Cul-de-Sac

by David Martin

The driver of the Lincoln emerged, reached back into the car to help his wife out, then slammed the door with both hands. The couple were in their late fifties, well-to-do.

  He came over to Annie’s truck, the man holding his peace only to make sure she wasn’t injured then he intended to release a tirade, irresponsibility would be its theme … but when he saw she was naked from the waist up he forgot everything he was going to say.

  Annie leaned back in the seat and touched her forehead. Her fingers came away sooty but no blood on them. She looked curiously at the man’s very white face.

  His wife came hurrying up to the truck just as the man was opening Annie’s door. “Good God,” the woman said. “What’s going on here!”

  The husband stammered as if he and Annie had been caught in a compromising position.

  “I’ve been …” Annie started to say. But she decided not to launch any explanations, she simply told the astonished couple, “I need help, get the police.”

  They continued standing at the open door, other drivers were getting out of their cars and coming over for a look.

  Aware of an audience the woman suddenly demanded of Annie, “What are you, some kind of … freak?”

  This moved her husband toward sympathy. “Are you hurt?” he asked, reaching out to Annie.

  “Phillip!”

  He withdrew his hand.

  The growing crowd pushed in closer as word spread about a topless woman in a pickup truck, the front ranks exchanging angry looks with those who were pressing them from the back, those who hadn’t had a peek yet.

  Annie felt powerless to do anything except sit with her hands over her breasts and wait for deliverance … when it finally came in form of a large black man wearing the uniform of a private security firm she could’ve wept with relief.

  He had no trouble pushing his way through the crowd and when he saw Annie he asked an old question, “What’s going on here?”

  First to speak were the Republicans from the Lincoln, they’d held tenaciously to their front-rank positions repeatedly telling others in the crowd, “It was our car she hit.”

  Which is exactly what they told the shopping mall’s security guard.

  “She was driving around topless,” the wife said, then added extravagantly, “Look at her filthy face, I think she’s on drugs.”

  The guard stood in the truck’s open doorway, his bulk effectively blocking the view, sorely disappointing those in the crowd who had just worked their way to the front and now felt cheated out of seeing a topless woman.

  “Ma’am, are you hurt?”

  Annie searched his broad round face for sympathy. “I was attacked by a man, I just got away from him.”

  “Near here?” The guard looked around as if the assailant might still be in the crowd.

  “No, I drove here because I didn’t know where else to go, I couldn’t find a police car, a friend of mine works in one of these office buildings.”

  The guard removed a radio from his belt. “We’ll get you fixed up in just a minute.”

  “Thank you.”

  Not until the arrival of four more security guards were the gawkers dispersed. The big black man had returned to his car for a jacket, which he put around Annie’s shoulders. Closing the large jacket over her bare breasts, she looked at the ID plate on his shirt and said, “Thank you Mr. Kempis.”

  “Not a problem ma’am. What’s your name?”

  “Annie Milton.”

  “And who were you coming here to see?”

  “Teddy Camel. Actually his friend Eddie Neffering who owns a bar in one of these office buildings.” When she saw Kempis’s troubled expression Annie asked, “Do you know them?”

  “I don’t … hold on a minute, will you?” He stepped away from the truck and was on his radio a long time, coming back to Annie and telling her, “Maybe you should come wait in my car.”

  She followed him to the private patrol car and asked if she should get in the backseat or front. He said it was up to her and Annie got in front.

  Kempis drove to a far corner of the lot where no other cars were parked, Annie becoming suspicious and then telling herself don’t be silly. “Will the ambulance be able to find us over here?”

  “How bad are you hurt?”

  “I guess I don’t need to go to the hospital, mainly I want a long hot shower, get some clothes on, find out if Growler is—”

  “Who?”

  “The man who attacked me. I injured his foot, I think I broke his arm too.”

  “Sounds like he got the worst of it, tangling with you.”

  “I would’ve killed him if I could.”

  “And who is this guy Growler?”

  Annie didn’t know where to begin that long story, she was huddling in Kempis’s big blue jacket, shivering as if the cold originated from inside her. “Do you think we could have some heat.”

  “Sure.” He started the car, turned on the heater. “What’s he look like, this Growler?”

  “He didn’t have any clothes on, his right foot is bleeding, his left arm is broken, he’s got a tattoo of the devil on his belly and down to his groin.”

  Kempis laughed a little, said something about how the man shouldn’t be hard to find. “And what’s Teddy Camel got to do with all this?”

  “You do know him?”

  Kempis looked embarrassed. “Teddy’s been getting a lot of attention lately … there was a man killed in his office yesterday.”

  Annie’s turn to be embarrassed. She decided not to mention that the man who shot himself in Teddy’s office was her husband.

  Kempis fielded a few radio calls but other than that they sat there in silence. Annie looked at her dirty palms, the first two fingers and thumb of her left hand were red and swollen from where she’d hit them with the hammer while punching out those rivets. In her mind Annie replayed what she’d done to Growler, it seemed impossible now that she’d driven a nail through his foot but she did … and was proud of it too. She turned to Kempis. “Are we waiting for an ambulance or what?”

