The Charleston Knife is Back in Town

by Ralph Dennis

  I gave her a short version of the rip-off party and the job Hump and I had taken for Annie Murton. I tried to make it sound routine, even the killing of Jake, but Marcy knew me and she had a good way of reading in the parts I left out.

  “I’ll give it another day or two,” I said. “It looks like the boys have left town.”

  “Give the job up,” Marcy said.

  “We’re just getting started on it.” There was a high hard wind outside, the kind that pruned a lot of trees. The kind that made you glad you were inside, the kind that made you miss a good woman who belonged in your bed.

  “Jim, I mean it. I don’t make many demands on you, you know that.”

  I tried to keep it light. “Come on, Miss Badass, don’t give me orders.”

  “I’ll be back in Atlanta in three days.”

  Then the black silence that said, say something.

  “I miss you, Marcy.”

  “You do, do you, you . . . you. . . . ” She sputtered at me and the click sounded as the line went dead.

  Sleeping in my too large bed. Hearing the windows shake from the wind. And thinking about her, also in a too large bed somewhere down in Fort Myers.

  In the dining room below the Gilded Cage on West Peachtree near Baker the Charleston knife ate the two a.m. special. It was a strange group of people around him. All the waitresses, and waiters and maître d’s and bartenders made a ritual of dropping by after the two a.m. closings for the steak and eggs. It reminded him of a meal he’d had once with a carny crowd.

  The steak was a good cut and it was rare. The bubbling hot blood that ran down from the cut edge and diluted the scrambled eggs didn’t bother him. Killing and eating were two separate things, not to be confused or overlapped.

  But when the waitress leaned past him to refill his coffee cup he caught the salty underarm scent and that clawed at him. Killing and hard loving weren’t that far apart. They seemed to feed on each other. One preparing him for the other.

  The waitress moved away and he watched her go. Not her. Someone younger. But he’d have to be careful. Too much job left to do and he couldn’t afford a mistake. He’d have to talk to George Beck and find out where the careful action was.

  First thing in the morning.

  “How’d the silver bullets come out.” It was around eleven and I’d had several cups of coffee and read the sports page twice. Hump had answered on the second ring so that meant he was up and about.

  “Wouldn’t fit the iron you gave me. I think the barrel’s crooked.”

  “Well, it was a good thought gone bad.”

  “Maybe they’ll fit yours.” Then a pause. “What’s on for today?”

  “I’d like for us to split up, cover twice as much ground.” I held up the driver’s license I’d taken from the bouncer who’d tailed us the night before. “The guy we persuaded last night. His name’s Frederick Maxwell the Third.”

  “You mean there’s more than one of him?”

  “He said he lived at the Villa North apartments on Briarcliff. Talk to him and see if he was involved in the rip-off party. Might get something that might lead us to the boys.”

  “You leave all the pretty ones to me.”

  “He liked you better than he liked me,” I said.

  “And you’ll be . . .?”

  “Looking into the other kid. Edwin lived with his grandma and three of them lived on Tindall Place.” I opened the slip of paper with the names and addresses. “That leaves Henry Harper at 112 Talmadge Road.”

  “I’ll meet you where?”

  “Your place around two,” I said.

  “Watch your back.”

  “Ditto.”

  It was a neat house. Almost too neat. It’d probably been freshly painted back in the summer. And without looking you knew the gutters and the downspouts were spotless and the copper mail box polished to a bright glow.

  The man raking leaves on the front lawn actually looked like he was whistling, he was enjoying himself so much. I put his age at about forty, the crewcut and the newly laundered fatigue jacket dating back to the Korean one.

  It was the expression on his face that got me. I’d never been one for raking leaves. Nobody I knew liked it. The last time I’d seen Art Maloney with a rake in his hand he looked like he’d just started 60 days out at one of the prison farms. But this man looked like raking leaves was more fun than playing poker with the boys.

  I went up the walk toward him, taking my wallet out as I went. I got out another of those Nationwide insurance cards. The supply was getting low. I’d have to get another batch printed. I supposed I’d been putting that off because I wasn’t sure I wanted to pretend to be an insurance agent anymore. Sometimes it was all I could do to keep from selling a policy now and then. But so far, considering all the other possibilities, I hadn’t come up with any other occupations that gave me the same kind of ready-made lies.

  “I’m looking for Henry Harper.” I held out the card and he stopped raking long enough to squint at the card.

  “I’m Henry Harper.”

  I smiled at him and shook my head. “I must be looking for your son.”

  “What’s he been up to now?” He put the rake down and without waiting for an answer opened a plastic leaf bag and began to bag his gathering so far.

  “I’d rather talk to him.”

  “He’s not here. He’s out of town.” He grunted. “On vacation.”

  “You got any idea where?”

  “What’s your business with him?”

  “Just a minor thing.” I kept it low and understated. “He was driving his friend’s van and scraped a fender.”

  “God damn, he didn’t say a word. . . .”

  “It’s covered. No problem.”

  That relaxed him. “It was the Winnson boy’s van?”

  I nodded. “It’s paperwork. Before we pay the claim I need to ask your son a couple of questions.”

