4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4

by Frederick Ramsay

  “Hold it right there, George, unless you want a weekend in jail.” Ike had slipped up behind them.

  LeBrun whirled to face him. “What charges will you be bringing?”

  Henry had by this time limped out of knife range. Should he run? Ike would be mad either way. He decided to stay, but keep his distance.

  Ike snapped open his holster tab and rested his hand on the butt of his .357 magnum.

  “George, do yourself a big favor and let go of that pig-sticker. In the eyes of the law, it qualifies as a deadly weapon and, as you for sure know, that’d justify my jerking out this cannon and dropping you on the spot. I’m not even going to count. Just you drop it now.”

  Henry shifted his gaze from one to the other, as if he were watching a tennis match. LeBrun glared at Ike. Ike had the pistol cleared just as LeBrun dropped the knife.

  “Kick it over here and get out of my sight.”

  LeBrun scuttled away, cursing.

  “Ike, you just bought yourself a wagonload of mess. That guy is mean as a snake and he’ll be back.”

  “He’s only mean when he thinks he’s got a big edge. I almost wish he had come at me. We’d be done with him by now.”

  Ike stooped and retrieved the knife, folded the blade, and dropped it in his pocket.

  ***

  It had taken four of five appointments, but Ike had finally gotten used to the blended aroma of wet hair and shampoo in Lee Henry’s salon. She had a cup of coffee and a half-eaten cheese Danish in each hand when he arrived.

  “You’re late, handsome. You been busy keeping law and order in Dodge?”

  Ike dropped into her chair and sighed.

  “Why do I do it, Lee? It isn’t the money and it sure isn’t the prestige, so why do I keep going out every day and put up with all this…stuff?”

  She flipped the plastic sheet over him and tied the neck strings. “Beats me, Ike. I reckon you must like it, somehow. I’ll tell you this much, though, since you took over as sheriff, the rest of us can sleep at night for a change. Now you take that last crew…”

  “I had a run in with one of them half an hour ago. Do you remember George LeBrun?”

  “Do I remember having my wisdom teeth out? That man is a piece of work. He should have 666 tattooed on his forehead. He was one of them that hurt my baby sister. Sorry, you know all about that. But I’ll tell you this, Ike, if I ever got the chance…I’d kill him as soon as look at him and then you’d be hauling me in for murder.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Lee switched on her electric shears. “Okay, now on a lighter note, Mr. Sheriff. You been out to the mall lately?”

  “Some, not much, been busy.”

  “You seen how them young girls is dressing?”

  “You mean the belly shirts?”

  “No, I mean their pants is falling down. Jeeze Louise, it’s like double cleavage. One up top facing front, one down low facing back. Lordy, they bend over and you can see near everything either way.”

  “Old guys out at the mall tell me they consider it a divine gift. Something sent to brighten their day.”

  “DOM is what they are. You know what they’re calling that, um…rear slot?”

  “It was always a ‘plumber’s crack’ before.”

  “Not no more. Now it’s a ‘card swipe.’ Swear to God, Ike, that’s what it’s called. Ain’t that something? Speaking of which, did I tell you about my cousin Derrick?”

  “He’s the one with the lazy eye?”

  “No, you’re thinking of Erick. Derrick is the one who had a piece of his ear bit off in a fight with his ex.”

  “So what happened to Derrick?” Ike braced himself for the story. Lee always had one for him. It had become as much a part of his haircut as the clippers and the mousse. Lee Henry’s mission in life, he told his friends, was to provide laughter therapy to folks when they needed it, and the haircut was only a necessary, but coincidental part of the session.

  “He showed up here the other day and he’s got himself two black eyes. Two! I said, ‘Derrick, where’d you get them black eyes?’ He says, ‘Well, I was up to the church Wednesday night, just minding my business and the preacher asks us to stand and sing a verse or two of Come to the River. Now, there’s a large lady in front of me whose got her dress stuck in her…card swipe’ he said the other word but you know what he meant. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I figured I’d be a good servant of the Lord and help the sister out. I reached over and pulled it loose. That’s when she hit me with her purse right here on my right side.’” Lee applied the clippers to Ike’s neck.

