“My fiancé,” Nadine said. “Reed’s a private investigator. Nick’s dead.”
“Oh?” Ken said.
“Yes. Terrible, isn’t it?” There was no sorrow in her voice.
“Huh.” He pet the dog and watched us.
Her demeanor suddenly changed. “Obviously this is upsetting, and I think it’s time you go.”
“Of course,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”
The door slammed shut before I’d made if off the porch.
I walked back to the car, thinking about her. I was usually a sucker for the femme fatale, that seductive woman in the film noir movies I loved so much. But not this time. She had danger all about her, and I was wary.
Something else occurred to me. Did Mattel make a femme fatale Barbie, complete with the sinful body and treacherous soul, who would deceive and then murder Ken with her accomplice and lover, G.I. Joe? I laughed out loud at the thought.
Chapter Fourteen
As I drove out away from Nadine’s house, I mulled over the conversation. All roads pointed back to Nick and his betting. Or to people he owed money to. But as Willie pointed out, if he owed money to bookies or loan sharks, why would they kill him? A dead man can’t pay back money.
I checked the time: just after seven. Would Yellow Shirt be gone from the café by now? I did some quick calculations. He was already there when I got to Easy Street at eleven this morning. A good eight hours had passed. Someone would’ve spelled him by now, right?
Turns out I was wrong. When I entered Easy Street Café, there he was, still at his table in the back, still with a coffee cup. I wondered if by now he’d switched to something else a little harder.
The place was much more crowded now, and when a waitress came up, I shook my head, indicating I didn’t want to sit down. She nodded casually, as if that happened a lot, and moved away. I took that as a good sign, no suspicion of me not wanting a table.
I walked purposefully to the back and Yellow Shirt got up. A flicker or recognition crossed his face. “I thought I told you to get lost.”
“I want to see Bob.” I tried to wipe the smug smile off my face, but I don’t think it worked.
His eyes were hard and his jaw like stone. If he was trying to intimidate me, it was working. I wondered if Leena had set me up, and was I bracing myself for a good thumping from him when he reached around and grabbed the doorknob.
I tipped my head at him, like Bogie might do, and stepped past him into the room.
It was a small office, with out-of-date dark paneling on the walls, a flat-screen TV mounted in the corner, and a metal desk planted in the middle of the room with a couple of folding chairs across from it. Some boxes were stacked next to another door, which I presumed led to the alley. Behind the desk was a single window covered by a cheap shade. The window was cracked open and a slight breeze swayed the shade and cooled the room. A single lamp on the desk barely illuminated the space. The bookie was seated at the desk, his purple hat sitting rakishly on his small head. He was typing on a laptop and glancing at the TV. The door clicked behind me. Now that the thug was gone…was that breathing behind me?
I put my finely honed detecting skills to use and listened for a second. Yep, that was breathing. Someone cleared his throat and it wasn’t me or the bookie. It was official. The thug had come into the room and shut the door, and he was standing right behind me. Why’d he do that? I thought. I discreetly wiped sweaty palms on my jeans.
I wasn’t sure what to do from here. Leena had given me the code words to get in here, but that was it. What was I supposed to say?
“I’d like to place a bet on the…” My mind went blank. I was a football fan! It was early April. There are no football games in April! Who was playing now? The Rockies baseball team? I was only a casual fan. Had the season begun yet, or were the Rockies still in spring training? Basketball! Yes, they were in the playoffs…wait, were they?
“On what? The Lakers-Nuggets game tonight?” The bookie took me by surprise, both with his question and with his voice, which was high and laced with a lisp. Kind of like Mike Tyson.
“Yeah, that game,” I said, cringing at the warble in my own voice. Oh, where had my Bogie coolness gone?
The bookie leaned back in his chair and the front legs left the floor. He gazed down his nose at me. “Uh-huh. How’d you hear about us?”
“From a friend.” I smiled. “Bob.”
