Maxwell Street Blues

by Marc Krulewitch

  I awoke feeling something had changed. While chopping vegetables for an early dinner, I searched for arguments why the path to Snooky’s murder should run through Taudrey Tats. Voss wanted Snooky’s book, so he forged some sort of relationship with Audrey? Would Voss resort to murder just to acquire a ledger? Maybe they cut a deal. But for what? What would Audrey require to be a party to murder? And then there was the arguing. What the hell did Audrey and Snooky argue about?

  While I ate my vegetables, Punim devoured a pile of livers and kidneys. When she was done, she jumped onto the other wooden chair at the kitchen table and started grooming herself. I worried about who would take care of her if something happened. Could she survive on crappy commercial cat food? The possibility that someone wanted to kill me produced such thoughts. I was about eighty percent sure it was a bluff, but you never knew. It seemed absurd that my time could be even close to expiring, although I couldn’t deny the feeling that I had drifted into unexplored-life-experience territory. I had dipped my toe into the cold waters of organized crime—twice beaten into unconsciousness, no less—and it really wasn’t that bad. A twenty percent chance of dying? I could live with that.

  The door knocker slammed hard against the strike plate. A smiling dark-haired girl stood in the doorway wearing a denim skirt and a white T-shirt with a picture of Bambi. I knew who she was but her name evaded me long enough for her to exclaim, “L.A.!”

  “Of course,” I said. “How are you?” Her hair was draped over one shoulder.

  “Audrey’s having a little party tonight at the studio, and we want you to come.”

  I hesitated. “Really? What time?”

  “After eight.”

  “When did you get back into town?”

  “Gotta go. I’ll see you later.” As she turned to leave, I saw a tattoo depicting lunar phases running across her neck.

  43

  At nine o’clock Taudrey Tats was crowded with twenty-somethings and younger, most of whom were dressed in black or dark shades of purple and red, and most of whom smoked something. An electric guitar instrumental played just above the din. Outside a light drizzle cooled the air, providing a stark contrast to the hot, smoky studio. I stood inside the door and surveyed the crowd. I spotted Audrey and L.A. in the back talking with two skinny guys wearing black jeans that looked way too tight.

  I made my way along the perimeter of the room toward a cooler loaded with ice, then squeezed past a woman wearing a yellow zebra-print miniskirt and talking to a guy in a nineteenth-century gray military frock coat. It reminded me of a straitjacket with silver buttons. Zebra glanced at me. I smiled. She quickly scanned my linen sport jacket before turning back to the guy and dragging deeply on her cigarette. Most of the people in the room had similar haircuts, as if they all had encountered the same three-year-old playing with scissors.

  Hard lemonade and wine coolers filled an ice chest. On a small table sat gallon bottles of bourbon, gin, and vodka. I took the tallest glass, filled it with ice, and continued my journey. I caught L.A.’s eye. She waved enthusiastically and pointed me out to Audrey, who also started waving.

  “I told you he’d come,” L.A. said. The two guys eyed me suspiciously and turned away; each held a cigarette and a drink in one hand.

  “You’re supposed to pour something over the ice,” Audrey said.

  “You couldn’t have put a few cans of soda in that cooler?” The two guys looked back at me. Both were attempting to grow facial hair. “Did you say anything to your dad?” I asked Audrey.

  “About what?”

  “What do you think? What we talked about yesterday.”

  Audrey appeared confused, then irritated. “Yeah,” she said.

  “You going to tell me how he reacted or what?”

  Audrey looked around the room and then back to me and said, “Why should I tell you anything? What difference does it make?” Her pupils floated in a red spider web. Then she said, “What’re you going to do about it?” She turned around and disappeared into the crowd. L.A. reached for my wrist, stifling my impulse to grab Audrey by the back of the neck.

  “If you’re gonna be here, then be here,” L.A. said and let go. The two guys stared at me as if Uncle Jules had crashed their party.

