Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  "Not an easy thing to do, though I've had some luck with clients who've had a similar problem by asking them to 'become' each character in their dream. Each element in the dream, as well. The way this works is, if they dream a dog is pursuing them down a street, I ask them to tell me how they felt about being the person who was being chased. What emotions they were feeling. Then, I ask them to imagine themselves to be the dog. What would they feel if they were the dog? I then ask them to tell me how they would feel as the street itself. How would it be to have dogs and humans run along your street?" Calder looked at Z. Saw something that made him grin again. "I know it sounds crazy, but I've had good results with this method."

  Calder took a thoughtful sip of tea before putting down the glass. "Something's going on when you're having bad dreams. Imagining yourself to be each part of the dream can unlock what's causing the dream in the first place. Once you know what's bothering you -- it can be something of no real importance -- bad dreams seem to go away."

  "Thank you," Z said. There was, after all, nothing else to say. Even though what Calder was recommending probably wouldn't work, he owed Calder for trying to help. "That it, then?"

  "Not ... entirely."

  Calder hunched forward some more, this time putting his forearms on the table. Behind the man's enlarged blue eyes, Z could almost "hear" the Doctor's fine mind whir.

  The dinner noise in the rest of the cafe was lessening, diners finished, standing, drifting down the aisles to pay their checks, Z now afraid Dr. Calder would say something embarrassing in the increasing quiet.

  The chubby professor, continued -- loudly. "If imagining yourself to be the various elements of your dreams doesn't give you relief," Dr. Calder enthused, so pleased to be able to offer yet another suggestion, "we can try hypnotism. I can induce you to dream and have you tell me about what you're dreaming as you're actually doing it. Sometimes, that can be helpful. You get more detail that way. After all, much of what we dream is lost upon awakening."

  Z nodded, seeming to agree but wanting no part of hypnosis. Certainly didn't want to remember more of his dream's details.

  "Another thing I tell clients," the irrepressible professor added, "is that everything gets better if they take charge of their lives. I tell them to act. Fear, is an incapacitating emotion. When we're afraid, we tend to pull within ourselves. In turn, doing nothing, we never face down our fears. What I would say is, do something. Take charge of your life. Don't just sit around feeling sorry for yourself. Make decisions. And follow them up. Tell yourself you will do something. Then do it. Taking action, even about small things, will eventually convince your subconscious mind that you're solving your problems. And the nightmares should diminish."

  Z nodded.

  Do something.

  Z liked that better than the other hocus-pocus Calder had spouted.

  Calder smiled again in his friendly way. "Now that the session is over, do I get to ask some questions?" His grin widened as Z nodded. "Like, are you solving any interesting cases at the moment?"

  "Nothing, but ...

  "But?"

  Suddenly, Z knew Calder was right. Z had been drifting. Letting events rule him. Letting people get the better of him: Jewell, Jamie, Susan, Scherer, Harry Grimes. Z would take charge again. And there was no time like the present to begin!

  "I've been offered an ... opportunity ... to work for an established detective firm. Be the north branch."

  "And would you like that?"

  "I'd have to hire people. Part-time. Broaden what I can offer." Calder just looked at him, the psychologist able to listen as well as to talk. Z liked that about him. "And I was wondering if ...?" Z paused. Stuck again.

  "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean." Calder wrinkled his forehead. Brushed again at his unruly shock of straw-colored hair.

  "You said, to Dr. Furlwangler, that you were interested in the detective business. That it was ... exciting."

  "True enough."

  "I was wondering if you would work for me. Part-time."

  "Me! A detective?" Calder was shocked. "But what could I do?"

  "Certain types of jobs. Talking to educated people. Going to upper-class parties. You could do those kind of things better than I could."

  "I ... suppose," Calder said after a moment. "But ... don't you have to have some kind of muscle to be a detective? Be able to break into houses. That kind of thing?"

  "You'd do nothing illegal." Z almost added that "stretching the law" was his job.