  “So then I said, ‘But what about the other black eye?’ and Derrick, he said, ‘Well, since she seemed so upset about what I done with her dress, I figured I’d better put it back. That’s when she got me on the left.’ It’s the truth, Ike, swear to God.”

  Ike’s cell phone chirped. He flipped it open and held it to his ear.

  “Not that side, Ike, I’m working over there.” Lee tilted his head and applied her clippers to his side burns. He shifted the phone to the other ear.

  “Ike, you got two calls. I wouldn’t disturb you but they sounded important.”

  “It’s okay, Darcie. Who called?”

  “Essie called and said could you come over to her sister’s house on account of something happened that she’s scared of, and Norbert over at the gun store called and said he had your…Webley…I made him spell it…what’s a Webley?”

  “It’s a make of pistol. Send Karl over to Norbert’s and you can tell Essie, if she calls again, I’ll be there in maybe thirty minutes.” So Norbert came by a Webley. What were the odds it would be the Webley?

  “You know what they call the little love handles that pop over the top of them low ridin’ jeans?”

  Ike resisted shaking his head. Lee had switched to applying her straight razor to his neck.

  “Muffin tops. Ain’t that a hoot?”

  Chapter 21

  Karl waited across the street from The Lock and Load for five minutes. He didn’t have any compelling reason to do so, it had just become a cautionary habit he’d developed over the years, and one that had once saved him from a major gaffe and career ending mistake. So, he sat in the police cruiser and watched. Only one man entered and left. He exited the car and walked the few yards to the shop. He wanted to brace Norbert Sills about the Webley with as few witnesses as possible. Norbert had a reputation within the Bureau that even Ike didn’t know.

  The doorway had been fitted with a warning device and it buzzed as he entered. The shop was not large, a few glass fronted display cases filled with handguns of various calibers and prices, and a one-way mirror behind the cash register. The customer space carried the faint odor of stale tobacco smoke and gun oil. He’d seen the Bureau’s file. Sills’ picture did not do him justice. The Norbert in the file photo looked meaner and tougher. This Norbert, his sickly smile notwithstanding, looked like a wharf rat.

  “Sills, you called and said you had a Webley for us. Is that correct?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “The uniform doesn’t suggest anything to you?”

  “I want to speak to the sheriff, not one of his boys.”

  Karl locked on Sills, his gaze like five miles of polar ice. He slipped out his Bureau credentials and slid them across the counter.

  “FBI? Cripes. I didn’t know. I thought you were—”

  “One of the sheriff’s boys, so you said. I’m both, Sills. I’m on loan to the sheriff. And, in case you didn’t know, the Bureau has a file on you and your store that’s two inches thick. You are just one questionable sale away from an indictment. So, tell me about the Webley?”

  Norbert swallowed. “Hey, listen man, I run a legit operation here. You can ask anybody.”

  “We have. One more shooting in the District, Pittsburgh, or anywhere else with a pistol traceable to you and you’re serving time. Now, are you going to tell me about the Webley or not?”

  Norbert’s eyes did an Irish
jig in their sockets and finally stared at the counter surface.

  “Okay. See, this kid comes in here this morning with a Webley. ‘I want to sell it,’ he says. I say, ‘Where’d you get it?’ and he looks at me funny, and so I know I ain’t going to get the truth. He tells me it’s his granddad’s old service revolver. I say, ‘What war?’ He hems and haws and says, ‘Korea?’ like it’s a question. What a dope. He wants to know how much it’s worth and I give him a price which he is not happy about. ‘That’s all?’ he wants to know. Well, I know it ain’t his dear old granddad’s piece on account it’s an English service revolver and our guys packed a .45 in those days. But he’s nervous and tries to talk me up, but I don’t go there. I give an extra ten bucks, that’s it.”

