“What’s she like?”
“Who wants to know, cop?” said the girl.
“I ain’t no cop,” and I pulled a fin out of my pocket, “just interested to hear about Norma. If you know anything that is.”
Her eyes slipped from my face to the five spot and stayed there.
“Maybe I do,” she said.
“Well, is she popular at school?”
“Wouldn’t say so. Keeps herself mainly to herself, you know?”
“Sure thing.”
“But ... there is a rumor going round.” She licked her lips and continued to stare at the fin.
“And what are people saying?”
“Well, that she has a boyfriend.”
“Is that so unusual? That a girl has a boyfriend.” I motioned to put the note back in my pocket because this conversation was going nowhere.
“No, but it is unusual to have a guy that’s not from school. I mean, not from any school.”
“What?” The fin came back front and center so the girl could get a better look.
“Yeah, word is that she’s got an older boyfriend.”
“Older?”
“Yeah, much older.”
“Older than high school. That much older?”
“Yeah, older than high school.” She snorted out a derisive laugh and I realized that our Norma sure was something special.
“College old?”
“Nah. Older than that.” She smiled a brief smile and licked her lips again. Jeez, a million thoughts ran through my head.
I handed the five spot over to the girl who snatched it and put it straight down the neck of her blouse and into her bra. Kids.
“You got anything to say for yourself?” I asked the greasy-haired boy, who remained totally silent this whole time.
“Nope. I’m just here for the smoke.”
“Figures.”
I turned my attention to the girl.
“My name’s Jake. Do you guys smoke here most lunchtimes - if I need to talk to you again?”
“Well...”
“I’m not the smoke police. I don’t care what you guys get up to, but I might need to lay some more dough on ya, is all.”
Her eyes lit up again.
“Yeah, most times we’re here or a little further down if the deputy is prowling.”
I smiled. The perils of being a teenager.
“What’s your name, by the way?”
“Sally. And he’s Steve.” She pointed her cigarette butt at the greasy excuse for a human sat next to her.
“See you round, Sally.”
I was beginning to see why Betty Grant was so uptight with a daughter like Norma appeared to be. And with good ole Pete missing, you had to wonder just a little...
SO I WALKED back to Mary O’Donald and invited myself in for another lemonade. We sat in the kitchen, chatting, talking about this and that. Sometimes the trick is not to ask about anything you care about because that can put people more at their ease and then they tell you anyway. I might only be a PI, but sometimes it feels like I’m a priest in a confession box.
“There are lots of kids in this street, I’ve noticed.”
“Yes, there are. I like the sound of laughing children, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I lied, to keep the conversation flowing.
“But Pete and I haven’t been blessed with them.”
Mary looked down at her lap and was silent for a spell, caught in her own thoughts of regret and, potentially, loss.
“Sometimes it doesn’t quite happen, does it?” I offered.
“No.” Mary’s back stiffened and she sat upright again, without the haunch the lack of sons and daughters had weighed down on her.
“Still, Pete has been good about it. He doesn’t blame me or nothing. It’s one of those things. We haven’t been blessed, is all.
“And Pete has been like a second father to Norma next door, you know. Playing, helping with her school work as Cecil spends so much time at his store, earning to put bread on the table.”
My eyes wandered out to their back yard, thinking about Pete helping out next door. With Betty Grant not wanting to talk to me about Pete. Perhaps there was an affair taking place right under poor Mary’s nose. Cecil found out and now Pete has vanished. Maybe.
At the left of the back yard, the garage stuck out a long, long way. Long enough for there to be more than enough space for a room beyond the cars, if you were so minded. My attention went back to Mary.
“And the other kids too. Pete so loves playing their games, especially the younger ones. This might be a quiet road, but it never hurts to have an adult out front keeping an eye for traffic.”
“Sorry, I know this is left field but is there a room at the back of the garage?”
“Yes. Yes, there is. Why?”
“No reason really.” Beat. “Does Pete use it much? Could I take a look?’
“Yes, it’s his little nook. Of course. Is there anything you’re looking for?”
“Not really. Just’ll help me get a better picture of the man.”
Mary walked me out the kitchen, into the garage and there at the back of the garage was a door. Mary tried the handle but it was locked.
“I’m sure it’s not normally locked and I don’t know where the key’s got to.”
“Don’t worry about it. You go back into the kitchen and I’ll see what I can do.”
After Mary had left the scene, I put my shoulder to the door and, with one push, I was in. A husband who locks a room from his wife in their own home has something to hide. I closed the door behind me as I went in.
18
EVEN THOUGH THERE was a small window, the room was dark. What little light from the moon did nothing to show me what the place was like. I spotted a table lamp and switched it on.
There was a desk, chair, a trunk and a wall full of plumbers equipment. I checked the drawers of the desk but nothing, unless you count paid invoices, bills and the sundry shit of life as something worth mentioning. I know I don’t. That left the trunk.
No lock on it, so I just flipped it open and hit the mother lode. There were bundles of photos on the left-hand side of the trunk and on the other side of a partition were clothes. And all the clothes had one theme: they were girl’s underwear. Some white, some blue, some black. But a lot. All scrunched up, not ironed neat and tidy. Oh no. These had just been thrown in there as though they had just been in a ball in someone’s hand and dropped in.