  "I have to confess. I like the sound of it. If I could do the work, that is. Rather like Halloween. Sneaking around in the dark. Playing pranks on people." Calder laughed. "Of course, I've got a job at the college."

  "Just an evening now and again. Like going to a party, maybe. Seeing who's there."

  "I could do that. The one thing a college professor has is spare time. Not much money to do anything with it, though."

  "As for money ..." Z began doubtfully.

  "Not important. It's the fun of it that counts. The very idea that I could be a P.I. -- romantic."

  And that was where they'd left it.

  As for Z, he was determined to give Calder's suggestion a try. Z had been drifting. Thinking too much and acting too little. Whatever else, Z was going to get back in the game again. This time as a player instead of a punching bag!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 20

  It had been a hard two days. Thinking was always hard; thinking about planning, even harder. (An early payoff was that Z's nightmares had let up a little. At least, those he remembered.) Now, with a warm, end-of-August rain pelting his grimy office window, Z was ready to kick some ass!

  His early plans completed, feeling the small pleasure of sitting in his own dilapidated chair behind his own dilapidated desk, he reached for his own dilapidated phone.

  Picking up the age-dulled black receiver, Z dialed the first of the series of numbers he'd need, numbers sticking in his mind like burrs to a cowboy's chaps. (He'd heard that expression in a B-western when he was a child.)

  One ring. Two. Three.

  Ten 'till nine was a good time to begin phoning, was Z's thought, particularly if he made his calls in the right sequence. Late enough for early risers to be up; too early for them to have left the house for the day's rat race. As for this call, while he might not get his man, Z would at least be able to start the process.

  "Bateman College, how can I help you?"

  "Social Science department."

  "One moment, please."

  Another ring. Then another ...

  "Social Science department," said the steel-cold voice of the department's sergeant-of-a-secretary, her frosty tone declaring she'd refuse to buy any student's excuse for missing class that started with: "There's been a death in the family."

  "Dr. Calder."

  "Dr. Calder is in class. This is the beginning of the fall semester, you know."

  "Could I leave a message?"

  "You one of his students?"

  "No."

  "Oh." A softer "Oh" since Z might be someone of more stature than a lowly student. Like a book salesman. "If it's really important, I could type a message." Said with a put-upon sigh.

  "Have Dr. Calder call Bob Zapolska. He has my number."

  "I'll tell him."

  "When?"

  "When he comes back to the office after his class."

  "And when will that be?"

  "I don't have control of his movements you know. I can't make him show up when he's supposed to."

  "Appreciate it," Z said, hanging up before the woman could say another irritating thing.

  Z picked up the phone. Dialed Jamie's apartment from memory, her school not starting until after Labor Day.

  Four rings. "What?"

  "Jamie. Z."

  "Shit!"

  "I need you," he said, by way of clarification.

  "Sure. That's what they all say. A man will screw you. Not call for weeks. Then breathe sweet-nothings in
to the phone. 'I need you, baby. I can't live without you.'"

  "Shut up!"

  "What!?"

  "I said, shut up!"

  Followed by a long pause. Jamie, trying to digest the unexpected insult.

  "Listen, buster ...." But that was all she could choke out, Jamie so stunned she actually shut up.

  Women were strange. If you treated them nicely, they ran all over you. If you treated them badly, they came back for more. Not always. But more often than not. "I'm offering to pay you," Z said, trying to make peace.

  "What!? I've never been so insulted in my life! I'm not that kind of girl and I've never been that kind of girl."

  Oh, oh. Quickly, Z rushed in to repair the damage. "I didn't mean that. I don't want to have sex with you."

  "Are you trying to insult me!?"

  "What I mean is, I need your skills. As a P.I., I need your special talents."

  "Oh .... That."

  "That."

  Silence on the line. "What did you have in mind?"

  "Got a case I'm working on. Can't do it by myself. You know ... things ... I don't."

  "You'd have to be pretty dumb not to have noticed that," she said dryly, still not knowing what to make of the new Z.

