To Find a Killer

by Charlie Vogel

  Sliding onto a barstool, I tried to be casual as I looked over the men in the place. My neck muscles tightened. Could I pick out the man who held the shotgun? Or would I have to ask? And would that make someone suspicious? Time isn’t giving you choices, Norris!

  “What’ll you have?” The round-faced bartender wore a faded yellow apron over a dirty t-shirt.

  “Whatever you’ve got on tap.” As he filled a glass, I jumped in. “Is there a guy here named Trout?”

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “What ya want to know for?”

  “I need a job. Heard he sometimes hires a helper.”

  His gaze swept over my clothes. “He’s at the end of the bar, wearing the Chicago Cub ball cap.”

  I took my beer down the bar and slid onto the stool beside Trout. The bartender watched as he washed glasses at the other end of the bar. I caught the hint of a nod he gave Trout. The man blew smoke in my face and stared at me. In the low lighting I couldn’t tell if his eyes looked cold, but they felt cold.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  “I don’t give a damn where you sit.” I recognized the voice. “It’s a free country, dip-shit.”

  “Bartender said you’re Trout.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I lost a wallet a few weeks ago. I heard on the streets you may have it.”

  “Really?” He blew more smoke. “So who the hell are you?”

  “Some people call me Picasso . . .” He put out his cigarette. “. . . but you can call me Mr. Norris.”

  “What makes you think I got your wallet?”

  “Oh, you were short of cash at a Stop-and-Go. You sort of borrowed from me.”

  His big hand shot out, catching and twisting the front of my T-shirt. I heard a rip as he lifted then slammed me against the bar. My ears rang. The next instant a hand pressed my face into the counter surface, crunching my nose. Something hard pressed into my temple. I didn’t think it was a finger.

  A nasty whisper sounded next to my ear, “Tell me why you’re here or I’ll blow your goddamn brains out your left ear!”

  Wishing I had used the restroom before talking to him, I tried to call up all those lessons from Harry and Lori. What the hell would Picasso say? “The bartender would get real pissed. Think of the mess he’d have to clean up.”

  Laughter sounded around me. Witnesses! No, asshole they’re laughing at you!

  “His balls are bigger than his brain, Trout.”

  The pressure at my temple disappeared. The hand released me. I carefully sat up. Trout still held his gun on me, but the bartender and on-lookers drifted away, obviously aware this was a private matter.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Fox.”

  His bottom lip twitched. Without looking away from my face, he slid his gun back in its shoulder holster under his denim vest. He shrugged then relaxed against the bar, twirling his beer bottle between his hands. “Why would Fox do that?”

  “He said you could help me.”

  Trout sucked on the green-tinted glass. He drinks expensive foreign made shit, while I drink piss beer?

  “And how does the Big Man want me to help you?”

  “Do you remember the Stop-and-Go?”

  “Yeah, like it was yesterday.”

  “Tell me the name of the man who killed my wife. I’ll walk out of here and you’ll never see or hear from me again.”

  “When was that? The Stop-and-Go I remember was yesterday.”

  My back stiffened. I was not going to be manipulated by some penny ante bastard. That was one lesson Fox had taught me!

  My voice came out low and hard. “You and another man walked into a Stop-and-Go at 120th and Dodge. You pushed me to the floor and took my wallet . . . while the other man shot my wife. Now do you remember, you sonofabitch?”

  He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked side to side to see if anyone was nearby.

  “I don’t care about the money,” I continued. “I want the man who murdered Eileen.”

  “You’re that school teacher. You ain’t Picasso.”

  “Right and wrong. I’m the school teacher who became Picasso. Don’t screw with me. You have no idea the influence I have over the streets, even over Fox.”

  He swallowed hard, wet his lips, barely nodded, and began to talk. “I-I don’t know the guy well. Only seen him once since the holdup. Before that I was with him every day for two weeks, even then he was a closed-mouth bastard. We followed the woman, ah, your wife, I guess . . . we followed her for two weeks. Drove my old Chevy van down town. Never went into her fancy neighborhood. Too easy to spot, he said.”