As for the photos, they were all of one person and one person alone: Norma Grant. Perhaps the most disturbing thing was that I reckoned I could match up the panties on the right-hand side of the trunk with the photos from the left because there wasn’t a single photo I could see where Norma was wearing anything apart from her undies.
Sick fucking bastard.
And there were so many pictures. This must have been going on for weeks, months, even longer. Years? At the bottom of the trunk were photos of a much younger Norma. They were all close-ups of her so it was impossible to work out where they were taken. Then I glanced beneath the shelves with all the equipment and saw some blankets and cushions. I’d missed them when I first came in.
I looked round at the opposite wall and noticed a couple of big lights mounted on the wall near the ceiling. Good ole Pete had got himself a photo studio in the back of his garage.
Thought I was going to throw up, but instead I put everything away - just as I found it - and went back into the kitchen.
“Don’t go into the room. The police will need to check it out later.” Mary looked at me quizzically.
“You really don’t want to know right now ... I can’t explain anything at this point, but I need to know if you have a place nearby or anywhere that Pete might have holed up. Think. Think, f’chrissake.”
Mary was silent, stood leaning against the kitchen sink, looking down at her shoes. Beat.
“We don’t have anywhere. We can barely make the payments on this place. We’re not like t
he Grants with their vacation cabin in Swan Creek.”
“Swan Creek?”
“Yes, it’s outside Aberdeen, off the I-95.”
Mary gave me more detailed directions and I returned to the city and grabbed my car, then I hightailed it out to Swan Creek.
THE CASE WAS coming together. There was good ole Pete and his photos of Norma. He’d probably done much worse than take photos of that curvy young girl, but I’d leave that for the cops to figure out. Cecil Grant wasn’t around, which meant both men were effectively missing and there was a log cabin a couple of hours drive away. Doesn’t take a genius to add up to four.
I arrived just after midnight. The moon was full and casting a whitish glow on the trees, reflected in the ripples in the water in the creek. This gave me enough light to go from my vehicle to the cabin.
The place was absolutely deserted; the nearest cabin was a quarter of a mile away and this wasn’t vacation time. In these woods, no-one would hear you scream.
Except me. My thoughts were intercepted by a blood-curdling yell, followed by a series of whimpers. I scampered to the cabin and ducked under one of the side windows.
Popping my head above the sill, I could see two men, one tied to a chair with blood pouring out of his head and the other towering over him holding some hardware tool or hunting knife or something. I slumped back down under the window because I really didn’t fancy seeing any more right now. You don’t need to pass the Sergeants’ exam to figure out I’d found Cecil and Pete and that Cecil was mutilating Pete. And for good reason.
I had a couple of options. Option one: burst in there and save Pete from torture and attack a man wielding a large knife or hammer or who knows what. Option two: go get help.
The second sounded better, so I crept away, back into my car and off to Aberdeen where I went to the local cops, told them all about what I’d seen and got them to put a call to Phil McNamara. I reckon he’d want to claim this for his own.
Sure enough, about an hour later, the posse had surrounded the cabin. Me, Phil and a local cop, Duane. Duane wasn’t the brightest to leave the academy but he had a gun and he knew how to use it, so he assured Phil.
There were two doors into the cabin, one front, one back and at least one window on each side. I couldn’t see how many rooms there were, but based on Phil’s binoculars, there was a living room with a kitchenette, one or two bedrooms and a bathroom.
Right now, Pete and Cecil were in the middle of the living space. Pete was still tied to a chair with his hands bound behind his back, screaming, crying and guffawing aplenty. Cecil was stood over him or running at him with a knife and generally creating mayhem on Pete’s body. Perhaps I shouldn’t have left him to get help.
DUANE AND PHIL stood at each door, guns ready, and I stood near one of the side windows. When I gave the signal, they’d both dive in at the same time.
Cecil had turned his back on Pete and held a hunting knife, all serrated edge and big brown handle. Pete had blood pouring from an eye socket.
I whistled. Phil and Duane burst through each door. I watched as Phil shouted: “FBI! Put the weapon down and put your hands on your head!” Duane, on the other hand, fired a shot off at Cecil, who had spun round in surprise at Phil’s statement and was no more a threat at that moment than I was. But Duane knew how to use a gun.
Cecil carried on spinning round and lurched towards Phil due to the force of the bullet hitting his side. Seeing this, and misunderstanding basic physics, Duane let off another round and Cecil plunged to the ground, spitting blood and bile.
Both law officers holstered their firearms and by the time they had done that, Cecil breathed his last.
Phil went over to Pete, untied his hands and ripped off the bindings that held him to the chair. Then he arrested him and got Duane to call for an ambulance after slapping Duane in the face: “Fucking hick! Why d’you shoot him? He wasn’t going to hurt anyone other than O’Donald. The guy was raping his daughter for fuck’s sake!”
Duane slunk off and I stood there, looking through the window, staring at bits of eyeball I could see lying on the floor by the legs of the chair.
