AHMM, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "My what?"

  "Where do your lines come in?"

  "How the hell do I know? Do I look like a phone geek?"

  "I'll take a look,” Benny said.

  He went into the back room, Beemer trailing curiously behind him, and found the cable coming out through the wall from the bar area. From there it was tacked along a trim board to a lightning arrestor above the rear exit. Then it disappeared into a notch cut into a panel of the T-bar ceiling.

  Benny pushed the panic bar of the rear door, stepped out into the alley, and gazed up at the eaves. “Comes out here, makes a little drip loop, then slopes away up to that pole line there. An’ that's as far as I go. I'm not climbing no telephone poles."

  He closed the door. Beemer stared at the cable.

  "You don't think Pepper made all that up?"

  "Not a chance. Not smart enough. He's out of his depth when he raises a sweat, that guy."

  "So what was Four-Foot tryin’ to tell me then?” Beemer wondered, looking exasperated.

  Benny shrugged. “Beats the jake outta me."

  "There's nothing wrong with this line?"

  "Nothing I can see. ‘Course, I'm no expert. You could ask the phone company."

  "Ask the phone company an’ get a whole lot of attitude. Not happening."

  "You just don't want them to find that bootleg TV tap Sanool Jones rigged out there for you."

  "That too,” Beemer said.

  * * * *

  At ten o'clock the law came back with a bunch more questions for Beemer. Detectives. Somber guys in black leather car coats—maybe the coats had been on sale that week. They were known on the street. Steinbesser, thick through the body, bristly gray hair, the man in charge; and Will Beech, quiet and watchful, never a smile out of him, but wheels within wheels up there under his felt cap. Beemer said, “Jeez,” when they came through the door. And when he went with them into the storeroom, Benny stepped around the end of the bar to take care of things. There was an old sliding panel in the wall, a sort of pass-through, dating back to when the place had been a Greek restaurant a few hundred years ago. He eased it open an inch. If he stood in Beemer's customary spot and tilted his head back against the wall just right, he could hear the raised voices in there, a little muffled, through the opening.

  "...you can think anything you want,” Beemer was arguing testily, “I didn't pop the guy, I wasn't even here at the time."

  "How'd he get in then?” It was Steinbesser's voice. “Did he have his own private key to the place?"

  "You tell me, you went through his pockets."

  There was a silence, as if the cops were exchanging irritated glances. Then a softer voice, Will Beech this time: “There's no entry damage, so we think he had a key. Or else someone was here already. Did you let him in?"

  "No."

  "If he had a key,” Will Beech said, “where'd he get it?"

  "How do I know?"

  "You didn't give it to him so the two of you could meet here, time-to-time, after hours?"

  "Meet here? What for?"

  "Just an idea we're pursuing,” Steinbesser put in. “A thought I had. A possibility you two had something going. Something profitable. Something beyond running a bar. It went sour here on Saturday night, and your partner came out second best."

  "Second best? That's what you call a guy with a bullet in him and two broken legs?"

  "Just answer the question."

  "First of all, he wasn't my partner. And no, I didn't give him no key. You say he had one, okay, I'll believe you. But he must've took a print and had it made."

  "Why would he do that?"

  "You tell me."

  "Just answer the question..."

  The voices faded as Benny focused on Windmill Curtis looming up at him, approaching the bar, waving his arms around as usual. He was a balding, ungainly man of about seventy, with a lot of jerky movements like he wasn't wired right. Leathery hide on him. A fitter at the shipyard back in the good old days, when he wasn't building fake antique furniture.

  "That the cops in there, Benny?” He flung out an arm.

  "What do you need, Windy? Another dark Bacardi's? Go sit down, I'll bring it to you in a minute."

  "We all heard what happened. Four-Foot gettin’ bunged. Tried to stop a break-in is the way I figure it. Kinda thing he'd do. Yeah, I need a rum. Coke onna side."

  "If you want to go sit down, I'll bring it to you."

  "Too bad about Four-Foot. Nice little fella. Loaned him some tools one time."

  "Yeah, too bad."

  "They can't think Beemer killed him."

  "They can think anything they want. Go sit down."

