by Paul Cave
Joseph shrugged with just the one working shoulder. “No.”
Carter raised his hand to Marianna – no need to translate such an obvious response. “Did either of you have a late visitor, or treatment by any of the hospital staff?”
Joseph barked with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Carter asked.
Marianna said, “Funny? No. Negligent – yes. That’s the thing, Detective. Nobody checked in on either of them all night. Not even an orderly with a bedpan or to bring them something to eat.”
The word ‘shambolic’ entered Joseph’s head, but he didn’t even attempt to vocalise such a word – even Marianna would have been hard pushed to translate that one.
Carter turned briefly to Detective Tyler, but she was busy jotting down their conversation. “Okay, but what did you and he talk about?” he asked.
“Insurance.”
It took a moment for Marianna to understand what her husband had just said. Joseph repeated it for her, slower this time.
“He says ‘insurance’.”
“Which means?” pushed Carter.
Another shrug from Joseph.
“Take your time Mr. Ruebins, this is important.”
Joseph sighed. What was this all about? Had something happened to the old man, and if so, why weren’t they telling him? Understanding that things would be quicker if he was to write a reply – one that required more detail, Joseph used his left hand to phantom write against the bed sheet.
Detective Tyler understood instantly. She stepped forwards and tore off a sheet from the rear of her notepad. She handed it over to him and then offered him her pen.
“Thanks.”
“Joseph,” Carter said, “I need you to be as clear as possible about what was said between the two of you.”
Joseph paused for a moment to gather his thoughts. Then he simply wrote what he could remember from the previous night. It took him a while, Marianna first needing to find something hard enough for him to write on – they made use of the hospital chart at the foot of the bed. Using both sides of the paper, he eventually handed pen and paper back to Detective Tyler. She passed the paper to Carter instantly, curiously using only the very tips of her fingers. Likewise, Carter held the sheet in an almost reverent fashion.
He said something about, his insurance: His secret… And that, ‘They’ – he didn’t elaborate – that ‘they’ wouldn’t dare touch him now. He added also, that ‘they’ thought they ran the whole show? And about him having ‘the last laugh’.
Carter flipped the sheet of paper over. On this side, Joseph had added his own thoughts about their exchange.
The guy was really old, barely able to breathe. He had some sort of clear liquid dripping into his arm, probably morphine, or some other painkiller. And the reason I called out to him was because his bed sheet had slipped, and that he was showing the whole world his business.
This last bit of information seemed to interest Carter. “How could you have seen that?” he asked.
Joseph frowned. Granted, the old man’s member had been tiny - but not that tiny. Joseph shook his head. “What?”
“How could you have seen that the sheet had slipped?” Carter asked.
“The curtain was open – between beds.”
Marianna opened her mouth, but Carter stopped her short. “It’s okay, I think me and Joseph are now starting to understand each other.”
Tyler nodded to herself. Yes, Joseph Ruebins’ speech had improved remarkably in just the few minutes that they had been here.
“Let me get this straight,” Carter said. “The privacy curtain was open and you had full vision of the other guy?”
Joseph nodded.
“Did you get out of bed at anytime and touch him?”
“No,” Joseph said, now clear enough for all to hear.
“You sure of that?”
“Hey,” Marianna said, standing now, her protective instincts at their greatest. “Detective, Joseph is seriously ill. He can barely move, never mind walk or sit. Now what’s this all about? Is he in trouble?”
Carter spread his hands. “No, Mrs. Ruebins, he’s not. We just need to try and establish what happened last night.”
“Happened?” she echoed.
Carter stood quiet for a second. “The hospital hasn’t told you?”
“Told us what?” Marianna asked.
“About Joseph’s roommate. He was found dead this morning. Murdered.”
Chapter Ten
The alleyway Presley Perkins found himself in looked like it had come directly out of a bad 70s TV cop show. At any moment, he expected the red and white Gran Torino from Starsky and Hutch to come tearing around the corner in hot pursuit of some greasy perp, sending boxes and debris high into the air.
Cardboard boxes littered one side almost entirely, those broken up only by rusting dumpsters heaped full of trash and home to the city’s rat population. Tall buildings stretched toward the grey sky like ancient pagan monoliths, offering prayer and sanctuary to the underbelly of New York’s inhabitants: the homeless.
Presley’s scuffed shoe caught an empty glass bottle, and it skipped away from him with a clink and a clatter, breaking his train of thought. He continued along, until coming to a solid-looking doorway. His hand formed into a fist, but he hesitated before rapping heavily against it.
A few seconds later, a view hole scrapped open. Dark eyes peered out.
“Yeah?”
“I need to speak to Moses,” Perkins said.
“You do, do you?”
Perkins nodded.
“Hold on.”
Presley stepped back from the door and anxiously scanned both sides of the alleyway. Nothing had changed in the last few seconds. No worries, Presley thought, Starsky was probably too busy knitting turtleneck jumpers, and Hutch composing his next love song. The moment dragged on, the distant noise of sirens howling over the city like the wail of the damned.
The eyes soon returned. “You got enough to open up an account?”
“Yeah,” Perkins replied.
“Let me see.”