  “Could we cut to the chase here, Sills? Who was he, and what happened to the pistol?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m getting to that. This is good. See, I know your boss, the sheriff, wants that piece, maybe, so I say, ‘I’ll need to see some ID.’ And this moron hands me his driver’s license and the picture is right there and I know it’s him. I copy it on the machine and I take the gun and put it away. He wants his dough. I give him a ten spot, but I say, ‘the gun has to clear the police screening process.’ He doesn’t know that that is a bunch of…you know, and when he hears police, he grabs the Hamilton and takes off.”

  Karl shook his head. He had to hand it to Norbert. He’d learned over the years that people, who traded in the shadowy edges of society, were good at what they did because they learned early on how to lie convincingly.

  “Where’s the Webley now?”

  Norbert reached into a cabinet behind him and produced the pistol.

  “Ta-dah!”

  “Break it open and dump the shells in here. Be careful.”

  Karl opened an evidence bag. Norbert opened the breach and allowed the shells to fall in, four empty casings and two loads. He dropped the gun in a second bag.

  “We have your prints on file. I expect the kid’s will be on the pistol, too. Let’s hope someone else got careless loading it, assuming, of course, this is the piece we’re looking for. I’ll take that Xerox of the driver’s license now.”

  Norbert handed him the paper.

  “Thanks.”

  Norbert stared at Karl’s holster and said, “Say, is that nine millimeter Bureau issue? If not, I’ll take it in trade for a Glock 31. Great little piece. The sheriff is thinking of replacing his old .357 with one.”

  “It’s a personal weapon and it suits me just fine. Thanks anyway.”

  “Well if you ever change your mind…”

  ***

  “Ike, I’m scared.” Essie Falco huddled on an overstuffed sofa hugging her knees. Ike dropped into a worn recliner with a duct tape patch on one arm. Essie’s sister owned a double-wide on an acre that used to be part of old man Craddock’s farm. A lone cow grazed a few yards from the front door.

  “Because?”

  “George LeBrun. You know what he did at the Shop N Save?”

  “I heard. I had a run in with him myself out at Lydell’s about an hour ago.”

  “He’s not fooling, Ike. He means to get you and anyone he thinks will get in his way. He’s…well, it’s like he’s crazy or something. I mean in the old days he was just a dirty cop with a mean streak. Now he’s—”

  “A meth-head, I know. He’s brought the worst of the drug culture into town.”

  “But—”

  “You’ll be safe enough, Essie. When do you go to Disney World?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. My sister works for the county and they just changed her work schedule. I might have to stick around for a while.” The cow outside lowed a mournful counterpoint to Essie’s complaint.

  “Can you stay here?”

  “Yeah, I guess. But he’ll find me if he wants to.”

  “Essie, LeBrun is a bully. He picks on people smaller or weaker than he is. Out in the open, with witnesses, he won’t do anything more than threaten, hopped up on crystal meth or not.” Ike hoped he told the truth but meth-heads were hard to predict, sometimes violent, sometimes merely irrational.

  Essie rolled up her sleeve and showed Ike the bruise LeBrun had made when he grabbed her arm. Ike closed his eyes and fought the anger that might lead him into doing something rash. For the first time since he became sheriff, he pined for his CIA days. Back then, he could quietly dispense some personal and anonymous justice.

  “We’ll take care of it, Essie. I’ll have someone keep an eye out.”

  “Ike, that’d be a tip off, wouldn’t it? I mean…”

  “You won’t even know they’re there. Try to relax. We’re on it.”

  Essie looked doubtful. “Someone will be close by?”

  “Absolutely.” Ike made the promise but at the same time realized that keeping it would not be easy. Mostly, he wanted Essie to believe it. Then she would feel better, safer, and believe that LeBrun wouldn’t dare approach her again. Then he touched the Buck Knife in his pocket and knew he couldn’t be sure of anything. LeBrun was like a rabies carrier at the Westminster dog show. The sooner he was put down, the better. He would have offered Essie a gun but that would only lead to difficulties of monumental proportions if she were to use it. Besides, on this side of town, most folks owned a firearm of some sort, and if Essie felt really threatened, she could have one in hand in a heartbeat. He didn’t like that idea any better, but at least the department would not be at risk if anything went wrong.