  I thought of leaving but instead fetched a raspberry wine cooler. Drinking bad Kool-Aid was easy. Ten minutes later, I was on my second bottle, my brain now thoroughly awash in sugar and cheap booze. I leaned against the wall and scanned the room of mostly black, jagged haircuts. Two shaved heads caught my eye. They seemed out of place, but when I moved closer, I saw they both had a number of small tattoos scattered over their skulls. Their faces were pale and scabby. Audrey’s bread and butter.

  “You seem more relaxed.” L.A. looked up at me with that same smile.

  “Where’s your drink?” I said.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “How did you and Audrey become friends?”

  L.A. stared at me thoughtfully. “We watch out for each other. That’s why I’m here. To keep an eye on her.”

  I looked back at the druggies and saw that Audrey was now talking to them. “You didn’t answer my question. And if you really care about her, why don’t you get her away from those meth-heads?”

  “Why would I?”

  “Because they’re sick and dangerous! They’re the walking dead. And why isn’t she more picky about her clients? They’re gonna rob her of everything. She got a death wish or something?”

  L.A. laughed. “You’re drunk on two wine coolers!”

  “I’m a little buzzed, big deal. You’ve been watching me?”

  “I’m looking out for you just as I’m looking out for Audrey.” One of the druggies had left Audrey’s side. I searched the room but couldn’t locate him. I looked back at L.A. and said, “What the hell are you talking about? Why am I here?”

  L.A. just stared at me with that stupid grin and said, “Tell me about all the famous people your family knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, in the old days. When you couldn’t buy alcohol. The Roaring Twenties.”

  “What did Audrey tell you?”

  “I don’t know. Stuff like your family knowing gangsters and being really powerful, making lots of money.”

  “And how did Audrey find out this information?”

  L.A. shrugged.

  “Did she tell you what she was arguing about with Snooky during the weeks before his murder?”

  L.A.’s smile disappeared. “I never saw them argue—not when I was here.”

  “I thought you tell each other everything?” L.A. stared at me either deep in thought or just speechless. I said, “I’m done with this bullshit game. The two of you dance around like innocent little girls playing dress up. Oh, aren’t they cute! And sexy! And, yes, we’re old enough. Do you see life like Audrey does, just one big story to make up as you go along? Can’t deal with reality so you make shit up and hide behind it?”

  Audrey emerged from behind me and stood next to L.A. “Is he having fun yet?” Her bald friend joined her.

  “He’s a crabby drunk,” L.A. said. “And he worries too much.”

  Druggie was smoking a cigarette. I looked at him just as he took a long drag. He blew a cloud of smoke in my face and said, “What’re you doing here?”

  Audrey shook Druggie’s arm and told him to chill out.

  “What the fuck do you care?” I said. I was a tough guy now.

  “You’re that investigator dude. You’re trying to find out who snuffed out Audrey’s bookkeeping bitch.” Druggie then bounced his lit cigarette off my chest.

  I jammed the heels of both hands hard into his bony chest, knocking him into another couple who fell over like bowling pins. I took another step toward my target but was stopped by several hands grabbing my arms and jacket collar. Then I heard a comforting voice.

  “C’mon, Jules,” Susie from Vagabond Boutique said. “Let’s go home.” She took my hand and led me through the commoti
on. I heard Audrey’s voice following us all the way outside to Susie’s car, but I was paying more attention to a sudden wave of nausea than anything I heard. I sat in the passenger seat and closed my eyes while Susie stood on the sidewalk arguing with Audrey. When I opened them again, Susie was in the driver’s seat looking at me.

  “Where do you live?”

  I gave her my address and leaned my head back. She said she had locked the shop and was observing the party from just inside the door. The way kids interacted these days fascinated her. Then she saw me standing with Audrey and the druggie and got the sense that something bad was about to happen.

  “My head’s throbbing.”

  “How much did you drink?”

  “Two wine coolers.”

  She laughed loudly. “Don’t drink much, eh?”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  “What in the world were you doing there?”

  “I was invited,” I said, trying to sound ironic. “Audrey knows more about the murder than she’s telling me. I thought maybe I could catch a slipup if she was stoned.”