  "Yeah," Z admitted. "Not much money. Not to start."

  "I work for you? As a P.I.?"

  "Part-time. This and that. Assist me."

  "Don't get your bowels in an uproar. I don't mean to take your title from you." She laughed. Was OK again. "For starters, how about paying me for all the help I've given you so far?"

  "No dice."

  "I figured that."

  "It's yes, then?"

  "Depends. Though working for a private dick does have appeal."

  Z almost said shut up again. But thought better of it. "What I got in mind is a small job. To see if you like it."

  "To see if I can cut it, don't you mean?" Jamie was a hard lady to get the better of. Z was counting on that.

  "Got some other problems to work out first. You'll hear from me soon."

  Z hung up. Took a quick look to see if the big hand on his "Mickey Mouse" watch was pointing up. Found that it was.

  If Z remembered when classes changed at Bateman, Calder should be calling any time now, Z wanting to stay off the phone when the professor was trying to get through.

  Folding his arms, resting them on the heavy oak desk, Z laid his head down. Though he'd been getting a little more sleep, chasing off nightmares was a formidable task.

  The phone rang. As he knew it would.

  He picked up it. "Z."

  "Calder, here. What's up? Need me for a caper?"

  Caper? Z winced -- remembered when he used to feel "caperish" about the job. At the beginning. Before he'd seen ... too much.

  "Maybe," Z said.

  "Maybe?" Calder sounded disappointed.

  "You seemed ... uncertain."

  "I was ... a little. I've never done anything like this before."

  "Maybe practice is what you need."

  "Practice?" Calder was puzzled.

  "If you decide to help me, your part would be going places I can't. Finding out facts easy for you, difficult for me."

  "Right. That's what I'd understood."

  "I don't have need for you now. Maybe not for some time." Z paused to let the psychologist think about that. "The fact is, when I would need you, I'd have to be certain you both wanted to do the work and that you ...."

  "Could do the work." Calder was quick on the uptake.

  "Right. That's where I got my idea about practice. Like training in the military." Z wasn't doing much of job of explaining. With a mind like Calder's, though, Z didn't have to be letter-perfect. "I'd like to give you an ... assignment."

  "The teacher gets to do homework," Calder said with a laugh.

  Sharp. Very sharp. "Right. And here it is. Just for practice, I'd like you to find some information about someone."

  "Who?"

  "The type of person you have access to. For instance, a colleague."

  "I'd hate to ... spy ... on a friend," Calder said hesitatingly.

  "I see that." Z paused, as if to think this objection over. "How about someone you don't know? Better yet, how about an ... enemy?"

  "Sounds right. But who?"

  "Here's the drill. As practice, and to see if you like this sort of thing, find out about the dean."

  "Dean?"

  "The Vice Chancellor of Incremental Augmentation Services."

  "Ashlock."

  "Ashlock."

  "Find out what about him?"

  "Age, home phone number, address, marital status, birthday. Plus his daily routine. Follow him. See where he goes. And when."

  "Shadow him." Calder had seen too many gangster movies, Z decided. "But ..." Calder, turning serious, "I can't follow him all the time. As I said, I've got classes to teach."

  "No problem," Z said quickly. "There are other ways to discover where the dean is when you're tied up."

  "I could ask someone if they'd seen Ashlock during the hours I'm teaching."

  "You're going to be a natural," Z said, feeling Calder needed all the encouragement Z could provide.

  "When do you want this info, tough guy?"

  Calder had just morphed into Bogart. "A couple of days."

  "Number one son on the job, Pop." A switch to Charlie Chan.

  And that was that conversation.

  Z looked at his watch. Time for an early lunch at the Pizza Hut. Satisfy the inner man with an individual double-pepperoni pizza and glass of Diet Coke. You just couldn't beat the grease in pizza as a cheap fill-up.

  After lunch, Z went to QuikTrip at 72nd and Antioch to put gas in the Cavalier.

