Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  Z shook his head.

  "If you're not diddling her, how'd you run into her?"

  "Friend of mine asked."

  "You're friend is having himself a hell of a good time, is all I can say."

  "She belong to you?"

  "I wish she did. But no. She's an independent. Don't know just how she manages that. Probably by servicing big-time clients. Judges, politicians."

  It didn't seem that Carrara Marble had a Kunkle connection. Z hadn't thought so, but ....

  "Funny thing about the Marble broad is she's a dyke. But then, a lot of whores are, low class to high. Makes them more reliable. Not likely to take off with a rich john."

  The steam let out of the Carrara Marble topic, they sat in silence for awhile.

  "Looking good," Z finally said, feeling he should say something.

  "Yeah. You noticed? That's because I've got me a little secret. Well, not a secret to the in-crowd, but you haven't heard it yet." John grinned, like in the old days. "I'm retired."

  "What?"

  "You heard me right. I'm retired. As of three days ago." Z gave John a hard stare. "Now don't look like that. The trouble is, you don't know the business. All anybody knows is what they get from the movies. In the movies it's Godfather this and Godfather that. But that was in the big, bad olden days. It's not like that anymore. The days of the mustache Petes are gone. Today, we got investments. Legit investments. Stocks and bonds. Movies. Buildings. Farms, even. Got health insurance. Major medical. For years, I've had me a Keogh plan.

  "So I got out. With what I've skimmed, I'll do good. Going to retire to someplace where the sun burns the cold out of my goddamn bones in the wintertime. Florida. The Bahamas. Live the good life. Hell, why not?"

  "Retire?"

  "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that the organization don't let its members retire. But you're wrong. Not so many years ago, you'd have been right. But all that's changed." John grinned again; white teeth flashing. "Yeah. Going to retire to the sunny south. Me and my wife."

  "Wife?" John Dosso was full of surprises.

  "May be a little problem there," John admitted. "But I'm working on it. She's still an attractive woman. And, I'll tell you something you probably already know. A man don't need so many cuties after he gets past a certain age. A man gets tired of explaining every little thing to some twenty-year-old-bimbo who thinks the world started the day she was born. You want to talk about a movie you saw, and since it was in the 70's, it's before her time. Makes a man feel old."

  John turned to the side to reach the end table; took a cigar out of an embossed-silver box. Havana, no doubt. Chewing on the tip to make a hole, he produced a kitchen match from the same box, struck the match on his pants, and took his time lighting the stogie, after it was lit to his satisfaction, puffing a blue contrail toward the ceiling.

  With the same care, he finished the routine by blowing out the nearly burned up match and depositing it in a crystal ashtray.

  "For awhile there," he said, settling back, watching the smoke rise, "it looked like my wife might be interested in .... But that's over. Nothing to it anyway."

  "Well ...," Z said, trying to think of a way to say he had to go.

  "Before you rush off to whatever pissant business you're chasin' these days, you got to have a drink with me. 'Cause somebody should. To celebrate my retirement. My wife don't drink. And I know you don't either. But, to honor my retirement ...?"

  "Sure."

  "Got this bottle special, from the man who's moving up to my spot in the organization. Marco Minghetti. A high and mighty prick if there ever was one, but what do I care? He hosted the retirement party for me. Everybody of importance was there. Presented me with this bottle of expensive booze as a parting gift."

  "Ashtraying" the smoking Havana, hoisting his bulk off the love seat, John went to the sideboard, a fancy-looking, labeled bottle on top the workspace, still with a blue party ribbon around the bottle's neck. Holding up the dark container, John looked at the sticker.

  "Malvasia Solera: 1863." Beats the shit out of me what that is, except for it being Madeira."

  Getting a silver extractor from a drawer, twisting in the corkscrew, John pulled the cork with a hollow pop. "Don't like newfangled gadgets like these most of the time," John said, getting a couple of small snifters from the sideboard shelf, "but it's better than having the cork break off in the stem, old as this bottle is."