  "That one cop in there, that Steinbesser, he was after me once, years ago. Same sorta situation. Must be, lemme see now, ten, fifteen years since I didn't kill that guy.” He threw his left arm into motion suddenly, almost sweeping Benny's Scotch-rocks off the bar. “Guy used to sit right over there."

  Benny scooped ice, splashed out a double rum, and shoved it at Windmill with a side of coke. He wasn't interested in Windy's war story. He was missing everything being said back there behind the doors of the cooler.

  Windmill scooped up the two glasses, one in each of his big, arthritic hands.

  "Noop. Whatever happened, the Beem needs to settle it. This here is awful bad for business. I mean, I seen as high as a hunnerd guys in here this time of the day, drinkin’ like tool pushers.” The hand holding the glass with the rum leaped, making a sudden, erratic arc. “An’ now look. Might as well be a tea shop. Guys don't like to see all these cops around. He needs to settle it."

  "He's working on that. You go sit down now, Windy."

  Reluctantly, Windmill finally shoved off and ambled away to his table. Benny shook his head, said, “Jeez,” and leaned his head back against the wall.

  "...we will, we will,” Steinbesser was saying, “only the way things stand, it's looking bad for you."

  "Like I would knock off my own employee, then phone you guys to come and investigate. Why wouldn't I drop the body in the harbor? I could practically carry him there under my arm."

  "All I'm saying, you haven't exactly been a Boy Scout all your life. So if you know anything, you hear something, you give me a call right away. Number's on this card. We want to help you, but what can we do, you know?"

  The men tramped out of the back room, cops in the lead, Beemer bringing up the rear with a heavy frown and pulling the door shut as he came through after them.

  Halfway along the bar, the procession stopped. Steinbesser suddenly remembering something.

  "Where's this bat I been hearing about?"

  Beemer muttered something, stepped past Benny, and pulled his pacifier out from under the bar. A baseball bat that looked like it had been used to hammer in rivets and pound grapes.

  "I heard about this,” Steinbesser said, taking it in his hands and hefting it, a little smile playing on his lips. “The Al Capone bat, right? This is the actual one?"

  Beemer shrugged. “According to eBay."

  Steinbesser stroked the wood, then pulled his hand back suddenly. “Look at the stains on it there."

  "Interesting,” Will Beech said. But he didn't appear interested. He was studying Beemer. “And you say you don't keep a firearm?"

  "Scout's honor."

  "Yeah, right,” Steinbesser said with a laugh. He handed over the bat, and the two cops turned away.

  "When are you guys gonna take that tape off my fridge?” Beemer called after their retreating backs. “I'm tryin’ to run a business here—"

  "You give me a call right away, you remember anything,” Steinbesser said. Then they went out the door.

  "How'd it go?” Benny made way for Beemer and got back up on his stool.

  "They didn't arrest me, but I think they're hosing down a cell.” Beemer straightened the bar rag with a sour look, then slumped against the wall and closed his eyes.

  "You told them what Rusty said?” Benny asked him.

&nb
sp; "Come on."

  "You got to give to get."

  "Not to the law, I don't. I learned something anyway. They let it slip. Asked if I ever been out to Four-Foot's place, up the hill there, over on Gottingen."

  "And have you?"

  "No."

  "So what's your point?"

  "They never mentioned Robie Street."

  * * * *

  Beemer led Benny into his cubbyhole office, pretty much a desk in a walk-in closet, and rifled through a bottom drawer. He pulled out a bedraggled accordion folder, slipped back the elastic cord, and flipped through the files till he found what he wanted. “See, here's the application he filled out, all the usual bs. I got to ask people. It's the law.” Beemer studied the dog-eared sheet a minute. “He went through a bit of an act about this."

  "What act?"

  "He fills in this form, then comes to me later and says he thinks he put the wrong address on it, could we tear it up and do another one."

  "How could he put the wrong address?"

  "Said he had a senior moment, wrote down the address of some other dump where he used to live."

  "So did you do another one?"

  "Nah. I wasn't too worried. I figured we'd straighten it out later. Now I guess we won't."

