Of Mice and Murderers

by John Stockmyer

  "Newbold will understand."

  "Detective Newbold is not available at the moment." -- Ted being in the john -- "Is there a number where he can reach you?" A number they could run a computer check on in 20 seconds; just the sort of information Z needed from time to time.

  "No." Z hung up.

  Like most suburban satellites of Kansas City, Gladstone had no instant check on phone calls, Z needing to call Ted from a public booth if they ever got it -- like he had to do if he wished to reach Northtown High's quarterback and the third member of the "Musketeers," Johnny Dosso.

  Of the three of them, Z was the only one who'd actually read The Three Musketeers. He used to read a lot. Still did, though now, it was mostly science fiction and detective novels; science fiction to stretch his mind; detective novels to learn ... anything they could teach.

  Since Ted would call him at his office, it was time for Z to get there himself.

  On the other hand, thinking about the Musketeers had made him realize there was another way to go, a process he'd better start -- because it also involved a difficult call.

  Z dialed another number.

  "International Imports," said a classy, very female voice, the voice of someone who didn't worry about things like paying the rent, child care, fending off either an abusive husband or annoying ants. Considering who did and who didn't have everyday, ordinary problems, the International Imports secretary was probably a white-haired grandmother of comfortable means -- like most of the "girls" who talked dirty over the phone for five dollars for the first minute, three dollars for each additional, masturbating minute.

  "I'd like to reach John Dosso."

  "I don't believe anyone of that name ...."

  "Tell him it's an old friend. From high school.."

  "I'm sorry, sir. But no one of that name is associated with International Imports."

  "I must have the wrong number," Z agreed, hanging up. It was always the same. By the time he got to the office, there'd be a phone number on the answering machine. He'd then have to leave his office, find a public phone, and dial that number.

  Presto!

  Johnny Dosso. The man who never was, nor ever would be, associated with International Imports.

  Always a different number so that Z, the man who memorized easily, had given up learning John's phone numbers. It didn't make sense to clutter your mind with facts you needed only once.

  The "game afoot," using his good leg and his hands to pry himself out of the sagging divan, Z put on his coat and gloves.

  Out the door again, he locked up. Deadbolt. Even he'd been sold on them. Since the wind had come up since he'd retrieved the paper, Z pulled up his coat collar and buttoned the top button, the temperature a wind-chill ten degrees.

  Taking the back walk, this one meandering past patches of yellow winter grass, clumps of dead-looking spirea bushes, rotting scraps of leaves, and assorted trash, Z headed for the house's single-car garage, its yard-side wall propped up by two-by-fours stuck into the ground, then angled up to jam under clapboards on the leaning side, the garage's back doors rotting off some time ago.

  Squealing open the garage's shaky front door, Z squeezed himself inside to sidestep along the wall 'till he reached the middle of his car.

  Opening the driver's door as wide as possible, he backed into the seat, using both hands to pull his bum knee in after him.

  Whatever the Cavalier's limitations of style and power -- of room and comfort -- and of trade-in value -- it was a good car for surveillance work. What was less noticeable that a light blue '86 Cavalier? GM had sold a literal million of 'em.

  Backed out and headed off -- not having to stop until the light at Chouteau and Vivion -- a green had him winding through an under-developed residential section: big trees, open tracts seeking development, scattered homes, churches, and a small park.

  Under the "Worlds of Fun" overpass, he made the hard right turn into the mostly dirt lot of a two-story building, the structure renovated with a strange-looking black and white rocks.

  While the overpass "uglied up" the building, the gas station to the left crowded it, and the commercial-sized trash cans to the rear smelled up the place, it was "scenery" like this that held down the rent!

  Parked, out of the car, Z flanked the building to drag open the heavy glass door that had just been added in the latest futile attempt at modernization.

  Stepping inside, the smell of the new, orange-colored, polyester carpet in the foyer urged him to hurry past the center stairs.

  Veering left, walking down the dark, door-pierced hall to the back, he keyed himself into the last cavity on the right, BOB ZAPOLSKA DETECTIVE AGENCY, right there on the door in black vinyl stick-on letters. (At least the office -- two small "I-formation" rooms connected by a central arch -- was on the first floor, his knee ruling out stairs.