The thug behind me grunted. The bookie didn’t look amused.
“Ray doesn’t think you’re funny,” the bookie said.
I picked up on that. I glanced over my shoulder. “Ray?”
The hard look in Ray’s eyes remained, but his eyebrows went up and back down, like he couldn’t wait to beat the crap out of me.
“What makes you think you can place a bet here?” the bookie continued.
“My friend Nick told me about you. And you asked me about the Nuggets game, so I thought I could make a bet.”
“I was playing with you. Don’t mean nothing.”
“I guess I got the wrong information.”
“You see, there’s something I don’t like about you,” he said. The chair came crashing down and I jumped. He put his arms on the desk and glared at me. “You show up today and Ray says you don’t know what you’re doing. Then he sees you hanging around back.” I felt my ears burning. The bookie lifted a hand and slowly pointed at me. “What are you doing here?”
This was not going as I planned. Then again, I hadn’t really had much of a plan. I’d been made before I even returned to place a bet. But I was here, and I wasn’t going to be deterred. I reached into my bag of cool and decided to press ahead.
“May I sit down?” I asked, not waiting for an answer. I swung a leg over one of the folding chairs and sat down across from him. “My name is Sam Spade and I’m a friend of Nick O’Rourke’s.” Spade, one of Humphrey Bogart’s most famous roles, was my favorite alias when I went incognito. “You know Nick. You were doing business with him.”
His expression gave me nothing.
“I know Nick was placing bets here,” I said.
The bookie raised his hands. “So what if you do?”
“Did you know he’s dead?”
“Yeah, I do. So what?”
That was a first. How did he know? No one else did.
“I –” I started to say.
The bookie gave a slight nod of his head. I had just enough time to register that Ray had moved before his hands clamped on my shoulders. He jerked me to my feet, held me with his vise-like grip and propelled me toward the back door. The bookie reached out, turned the knob and opened the door. Ray pushed me through and onto the little porch.
“Get lost,” he snarled as he shoved me into the alley. I landed hard on my hands and knees, and to complete the humiliation, Ray kicked me square in the ass. “And don’t come back,” he said.
I got up slowly and turned around. Ray glared at me, his eyes daring me to challenge him. I was tempted, but instead I whirled around, and, with as much dignity as I could muster, walked down the alley and around the corner. I stopped, leaned against the building and collected myself. Okay, you definitely got under their skin, I thought as I picked gravel from the heels of my palms. They knew that O’Rourke was dead. Because they did it? Or they knew who did it? One thing was likely. That bookie was a piece of the puzzle, and I needed to know more about him and his operation if I was going to find who killed O’Rourke.
Anger brewed in me as I made a decision, and stole back down the alley. A square of light indicated the bookie’s office, and a couple of large metal trash barrels sat underneath it. In the darkness, I figured I could crouch behind them and listen to the bookie. Surely he’d be fired up about me and he’d let Ray know about it.
I rushed forward and was about twenty feet from the back door when it opened. I ducked down. Ray stood in the doorway, looking back, saying something to the bookie. I was totally exposed. I glanced around frantically. Nothing but a Du
mpster a few feet away. Ray started to turn around and I did the first thing that came into my mind. I dove headfirst into the Dumpster. Man, I was so not being cool right now. I landed in a pile of plastic bags, paper, food scraps and all kinds of muck and goo. I smacked my face against something hard, but I stay motionless, barely daring to breathe.
“What was that?” the bookie’s voice said.
“Probably a rat. I’ve seen them around.”
I held my breath. Something soft and sticky pressed against my face. I desperately wanted to move, but didn’t.
“See?” Ray said a moment later. “Nothing. You’re getting paranoid, thinking that guy’s hanging around? Don’t worry, he’s scared of me.”
“Who the hell is he?” This from the bookie. His lisp grew worse with his anger.
