Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  Someone had dropped John off. Or John had come by cab.

  Strange behavior for a man of Johnny Dosso's style.

  All of it -- window tapping, lock picking, traveling by cars unknown -- damn strange behavior! Soon to be explained, Z returning to his apartment to find John waking up, moving around, groaning.

  The first clear sign John was conscious came a minute later when John opened his eyes; felt at the side of his head with one hand.

  "Welcome back," Z said, quietly.

  "Where ...?"

  "Inside."

  "I ... couldn't wake you up. At ...."

  "I know. At the window."

  "Sorry, Z."

  "Sure."

  Old friends didn't need a lot of words to understand each other.

  Z backed off to sit in the old chair across the narrow room. "Trouble?"

  "You got it."

  "Want a drink?"

  "Straight bourbon."

  "Ah ...."

  "That's right." For the first time, Johnny cracked a ghostly smile. "Your sainted Mama. Didn't like for you to drink." John shook his head. Regretted it. "What you hit me with?"

  "Sap."

  "Didn't have to hit so hard."

  "If I'd known you were a dangerous mobster, I'd have shot you."

  "Yeah," John said, trying out another grin.

  "Got Diet Coke. And water."

  "You want to rot my gut? ... OK. Water."

  Z got a glass, cracked some ice from the small fridge's tray, ran the tap, and brought John the glass.

  John drank a little, then set the tumbler down on the new, Walmart coffee table.

  "Nice place you got here," John said as a little joke, waving feebly at the junky room.

  Sitting back in the moldy chair, Z waited.

  "Mostly," John began, thinking as he explained, "it's that I feel so fucking dumb."

  Z waited.

  "That night? The night you came over?"

  Z nodded.

  "You said something was funny about the wine?"

  "Yeah."

  "Right on, my man. I got me a lab guy I did a favor for a long time ago. A favor for a favor, isn't that the way it goes in the movies?"

  Z nodded.

  "Anyway, I got him to test the wine on the QT. Had enough shit in it to kill a horse. Heart attack. Looks genuine."

  In the aftershock of that revelation (though Z had thought it possible,) all Z could think of was a hacked-off horse head in a man's bed. The movies made more reality than they reflected.

  "Dumb. Just so damn dumb." John sighed, looked ... old. He'd always looked older than he was, more so, since he'd made a "lifestyle" out of booze and broads. "And another thing," he said, glancing over at Z, then quickly away. "All that crap about wanting to retire? That's bullshit. Bullshit!" he repeated. "It was him that forced me out."

  "Him?"

  "The guy who doped the wine."

  "Who."

  "Dago dandy, name of Marco Minghetti."

  "Guy who replaced you?"

  "Yeah. How'd you know."

  "Think you mentioned his name."

  Recalling that, John raised a black eyebrow.

  "I knew something wasn't right. You just get an instinct for things like that. Or you don't get an instinct, and you never know what hit you." John shook his head. Carefully. "I got to confess something up front, which I wouldn't to no other man. While I'm always playing it big, I'm not that high in the organization. Gambling. Whores. That don't make money like they used to. These days, it's drugs, where the bread is. And I wouldn't do that kind of work. Me, I never took drugs in my whole life. It isn't healthy." All Johnny did was drink himself blind and smoke his considerable weight in Havanas every year. One man's drugs was another man's relaxation. Still, Z knew what Johnny meant. There were drugs, and there were drugs.

  "Not that there's no money in my end of the business," John continued. "There is. And I made my share. It's just not the kind of coin that lifts a man up the family ladder, you know what I mean?"

  Z did.

  "But, not being ... what was it that punchy fighter kept sayin' in the movie, the old black and white? Oh, yeah. 'I could'a been a contender.' Kept saying that over and over. 'You was my brother and should have looked out for me,' he said. Well, that's what I never was, a contender." John took a wet breath. "The good thing about that was, not being slated to advance kept me from having to put up with wops like Marco, runnin' up my ass. So, anyway, since I wouldn't be much missed, I took the chance. Actually, I was given the opportunity to retire. Minghetti was moving up. I was in the way." He shrugged. "I'd made a pile. I thought, shit, why not? Got no future inside, except making the pile higher. Even living the good life, you can only spend so much. Had me a retirement banquet, just like the fuckin' CEO of a fuckin' bank. Minghetti himself, gave the talk." Johnny would have spit. If there'd been a place to do it. "I figured, if I got through the testimonial without some tommy gun totin' broad popping up from a cake, I was home free. But what I didn't calculate, was my wife."