  Inside, shutting the door behind him, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom in the windowless outer cubby hole.

  No sense turning on the light or taking off his coat because, on the answering machine would be .....

  Reaching over the front of the "secretary's" desk, Z pushed rewind. Then play, the button that made the machine spill its guts. (Private Eye talk).

  Beep. ..... "555-9907," said a voice.

  Not John's voice.

  It never was.

  Z allowing himself three curse words, he now had to backtrack twenty blocks, the closest phone inside the southwest entrance of the Antioch Shopping Center, to this side of Payless Cashways.

  Ten minutes later, the Cavalier slanted into the mall's parking area, Z was out and pushing his way through the shopping center's doors, the public phone just inside the entrance way.

  Stepping to the phone, he took off the receiver, fed in a quarter, and punched the silver buttons. Noticed, as he did so, there were no benches near the phone where people might sit and listen to other people's conversations. Johnny would like that.

  One ring, and the pickup.

  "Hey," said the high-for-a-man's voice on the other end. "Is this one of the Musketeers? Is it Annette, maybe?" Johnny tended to confuse Musketeers with Mouseketeers.

  "It's Z."

  "Sure. Listen, Z-man. I'm glad you called. Been thinking about you a lot lately and how we never get together anymore. It just so happens that I got a job for you that would make you five grand, easy. Let me do something for you." Always the same.

  "I'm fine," Z said. Though he didn't call Johnny often, the two of them seemed cast in the same, eternal play.

  "Fine? Listen. I know better. I know everything about you. I'm sittin' here in my silk shirt. Got on my Gucci shoes -- just like that prick who thinks he's a U.S. Senator. I'm suckin' a cigar rolled special for me by Fidel himself. And you're callin' from some God-damned public phone booth 'cause you don't have shit to pay your phone bill with." Johnny Dosso -- making sure Z was using a pay phone.

  "Right."

  It had been so long since Bob Z had seen Johnny D, that Z wondered if he would recognize John. Johnny would still be short, of course, but would he have his trademark curly hair? When was the last time Z had seen Johnny? At the funeral? More flowers than a green house. More priests than the Vatican. But when was that? Could it have been ten years ago? (Though nobody mentions it, time also flies when you're not having fun.)

  "You can do something for me," Z said, hating to admit it.

  "Sure I can. Anything." The scary thing about John's promise to do "anything" was that Z believed him, anything for Johnny's friends.

  Z liked Johnny Dosso ... but didn't want to be like him, not that John could have helped how his life turned out. Like the sons of butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers, John had "inherited" the family business.

  "You know anything about the painting that was stolen from the Nelson?"

  "I heard about it, naturally. Been on TV. But high-toned work like that is not my line. I'm more in the entertainment business." Translate hookers. Gambling. Nothing more lethal, Z hoped. "Wh
y you want to get in on this, Z? You got some personal interest in this matter? Something to trade, maybe?"

  "Nothing like that. I just ... like ... that painting. Want to get a line on it."

  "For a client, maybe?"

  "No. For me. I want to know."

  "I'll ask around. Just for you. ... Hey!" Johnny D, changing the subject now that "business" was over. "You blow anything up, lately? You mixed up in that construction bang over by the caves?" Bob Z and Johnny D swapped personal favors from time to time. For instance, Johnny had gotten Z a few hard-to-get items that Z needed for his detective work, John referring to the dynamite fuse John had gotten for him. Not a money deal either way. More a friendship "deal" that went back to grade school and to Cub Scout ball.

  "No. Like I told you, just for me to set off fireworks."

  "Hey. Must be a ton of TNT to need that much fuse to set it off. Think I'll spend the next fourth in my basement with you messin' around with shit like that. What you doin'? Building some bad-ass cherry bomb?" ... Another Johnny Dosso shift of thought was coming. ... "And speakin' of cherry, how you hangin'? How's that pretty lady of yours?" It always made Z uncomfortable to have John know so much about Z's business. Just uncomfortable, nothing more. Any fear between them was Johnny Dosso's fear of Bob Zapolska, John knowing Z long enough to understand that when the Z-man lost it, he didn't care.