  He heard the roar of an engine and had started to turn toward the door when a rock smashed through the front window. Essie screamed, and balled up on the couch. Ike instinctively ducked and rolled. Splintered glass cascaded across the floor. By the time he managed to stand and run to the door, whatever vehicle had borne the rock thrower had careened around the bend and disappeared. The cow bawled and loped off across the pasture. Ike felt his blood pressure spike. Now he was really angry.

  “Essie, do you have a firearm?”

  “What?”

  “A gun, any kind. Do you have one?”

  “Yeah.” She reached into her purse and removed a Dixie Derringer. “I got this from Billy. He showed me how to shoot it.”

  Ike whistled. Only in America. So much for caution.

  “Okay, Essie, but do me a favor, will you? Keep an empty chamber under the hammer. I’d hate to see you wham someone with that purse and end up shooting a bystander.”

  “I don’t swing a purse, Ike.”

  “Good. Empty the chamber anyway.”

  Chapter 22

  “Stuff on your desk for you, Boss.” Billy Sutherlin waved in the general direction of Ike’s office and headed for the door.

  “Hold on a minute, Billy. Did you give Essie a pistol?”

  “More like I loaned it to her, Ike. That piece set me back a couple of hundred.”

  “You know what’s going on with George LeBrun?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “If she gets spooked, she might put a bullet in him.”

  “Public service, way I see it, Ike.”

  “Billy, think a minute. If that little .22 caliber popgun misses anything vital, LeBrun will be on her, and kill her in a heartbeat. You know what he nearly did to your brother.”

  “Ike, I thought about that, for sure, and I figured if she got the drop on him, he’d back away. Nobody wants to take a chance against a pistol. Besides which, it has a magnum load. Do more’n knick him.”

  “I hope you’re right. Still, I don’t like it. What’s on the desk?”

  “Crime lab report, on your car. Karl got the Webley and he’s picking up the kid that brought it to Norbert, and they’re running prints on the ammo. Sam says she has a lead on someplace in New Jersey.” Billy continued his way to the door. “Oh, yeah, thanks for taking care of George out at Lydell’s. If you hadn’t, I would ’a, and Henry said to ask if now is a good time to talk.”

  “Sure, where is he?”

  “Outside in his truck. I’ll send him in.”
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  “On your way to wherever it is you’re going, how about dropping this off at the Lab.” Ike handed him an evidence bag with a rock in it. To Billy’s raised eyebrows he added, “It was thrown through the window at Essie’s sister’s place. No note. Maybe we can lift a print, though I doubt it. But you never know what will turn up and we need all the help we can get.” Billy scooped up the bag, jammed his Stetson down low on his forehead, and left.

  Ike settled in his beat-up oak desk chair and swiveled right and left. No squeal or squeak. That was good. As a rule, his desk looked like a burial mound. He told anyone who had the temerity to ask, he had a system to find what he needed in the heap, but lately either he, or the system, had developed a serious glitch and had crashed, which meant he needed to do his semi-annual desk top cleaning. He glanced at the calendar from Unger’s Funeral Home on the wall and realized April had arrived the week before. That confirmed it.

  Henry rapped on the door and he waved him in. “Hey, Ike, I just wanted to say, I appreciate what you done for me out at Lydell’s this morning. That sombitch could ’a cut me up if you hadn’t come along.”

  “You need to pick your fights a little more carefully, Henry. As you said, he could have cut you up proper.”

  “Yeah, well, he was off on Essie and Billy and I just couldn’t stand there, could I?”

  Ike pulled LeBrun’s Buck Knife from his pocket, jacked open the blade and speared a piece of paper. He pulled the paper free and held it by one corner, drew the knife down its length from the top. It sliced through its length with barely a whisper. Half fluttered to the floor.

  “Whoa,” Henry said, “now that there is one sharp knife.”

  With great care, Ike folded it and shoved it into a drawer. “You wanted to see me about something else?”