“I don’t know, Tony. He showed up this morning and I thought he was just another guy thinking he was cute, wanting to place a bet without knowing what he’s doing. Then when I saw him down the alley, spying on us, I figured maybe he was a cop.”
“He ain’t no cop.”
“Then who is he?”
“That’s what I just asked!” Tony barked. He sounded like Nadine’s yippy dog.
“Hey, man, I don’t know.”
I raised my head and got a whiff of something rotten, and my stomach flipped. I jammed my hands over my nose and began breathing out of my mouth.
The two thugs were quiet for a few heartbeats and I froze again. Then Tony started talking.
“He knows Nick was betting here.”
“You think he knows how much trouble Nick was in? How much money he owed?”
“Ain’t gonna do him any good,” Tony said. “Sal’s gonna get his money, one way or another.”
Silence again. I wanted to puke. I swallowed hard a couple of times, praying they would go back inside.
“You think Spade knows about the Chin?” Ray asked.
The Chin? A nickname for a mafia tough guy? I thought.
Tony was talking. “His name ain’t Spade.”
“How do you know?”
“Idiot, you think I just know sports?” Tony said. “Sam Spade is a detective in the movies.”
Busted, I thought. But Spade wasn’t just a movie character, you moron.
“Oh,” Ray said. “Then who is he?”
“I don’t know, but we’re gonna find out.” Tony cursed. “We got to get this Nick business taken care of. I’m tired of Sal breathing down my neck.”
“Well, you ask me, you never should’ve strung Nick out like that.”
A crack split the air. “Ow!” Ray said.
“I didn’t ask you,” Tony said. “And I ain’t in the mood for your shit. Get back inside.”
The door opened and a soft glow lit the sky above for a second, and then blackness.
I didn’t move for a full minute. Then I gingerly stood up, no easy task with the greasy food scraps and gunk in the Dumpster. I slowly raised my head and peered over the edge of the Dumpster, half expecting Ray to be standing there with a gun. Nope. I was alone. I breathed a sigh of relief, then gagged. I coughed and spat, then swung a leg over the side of the Dumpster, but got my other foot tangled in a trash bag. I shook myself free and ended up tumbling to the asphalt, right in a dirty puddle of water.
I scrambled to my feet, silently cursing, and ran out of the alley. A minute later I was driving home.
Chapter Fifteen
“What happened to you?” Willie asked when I walked through the door. Then she wrinkled up her nose and waved a hand in front of her face. “Oh, Reed.”
“Don’t!” I held up a hand. “I’m going to take a shower.”
I’d taken my soiled shoes off on the outside landing and I trudged down the hall in my socks. Willie followed me and stood in the doorway as I tore off my clothes and threw them in a heap in the closet. I’d deal with that mess later.
“What happened?” she repeated, forcing herself not to smile. “Since when is Dumpster diving part of the job?”
“Willie, please.”
I’d gotten into messes before, but never one quite like this. I headed into the bathroom and took a long hot shower. Ten minutes later, I finally felt human.
I got out, toweled off and went into the bedroom. Willie had put sweatpants and a tee shirt on the bed. A cold bottle of beer sat on the dresser, and the dirty clothes were gone. My frustration vanished. I dressed, grabbed the beer, and strolled into the kitchen. She was in the little laundry room, putting my dirty clothes in the washer.
“I’m taking care of your clothes so they wouldn’t stink up the room,” she said as she poured soap into the machine.
“Thanks.” I leaned against the doorjamb and watched her.
“I’m sorry,” she glanced at me. “I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“Yeah, well.” I glared at her, then grinned. “I guess I must’ve looked pretty funny.”
She cracked up. “It wasn’t the look as much as the smell.”
She closed the washer and we went into the kitchen and sat at the table.
“You should’ve seen me earlier, standing next to my car, wiping myself off with napkins from the glove box. I got a few stares from passersby. And the 4-Runner needs a good cleaning.”
She leaned close and studied my face. “You’ve got a cut under your eye.”
