by David Bishop
“What do you want from me?”
“All of it. Why Cory Jackson lied about Eddie Whittaker. And who paid him to tell that lie. That’ll do for starters.”
He just stared at me. Eventually, stupid fosters its own punishment. “All right,” I said. “Let’s go outside. Down by the surf.”
“I’m not going out there with you.”
I poked him in the belly with the barrel end of his gun. It was rude of me, but he brought the gun into our conversation and he might have planned to use it for more than stomach poking.
“If you plan to die defending your home, this place ain’t worth it.”
“Cory’s a friend.”
“Would your attitude change if you knew he was dead?”
“Dead?” He turned slowly in a circle, his head shaking, and his hands on his hips when they weren’t jabbing the air to punctuate what he said. “I don’t believe you. No. I just saw him last night. We had beers. He split around ten.” Quirt put his palms together and blew into the crevice between his hands as if they were cold. Then he turned back the other way as if unwinding his first turn. “No. He can’t be dead.”
I took out my cell phone and brought up the picture of Cory lying in the surf. Wet and cold, only Cory no longer felt the wet or the cold. The hole in his forehead meant nothing good other than the politicians would be leaving him alone because Cory Jackson would not be voting in the next election. I handed Quirt the phone.
He looked at it. His other arm dropped to his side. His chin touched his chest. “We was brothers, man. He’s my kid brother, different fathers.”
“Sit down, Quirt. I’m sorry to bring the message so hard. I didn’t know.”
“When?” He sagged down onto one end of the soiled brown couch.
“Last night. He was found early this morning. In the surf, down from the restaurant where he worked, not far from where he claimed he saw Eddie Whittaker kill his woman.”
“Why? After all this time. Why?”
I sat in the blue chair to the side of the couch “I assume by ‘after all this time,’ you meant time after the Whittaker thing. Right?”
Quirt just looked at me. I tried to break his malaise. “Your brother’s dead. Whoever framed Eddie Whittaker appears to be sweeping his trail clean. I’m after that son of a bitch. Will you help me or are you going to clam up and help the guy who killed your brother?”
“Cory lied. He didn’t see nobody kill that woman.”
“First off. Did you or Cory know Eddie Whittaker before all this happened? Ever see him? Have a run in with him? Anything like that?”
“I didn’t know the dude from nobody, man.”
“What about Cory?”
“Far as I knew, Cory didn’t know the guy. I knew everybody Cory knew. If there’d been a hassle between Cory and this Eddie Whittaker, Cory would have filled me in. No. No way. We didn’t know him from Adam.”
“Okay. So Cory was paid to lie. Who paid him? Who wanted Eddie Whittaker jailed?”
“I got no clue, man. Listen, I need a beer. You want one?”
I nodded and followed him to a white Kelvinator that was old enough to be gaining value as an antique. While we twisted the tops off the beers, I asked, “Who did Cory say paid him?”
“He didn’t know. He was sitting on the beach one night. Back then, he did that a lot. On a log that had washed up on shore. He heard a voice that told him if he turned around he’d die. Right there, man, killed for just turning the fuck around.”
“Man or woman?”
“Man. Wouldn’t be no woman. Would it?”
“You’re sure?”
“Hey, I wasn’t there. Cory said it was a dude. That’s all I know.”
“Okay, so what did Cory do?”
“He didn’t turn around. I’ll tell ya that. The voice told him which house and what time to be there and on what night. That he would see a man kill a woman inside. Shoot her dead. That Cory should go to the cops after he saw the woman’s picture in the paper. He told Cory the woman’s name, but I don’t recall it. He handed Cory a picture of Eddie Whittaker and shined a flashlight over Cory’s shoulder so he could see the picture. He told him to study it and remember the man’s face. He even pointed out a few facial features that would help Cory remember the dude. He told Cory that his life depended on his doing it right. Then he pulled the picture back.”
“Go on.”
“He handed Eddie one hundred twenties, that’s two thousand bucks for IDing a guy. In those days, Cory was into drugs and always needed money. But Cory’s straight now … He was straight … anyway.”