  "Let me see that."

  Benny took the form out of Beemer's hands, glanced over it, and grunted. “There's no house number here."

  "No."

  "But it does say Robie Street. And the cops went to Gottingen?"

  "Yeah."

  "And they found all his stuff there?"

  "I guess."

  "So his story holds up."

  Beemer folded his thick arms. “It would, except that a while after this happened, he left his jacket here one night. A Monday, he was off-shift. One of the customers brought it to me. I didn't recognize it right away, an’ I went through the pockets for a name or a phone number. What I found was a week-old receipt made out to a Mr. Argus. One month's rent for a room on Robie Street. So I knew he never did leave that place."

  "Argus instead of Angus. Like he changed one letter."

  "Right."

  Benny pursed his lips. “Okay, so he kept two places. One of them under a false name. Now why would he do that, you think?"

  "I was wondering."

  * * * *

  Steinbesser didn't start the car right away. He reached for the Tim Horton's double-double he'd bought earlier—double cream, double sugar—found the coffee cold and tossed the cup and contents out the window. From where he was parked they could look down the slope of the hill at the Rob Roy.

  "I think that barkeeper was telling the truth,” Will Beech said, standing over the driver's window, one hand on the roof of the car.

  "Who, the Beem?” Steinbesser snorted. “He couldn't tell the truth if you wrote it out for him."

  "I'm not so sure he knows anything about this."

  Steinbesser started the car.

  "I don't know what he knows. But he's made to order for it."

  He put the car in motion and drew away from the curb with a sharp chirp of rubber. Will Beech watched him drive away with a thoughtful look.

  * * * *

  Since the phone company wasn't an option, Beemer sent Windmill along to the Tall Ship to see if he couldn't find the Engineer. The Engineer—real name Sanool Jones—was a guy you could turn to with a question about data lines, computers, or any gadget that crossed your mind. He could sketch out a circuit diagram for an optical burglar alarm on a serviette, and he reprogrammed cell phones. He also took bets from fellow ex-pats on unusual sporting events back home in Trinidad. He stopped in front of the bar, displaying a wide grin and swinging his rasta tails to one side.

  "That what he say? Check out you data line?"

  "Yeah, an’ we did check it,” Beemer told him. “Traced it right out through the back wall."

  "An’ you don't see nothing theh? No little box out theh?"

  "What kinda box?"

  Sanool shook his head and went to look for himself. He came back nodding. “This a good one, mistah.” Then to Windmill, “Fetch me a light.” And to Beemer again, “You got some Carib back theh? I'm dry as dead man."

  With a Carib lager to irrigate him, Sanool got down to work. He practically stood on his head in the cramped cabinet under the till, poking Windmill's little Maglite around, tugging the cable as if he was playing a fish, probing where it led. In the back room he asked for a ladder, and Beemer scowled. “Where am I supposed to get a ladder from?"

  "Up to you,” Sanool said grinning, “you want this business fix.” He took a swig of beer and fluttered his eyebrows. “If I have leg like a giraffe, I don't need no ladder. But I just a regular man. Got regular leg."

  Beemer glowered, stepped over to Windmill, and explained the problem. Windmill obediently slouched out into the street again, and was back few minutes later with his arm through the rungs of a folded stepladder. Bumping and banging it against the door frame. Beemer shouted at him to watch the woodwork.

  "Everybody in the Tall Ship” (Sanool used a hard “e” when he said ‘the'), “they hear about Four-Foot getting shot through the hat."

  "Through the what?” Beemer said.

  "Through the hat.” Sanool thumped his breast with his bunched fist to show where he thought the bullet had gone in. He relieved Windmill of his burden. “It don't surprise me. All you must hear the story ‘bout the man. How he backside fired out the door of the Tall Ship ten year ago when he a waiter theh."

  "We forget,” Benny said. “Remind us."

  "Oh yes.” Sanool dragged the ladder into the back room. “Patchy spot him one night after he close the place, Four-Foot goin’ through the trash. Takin’ things.” He opened the ladder, tried it for strength, then swarmed nimbly up the rungs to the ceiling.

  "What kinda things?” Beemer growled.