“Yeah. I dove face-first into the Dumpster. Don’t ask me what I collided with.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really.”
“You’ll have a bruise tomorrow.”
“I’ll live.”
She leaned even closer and kissed my cheek. “I want you to know I really appreciate everything you’re doing.”
I took a sip of beer. “You can make it up to me later.”
She winked, then said, “What’d you find out?”
“Does ‘the Chin’ mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing.”
“Ever overhear Nick mention someone with that nickname?”
“No, but remember, I wasn’t around him much.”
I stood up and went into the office. She followed and sprawled out on the floor, stretching her back. I’d come to know this was a part of her nightly routine. I got on the internet and did a Google search on ‘the Chin’.
“There’s a mobster named Vincent Gigante who was known as ‘Chin’,” I said.
“You think Nick was involved with him?” Willie’s voice carried up from the floor.
“Not unless he speaks to the dead.”
“Huh?”
“Vincent Gigante’s dead,” I said. I scanned through a Wikipedia article on him. “He was part of the Genovese crime family, but he ended up in prison, where he died in 2005.” I continued my search. “There’s Vinny ‘The Chin’ Ferraro, a comedian.”
“I doubt Tony and Ray are hooked up with him.”
“What a joke that would be,” I said. “Get it? He’s a comedian. It’s a joke.”
“Courtesy laugh,” she said wryly.
“Okay, I’ll stick to investigations.” I added ‘Denver’ to my search of the Chin. Nothing but websites devoted to cosmetic surgery and chin implants. I sighed.
“Why don’t you call Cal?” the voice on the floor asked.
I picked up the phone. “He doesn’t like dealing with gangsters,” I muttered. On my last case, Cal refused to research the mob because, as he said, “The mob will put me in the morgue.” I can’t say I blamed him for thinking that. I dialed his number and waited.
“Huh. Voice mail,” I said.
“He must be ignoring you.”
“He’s busy on a deadline.” I left a message, asking him to call me in the morning.
Willie stood up, stretched again, and groaned. Then she slinked over to me. “I think it’s time I made it up to you.”
“Oh yeah?”
She leaned down and kissed me. “Uh-huh.” She took my hand and led me into the bedroom. “I think you’ll be pleased.”
And fo
r the second time that day, I was.
Willie didn’t have to go to work until three, and we were more tired than either of us realized, so we slept late. She offered to make lunch, so while she did that, I went to the office to call Cal.
“No, I haven’t had time to research anything yet,” Cal said by way of greeting.
“Really? That’s surprising.”
“This job is a tough one. This company has some new software installed and it’s making my life a living hell.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
He guffawed. “I never said I wouldn’t.”
“Oh, pardon me,” I said. “Can you break away for one quick thing?”
“What?”
“I need to know if there’s a loan shark or mafia guy with the nickname ‘the Chin’. But not Vincent Gigante. He’s dead.”
“I told you before, I don’t want anything to do with the mob.”
“I know, but can you check law enforcement sites and see if they have profiles of anyone with that nickname?”
“Oh,” he said. “That I can do.”
I chuckled. Scared of the mafia, but not the government. Go figure.
I heard clicking as he typed.
“How much trouble have you gotten into?” he asked as he tapped into websites I didn’t even want to know about.
I looked at my scraped hands and knees. “Not much.”
“You always seem to find trouble, so why don’t I believe you?”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Oh, that’s cold,” he said. “I don’t worry like your mother does.”
Cal loved my mother, and she loved him, almost as much as she loved me. She thought he was endearing, and he thought the same of her, but that was only because she didn’t pester him with questions like, “When are you going to get married?” and “Are you doing drugs?” Or, “What kind of trouble are you in now?” I got those questions.
“Well,” he said. “I can’t find anything.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I might find something if I had more time, and if I wanted to chase down mafia types, but I don’t.”
Reed Ferguson Mystery series Box Set 2 Page 37