  “The questions will have to wait a week or so.”

  “Maybe I could call him. He doesn’t have to sign anything. Just answer the questions and we could do that by phone.” I gave him my troubled grin and shake of the head. “The company with the lady’s coverage is worrying the hell out of me. I’d like to get it cleared up, even if I have to do it by long distance.”

  He bought that and it opened him up. “He said the first stop was Jacksonville and then they were going to stop at some of the beaches on the East Coast. But he didn’t say where they’d be staying.”

  I looked at the house. “Maybe he told his mother something he didn’t tell you.”

  “My wife died three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.” To cover the awkwardness I gave the house another long look. “It’s a nice house you’ve got here.”

  That rubbed his happy bone. “Isn’t it though? Well, I keep it up the best I can. I mean, if you’re going to spend all that money buying a house you shouldn’t let it get run down, right?”

  I tagged him then. He was one of those house lovers. Looking at him and listening I wondered if he’d loved his wife as much as the house while she’d been alive.

  “Would you like me to show you around?”

  I mumbled about other business and I’d take a rain check until the next time and headed for my car. By the time I pulled away from the curb he’d gone back to his raking, the brisk stroke, stroke, stroke following me for a block or so down the street.

  I was through early and at loose ends. On the chance that Hump might be still at his interview and might need some help I cut across town and headed for Briarcliff. If I saw Hump’s car I’d go in. If I didn’t, I’d write it off as a drive to kill time before the two o’clock meeting with him.

  The Villa North was a fair distance out and it was a smaller complex than its pretentious name had led me to believe. It was in a sort of “L” shape and I decided that they’d run out of money before they’d built the rest of it. Except that it had two floors it looked like vintage 1950 motel design.


  I picked out Hump’s car as soon as I turned into the parking lot. It was down at the far right end and I parked in a space next to it. I got out and stood on the walk and tried to figure out the numbering system. If Maxwell hadn’t lied to me the night before, his apartment was number 14. Without too much effort I worked it out that the odd numbers were on the ground level and the evens were on the second floor.

  I found apartment 13 and the breezeway and stairs that were between that one and apartment 15. My guess was that apartments 14 and 16 faced each other up there and I went up the stairs without seeing anybody. I reached the breezeway and found I’d been right. Apartments 14 and 16 did face each other and the name in the bracket on 14 was Frederick Maxwell, III.

  I tapped on the door. No answer. “Hump, it’s me, Jim.”

  Still no sound from inside. That bothered me. Hump had to be in there and if he wasn’t answering there had to be a good reason. It didn’t seem likely, but maybe Maxwell had got the jump on him somehow.

  I tried the door and found it unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was completely dark, all the blinds and shades closed and no lights on. The only light was what I brought with me, the weak November sunlight from the breezeway behind me. I took it slow, one step and then another.

  “Hump, you in here?” At that moment I must have cleared the door. I remember I was standing on a shaggy throw rug and looking straight ahead as I felt the whooos of air behind me as the door whipped shut behind me. I was in the dark then and there wasn’t any time to think. It was all reaction, the body moving even before the mind had time to tell it what to do.

  I swung my left hand out and gave a sort of karate kick. I didn’t hit anything but I felt a sting, a burn on the soft bottom part of my hand. The same instant the throw rug scooted out from under me and I took a slide. The scared blood was pumping hard and I took a roll, turning and turning until I banged into something . . . maybe the sofa and I knew that whoever was in the room would be coming after me now. He knew he’d put me on the floor and now it was just a matter of getting close enough.

  I was trying to brace myself to get to my feet when I heard the soft slep, slep, the sound there for a second and then gone, covered up. He’d made a mistake and stepped from the carpet and hit the wooden floor. That was the sound I’d heard and now he’d corrected himself and I wouldn’t hear him again. I gave up trying to get to my feet. If he was going to get close enough to hurt me then I’d let him have a leg. I waited beat after beat, knowing he was moving closer, wanting him close and then when I was sure he had to be only steps away, I made my only move. I coiled my body and kicked out with both feet. He was close and I had him. I wasn’t sure where but the shock traveled up my legs to my hips and I heard the grunt that came out of him. It wasn’t loud, as if he might have bitten his lip to hold it back. I said to myself, why the hell not? and I braced myself on my left hand and tried to push myself up. The hand seemed to be in a pool of warm liquid, slipping away from me, and I fell hard. I turned and tried to use my right hand and found that my legs wouldn’t work. The shock, I guess.

  The front door opened then and I turned to get my look at whoever it was and the light blinded me for a second and before I could adjust to it the door was pulled shut.

  The sting and burn on my left hand was changing to pain. I got my right hand on the sofa and pulled myself up. The legs still didn’t want to function but I forced them, walking stiffly, like I was on artificial legs. I headed for the door, where the light had been. I ran smack head-on into the door and I fumbled along the wall until I found the light switch.

  My left hand was a mess. Not torn or chewed up but sliced through. The blood was pouring out and I got out a handkerchief and wrapped it over the wound and then used my right hand to clench the fingers on my left hand over the cloth. I hoped that would slow the bleeding. I got the door open and stumbled out onto the breezeway. I really wanted to sit down and cradle the hand but I had to keep going. If I’d hurt him enough maybe he was still in the area. If I couldn’t catch

  him maybe I could get a look at him. I wanted my good hand

  on him but I’d settle for a look.