  "Your wife!?" Z was shocked. Though he didn't really know John's young-looking wife, he'd never have figured her for anything but the discarded helpmate.

  "Not that way. Not the way you think. It's that this bastard took a shine to her, old as she is. Now you know, Z, that the wife and me haven't seen the same bed for maybe ten years. My fault, mostly. But a man's got to be a man, don't he?" Z didn't want to nod, but figured honesty required it of him. "What I figure is that I was right about being able to step down. Where I went wrong is that the bastard thinks that, with me put down for the count, he can waltz into Angelica's bed. He doesn't know Angelica. She'd cut off his greasy balls!"

  Wishful thinking, was what Z thought.

  "So, I don't get the dignity of having my guts splashed around the room. Instead, I'm to have a quiet heart attack from drinking too much of the celebratory wine. My wife don't drink, so the bastard figures he gets just me, and then Angelica falls into his lap in the bargain.

  "So, soon as I find out about the doctored wine, I go turtle. Pull into my shell, so to speak. But the fuck has got somebody on my tail. A tracker. Young tough on the rise himself, I hear. Minghetti had better watch his back, hiring that kind of bopper. So, I'm here. One jump ahead. I been taking cabs. But have got reason to believe there's a dispatcher who's on Minghetti's payroll. The same with rentals. Been so long since I hot-wired a car -- they changed them so much -- I don't know how to do it any more."

  "You want to borrow my car?"

  "Hell no, Z. What would you drive if I did that? Anyway, I'd give you odds that Minghetti knows about you and me. You start taking cabs, and they'll be looking for your car. Trace me that way."

  "You need a lift, then?"

  "Right."

  "You being followed?"

  "Don't think so. But wouldn't want to be here for long."

  "Right."

  "I don't think you're in any danger, Z. I wouldn't do that to you. I took the cab to another block, a couple of streets down, so they don't trace it to you."

  "Should do it." Should, but maybe not.

  "If you take me some place where I could hole up, this whole thing will blow over. If for no other reason, than when the bastard puts the make on my wife, she'll give him what for. That's his real reason for wanting to snuff me. Angelica."

  "Yeah." Z hoped John was right.

  "You do that for me?"

  "Sure."

  "Got a place in mind?"

  "Not luxurious."

  "Hell, that makes no never mind."

  "Maybe, more like a rat hole."

  "Don't figure to be staying there for long. I got me some friends, too. See how Minghetti likes somebody putting the heat on him!"

  "Got money?"

  "Sure."

  "Then let's get, before the marines come busting in."

  * * * * *

  Chapter 15

  It was near noon of the next day when Z spotted the car as he was lea
ving his office.

  Earlier, Z had spent most of that Saturday morning trying to get in touch with Harry Grimes. First, he'd called Deerstalker Detectives and been told that Harry was retired. Z knew that. Also knew it wasn't entirely true. Although Z had tried to explain to the thoroughly stupid receptionist that Z was supposed to do a job for Harry and needed to be told what to do, she wouldn't give Z any information about Harry's whereabouts, to say nothing of Harry's home number.

  After cooling down, Z had to admit that the girl couldn't have helped him, at least with Harry's home phone. No employee -- no matter how dumb -- gave out unlisted numbers. As for Harry, man about town, Z had as good an idea of where to look as the girl.

  After that, Z had called one ritzy golf club after the other, cheerfully subjecting himself to world-class snubs, and still hadn't been able to locate Mr. Grimes. He'd even called back as a "family" member, desperate to talk to Father-Uncle-Brother Harry. Emergency. Death in the family. Stock market crash. Twinkie shortage at the A and P.

  That hadn't worked either.

  Maybe Harry was out of town; if not, he might as well be.