  Inside, waiting in the short line to pay the clerk, coming out again into the midday heat, Z checked his watch. ... A little early for the next call, but what the hell. Z knew he wasn't going to complete it anyway.

  Pulling away from the pumps, Z turned right to nose the Cavalier in beside the QuikTrip public phone at the end of the pump island. Getting a quarter from his pocket, Z reached out the driver side window to hook off the chrome-plated receiver and jingle the coin in the pay phone slot.

  Getting a dial tone, he pushed the stainless steel number buttons.

  Ring.

  Picked up. Always on the first ring.

  "International Imports." As Z had come to expect, the voice was "older woman" classy.

  "I'd like to speak to John Dosso, please,"

  "I'm sorry sir, but no one of that name works for International Imports."

  "Tell him a high school friend called."

  "I'm sorry sir, but no one of that ...."

  Z hung up.

  Always the same.

  Time to go to the office.

  Exiting QuikTrip's lot, he turned left on 72nd, then south on Antioch. Went East at the shopping center. Crossed Vivion. Then drifted down bucolic Chouteau to the shabby rehab where he parked, entered the building, and continued to limp down the left hall and into his office.

  Sagged back in his "executive" chair again, patting his sweaty forehead and neck with an old handkerchief he'd scratched out of the sticking desk drawer, Z decided he couldn't make any more calls just yet. No way to do that until Calder provided additional information ....

  The phone rang.

  "Z."

  "Call ...." Followed by the number where Z could reach John, Z off on another trip to a pay phone, the nearest one in the Antioch Shopping Center.

  "Hi there, Z-man! And where might you be, this beautiful day?" The perfectly predictable question John always managed to work in.

  "Pay phone. Antioch Center."

  "Good. Shopping never hurt anybody. Until you buy something." John was in a good mood which should help matters along.

  "Need a favor."

  "So you're collecting already, are you?" Silence telling him he was right, John Dosso continued. "I have to tell you, that's not like you, Z. You never let me do anything for you
. Oh, little things. A length of dynamite fuse here, a little black powder there, a few phony licenses ...."

  "Glad you reminded me."

  "Reminded you of what?" John was not used to be interrupted.

  "I need a little more fuse."

  "Wha'yu do with the last coil I got you? Blow up a bridge?"

  "No."

  "Somebody's house, then. Or a car? I saw on the TV that a pusher had his car blown up, along with whoever was driving. There weren't enough pieces left to tell who was who. Shocking waste of plastique, if you ask me. But if you did that hit, you got connections even I don't know about. If that's the case, you don't need to ask me for favors no more. If that hit's your work, I'll be asking you for favors." John laughed. "But I won't ask. I'm the soul of discretion. In my business, you got to be. Or you end up like those poor dumb fucks. Litterin' the countryside." He paused to catch a wheeze of breath. "I'll send you some in what they used to call a plain brown wrapper. Remember that? When your sex magazines came to you in a plain brown paper? So's the mailman don't blab it all over the neighborhood you were reading that kind'a filth? Except that it was a dead giveaway when mags came in plain brown wrappers?"

  "Thanks."

  "So, what else you got in mind?"

  "A party."

  "What kind of party? We got parties with girls in the cake. Also machine guns in the cake, depending on what kind of surprise you got planned. We got necktie parties. Where the prize is getting to wear a necktie attached to a tree. There's your crack parties. Hooker parties ...."

  "That kind."

  "What kind?" Z had long been under the impression John talked mostly for others. That he didn't listen to himself all that much.

  "Hooker party."

  John paused. Then giggled. "I'm shocked!" he continued, in mock surprise. "You, an upstanding member of the community? But maybe that's what's wrong. You got an upstanding member that's giving you trouble. What's the matter? Not knocking enough pieces of ass off that sexy girl of yours?"

  "For a friend."

  "Lemme get this straight. You're using your favor to stage a party for a friend?"

  "Sure."

  "A party where you need some 100% race horses."

  "Don't have to be of that quality."

  "Fifty-dollar whores do you?"