Phil came round the cabin to see how I was doing and to shake my hand.
“Good job, fella.”
“Hey?”
“Yep. Our sources told us that O’Donald was a pederast but we had no hard evidence. We couldn't get a warrant to check out his home so we had nothing to arrest him with.”
“You knew?”
“Yeah, but I couldn’t tell you because he might have easily have been drunk in some bar.”
“How long...”
“Couple of weeks. That’s why I was in the neighborhood. Hey, come back!”
I couldn’t take it anymore. McNamara had let good ole Pete fuck that girl for two weeks and had done nothing. She might have been a sullen, rude teenager, but she didn’t deserve that.
Back in my car, I lit a cigarette and rolled down the window to get some air. Then I drove back to Baltimore and my apartment, but I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t deal with what had happened out in Hawthorne Lane. So I walked the streets most of the day until I stopped at a hotel. Truly, I have no memory of which one. I brown-bagged a couple of bottles of vodka and took a room for the night.
After a shower to clear my head, I dried myself down and put my shorts back on. I set myself up with a three shots and the next thing I knew both bottles were empty and I was lying face up on the hotel carpet.
Now, you’re not going to believe this, but there was a glow in the room and a guy like Charlton Heston hovered wearing a long white smock and I knew that he was Jesus Christ himself come to visit.
“At least you solved the case,” came a deep voice from somewhere in the room. “She paid you to find her husband and you did.” Clearly this Jesus wasn’t the spiritual type, only a mouthpiece for my own thoughts and unexpressed self-loathing.
I ran to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. Twice. Three times if you count the dry-gulching. By the time I returned to the room Charlton Christ had vanished. While not all that surprising, I didn’t touch another drop of vodka for five years straight and nowadays I only have it in martinis, never straight. I don’t need Charlton Heston visiting me again. No way.
PART EIGHT
CHICAGO 1963
19
HOLDING MY BAGS at the top of the airplane steps and seeing Simone down there, made me think about her old man. The second time I came across him was still in New York, but a couple of years later. This time I didn’t know I was dealing with Don Michael until I was almost face-to-face with him.
Bernie Levin was a good man, well-intentioned with a high moral code. We were opposites, but I liked him. He reminded me of my old partner, Ed - and not because they were both Jewish. Well, maybe.
Anyway, Bernie worked for the Teamsters, a union man through and through. He believed in that shit, really did, but as ever when matters got complicated, he didn’t call Groucho Marx. He called me instead.
“Thanks for taking the time out of your day to see me, Jake.” Bernie always saw things from the other dude’s perspective.
“It’s cool, Bernie. What’s up?”
Bernie frowned at me, then pointed to his throat. I shrugged and asked: “Fancy a cup of java?”
“Well, don’t mind if I do as you’ve been so kind as to ask,” he replied and smiled a warm smile at me. Bernie was always the same.
A hot cup of weak java in his hand and I asked: “What’s up, Bernie? You don’t write, you don’t call and suddenly out of the blue, poof, here you are.” Now it was my turn to smile warmly at Bernie.
“As you know, we live in difficult times.”
“Tell me about it,” I shrugged and cast an arm across my empire: a serviced office and a receptionist shared by the entire floor. Sleuthing wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.
“But you didn’t come over to hear my problems.”
“No, I didn’t. I’ve got enough of my own.”
<
br /> “Then why don’t you start at the beginning.”
I settled back in my chair because I knew what Bernie was like. If he could tell a tale in five sentences, he’d take fifty. It would be a great story but it would not be a short one.
“We are a union that works for our members, who come together to represent themselves as more than mere units of labor. They come together for compassion, for community, for humanity.”
At this point, I put my hand up to stop him for a second.
“I don’t need the sermon, rabbi. I’m no truck driver so I’m not going to join your merry band. Spare me the eulogising over the hearts and souls of the all American man.”
“They come together,” Bernie hissed slowly, “in the name of strength because as individuals they cannot fight the oppression of the slave owners.”
“Slavery was abolished a long time ago, Bernie.”
“Modern Capital is the new slave owner, my friend, and make no mistake: it’ll come for you too.” I shook my head and waited for Bernie to take some sips from his coffee. As he wound himself up again, I drummed my fingertips on my desk, because this was getting tedious, despite how much I liked Bernie.
“I’LL CUT TO the chase, if you’d like, as I know you are a busy man.” I raised my eyebrows as if to utter the words “You don’t say.” sarcastically.
“There is a chain of delicatessens owned by a man called Harry Pilkerton. They are called Harry’s Deli for all the obvious reasons. They sell the finest cakes, cookies, Danish and smoked salmon as you are likely to find in Chicago, if not the entire United States.”
“I’ll buy shares or go there for lunch tomorrow. Why should I care about Pilkerton and his food shops?”
“For Harry to have such a successful set of delis, he must source the finest ingredients and, ashamed as the Windy City would be to admit it, they don’t all come from this fair city but from Los Angeles and New York, cheeses from Wisconsin, chilli peppers from Texas ...”
The Case Page 10