  At the bottom of the stairs I ran into Hump who was on his way up. He did a double-take. He started to say something. I could see his mouth open but one of my legs took that moment to fold under me and I felt myself begin to tilt. Hump hadn’t lost his reflexes. A big hand caught me and held me.

  “A man,” I said, “did you see a man come out of here . . . just now?”

  “Sure,” Hump said, “a dude with a bad limp.”

  “It wasn’t Maxwell?”

  “Naw, it wasn’t.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Drove off in a gray VW.”

  “Hump, you get a good look at him?”

  “What the hell, Jim . . .?”

  “You get a look at his face?”

  “He was turned away. Five-nine or so, blond hair. That was all I saw.”

  I held up my left hand. The blood had soaked through the handkerchief and was streaming. “I think that was the Charleston knife.”

  “In a VW?” I felt like a teenage girl about to giggle. “The Charleston knife can’t afford better than a VW?”

  “Take it easy,” Hump said. He reached across me and punched the button on the glove compartment. He pulled out a large box of Kleenex and peeled out a big layer. He placed it over my hand. “Try to press the edges of the cut together. That might slow the bleeding some.”

  “How far to the hospital?” I was looking around but I couldn’t recognize anything. I was lost. “We going to Grady?”

  “Georgia Baptist. It’s closer.”

  “In a goddamn VW,” I said.

  “Probably stolen.” Then the thought hit him. “Why was he limping?”

  “The same reason I am. I kicked the crap out of him and the only thing that ruins my pleasure is I don’t know how good a lick I hit him.”

  The nurse at the desk in the emergency room wanted to know if my family doctor had referred me to the hospital. That was just the first question and I couldn’t think of a proper answer, so I dropped the wad of Kleenex on the floor and started bleeding all around it. It made a pretty pattern like paint oh the tile floor.

  Hump had an answer. He drew himself up until he looked about nine feet tall and he said, “Honey, you get one of those fat-assed doctors down here on the double before I start kicking the shit out of everybody in sight.” He looked like he’d do it and the nurse decided to drop the questions for the time being.

  The young intern, when he came, didn’t seem to believe my story about falling on a coke bottle and cutting my hand. “It’s too even,” he kept saying.

  By then I didn’t care what he thought. Or what he believed.

  Ten or twelve blocks away from the Villa North apartments the Charleston knife pulled into a Gulf station and told the attendant to put in two dollars worth of regular. He got out of the car with some difficulty and limped into the restroom. With the door locked behind him he lowered his trousers and looked at the bruise. The shape was clear and well-defined and he knew then what had hit him in the dark room. It had felt like a club but now he saw that it had been a heel of a shoe.

  That pudgy son of a bitch still had some of it left. He wouldn’t take him lightly the next time. And there would be a next time. Bet on it.

  A few minutes later he parked the stolen VW on Courtland and walked over a couple of blocks and thumbed down a cab.

  He was still limping.

  It happened this way we figured out later. Charleston must have been waiting in the room for Maxwell. Hump had been there before me and he’d tried the door and found it locked. That was so that Maxwell, if he came, wouldn’t think something was wrong. I guess Charleston could have opened the door and let Hump in, pretending he was Maxwell, but he probably wanted more of an edge than that. After Hump tried the door he left to look for the resident manager to make sure that Maxwell hadn’
t moved out.

  As soon as Hump left, Charleston had unlocked the door. He’d set himself for the possibility that Hump would come back, maybe with the idea of forcing the door. Charleston must have decided that if Hump found the door unlocked he’d be sure Maxwell was in and he’d walk right in. Right up to the grip on Charleston’s knife.

  And I’d walked in instead.

  “That’s my cut you’ve got there,” Hump said.

  “You can have it back,” I said. “I don’t much care for it.”

  I called Art from my house while Hump poured us both a drink. Art sounded grumpy so I guessed he’d just gotten up after a long night over at the department.

  “The Charleston stud is still alive and well and he’s got a piece of my hide on his knife,” I said.

  Art was at my place within half an hour.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Art didn’t stay long. Just long enough to hear my account and look at the fat bandage on my hand.

  “Weren’t you carrying?”

  “You know I don’t have a permit and with all those friends over on the force I’ve got a snowball’s chance of getting one.”

  “The hell you don’t have iron, though.”

  “I might,” I said, “but I don’t have any rounds for it. Burned them all on Eddie Spence.”

  “Remind me of that. Go ahead.” But that cooled him some toward me and he decided to get a lick in on Hump. “And you, Hump, what do you mean you didn’t get the tag numbers?”

  “Next guy I see with a limp I’ll take his numbers and send them right to you.”

  “Your friend’s upstairs with a hunk cut off his hand and you just wave at the dude and let him drive away.”

  “Who said he was my friend?” Hump looked past Art toward me and winked. “Far as I know it was just two white asses cutting on each other. I thought I’d wait my time and cut the winner.”