  Over the years, Z had managed to get a grip on his emotions, no doubt why he was still alive, the last time he'd "lost it" putting him in the hospital for a month. "She's goin' to college now, I hear," John continued. "At night. Maple Woods College. Hey! Johnny looks out after his friends. So they don't get hurt." From anyone but Johnny D, that might have been a threat: play ball or something happens to your lady. But not John.

  "Listen, Z-man." Z hated it when the conversation turned serious. "You got a rat's ass of a business. You got no insurance. No retirement. What's goin' to happen to you when you get old? You need family to look after you. Come to work for me. I promise. Nothing rough for my old friend. Just doin' what you're doing now. Collecting overdue bills. Protectin' ladies." ... Of the evening, Z thought, fleshing out John's meaning. "Except, with me, you get paid decent wages. Have steady work." The standard pause. "Did you know we got retirement now? Major medical?" Another space in time. "I know you got reservations. But viewed the right way, what I'm selling is just adult entertainment. The kids got Worlds of Fun. But who takes care of the needs of old guys like us? I got my needs same as you. And one of 'em isn't getting turned upside down on some Goddamn roller coaster!" Z didn't know what to say. "Hell. I know you. You think you're so Goddamned independent? Nobody is, my friend. Come to work for Johnny D. Let me do you some good. Hell, man. You'll always be a star to me. Best fuckin' football player that Northtown ever had. Me, I couldn't even see over the Goddamned line. Had to jump to see my receivers. Every pass was a jump pass.

  "I'm not dumb. Not like that asshole cop. I know it was you that got me my scholarship at K.U. I couldn't hit anybody but you, jumpin' up like I had to do all the time. It was you that made me look good. Best fuckin' pair of hands I ever saw. I cried when they said you couldn't play any more. You know that? I cried!" Z could believe that Johnny had cried, Johnny always emotional. Even as a child. Laughed more than most; cried too loud and too long when he got hurt.

  Susan thought Z should let his emotions out more than he did. Maybe he should.

  "I know."

  "Well. You think about it. Don't be stubborn. You got to think about your old age."

  Z never knew what to say at this point. So he said nothing.

  "OK. So you're not ready yet. So even if you're an asshole, I love you. And believe me, there are not many lovable assholes in the world."

  "Yeah."

  "Don't be a stranger. And about that picture, I'll ask around. But don't expect anything. If guys I knew had been involved, I would have heard. But you never know. Got some kids working for us these days that are fuckin' scary. A man needs to pull his old friends around him. You think about that."

  "Yeah. And thanks."

  "I'll get back to you. Same way." Click.

  Scary. Scary because in some ways, Big Bob Z wasn't that different from Johnny D when it came to doing favors for a friend. Z had been known to do almost anything for his friends, too, the line between good and evil sometimes dangerously thin.

  An uneventful ride back down Chouteau to Z's office had him pushing his answering machine's button to find another message, to call Ted Newbold.

  It was a day for memories, Bob Zapolska, coat still on, sitting down on the outside desk until he warmed up.

  While it mattered that the Musketeers had been on Northtown's championship team when they were seniors, what had cemented their friendship was the fake murder when they were juniors.

  They'd decided to raise a little hell in Riverside after football practice one fall afternoon, Riverside a scraggly town clinging to the bank of Kansas City's mighty Mo.

  So they planned a fake murder.

  First, they'd driven John to his house -- a home more lavish by far than anything either Bob or Ted's parents could afford. (At least the house seemed so on the outside. They'd never been invited in.)

  In no time, John came out with a pistol. (Funny, how kids who think they know it all -- don't. At the time, neither Ted nor Bob had seen anything strange about Johnny D being able to get a gun -- complete with silencer!)

  After that, they'd driven up and down what passed for residential streets in Riverside on what was now a warm fall evening, until they found a family sitting out on an old-fashioned front porch.