“That’s nice. To die clean.”
“The voice told Cory that if he done it just like he was told there would be another eight thousand. If he didn’t, there’d be a bullet. A mercy bullet, the guy said, because he would first cut off each of Cory’s toes and fingers. Then he told Cory to count to one hundred by ones before he turned around or he’d get the bullet right then.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Cory did what he was told. He got the rest of the money. Found it in his bedroom, on his bed. Right here, just down the hall. Right down there,” he pointed. “How’s that for putting the willies in you, right on his fucking bed, man. Cory was mighty happy that someone came forward to save Eddie Whittaker from being put away for something he didn’t do.”
“What else do you remember?”
“I remember thinking how weird it was the dude gave Cory the rest of the money after Eddie Whittaker got freed up.”
We talked some more, but Quirt had nothing more to give. Then he asked for his gun back. I considered tossing it in the ocean, but one gat more or less wasn’t going to change the local crime rate. After my pardon the state lacked adequate legal grounds to deny me a PI license, but given my conviction for shooting someone, they were able to deny me a license to carry a weapon. My lawyers are still fighting that. They expect to eventually win the point that a pardoned man has full rights, including obtaining a gun permit. Still, for now, I decided I’d hang onto Quirt Brown’s gun for a few days.
“I’ll hang onto this for now,” I told him, “but one day fairly soon you’ll find it in your mailbox.”
I must have brought back memories for Quirt. Halfway down the stairs I heard the sound of him engaging the deadbolt.
Chapter 7
At eleven-thirty that afternoon, Axel had walked four blocks toward downtown Long Beach. In the next block, just around the corner, he would arrive at Mackie’s. He lunched there most days along with a handful of the city’s oldest ex-cons. Men now retired from their life’s work. Mackie’s had also become a popular lunch spot with the area’s white collar workers so he required his former jail pals to meet a certain dress and behavior code. The rules began with no drunk or loud behavior and no planning the kind of jobs that led to them all meeting in the first place. Mackie’s served great food, with soft Sinatra and Steve Tyrell in the background mixed in with Linda Ronstadt and Mackie’s personal favorite, Julie London. Sure, his music was dated, but so was Mackie. It happens when guys like him and Axel spend decades up the river, as Mackie called prison. They came out wanting their now world to be as much as possible like their then world.
The booths were well padded and the walls coated in hunter green wallpaper with cherry wood wainscoting. An assortment of sports pictures hung around the perimeter along with sexy women dressed in cherry wood frames. The lights were low, but not so much that you couldn’t read the menu or see the lovely ladies that waited tables and brought drinks wearing outfits that made you think of Hooters. It was all in good taste. A place you’d take the girl you were going to bring home to meet mother, assuming mother was reasonably hip, as they used to say.
As Axel turned the corner, a block from Mackie’s, Axel was approached by one of the street’s younger women who worked the world’s oldest racket. “Hey Mister, want something different for lunch?”
Axel walked over to the blonde who he size
d up as having less crust on her than the other young woman standing beside her. She was taller than five feet, but not by much, and had the smile of an angel wearing too much eye makeup and swap-meet perfume. Axel shushed away the other girl standing near her. “I want two hours of your time, young lady. What’ll it cost me?”
“Two hundred … How about one-fifty,” she said a moment later, negotiating against herself.
“Anything I want?” Axel said. “No hassle. I’m the boss for my two hours.”
“Whatever you say, mister.”
“Forget the one-fifty, I’ll give you the two hundred, but if you resist whatever I want, the deal is off. Agreed?”
She looked at Axel. “You’re the boss.”
“Okay. What’s your name?”
“They call me Lacey ‘cause I wear lots of lacey stuff.”
“I didn’t ask what they called you. I asked your name. I thought we agreed I was the boss? Now are we ready to start this relationship or end it? It’s your call. Makes me no never mind either way.”
“My name’s Hildegard. My family calls me Hillie.”
“Come with me, Hillie. I’m Axel.” They walked until they were outside Mackie’s where he pulled open the door and pointed his head in a way that said, go in. She did. He followed. Mackie looked up from behind the bar and waved. Several others along the bar and three guys at a far table raised a hand or nodded a head. A few also mumbled something Axel couldn’t quite hear.