He dug into his pants pockets with both hands, retrieving a handful of bills. “I got enough, see.”
“Wait there.” The eyes disappeared for a second time. This time, though, it took a good few minutes before they returned.
“Well?” Perkins asked.
The eyes roamed over Presley’s face, as though attempting to commit every detail to memory.
“Wait there.”
Oh, for the love of God!
The muddy-brown eyes became just a dark slot in the doorway for a third time. Another couple of minutes passed by before the sound of a heavy-duty bolt sliding back came from the other side. The slab of steel slowly cracked open. A dark corridor stretched out before him.
Muddy eyes gave way to a burly lump of muscle. The doorman stepped away from the door, his firearm drawn and a look of menace etched across his face.
“Moses will see you now,” the heavy said. A hand big enough to crush Presley’s face pushed the door shut before sliding the bolt back into place, sealing them both within this tight corridor.
“That way,” the heavy ordered, waving his gun towards the opposite end of the passageway.
Perkins took the lead. The hallway was littered with empty food wrappers and drinks bottles. A few used syringes – dark-brown liquid staining their dirty barrels – lay scattered about, along with hundreds of scraps of tinfoil, wrapped into small balls, enough to cover the floor like a glittering carpet of stolen dreams.
Several doorways lay open to reveal empty rooms, each cold and bleak. Impossible to believe that they had once held warmth and happiness, at a time when the building had sheltered hard-working families.
“Stop,” the heavy demanded.
Presley halted.
“Up against the wall.”
“What?”
“Against the wall, now.”
Presley turned, “Is that necessary, consider
ing what I’m here to buy?”
“Just do it.”
“Okay,” he huffed, turning towards the decaying, bare wall. He laid his hands out, palm-flat, and then spread his legs. A moment later, the heavy’s shovel-like hand began to pat him down.
“Okay, you’re clean,” the man said. “Follow me.”
The heavy led the way up a short flight of steps and along another barren passageway. He stopped outside the only room to have a door still hanging from its hinges and rapped on it twice.
A thin, reedy voice screeched from the other side. “What now?”
The heavy cringed slightly, as if the voice had shattered his eardrums. He pushed the door open to reveal a small office beyond. Stretching out before them was a table that almost spanned the entire room from wall to wall. An assortment of firearms, ranging from small homemade zipguns to larger, polished assault rifles, were laid out across the table’s surface. And a skinny balding man sat behind them, grinning foolishly, Presley thought, like a man displaying his prize-winning home-grown vegetables.
“Who we got here?” he asked, in a voice straight out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
“Fella looking to open up an account,” the heavy answered.
“Really, Timothy?”
Perkins turned towards the heavy – Timothy – and shook his head in slight bemusement. The guy looked like a Brutus, or Butch or Bulldog, not a Timothy.
“An account, hey?” echoed the skinny guy. He hopped off his oversized chair and walked around the table, barely squeezing past one of its wide edges. He stood in front of Timothy with his hands clasped together tightly, his face almost serene in its poise. Then, his hands parted and one opened out to slap Timothy hard across his face.
“Are you totally fucking stupid?”
“Gee, Moses, what did I do wrong?” Timothy asked, tears welling in his eyes.
Moses brushed past the heavy and stopped in front of Perkins. “You a cop?” he asked, scrutinising the unfamiliar face of his mysterious visitor.
“No,” Perkins replied. “I’m not a cop.”
“You wearin’ a wire?” Moses asked, leaning his face to within inches of Presley’s, but tipping a look toward Timothy’s. “You check him for a wire?” Moses asked over his shoulder.
“Yeah boss, he’s clean,” Timothy said.
The scraggy face hovered in front of Presley’s for a moment longer. Despite the man’s name, there was nothing remarkably wise or divine about the weapons-dealer’s face. He was skinny to the point of emaciated, with hollowed-out eyes that were little more than empty craters. He had a beakish nose covered by angry red pimples, and the slash of his mouth lay home to a paltry few intact teeth. Most were black stumps, crooked and broken, and embedded in blackened gums that oozed rot like the pores of the dead.
Moses stepped away from Perkins, his sly eyes finally satisfied with their inspection. “Nah, you’re no cop. Not even a real cop smells like an actual pig.”
Moses returned to the other side of the table. He spread his arms wide as if ready to engage in a bit of holy preaching. “So, what can I get you?” he asked, crooked teeth and blackened gums visible.
Presley moved to the table and scanned its contents. An elaborate assortment of weapons lay there, some shiny and new, other pitted and scarred, a few quite possibly genuine relics from battles past. Handguns covered one side of the table entirely, Magnums, Smith and Wessons, Colts, and designs he couldn’t identify. Knowing that his limited amount of cash would not afford him a rifle or mini-machine gun, Presley paid particular attention to the lower end of the arsenal.
“How much you got?” Moses asked, rubbing his hands together.
Presley showed him.
Moses sighed. “Not gonna get you much.”
“Then what will it get me?” Perkins asked.
Moses scratched at his pointy chin for a second with dirty fingernails. His spider-like hand reached out to take a small handgun from the table. He held it up, barely able to contain his humour. “What about this one?”
“What the hell’s that?” Perkins asked.