  In between calls, Z thought about last night's encounter with Johnny Dosso. After John had revived enough to travel, they'd agreed on a strategy, the first part, doing a little cosmetic change on John. Borrowing some of Z's clothes -- even a pair of Z's shoes, the shoes fitting better than the shirt and pants -- John "dressed down" to the type of person apt to flop at the flea bag where Z was going to take him.

  Leaving John in the bedroom to admire his new "raiment," turning off all the living room lights, Z left the apartment to scout the neighborhood, Z wanting to make certain no one was shadowing John.

  At last convinced the two of them were the only ones awake in the entire block, Z drove John to the Happy Hollow Inn -- off 3rd and Indiana -- Happy Hollow a low-rent dive; a "Happy-Whore Hunting Ground" where Z had once hidden Susan; an "establishment" whose "survival" hinged on having no knowledge about any of its "guests."

  Though John wasn't pleased by the look of the Happy Hollow, John agreed with the strategy -- even to Z's suggestion that Z burn John's clothes -- Z returning to his apartment about four in the morning to build a fire for John's fancy duds, John's light summer wool suit making quite a stink. Z even tossed Johnny's beautiful shoes into the firebox. (Smelled about as bad.) He'd done this just in case Johnny's "tail" took it into his head to break in to search Z's apartment. Going all out, Z had even sifted the ashes for coat buttons, pants zipper and metal belt hook, going out back to toss these unburnables in the backyard where they'd disappear amongst the rotted paper plates, tin cans, paper bags, bent-up pans, plastic scraps, twisted coat hangers, bicycle parts, jars, hunks of concrete, smashed milk cartons, Z's stack of firewood, rusty lids, gravel, and a few scraggly blades of unmowed grass.

  When Z lost something, he wanted it to stay lost.

  That was last night. This morning, exhausted from the night's nearly fatal combination of bad sleep and no sleep, Z ended the morning by pointing the Cavalier at the Pizza Hut on Oak, intent on better fare for lunch than peanut butter. (Food sometimes substituting for lost sleep, this was not the first time Z had used pizza as a pick-me-up.)

  As usual, he took Chouteau to Vivion, had just made the turn on North Oak when, checking his rear view mirror, he saw "the car" -- one time too many.

  Blue.

  Small.

  Foreign.

  Expensive.

  Not the sort of automobile Z would have chosen for surveillance.

  Too rich.

  Too rare.

  Now tipped to the fact that he'd picked up a "tail," coming up on a signal change, timing it perfectly, Z slid to a stop on a yellow light any normal person would have run; caught the trailing car speeding up to make the light, the car having to slam on its brakes to keep from running up Z's tailpipe, the "tail" coming to a stop a lot closer to Z than the driver wanted to get.

  Sports Jag.

  Called a 2+2, meaning, room in front for two regular-sized people, "plus two" quadruple amputees in back.

  Twelve cylinders.

  Guy driving. Big reflective sunglasses.

  On the next green, the Jaguar lagging back again in hopes Z hadn't "made it," Z was wishing he'd had a chat with John about what the younger mafioso drove these days. Decided he'd just found out.

  Z had no difficulty understanding how the punk had picked up Z's trail, of course; advertising in the Yellow Pages allowed anyone to "let his fingers do the walking" directly to your office. (In that respect, Z envied the "retired" Harry Grimes. With no specific place to be at any given time, Harry was difficult to locate, even for a pro like Z.)

  At last turning in at Pizza Hut, slanting to a stop in a parking space beside the building, Z entered the crowded, red and white eatery, Z needing time to think more than he did to eat.

  A pleasantly plump young waitress taking Z to the only unoccupied red, plastic-padded booth, he ordered a Personal Pan pizza -- sausage, Canadian bacon. and double pepperoni -- and a Diet Coke; passed the waiting time watching fat people load up at the pizza buffet/salad bar. When watching people paled, amused himself by smiling at suddenly terrified children. All the while endeavoring to ignore the over-loud music from the jukebox.

  Only to find he didn't enjoy the pizza when it came. Not that the hand-tossed crust wasn't crunchy. The cheese gooey. The round, thin pepperoni slices glisteny with tasty grease. It was just that, being the center of hostile attention had cost Z his appetite.