“Sit down, Hillie.” She turned to face Axel with a confused look on her face. “Here’s where we’re spending our two hours. Order whatever you want from the menu. It’s over and above your fee. For two hours we’re going to talk. No bullshit. No lies from either of us. You ask me whatever you wish. I’ll do the same. Straight talk for two hours. Can you handle this without going all bratty on me?”
“What do you mean, bratty?”
“You know. The attitude you gave your parents before you ran away. Shrugs. Looks at the floor. Pouts. Lies. Telling them they don’t know or don’t understand. That attitude won’t fly with me. If our relationship is gonna work, we’ll do it with straight talk. No meanness for meanness sake. We’re equals. We’ll talk that way. I hold nothing back. You hold nothing back. You game or do you want to skip lunch and hit the streets looking for a guy who only wants to get in your pants or to get you in his? That’s not me. I wanna get in your head. Decide now, before we order.”
She looked down a moment, then lifted her head and looked directly at Axel. “I’m in.”
“No rebellious teenager?”
“I don’t think you’re a very nice man, Axel. What kind of a name is Axel anyway?”
“Your name is Hildegard and you’re judging my name?” Hillie smiled. “Now that’s better,” Axel said. “And, by the way, my being a nice man was neither part of what you offered on the street nor what I accepted. I’m the boss. That means I can be a nice man or not. You’re free to form your own opinion but keep it to yourself. Last warning, if you can’t handle it, storm back out onto the street where you’ll go hungry, work harder, likely make less, and feel crummy doing it. This here’s fish or cut bait time, girly.”
Hillie opened her menu. Axel didn’t need the menu. He knew it by heart.
After a few minutes, Mackie, an average-sized man of around sixty, with a gut that allowed his belt buckle to live in the shade, came from behind the bar and stopped at their table. “What’ll it be, Axel?”
“First, say hello to my new friend. This is Hildegard. Her friends, which she has temporarily allowed me to be, call her Hillie.”
“Hi, Hillie. Welcome. My friends call me Mackie and if you’re Axel’s friend, you’re my friend.”
“Hi, Mackie. I’m pleased to know you.”
“One tip, don’t play checkers with this old scruffer. He cheats.”
“Axel,” Hillie looked shocked. “I’m getting a different impression of you now.”
“I wouldn’t cheat if Mackie played an honorable game like chess.” Hillie perked up when she heard Axel say that. “Do you play?” he asked. She nodded. “You any good?”
“Probably not any more, I used to play with my dad, after school at his office.”
“Let me turn that blind some,” Mackie said, “get the sun out of your eyes.” He walked over to the window.
“Seriously, do you like to play chess?”
“Love it. I used to anyway.”
“Wanna play now?”
“It’s your two hours, remember? You’re the boss,” Hillie said, sipping the water Mackie had brought to the table.
“No. Chess is an honorable game. Nobody is forced to play chess. At least they shouldn’t be. Only if you want to.”
“I’d love to play, Axel. It’d be like old times, but where?”
“Right here. Mackie’s got board games.” Axel looked over to Mackie who was back behind the bar and wiggled his hand in their form of visual shorthand.
A moment later, he brought over a chessboard and the pieces. “You two gonna order now or wait till after your game?”
“Now,” Axel said, “the lady is hungry. We’ll get started then finish after we eat.”
Hillie ordered a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich and Axel ordered a crab louie.
“Do you want your BL&T Axel style or traditional?”
Hillie looked at both men. “What’s Axel style?”
“With chunky peanut butter,” Mackie said, “rather than mayo or any other spreads.” Hillie nodded and smiled. Mackie smiled back and then said, “Sweet tea for both of you?” Hillie looked unsure what that was. Mackie explained. “It’s a Southern name for iced tea sweetened.”
“Yes, please,” Hillie said. Axel nodded. Mackie left.
“Mackie has hard hands, but a big soft smile,” Hillie said. “He seems to be a friendly man.”