  Sanool grinned down at him. “All you never hear about it?"

  "I'm asking, aren't I?"

  "Carbon paper,” Sanool said, sounding superior. “Carbon paper, all them credit cards. Remember the old machine them days, you need to—swik-swik—take an imprint? People pay him for that old carbon paper.” Sanool levered one of the ceiling panels aside, climbed up till his head disappeared, and shone the Maglite around. “Hah!” he said, reaching for something and dragging it out. Grinning brightly, he came back down a step, and held out something trapped between two long fingers, a small gray plastic box with a short length of wire dangling from it.

  "Understand,” Sanool explained, “all the high tech now, you don't need to steal carbon paper. This little fellow, hidin’ up in the ceiling theh, it collect all the credit card data you want."

  Beemer was mystified. “How does it work?"

  "Somebody here, one of you waiter, got a little scanner. Fit in the pocket. He take the customer card, put it through your machine like he s'posed to. Then—nobody lookin'—put it through his own. Beep! The card data transmit through the air an’ store in this box.” He tugged the wire. “See? Antenna. Every once in a while he got to collect this—” He popped out a little memory chip and flashed it at them. “—an’ slip in a new one. Change the battery, time to time."

  "I'm impressed,” Benny said.

  "For each card he make maybe thirty dollah. The man who pay him then make new card, sell each one for three hundred dollah. Mebbe same man shoot him through the hat. Want it?"

  Sanool held out the box.

  Beemer thought a minute. “Nup,” he said. “Just give me the chip. Put the doofus back where it was.” He glanced at Benny. “Three hunnerd a card? Someone's gonna come lookin’ for that."

  * * * *

  Benny called Windmill over, topped up his Bacardi's, and sat him at the table where the bar made a jog to the wall.

  "You mentioned Four-Foot borrowing something?"

  "Tools, yeah.” The old man's head bobbed. “Spin-saw. Little pry bar. A hammer."

  "Did he say what he wanted them for?"

  "Noop.
An’ I never asked him. None of my business."

  "Did you deliver them to his place personally?"

  "Noop. Brought ‘em here. Turned out I had to go an’ collect ‘em later, though. After a couple weeks, I seen he forgot about my tools, an’ I had to start in chasin’ him. Finally, like it's my fault, he tells me I might as well come around an’ get ‘em. An’ he gives me an address."

  "Gottingen Street?"

  "Noop. Place up there on Robie."

  Benny traded looks with Beemer.

  "You didn't write down the number by any chance?"

  "You kidding? My age, I got to write down my own number."

  Benny smiled as Windmill dug through his pockets.

  * * * *

  They left Windmill in charge of the Rob Roy and headed up the hill. “I'll be lucky when we get back,” Beemer muttered, “if I got a glass or a bottle left in the place."

  At the address on Robie Street they discovered a collapsing Cape Cod with a rusting iron fence around it, and an ugly Lunenberg bump above the door. The super was a sawed-off gnome of a woman who looked like Peter Lorre on a bad hair day. Her bulbous eyes pondered them suspiciously, an orange cat glared from between her ankles, and raucous TV laughter cackled behind the door. An odoriferous pong wafted out at them.

  "I don't know about letting you go up there,” the woman told them. Her chin drooped into a flabby mound that strained and strove against the wool of her sweater. Benny showed her a twenty. “Mr. Argus said it was all right. He told us to give you this.” The landlady narrowed her eyes. She said, “Well, then, I guess it's okay.” She took the twenty and stood back out of their way.

  In the entryway they had to wade through cats. “Careful of all those little feet,” the landlady cautioned them. Their footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

  "What I'm starting to think,” Benny said, as they climbed the stairs, “is that Four-Foot kept two joints so if someone came snooping around his apartment—his actual home—they wouldn't find what they were looking for."

  "And what ... would that be?” Beemer wheezed. His face was blue. The third and final flight of stairs, narrower and steeper, was a pulse raiser.

  "Remember what Sanool told us? How Four-Foot would get about thirty bucks a card? Well, suppose he made up his mind to do better. Go for the three bills himself. That might be enough to get him shot."