  Driving past, halfway down the block, Z swung the car around, parking it by the broken curb.

  Letting Ted out, he'd walked back down the sidewalk, Bob and Johnny screeching up just as Teddy arrived in front of the family, John firing out the window, Ted screaming and falling like he was hit.

  Bolting from the car, John dragged a limp Ted into the car's back seat, the three of them peeling out of there.

  Dumb. A dumb, kid thing to do. Just having a little harmless fun. Thought it was comical to scare that family half to death.

  So much for old times. Not, as most people thought, the best of times.

  Warmed up now, Z took off his coat, laid it on the desk, then walked through the small arch into his inner office, going around to ease his bulk into his old swivel chair.

  Cocking his bad leg across the desk's corner, he picked up the receiver. (At least things hadn't gotten so bad he had to call the cops from a public phone).

  Z dialed, after the same routine, was routed through.

  "Detective Newbold speaking," said the too confident voice of one Ted Newbold -- a better friend than he was a cop.

  The last time Z had seen Ted -- not that long ago -- Teddy's dyed brown hair had been more "retreating" than "receding." He'd lost his little boy look in other ways, as well: too much softness bisected by his belt, too much flash of gold from his front teeth.

  At their age, everybody's warranty was running out.

  "Z, here. How goes it?"

  "Great."

  "Me, too," Z said -- wondering if the friendly lies people told each other would register on a polygraph. "I got an interest in that stolen painting. At the Nelson."

  "Yeah? Why?" Z could picture Ted sitting up primly in an attempt to be "worthy" of his tiny office in the new Gladstone government and police building on Holmes. He would have his door closed, of course, so that nobody -- translate Captain Scherer -- would discover Ted talking to Z.

  Z had seen Ted's office in the new building only once, when the ferret-faced captain was in Washington at an F.B.I. seminar. Made-to-resemble Danish Modern furniture didn't square with Z's expectations of what a cop's office ought to be. Everything about police work should be traditional; like a good cop's pledge to honesty and duty.

  "I ... like the Monet."

  "You don't say." Ted's taste in art ran to Rambo posters, as Z's used to.
>
  "Yeah."

  There was silence on the line -- Ted, trying to figure Z's angle. "Not my case." Ted giving up. "It's KC's business."

  "I know. But you detectives," Ted liked being called a detective, "are all connected. I figured you could find out."

  "Could be you've got a client who wants to know?"

  "No. Just me. My word on it."

  "Your word's always been good, Z, though my captain don't think so."

  "Thanks."

  "Until you prove me wrong." Always the warning.

  Ted had gone cautious, the way you had to if you hoped to move up in the department. "So. I'll call a friend of mine in KC who owes me."

  "I'd be grateful."

  "It'll be our little secret, though."

  "Sure."

  "And listen, Z-man." Like the rest of him, the brass in Ted's voice had also tarnished. "I know you. You don't have the proper patience for police work. How the hell you ever got into the P.I. business beats me."

  "If I knew, maybe I could have prevented it." Z -- trying to lighten the mood.

  "What I want to say is, don't try an end run on this. You hear me? It don't pay to be connected to him any more. We stopped being kids a long time ago."

  "That's one thing I can promise you. I won't call him."

  Though saying that was less than honest, Z comforted himself with the knowledge that he was telling the strict truth. Since he'd already called Johnny Dosso, he wouldn't be contacting him again. When it would do the job, telling the truth was always best. Part of the Zapolska code.

  "OK. I'll get back to you."

  "Thanks Teddy. Sorry to bother you."

  "No bother. But let's keep this just between us."

  "Right."

  "You did me some favors in the past." Teddy -- being himself for a change rather than the tough detective he so much wanted to be: grateful and a little scared. "I haven't forgotten. You may think I'm just a dumb cop. But I'm not so dumb that I don't know who the smart one of the group was." Time for the lecture. "It's just that you never grew up."

  "I'm still for the American way. For sticking it to the bad guys."

  "I'm not meaning to be too critical. I like old-fashioned guys. What I'm saying is, you keep your nose clean and I'll do what I can."