Axel smiled and nodded. “Okay, Hillie,” he said. “Our food won’t be here for about ten to fifteen minutes. We can get a good start on the game.” They set up the pieces and Axel put one pawn of each color in each of his hands while he held them below the table.
Before Hillie picked one to start their game, she asked, “Is there anything you want to say to me before we start our game?”
“You wear way too much eye makeup. It cheapens you and you’re too pretty to do that to your eyes.” Hillie said nothing, just pointed toward Axel’s right hand. He opened it to reveal a white pawn. She moved the center piece from her front line forward one space to start the game.
After eight or ten moves apiece, Mackie brought their food. He looked at the board and smiled. “I see you got yourself in a real match, Axel. I think the little lady has an edge at the moment.”
“Whatdaya know, Mack? Get out of here and leave us alone.” When he left, Axel turned to Hillie. “While we eat, I want your life history. Where you were born. A fair bit about each of your parents and brothers and sisters. Then why you dropped out of school. Not the reason you told your friends back home, but the reason you kept to yourself. Why you ran away. I figure you’re what, seventeen, eighteen?” She nodded when Axel said eighteen. “You got through the eleventh grade maybe?” She nodded again. “You’re no dummy, that’s obvious. So I want the why. Remember our agreement.” Hillie nodded. “Okay, let’s have it. Pull no punches. Tell it straight.”
Chapter 8
By late afternoon, I was knocking on General Whittaker’s front door. Charles opened it and led me into the study. On the way, I glanced up the stairwell. Karen Whittaker was neither favoring the banister nor me. When I entered, the general was watching one of his family VCRs. He pointed out his son, Ben, who had died in the engagement known as Desert Storm, and Eddie as a small boy. He used the remote to turn it off, put the tape back in its container and that onto the shelf.
“Well, you didn’t come to watch an old man wallowing in family pictures. Do you have a report for me?”
“General. I lost a good part of today learning a big piece of this story that y
ou didn’t bother to tell me. The witnesses against Eddie were paid, so it figures his alibi was also bought. For the alibi, I figure you were the buyer. Wasting my time hurts both of us.”
“Sit down. I see you didn’t wear a tie today. I like the look.”
“Folksy doesn’t fit you, General. Why didn’t you tell me that you paid someone to get Eddie released?”
“Well, Mr. Kile. You are a resourceful man. The police never learned what you have in the first day.”
“Whom did you pay? How much? Why?”
“The why is easy. Eddie’s innocent.”
“That dog don’t hunt, General. To some degree you’re questioning his innocence or I wouldn’t be here. So, why am I here?”
“Like I told you. I’m coming to the end of my time. I need to know, absolutely know. I always have believed him innocent and nothing has happened to change that belief. But I don’t want to meet my maker while I’m still pushing away any doubt at all.”
“Okay, that’s why, but what about whom?” I repeated, “And how much?”
“The who, I don’t know. How much, two million.”
“Before or after Eddie was released?”
“After. I refused to pay until she—”
“She?”
“It was a woman who called me to make the offer and arrange the payoff drop. On some level, the voice seemed familiar. I keep rerunning that voice in my mind, but I’ve never been able to place it. It stays just beyond reach.”
“Okay. You were saying?”
“I refused to pay until she proved she could get Eddie released and the charges dropped. She agreed, telling me that Eddie would not live a week if I didn’t pay.”
“Where and how did you pay?”
“She instructed me to contact my bank immediately after Eddie’s release to assure they had time to configure the money the way she demanded. I was to pick it up near closing time on the Friday after Eddie had been released with the charges dropped. I was to speak only with my personal banker and not disclose why I wanted the money. The fact that Eddie had been released had been in all the papers so the bank apparently didn’t connect my wanting the money with his predicament. The cash had to be in unmarked bills. She insisted that half of it be in hundreds, the rest in twenties, and nothing smaller, no fifties. I was told that if the bills were marked, Eddie would die. I was instructed to go and get the money alone. Apparently, she didn’t want any younger men with me. I still drove then. Not often, but it wasn’t a problem.”