  He replied without looking at her. “I thought the state police should be involved, I called them.”

  “I wish you’d told me that, I could’ve given them directions to where I left Growler. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, he’s the one who needs an ambulance, Jesus I should’ve … can you send someone out there now, I don’t want to be responsible for that man dying.”

  “I thought you said you would’ve killed him if—”

  “Yes … but the idea that he’s lying on the road—”

  “The state police will handle it.”

  “Yes but—”

  “Here he is now.”

  Annie looked up to see an unmarked patrol car pulling in next to where they were parked. The man who got out was wearing a suit, not a uniform.

  “That’s Parker Gray,” Kempis said. “He’s associate superintendent—”

  “I know who he is.”

  36

  When Camel reached the shopping mall he had to slow down and weave traffic, there’d been a fender-bender in the parking lot. He could see one of the damaged vehicles, an old pickup, but didn’t connect it to Annie who, Camel assumed, was with the Nefferings. He drove on, worried about putting a scratch on this Fairlane, Eddie would never forgive him … Camel maneuvering more carefully than ever into the parking garage, on up to level 4. He walked the ramp down. Cautious about the weenie wagger, women in groups of three and four gave Camel the eye. He recognized them from the building but didn’t know any of the women to speak to, to reassure them he wasn’t the pervert. Hell of a place to call home he thought as he entered The Ground Floor. He wished he didn’t live in an office building, he wished he owned a house. If wishes were dishes … Camel walking to the bar and asking for Eddie.

  “He’s still gone,” the young bartender told him … the kid had blond hair over a sweetly vacuous face, he looked almost exactly like Troy Donahue but wouldn’t have a clue who that was.

&
nbsp; Camel asked for the phone, called the Nefferings’ number, got the answering machine again. “Eddie leave a message for me?”

  The bartender said no. “He got a call from Mary this morning, went home, haven’t heard from him since.”

  “How’d he get home, I got his car.”

  “Don’t know … a cab?”

  Camel thought Eddie can’t be happy about paying for a cab that far. He told the kid he was going to drive out to Eddie’s house. “If we miss each other and he shows up here you explain that’s where I’ve gone.”

  The bartender promised he would.

  Camel decided he’d go up to his office suite first, shower and change clothes … see how the state police detectives left the place. Riding the elevator thirteen floors to 14 he was reminded once again—he thought about this nearly every trip he made—how the modern world can still find room for superstition. He walked to his office door, unlocked and opened it, turned on the lights … the place had been tossed. What the hell were the detectives looking for: furniture upside down, cabinets emptied of their drawers, files scattered out on the floor … Camel couldn’t figure what this kind of all-out search had to do with the charges against him.

  He opened the adjoining door to his living quarters, that room had been tossed too. When he stepped through the doorway two things happened … Camel smelled cigar smoke and he got hit hard enough in the stomach that he dropped to both knees and one hand, the other hand holding where he’d been hit as his lungs worked on getting in some air.

  His position on the floor allowed Camel to see from the knees down the guy who’d just hit him: lime green slacks and white shoes. When one of those white shoes came up and kicked Camel’s shoulder he obligingly rolled over onto his side and kept balled up as protection against being kicked again.

  The guy who leaned down to search him clearly knew what he was doing … Camel figured a cop.

  “Houdini,” Camel said.

  “What?”

  He managed to come over into a sitting position but still had a tough time breathing. “That’s what killed Houdini.”

  “The sam hill you talking about?”

  “Getting hit in the stomach when he wasn’t ready for it.”

  “Oh yeah I heard that, some bar wasn’t it?” The guy took the cigar from his mouth and tossed it over into the sink.

  Camel waited for his breathing to regulate before continuing. “Houdini had such control over his muscles he’d let guys take a free shot hitting him in the stomach—”

  “Except this one guy hit him before Houdini had a chance to tighten up and it busted his guts, killed him … that the story you mean?”

  Camel said yeah that was the story.

  The guy was about sixty, wearing a pink short-sleeved shirt and a white golfer’s cap, his face was wide and flat and florid, he had little blue eyes and a big potato nose … Annie had said a guy like this, a golfer, was snooping around the office.

  “I hit pretty good for a man of my age don’t I?”

  Camel agreed he did.

  “You know, I’m sort of like that guy who did Houdini, I can kill someone with one punch too.”

  Camel wondered if he should get to his feet or stay down here on the floor.

  “You got ’em?” the guy asked.

  Here’s the tricky part, Camel thought … if I say I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about then he’s going to start kicking me but if I pretend to know what the deal is and we skip the third degree to go right into negotiations, then how long will it be before he catches on I’m clueless?

  “If they’re in either of these two rooms I sure as hell can’t find them,” he said before kicking Camel in the side.

  Damn that one hurt too … then it came to Camel. “Gerald McCleany.”

  “Too clever for your own good that’s what you are.”

  “Yeah well …”

  “Everything coming together in a neat little package except for you snooping around, what’s your angle anyway?”

  “How about if I stand up?”

  From a pocket McCleany drew his stainless steel, snubnose .38, then said, “Okay by me.”

  Camel stood but not straight.

  “I guess Milton didn’t like what he saw when he caught you here with his wife,” McCleany said.