  Or maybe it was that he was too tired to either eat or concentrate. In any case, the only conclusion Z reached (as he nibbled off the pepperoni and sausage, leaving the rest) was that he, personally, was not in danger. No way the "Jag" could know Z was the key to Johnny Dosso. Somehow finding out that Z was John's friend, the thug was trailing Z in hopes of locating John; more an act of desperation than conviction.

  Back on Oak, Z found the Jag still there, this time tucked behind larger vehicles.

  Giving Z a choice. The reason -- and Z had a pretty good idea who -- had latched on to Z at the office was that the stalker didn't know where Z lived. Z's alternatives? To lose the Jag, keeping the location of his apartment a secret; or to lead the expensive sports car home, thereby giving the impression Z didn't know he was being followed.

  Debating those options until his turn at 72nd, Z decided that playing dumb was best. Even if he managed to lose his shadow today, Z would have to ditch the Jag every time he left his office in order to keep his residence a secret.

  So Z went home, turning up the alley to park the Cavalier in the open-backed garage.

  Again, predictably, as Z came up the back walk, he saw the Jaguar flash past the front of the house, the driver racing around the block to make certain Z hadn't given him the slip.

  Letting the pursuer know where Z lived was a calculated risk, done in the hope that the tail would think Z had nothing to hide -- in particular, the whereabouts of Johnny Dosso.

  That was that day.

  And restless night.

  The following morning, Z decided there was something else he could do (something he did from then on.) Rig his front door.

  While there were a number of ways to get the same result, Z's favorite was to catch a hair in the edge of the door jam, the "invisible" hair staying put until either Z opened the door or, more to the point, someone made a forced entry in Z's absence.

  Sunday.

  Followed by another routine Monday, Z trying -- and again failing -- to locate Harry Grimes.

  That, plus another bit of business: getting a call from Glenda Cunningham at Old New England Life.

  While Z didn't like insurance companies, he did like Glenda; had been aware of her since high school, Glenda a sophomore when he was a senior.

  From a fifteen-year-old football "groupie," green-eyed Glenda had matured into a trim, medium-sized blond with decent legs. After his divorce, finding Glenda also to be separated, Z had thought about asking h
er out. (This was before he'd met Susan.) But had finally decided Glenda was too old for him.

  Because he was in no mental shape to take on any new business, he'd called Glenda back to turn her down. Z didn't like doing surveillance work for insurance companies, anyway.

  Four more dragging days -- the Jag still back there when Z cared to look -- and it was the weekend, a time reserved for Z and Susan to patch up their somewhat shaky relationship.

  Since Susan had to work overtime all day Saturday, Z had gone to get her at the Bircane that evening, taking her to dinner at a little place where they'd eaten once before: a Mediterranean restaurant down Chouteau. An intimate bistro with miniature tables as part of a decor that included shelves of slender-spouted brass teapots and Aladdin lamps. The walls were hung with pictures of Beirut and Petra and with a primitive-looking flying carpet.

  What really counted, though, was that the cafe had the real thing in eastern Mediterranean cooks and waiters.

  Good, friendly food at a reasonable price. But expensive enough. There was no cheap way of playing up to women.

  As for patching up his relationship with Susan, the conversation over dinner went like this:

  "Nothing's been the same since universal health care came into the picture." Susan. Worrying about what might happen to the damn insurance company. "I mean, it's all very well and good to talk of cutting costs. But then I get to thinking that I'm one of the costs the government would like to cut out. About half the employees at American are actually just record keepers. Simplify the claims process, and they lose their jobs."

  "Too bad," Z said, thinking there was nothing wrong with getting rid of dead wood.

  "A lot of the actuaries spend their time calculating income against outgo, in order to determine -- I know this sounds terrible -- who not to insure. They also calculate when we should refuse to renew a policy, because we might be losing money if we did. If the government says you can't deny coverage to anyone, a lot of actuaries are out of work, too.

  Z was careful not to say what he thought of that "disaster."

  "You have a job with a company long enough, you get to ... love the firm. I know I'm just a little cog in the machine, but I'd hate to see American go down the drain."