Between Moses’ thumb and forefinger hung possibly the smallest weapon he had ever seen. It was comprised of two very short barrels and a handgrip that would have been smothered in a child’s grasp.
“Is this a joke?” Perkins asked.
“What?” Moses mocked.
“There has to be something better than that?”
Moses cocked the pistol and the small hammer clicked back. “Do you know what this is?”
“A fuckin’ ladies gun, that’s what,” Perkins cursed.
“True,” Moses agreed. “But for fifty bucks, you ain’t gonna get anything bigger.”
“Yeah?” Perkins said. “I could get the whole lady for less.”
Moses nodded. “Yeah, maybe, but she ain’t gonna save your hide like this baby can.”
“What. That?”
Moses smiled his rancid smile. “This is a DA 38 Double Action Derringer. The World’s smallest and lightest .357 Magnum.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“How many shots it hold?” Perkins asked.
“Two.”
“Two? What the hell am I supposed to do with just two shots?”
“Hit your target the first time,” Moses elaborated.
“Jeez.”
The compact gun disappeared inside Moses’ hand. “Look, if you can find something better, somewhere else?”
“No – no. I’ll take it. What other option do I have?”
Moses shrugged.
“Okay, how much?” Perkins asked.
“How much you got exactly?”
Perkins spread his money out on the table. It took just a few moments to count it out. “Fifty-two bucks.”
Moses scrunched up one side of his face. “Sorry, Pal. This baby costs fifty-three bucks at least.”
“What?”
“Yeah, she’s a real nice piece. Can’t just give her away.
Presley stood there and soaked up the indignity of his situation like an obedient child.
“Okay,” Moses began, “I got us a solution.”
“What?” Perkins asked.
The weapons-dealer clicked the small loader open and, with dirty fingers, retracted both bullets. “Okay, you can take the pistol, but the shots’ll cost you another buck.” He placed the two surprisingly large-looking casings on the table.
“This is stupid,” Perkins stated. “What am I supposed to do with that?”
Timothy spoke from behind. “You could use it to pistol-whip someone.”
Moses laughed louder, now unable to contain himself. “Yeah, you could use it for that. Or, you could improvise and get yourself another wad of cash.” The lines at his eyes abruptly disappeared as his face became serious. “Now, either take the fucking thing, or get the fuck out of my sight. I ain’t got time for two-bit losers.”
Chapter Eleven
Detectives Tyler and Carter arrived at the crime scene. Three white jumpsuits moved around the tiny room, each completing their tasks, before moving out, arms laden with sealed bags and plastic cartons. The forensics investigators vacated the room, the last bidding the detectives to enter. Carter moved over to the dead man’s bed. Tyler joined him on the opposite side.
Carter looked down at the old man’s body. “So who’ve we got?”
Tyler took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, slipped them on and then reached out to take the chart from the foot of the bed. The clipboard was covered in white powdery swirls, some large, others small, but all the potential signature of a killer.
“Mr. Henry Jones,” Tyler said. “Aged eighty-six. Suffering from chronic pneumonia, which had become untreatable - according to this, and the hospital were simply doing their best to make him feel comfortable.”
“Right,” Carter nodded. “So they must have had him on a steady drip of morphine?”
Tyler took a moment. “Yes, here it is. He was being administered 10
cc’s every hour, automatically.” She turned her head to examine the pump at her side. It was nothing special, just a cream-coloured plastic box, which had a clear tube running into it at the top, and a similar tube out the bottom. A small dial at one side had a range of measurements and speeds, which would invariably feed the morphine at the desired rate required. Again, forensics had been busy powdering down the instrument. The bag of morphine that must have been hanging from the stand behind the pump had gone, and she guessed that forensics had bagged and tagged it.
Carter took a clear bag from his pocket. The short note that Joseph had written earlier was held inside. “According to Ruebins, the old man said, ‘they wouldn’t dare touch him now’?”
“Maybe he meant the hospital staff?” Tyler offered.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, they may have manhandled him a little – you know, a nurse having a bad day, consulting physician too busy wondering how he was going to explain to his wife the presence of an unknown receipt for a hotel they hadn’t stayed in, or a relative who couldn’t wait to be rid of the old man.”
“Okay, that almost fits his next comment. ‘That ‘they’ thought they ran the whole show’.”
“See, he’s probably referring to the staff. Hospital’s can be somewhat abrupt, especially the expensive type – types that run to the tune of profits and turnover.”
“So you think he means a doctor or nurse? Maybe they wanted their bed back, sooner rather than later. For another paying customer?”
Tyler shrugged. “Can’t be too certain about anything. Too early to say.”
“Yeah,” Carter agreed. “But what about his comment about ‘insurance’ or ‘his secret’?”
“The guy was at death’s door. Who knows what he meant? He was so high on morphine. Would we be as concerned if he’d expressed a wish to fly away with the pixies?”
Carter’s lips almost curled into a smile – almost.
Tyler said, “When we’re done, I’ll get a full list of all his visitors since he arrived, and see if anything stands out. You know, a distant relative, here watching over their favourite uncle or grandfather, eagerly awaiting their cut of his or her inheritance.”