  “You responsible for setting that up?”

  The golfer grinned.

  Camel asked him, “How did Paul Milton get involved in all of this?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “That’s the part I haven’t figured out,” Camel admitted.

  “Milton belonged to a religious group, worked getting guys paroled from prison, helping rehabilitate them.”

  “I guess it didn’t take in Growler’s case.”

  McCleany laughed then wiped at his face. “You indicated to Parker Gray you had certain knowledge about certain photographs so I got two questions for you, where’s the little lady and where’s the dirty pictures?”

  “Why are you and Gray so interested in those pictures, who you trying to protect?”

  McCleany laughed again. “Jesus you want me to write out a confession or what?”

  “You could just tell me, you don’t have to actually write it out.”

  “I’m going to shoot you is what I’m going to do, then cut your head off so it looks like Growler did it … or as an alternative to that you can tell me where the pictures are, assuming you have them or know where they are—do you?”

  “If I tell you you’ll shoot me and cut my head off anyway, what’s the percentage in that?”

  “Maybe I won’t. Figure it this way, you’re a smart guy. If I got the pictures then why would I have to kill you, it’s just your word against mine I was ever even here … and you’re about to become a felon for shooting Milton in the mouth, me I’m a respected retired law enforcement officer, who do you think’s going to be believed?”

  “So I give you the pictures and you drop out of my life, don’t bother Annie again, that the deal?”

  “Sure.”

  Lying. Of course he was lying. “I don’t know where the photographs are.”

  McCleany’s shoulders sagged to show how disappointed he was in Camel. “Stand up there against the wall.”

  Camel wasn’t sure if he should … until McCleany pointed the snubnose at his face. As Camel put his back against the wall he said, “I got something else I can deal you for.”

  “Just stand there and shut up.” McCleany walked backward to Camel’s overturned bed, grabbed a golf club he’d left on the floor, produced a rubber tee and golf ball, teed the ball, addressed it, gauged Camel’s position and distance, put the .38 revolver back in his pocket … and hit that ball so hard it went right through the drywall just a few feet to the right of Camel’s head.

  “Jesus.”

  McCleany got another ball from his pocket, teed it up. “You seen them yourself, the pictures?”

  “No—”

  He addressed the ball, getting ready to swing.

  “Are you trying to hit me,” Camel asked, “or you just aiming close enough to scare me?”

  McCleany chuckled like he thought that was a pretty funny question … and this time when he hit the ball it smacked Camel on the right bicep, stung like a turbo-powered bumblebee.

  “I guess I’m aiming to hit you,” McCleany said proudly, producing another ball and teeing it.

  “One of those hits me in the head, it could kill me.”

  “Yeah, kind of a dumb way to die too.” He looked up from the ball and eyed Camel. “You thinking about rushing me, seeing if you can get here before I can draw the thirty-eight and shoot you?”

  “I was considering it.”

  McCleany nodded as if this was a reasonable option for Camel to be considering. “It’d be close.”

  “What exactly is the point you’re trying to make?” Camel asked.

  He stepped back from the ball. “You know, I heard about you when you worked homicide, heard
you were a real firestorm … I guess the fire went out huh?”

  Camel didn’t say anything.

  “Used to be called the Human Lie Detector isn’t that right?”

  Camel didn’t confirm or deny it.

  “Well look me in the eye and see if I’m telling the truth … I will kill you to get those pictures.”

  He wasn’t lying.

  McCleany went back to addressing the ball.

  Camel said, “You don’t know about the elephant do you?”

  Another shoulder sag. “The what?”

  “The whole reason Growler came back to Cul-De-Sac, so he could get a solid-gold elephant he hid before his cousin was killed, before he went to prison.”

  “What is this bullshit—”

  “You investigated Hope Penner’s murder, you never saw her uncle’s collection of chess sets?”

  “Yeah, J.L. had a fortune in …” McCleany clicked. “Yeah I remember him talking about a chess piece, an elephant, he said it was worth more than anything else he owned.” And that idiot Paul Milton had babbled something about an elephant too. While McCleany was recalling this, Camel reached next to the door frame and pulled down on the fire alarm, setting off a loud clanging out in the hallway.

  McCleany wearily put the club head on the floor, spread his feet and rested both hands on the butt of the grip like he was posing as a dandy, like he should be wearing a top hat. “Well that was a Mickey Mouse thing to do.”

  “I can’t hear you,” Camel said. “The alarm’s ringing.”

  McCleany came Camel’s way, holding the club in his left hand, with his right he was bringing out the stainless steel revolver.

  “Security will be here in less than two minutes,” Camel said, checking his watch. “Elevators are turned off automatically, you’ll run into security on your way down the steps. Even if they don’t stop you they’ll have your description … which might come in handy when the investigation starts, who shot me.”

  McCleany stopped. “Got it all figured out.”

  “Wasn’t that tough.”

  McCleany was shaking his head to indicate his continued disappointment in Camel. “You know that really was a chickenshit thing to do,” he said. “I mean, it’s the kind of stunt a high school sissy pulls when the bullies are roughing him up in the hallway, he goes for the fire alarm.”