  I motioned for him to hurry up.

  “That day the guy was real nervous. We watched her get in your fancy car outside the insurance place. When you walked into that Stop-and-Go, he decided at the last minute to pull a hold-up. Sudden-like, he iced your wife. I-I had no idea he was going to do that. Honest, Mister Picasso.”

  My jaw clamped. “His name and where I can find him.”

  “Wait a minute, here. I’m a professional. He paid me a grand to just drive around and I got to keep the holdup money. My time’s worth—”

  “How much?”

  His confidence returned. “Six big ones.”

  “Let’s get this business transaction clear. Are you saying you want six thousand dollars to give me a name and tell me where I can find him?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. That’s what I have to have, in cash. I got a reputation to protect. You should know that.”

  “I’ll have it tomorrow night.”

  Chapter 12

  Eileen lifted a pointing finger, not at me but at something beyond my shoulder. I was just turning to see when the slam of Harry’s door jerked me awake.

  My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I burped.

  “God! I gotta start drinking with Trout. The cheap stuff is killing me!” I mumbled on my way to the bathroom.

  In the kitchen, I gratefully found Harry’s medicine bottles open beside the sink. His plastic glass had been dropped on top of the growing pile of dirty dishes. Damn! I wondered how much a dishwasher cost and when I could get one installed.

  After downing a couple gulps of the pink stuff, I dialed Henry’s office and waited, hand pressed against my forehead.

  “Yes, Robert. What now?” His irritating voice demanded.

  “I need six thousand dollars.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Computer keys clicked. “My records indicate you used up your allowance for the month. Looks like a computer store purchase took the last of it. I’m not advancing any more. I warned you. You’ll have to wait until next month for any more splurges on your friends.”

  “Goddamn it, this is important!”

  “Not to me. Try someone else!” And he hung up.

  A deep breath helped the ache in my head. I refused to let the bastard stop me. My watch read a quarter past eight, so I knew dependable Donald would be at work. One secretary later, I heard his concerned voice.

  “Bob! How are you? What’s going on?”

  “Everything is working out here. I want to know why you froze my bank account on Henry’s say so.”

  “He described your irrational actions and how you were spending your money like a lunatic. I couldn’t help but agree. Your financial situation has to be guarded until you recover from Eileen’s death.”

  “What do you mean you agreed? I’m not acting like one of my adolescent students here. I told you I was going to find the killer and I am. Now, you call that perverted bastard and the two of you do whatever needs doing to open my account again!”

  “Can’t do that, buddy. You don’t need this mission, or whatever you want to call it. You need to rest. In a few months, everything will begin to look normal to you—”

  “Donald!” I interrupted, then tried to sound calmer. “I am normal now . . . and as sane as I was a year ago. I said things are working out and they are, but I need more money and I need it today.”

&nbs
p; “How much?”

  “Six Thousand.”

  “Six what?” He hesitated. “Why?”

  “To pay a man for information, accurate information on Eileen’s murder.”

  Silence then a sigh. “I’m sorry, Bob. Do you honestly think that sounds rational? I can’t help you. If this guy is for real, why don’t you turn him over to the police for questioning? Doesn’t that sound more reasonable than six thousand dollars?”

  I rubbed my head hard, my eyes pinched tight. As much as I had refused to let Henry get to me, hearing Donald’s distrust truly hurt. “You’re a real brother and I won’t forget this.”

  “Bob—”

  I hung up on him. When my eyes opened, I found Lori in her football jersey, a coffee cup held out to me.

  “You look like you need it.”

  “How long have you been home?”

  “Most of the night. Henry fired me. I waited at the Tickled Pink from midnight on, hoping you would come in.”

  “I had been there earlier. I went over to the Alibi on a tip. Talked to a man named Trout. Do you known him?”