  “Any success?”

  “Some. Everything is a game to her. I’m starting to think her little dark-haired friend might know something, too.”

  “Audrey didn’t want you to leave. That’s for sure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, all the way to the car she kept saying, ‘Don’t let him leave yet!’ But I’ve been around long enough to know you didn’t belong in that crowd. I mean, they’re mostly skinny punks, but there was a lot of them and only one of you.”

  She stopped in front of my building. I leaned a bit closer, thanked her, then said, “You have beautiful eyes.” She smiled. “I’m sorry—”

  “For what? You’re a sweet man.”

  I closed my eyes, shook my head a few times. “Nobody has ever called me a sweet man. If you knew me better, I doubt you would, either.”

  “Well, why don’t you get some sleep and then think about whether you want me to know you better.” She was sharp, all right.

  I took the stairs slowly, one at a time, planting both feet then waiting for the nausea to subside before continuing. I was not exactly born to party. Halfway up the flight, I heard the sound of creaking floorboards. Punim only weighed eight pounds. A few more steps and I saw under the crack of my door. A shadow of something moved across the floor. I un-holstered the .40-caliber. Whoever it was showed no fear of being caught. It occurred to me the nausea may have saved my life. The next step released a loud groan that silenced the world except for the murmur of a television from the second floor. The prudent action would be to walk away, call in a burglary-in-progress, and wait outside. The intruder would most likely escape out the kitchen door, or jump out the window into the space between the buildings, or run out the front. But by waiting, I had only a one-in-three chance of an encounter. I didn’t like the odds.

  The jamb had been torn away from the casing. The door opened with a slight nudge from my foot. I shouted that my gun was drawn and suggested the intruder reveal himself to live another day. I pushed the door as far back as I could until it bounced off the hinge pin. I stepped inside, turned on a lamp, then surveyed the living room down the barrel of my Glock, before turning down the hall that led to the kitchen in the back of the apartment. As I stepped past the shadow behind the opened door, a foul but recognizable odor once again assaulted my senses. I swung around just in time for something hard to smash against my wrist and send the gun skidding across the floor. A bolt of pain rocketed through my left side, buckling my knees before a thud on my back sent me all the way down. Conscious enough to realize one more hit to the head might finish me, I managed to wrap my arms around a pair of bony legs and jerk the guy to the floor. I attempted to climb on top of him, but a blow to the left cheekbone knocked me back. I scrambled to the front window where I grabbed the ledge and pulled myself back up. The intruder stood inside the open door with a crazed look in his eyes. I recognized his tattooed skull as one of the scumbags from the party. His right hand was wrapped in some kind of white material.

  “Where’s the money, fucker?”

  “I got eighty bucks in my wallet. You can have it.” I took all the bills out of my wallet and held them out. “Take it and go!”

  “You’ve got a grand somewhere! We all know it.”

  Where do they get this from? “You’re crazy! I don’t keep that kind of money lying around. Just take this cash and get out. Go!”

  He said nothing, just stared, wild-eyed and panting. I tried to locate my gun and thought it might be underneath the recliner. I moved toward the chair, but Druggie stepped closer and raised his white fist. I said, “I’m giving you a chance to get out,” but it was useless. There weren’t enough brain cells between his ears to understand running away was better than beating me to death. I stepped back to put more space between us, and he charged me with his hand held high like a lancer coming in to finish me off. But Druggie failed to consider how the distance between us changed the equation. I waited until he committed himself to the kill and stepped aside to let him put a dent in the drywall. When he turned to me again, I kicked him as hard as I could in the stomach and watched him collapse to the floor.

  I pushed the recliner until I could see the Glock, then called the cops. My left side ached. Druggie lay in the fetal position, moaning. I looked closer at his hand and guessed he had created a plaster-of-Paris fist, something boxers did to cheat. When I heard the police open the downstairs door, I dropped to my knees, slid the gun about five feet away, and raised my hands above my head. Two uniforms entered with their pistols drawn. “I live here,” I said. “I made the call.” One officer knelt beside Druggie and radioed for medical. The other kept his gun out and told me to stand. As I struggled through the pain, Kalijero walked in and ordered the uniform to holster his weapon. Then he helped me to the couch.