  Splashing a little of the liquor in each glass, John set down the bottle and brought the brandy glasses over to Z, giving Z one of them, John returning to sit on the sofa.

  Z lifted the glass of dark brown liquid. Smelled ... hazelnuts, orange rind, prunes, figs .... And ... something he didn't like.

  "Don't," Z said as John raised his glass.

  John looked over at him, puzzled.

  "Don't like the way it smells."

  John took a whiff. Shook his head. Set the glass down near the ashtray on the end table beside his chair. "You suppose it's gone bad?"

  Z shrugged.

  John laughed again -- this time without enthusiasm. "Just to be on the safe side, I know somebody who's got a testing lab. I can find out."

  "Good." Z stood.

  "I'll see you out," John said.

  So ended the evening. Except that, as Z was walking down John's immaculate walk, past the perfectly trimmed bushes and the domesticated trees, he wondered, again, even in these modern times, if a mob man had the option to retire.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6

  Because Susan's bastard of an insurance company had plans to work her all day Saturday and halfway through the night, they graciously decided to let her have a long lunch.

  Trying to make the best of it, Z had a suggestion about how they could use the time for something more interesting that eating, Susan vetoing that idea. Said she'd be too tired to go back to work.

  Instead, they'd made a phone date to have lunch at Rembrandt's, one of the classier places to eat North-of-the-river.

  Since it would save time, Susan drove her own car to the eating establishment, arriving just as Z nosed the Cavalier into the parking area nearest the front.

  Meeting in the lot, they walked up the brick path, past carefully manicured flower beds, turning right to step onto the porch.

  Built out in the country, only a whisper of traffic on Barry Road serving as a reminder that this wasn't the nineteenth century, Rembrandt's was a funny kind of place. Constructed solely as a restaurant, it was designed to look like an old house converted into a restaurant. Go figure.

  Inside the lobby -- featuring dark woodwork and spindle-backed chairs -- they waited for the pretty young woman behind the counter to get off the reservation phone and seat them.

  To the right, sweeping up, then cutting back to a bannistered balcony, was the grand stairway, the second floor used for private parties. On the wall, slanting up the steps, were oil reproductions of -- what else? -- Rembrandts. "The Man in the Gold Helmet" was the only one of the fakes Z recognized by name.

  Finished making the reservation, the white gowned hostess led them through the arch to the left and into the place's main dining room, the lady escorting them past other luncheoneers??, seating Susan and Z in a cozy nook, framed prints of Rembrandt engravings to either side.

  The table's centerpiece was a vase of artificial flowers, that decorative touch enough to add a dollar to the bill. Linen tablecloth -- another buck. The tableware -- Z looked -- was genuine Roger's silver plate -- an additional 25 cents.

  A jacketed waiter brought the over-sized, leatherette menu, complete with wine list -- another 50 cents, at least.

  Not that Z didn't like to eat at Rembrandt's. It was just that he objected to paying for what he couldn't eat. (Women, on the other hand, liked classy places. Having as good a meal, with twice the food at half the price -- but served at Mom's Eats -- turned women off.)

  Susan ordered a Coke and a salad. Z asked for iced tea and the pork chop (in
a delicate mustard sauce,) hoping when it said pork chop it meant two pork chops. He knew better, but ....

  After the waiter's deferential withdrawal, Susan began to babble, not normally her style. "... and so I said, if someone files a claim, the letter should first go to correspondence ..."

  This morning's paper had nothing new to add about the Kunkle death. Nothing to say about it at all, in fact. And that was that. The poor little man's memory would, forever, languish in the "open case" file -- Z thinking that was as good a fate as that of a rich man buried in the family vault.

  Susan continued to jabber. A sure indication that something she wasn't talking about was bothering her.

  The service was slow, Rembrandt's boast about fresh food meaning that, even now, someone in back was chasing the pig intended to provide Z's pork chop. Maybe, if Z had ordered a more easily catchable chicken ....

  "... trouble is that, with women of talent able to have exciting careers today, the leftover jobs like secretary get the dregs. It used to be that a hotshot secretary could out think -- to say nothing of out type and out spell -- her boss. Now, we've got nothing but sweet young things who can't spell CAT, to say nothing of being able to find it in a dictionary. If they don't ...."