  “Yeah. He had a news stand at 15th and Harney for years . . . until he got tired of being robbed. The kids doing it got meaner. Haven’t seen him much in the past year, but heard he was keeping busy. He has a wife—”

  “I heard about her. She thinks he’s straight.”

  “So why did you want to talk to Trout?”

  “He held the shotgun on Harry the day Eileen was killed.”

  “She dropped into a dining room chair and stared at me. “Now he’s turned mean. Kinda payback, I guess. Did you tell Harry?”

  “No. He’d gone to bed when I got up.”

  “So how did you find Trout?”

  “Fox. At first he didn’t want anyone to think he . . . snitched, I guess you might call it. But, we ate and drank and talked, so he didn’t mind if I threw his name out.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Her face brightened with admiration. “You are coming right along, Bob. So, the six thousand . . .” Her hand flicked toward the phone, “. . . you told your brother about, is that for Trout?”

  “Yes. He turned me down because I sound crazy and Henry turned me down because he wants to control me. I didn’t tell the bastard it was to catch his daughter’s killer. He probably wouldn’t have cared—”

  “I have some money,” Lori interrupted. “Not that much, but a chunk of it.”

  “You can’t spend your money on my affairs. Hell, you just lost your job! And I lost you your profession!”

  That mischievous, manipulative grin appeared. “Henry fired me, but he is giving me some sort of severance pay . . . until I find some ‘legitimate employment.’ I can pay some of the rent . . . Wait a minute!” She jumped up and took a piece of paper from the coffee table. “Found this notice on the doorknob. I know this is your place, but with everything going on, I read it. It says the building is under new owners.”

  I scanned the letter. “This doesn’t even say who the new landlord is, just the real estate company and a phone number.”

  “Trust me, Bob. That only means the rent will go up. I can always go back to hooking. Maybe with your connections with Fox now—”

  “Shut up, Lori!”

  She shrugged just as the bathroom door opened on the sound of the toilet flushing. Lori set a cup of coffee in front of Harry as he took a chair at the table.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, looking closely at his face for any signs of those flashbacks.

  “Not with you two jabbering away.”

  “Your medicine’s almost gone. Maybe you need something stronger?”

  “Don’t know. I’ll run out to the VA today and ask. Don’t know what needs more help, the tired brain or the battered body. All I do know is I gotta be back at work in about six hours.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s Friday. The store I’m in now is the main one in this district. The others bring in their deposits between five and six. The supervisor wants me to count everything and sign off their deposit slips.”

  “You’re bullshitting, right? This outfit doesn’t have the stores making daily deposits to a bank?”

  “The district store makes the deposit. I put the money in a box until all the stores are accounted for. That’s supposed to be about seven. Then I count it all one final time and put it in the floor safe for the district manager pick up on his rounds the next day. Then he deposits the whole kit and caboodle.”

  My brain lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Santa Claus!” I shouted then ran to my bedroom to dig out my wallet. When I returned waving a scrap of folded napkin, Harry and Lori looked at me like I had developed Rudolph’s antlers. I winked, pressed one finger to the side of my nose, and dialed the number written on the napkin.

  After two rings a tired, stressed voice answered. “What is it?”

  “Roy?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Bob Norris.”

  A long moment later, he cleared his throat. “The school teacher or should I say Picasso? What can I do for you?”

  “Would you like to call in for the arrest of the guy who’s been hitting convenience stores?”

  “Sure. What have you got?”

  “I have yet to set it up, but could you meet me at the Tickled Pink around six?”

  “Know what? You are one interesting sonofabitch. I’ll be there. But, I’ll be real disappointed if you say you’re putting the sting on Fox.”

  “Hardly. You’ll be happy. Guaranteed.”

  “I’ll be there!”

  I looked up into two sets of wary eyes.

  “Did you just call the cops, Bob?” Lori demanded.