  “You’ve taken more beatings in two weeks than guys with thirty years in this business,” Kalijero said. “What happened this time?”

  I told him about the party and surprising the intruder. “He wouldn’t leave,” I said. “I gave him a clear path out of here, and he came at me like a psycho.”

  “How did he know where you lived?”

  “I don’t know. But someone is telling meth-heads I have a lot of cash.”

  Kalijero leaned back and started rubbing his forehead. “Somewhere, that broad’s got a role in all this.”

  The paramedics arrived. “Voss,” I said. “Voss visited Audrey before Snooky died. I think maybe Voss thought he could get the goods on you easier if Snooky was dead.”

  The cops stood in front of Druggie watching the paramedics work on him. I struggled to my feet through the pain of cracked ribs. One of the paramedics walked over to Kalijero and said, “DOA.”

  “What?” I said. “Who’s dead?”

  “The body on the floor is deceased, sir,” the paramedic said and walked out.

  “Just take it easy, Jules,” Kalijero said.

  “I’ve killed two people in two weeks.”

  “He was already dead! Look at him. He was skin and bones, for chrissake. You did him a favor.”

  “A dead man in my apartment. There’ll be an investigation.”

  Kalijero shrugged. “Routine. Some paperwork. Relax.”

  The paramedic returned with a black body bag. I watched them maneuver the corpse inside and zip it up. “I kicked him in the stomach,” I said to the paramedic.

  “Probably an internal rupture. Bled out. That usually does it.”

  I wrapped an ice pack around my side with an Ace bandage, held another against my face, and sat at the kitchen table while one of the uniforms asked me questions. Kalijero listened but said nothing.

  When the other cops left, Kalijero asked me what I was going to do now. He had that don’t you think it’s time to give up look. “I’m going to ice my body, try to sleep, and continue my investigation.”

  “Maybe you should go to the ho
spital.”

  “Not with a ten-grand deductible. I’m gonna lie down, and after that, I don’t know what.”

  Kalijero stared at me. “There’s a lot going on, and I’m not going to pretend I know everything. But it’s all dangerous for you. Fear makes powerful people do crazy things. Lie low and let things play out. You can start over again.”

  I didn’t respond but sat with my eyes closed, content to let Kalijero do whatever he wanted. When I heard the front door close, I put down the ice pack and eased myself up. Another wave of dizzying nausea took over, and I barely made it to the toilet before an acrid flow spilled out of me. I sat on the bathroom floor and thought about Kalijero’s words. I was a dead man if I didn’t forget about finding Snooky’s killer. They would kill me purely for my association with Snooky. Blaming a genetic abnormality for my lack of fear sounded callow. Maybe I was just stupid. For whatever reason, I wasn’t buying what Kalijero was selling. And sitting there on the bathroom floor, having just been the catalyst for another man’s premature death, I had never felt more alive.

  44

  Cracked ribs healed on their own terms. I reminded myself of this as I lay in bed trying to get comfortable. Several weeks of shallow, interrupted sleep awaited me. At seven A.M. the phone rang.

  “I had a hunch people didn’t sleep too late after killing someone.”

  I didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded young. “Who is this?”

  “I mean no harm, sir. My name is Ellis Knight. I’m writing a story for The Partisan about the growing meth problem, and I thought maybe you’d like to share your thoughts.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “You’re part of the public record, sir. Meet me at Mocha Mouse, ten o’clock. How about it?”

  “How about you go fuck yourself?” I hung up.

  I prepared more ice packs, fed Punim, and lowered myself onto the recliner. It was Sunday, and my left cheekbone was once again a throbbing plum. I needed to get the door fixed. Punim leaped onto my lap. The pain caused me to jump, which sent her dashing down the hall and probably onto the porch landing, where she often slept during the cooler hours of a summer morning.