard balls clacked, chairs creaked, and low voices mumbled. Against the back wall, a lamp hung over a long foozball table. The two men playing there looked serious. The place even had two dart boards. The group playing there weren’t laughing either. Still, the variety of entertainment beat the loud music and two video games at the Tickled Pink. I thought Lori and Harry might like this for a change of pace.