  Worker inferiority, was a Susan theme. Verbal diarrhea, Z's father would have called it. Running off at the mouth.

  Z's love affair with Susan was increasingly difficult. They rarely saw each other -- where it counted. Until recently, they'd been able to alternate weekends, one Saturday or Sunday at Susan's apartment, the next weekend at Z's place. (Z's apartment was crummy, sure. Purple linoleum had gone out of style sometime in the 50's. What counted, though, was being together.)

  Z didn't much care for Susan's apartment, either.

  Too clinical.

  Too modern.

  Too cold.

  But once in bed ....

  Thinking about bed reminded Z of Jamie Stewart, the girl rating quite a number of second thoughts to be truthful. And about her threat to meet Susan, to say nothing of Jamie's outrageous demand to see the very bed where Z and Susan made love.

  Z had also been trying to make sense of what he'd discovered in Howard Kunkle's house. Funny, how a number of little things that escaped you when you first saw them, came back to haunt you later. For instance, Howard Kunkle's money. Z had put it back in the secret drawer. (All of it except what he'd taken to defray Bud's expenses for hiring Z.) Far from big money, but .... And yet, Teddy Newbold had said that no money was found in the house.

  Leading to the next, logical question. Who swiped the dough? The sensible answer: the cops who'd tossed the place.

  It was the rest of the items he'd found in the secret drawer that troubled him. In the first place, Z had to ask himself why Kunkle had taken the time and trouble to conceal what looked like mixed junk. A bunch of card decks -- new and old. A tiny mirror. Super glue. "Sunglasses." A bottle of wood alcohol.

  An odd assortment, Z thought.

  "Z? ... Z!?"

  "What?" It hurt Z's mind to be reined in that hard.

  "You weren't listening. You never listen to me."

  "That's not true." And it wasn't. Z sometimes listened to Susan, though it was a fact that he'd rather look at her. What man wouldn't? She was gorgeous. Rich, brown skin. Fiery blue eyes. Shiny, rumpled-curly, medium-length hair. White teeth, just crooked enough to put a man at ease. And that was just her face. She had a neck to wake up a vampire who'd been dead a thousand years. Plus a figure, one sight of which would clean out monasteries. Today, she was wearing a white, raglan-sleeve sweater dress, large white buttons down the front. (Z liked dresses that announced what you had to do to get them off.) Below, he could feel Susan's knee against his, Susan's legs long enough to foster under the table conspiracies.

  "What I was telling you," Susan was saying, "was why I'm having salad today. It's not so much the calories you eat that make you put on weight, it's the fat content."

  Glorious Susan was talking about dieting? "I like you the way you are."

  Susan frowned and shook her head.

  If that wasn't the right thing to say, what was?

  "Speaking of losing a little weight, you could stand to take off some flab," Susan countered, rounding on him.

  "Me?"

  "Big surprise." Susan scowled again.

  Z had gained a few pounds over the years but found the extra weight useful for intimidation. "It's not how much you eat, it's what you eat," Susan lectured. "You practically live on peanut butter. Do you know what the fat content of peanut butter is?"

  "No." Z's tone saying, enough.

  Susan frowned again.

  She was cute when she sulked that way, wrinkling up her classic nose. Cute: one of the words Susan had taught Z not to say.

  "It's just that it doesn't help me to lose weight if you're not supportive."

  "OK."

  "OK, what?"

  "I'm supportive."

  "I guess that'll have to do."

  Susan sighed. Drummed her fingers on the table. She still wasn't happy, but was trying to make the best of it. "So, tell me what you've been doing lately."

  "Nothing."

  "That's just like you, Z," Susan growled. "You don't talk to me about anything. Here you have this interesting job, and you won't talk to me about it."

  "Not interesting."

  "Let me be the judge of that."

  "OK." This was an old quarrel, Susan wanting Z to talk more. About his job. About his life. About ... everything. When she got like that, he had to tell her something.