  I shrugged. “Harry, if someone came into your store tonight and demanded that money box, would you give him any crap?”

  He groaned. “Bob, you ain’t gonna rob me, are you?”

  “No, but I have a plan to get the information I want and get the guy off the streets at the same time . . . without spending a dime of six thousand dollars I don’t have.”

  Harry frowned at Lori. “What the hell is he talking about, girl?”

  “He found a snitch who wants the six and Henry won’t cough it up. It’s the same guy who shoved the shotgun in your face.”

  Harry’s expression changed. The hardness there made Lori shiver. “Who?”

  “Trout.”

  Harry nodded once then turned his icy eyes on me. “So this isn’t going to cost you a thing, but what’s it going to cost me? Especially, since I’m guessing you want the bastard alive?”

  “Nothing but patience,” I tried to reassure him. “Trust me. He’ll get his and not know what happened in the process.”

  I picked up the phone again. On the eighth ring, someone at the Alibi answered. It turned out to be just a man working for a cleaning crew. He didn’t know anyone named Trout. I drummed my fingers on the desk and thought about calling Fox. Lori drummed her painted nails louder. I looked up at that seductive, know-it-all smile of hers.

  “All right. You probably know how to get ahold of Trout, don’t you.”

  She pulled her purse from across the table, the jersey riding up her thighs nicely. After a moment of searching, she pulled out a red address book. Expertly flipping through the pages, she motioned me closer with her head. One painted nail indicated the name “Trout” and his number.

  “Why would you have that?” I asked.

  “When he had his news stand, I stood on the same street corner. He gave it to me in case he got shot or something, and I could call his wife.”

  “Small world, huh?” Harry quipped with his most sarcastic grin.

  A woman’s voice answered.

  “Is Trout there?”

  She did not answer, but I heard footsteps, then Trout’s voice. “Who’s this?”

  “Don’t hang up. A friend of yours gave me your number. I have a . . . situation you would definitely be interested in.”

  “Who t
he hell are you?”

  “We met last night at the Alibi. Norris? The guy who almost crapped his pants when you pulled the gun.”

  “Oh, ah, wait a minute.” He turned from the phone and told his wife to make some coffee since he might get sent out on special duty for his company. Then he came back on. “So, how’s your nose?”

  “Bleeding stopped.”

  “Did, ah, Fox hear about that?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks. Who gave you my number?”

  “Can’t say. Let’s cut the crap and get down to business. You do remember our business, don’t you?”

  “Six businesses to be exact.”

  “I’ve got something better than that.” He started to interrupt, but I hurried on. “This place will have more than six thousand dollars, plus it will be an easy hit. Guaranteed.”

  “I’ve heard that kinda crap all my life. Guaranteed easy. Nothing is easy.”

  “Believe what you want but you’ll be the loser!”

  Silence. “Meet me behind the Alibi in an hour.”

  “Behind the Alibi. One hour.” I replaced the receiver, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Harry, I think maybe we created a monster.” Lori shook her head.

  “You listen to me you happy, sonofabitch, I do this and my supervisor will not know one thing. The cops will not hold the money in evidence. Nothing. You understand? I’m bustin’ my balls with Stop-and-Go ‘cause I see a future. I don’t see no future working with someone who gets more full of himself every minute. Do . . . you . . . understand?”

  With a thumbs up, I hurried into the bathroom. For the Alibi’s daytime neighborhood, I chose my “Kiss” t-shirt and jeans rather than a Kiwi pullover and Docker slacks. The Ferrari, I figured, was on its own parked around the corner from the bar.

  The trash-filled alley looked like something out of a doomsday movie. I tried not to cringe as my athletic shoes squished across the trash left soggy by the rain of the day before. I tried not to breathe in too deeply as the late morning sun warmed things up. I looked around for an inset corner to protect my back, yet a short wall I could slide along to escape, if needed. Harry’s little lessons were becoming a habit. I found my spot and waited.