  "Had some liability work."

  "Go on."

  "Guy claimed to be injured. I followed him. Took some pictures of him playing softball."

  "Yes. My insurance company writes injury policies, though we're more an insurer of big business. What else?"

  "A friend asked me to talk to a man who was hassling him."

  "And ...?"

  "I did."

  "And?"

  "He won't again."

  "Surely, you've been doing more than that."

  This was not the right time -- there would never be a "right time" -- to tell Susan that Jamie Stewart had called, even though Z had turned Jamie down for what she really wanted from him. Men got blamed for giving in to temptation, but never got credit for being virtuous. Z wondered why.

  Oh, yes. Something else he could tell Susan.

  "Got a call from a radio guy."

  "Oh? That's interesting. What did he want?"

  "An interview."

  "Who was it?"

  "Some D.J." Z shrugged.

  "What D.J.?"

  "Some guy from my old class. Name of Dan Jewell."

  "What!? Dan Jewell? Only the hottest shock jock in Kansas City?"

  Z shrugged.

  "The girl next to me listens to his call-in show every morning. He's ... terrible ... but I can't help but overhear, she's got the radio turned up so loud."

  "Ask her to turn it down."

  Z got another of Susan's dirty looks, her face then softening into a smile.

  "And he wants you to do an interview? On what?"

  "P.I.s and crime."

  "Will you?"

  "Will I what?"

  "Do the interview?"

  "I said OK."

  "I'm proud of you, Z!" Said with more enthusiasm than Z had heard from Susan in a long time. "One of your faults is that you're too modest. You need to push yourself more. Be more assertive. Getting on the radio will help you get new clients."

  "Not on the air."

  "No?" Susan was disappointed.

  More than disappointed.

  Testy.

  Something in her life had to be messed up.

  "What's wrong?"

  "What do you mean, what's wrong?"

  "Something."

  Susan shook her head. But didn't say no.

  The waiter came with the food.

  One lonely pork chop, with a dab of slant-cut green beans and a spo
onful of corn casserole, these tidbits cuddled in some tastefully arranged, but inedible, leaves. The "saver" was a basket of hot rolls you could fill up on after you'd inhaled the main course.

  At least Rembrandt's food was good, what there was of it.

  Both starving, they ate in silence, the waiter pouring more tea and bringing Z another glass of Coke.

  After Susan had waved off the waiter's suggestions about dessert, Z tried again. "Tell me."

  Carefully avoiding her problem for an hour -- like women do -- Susan was ready, at last, to "share."

  "It's ... the apartment."

  Z remembered Susan's old apartment where, because Susan's ex kept threatening to kill her, she'd hired Z as a bodyguard. One thing led to another, Z planning a setup, the husband popping up right on cue to make good his threat. That was when Z had been shot in the lung. Bad, but a whole lot better than what had happened to the husband, an undercover cop on that stakeout zapping Susan's ex into the morgue.

  It was in the hospital, and later during Z's recovery, that Susan and Z had fallen in love.

  Because of the bad memories associated with the old apartment, Susan had moved to her new set of rooms in the Bircane complex.

  Could it be that Susan was bored with the Bircane and would find an apartment closer to Z's rooming house? Hope. Hope.

  "Neighbors?" A likely reason for Susan wanting a change.

  "You could put it like that, I suppose."

  What Susan meant by that was anybody's guess.

  She explained. "Not so much neighbors as ... noises."

  "Plumbing?" Even new apartments had such cheap fixtures anymore they didn't hold up.

  "No. Just ... noises."

  Z thought of the many noises offensive to apartment dwellers. In addition to the enthusiastically copulating couple overhead, were creaking floors, rain on poorly insulated roofs, rattling windows, buzzing furnaces, moaning wind, "Bigfoot" pounding up the stairs, and assorted settling sounds. He'd had enough experience in carpentry to know that for every noise, there was a solution. At least, something that could be tried.

  Before he could offer his services as Mr. Fix-it, Susan took another crack at explaining. "Noises. Banging noises. No, not banging. Knocking."