Beer Money (A Burr Ashland Mystery)

by Dani Amore

  He put his feet up on his desk which caused an avalanche of papers to fall to the floor.

  Don merely smiled. "So what can I do for you?" he asked.

  "I need a projector, one that I can watch an old eight millimeter film on. It has to be in good working condition, though. I don't want to ruin the film in the process."

  "No problem. Follow me."

  Don's shop was really a giant brick warehouse, four floors packed top to bottom with stuff. The whole place smelled like dust.

  The first and second floors were full of knick-knacks. Glassware. Jewelry. Nostalgic collectibles. The third and fourth floors were devoted to all kinds of furniture. Giant armoires, beds, chests of drawers. You name it, you could find it.

  Don led me to the second floor, past rows of cameras and photographs until we came across a shelf of old film projectors. He moved with certainty to one on the end. It was in a cracked plastic case covered with dust. Don opened the case for me and inside I saw a cumbersome machine made of black metal, with two arms, one forward, one back. It had a glass lens and controls on one side.

  "This is the best one I have," Don said. "I know it works, the guy I bought it from actually played some stuff on it for me. Said he took good care of it. Even showed me how to take it apart and clean it."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "About a month."

  I looked at the price tag. A hundred bucks.

  "Do you remember how it works?"

  "Sure," Don said.

  "Show me how and you got yourself a deal."

  Thirty-Eight

  I closed the blinds in my living room. Set up the screen, which Don had thrown in for ten bucks.

  When I began to thread the brittle film into the projector, I winced and thought about Gabby. She'd kill me if she knew I was doing this with a key piece of evidence.

  But I needed to see this. Had to see what my friend died for. I'd be damned if I'd let the cops get their hands on it first and then refuse to tell me what was on it. Although I had a pretty good idea before I even flicked on the projector.

  I let out a deep breath, hit the switch, and made sure the film caught.

  An image flickered onto the screen.

  Without Fred's high-tech equipment, the film looked even grainier, more lurid.

  The images wavered in my living room like ghosts. It was the same room. The same bed. The same camera angle. But the girl wasn't the same. Gone was the pale, wide-eyed beauty of Mary Schletterhorn.

  In her place was a girl.

  A black girl.

  She stood next to the edge of the bed. Naked. Probably the same age Mary Schletterhorn had been, maybe sixteen years old. Her hair was cut short, pulled back. Her face was more strong than pretty. Chiseled. Sharp. Her legs were longer, more muscular. She seemed more sure of herself than Mary Schletterhorn had been. More comfortable. More at home.

  The hairy man I now knew to be Otto Hilgert walked from behind the camera to the bed. His body looked especially crude and vulgar in the black-and-white grainy world playing itself out before me.

  He stood before the girl.

  And then something happened that never occurred in the other films.

  They smiled at each other.

  The black girl dropped her hand and began to stroke. They laughed about something. He raised his hands to her shoulders, caressed them. They kissed. Hugged. Otto bowed down and kissed her breasts, licked the dark nipples.

  They moved eagerly to the bed. Otto gently pushed her back onto the pillows and he knelt before her. He spread her legs with his hands, then moved between them and pressed his face between her legs.

  The black girl looked up at the ceiling. Her fingers wrapped themselves around a fold in the sheet. She slowly lifted her legs. Otto reached up and put his hands on her breasts.

  Several minutes passed before the girl let go of the sheets and put her hands on Otto's head. She wrapped her legs around his back and pulled his face against her pelvis. She bucked once. Twice. And once more, her back arched until she collapsed back onto the giant pillow.

  Otto smiled and climbed up next to her. Stroked her stomach, her face, her hair. Leaned over and kissed her on the mouth.

  I leaned back in my chair, looked at the projector that was humming smoothly. I couldn't erase the image I'd just seen before me. Suddenly, my head was spinning with ideas, thoughts and revelations.

  Movement on the screen brought me back.

  The girl pushed Otto onto his back, kissed her way down his hairy belly. Otto grabbed the sheets. Arched his back, straightened, and then spasamed.

  The film jumped to white with trails of black. I rewound to a shot of them and froze it.

  I looked closer.

  My heart skipped a beat. Maybe I'd already known. Maybe I needed to look at this as proof for myself. The only way I would believe.

  I shut off the projector and pulled the film from the threading mechanism. Wound it back up and put it in the old metal container. I stood. The pit of my stomach roiled.

  And then the phone rang.

  I moved to it, my legs felt like slabs of oak.

  With the images frozen in my mind, I pressed the phone to my ear.

  A man's voice.

  "Why don't you join us at the brewery, Michael?" Philip Krahn's voice said smoothly, almost cheerfully.

  "Eve is asking for you."

  Thirty-Nine

  It was snowing again, a big storm that would most likely blow through the night. Snow swirled around the streetlights. Store awnings were weighed down, their edges frosted with thick ice. Wind gusted and I felt the car rock with each gust. It was almost midnight now. The few cars brave enough or foolish enough to be on the road were covered with snow, their taillights glowing pink beneath a thick layer of ice.

  When I pulled into Krahn's headquarters, I saw Philip's Range Rover parked in the first spot next to the small walk that led to the main doors. I pulled in next to the Rover, its dark green exterior glistened beneath the parking lot lights. When I shut off my car, the silence was complete save for the occasional whistle and soft howl of the wind.

  From inside my jacket, I pulled out the .357. With a full cylinder, it felt heavy in my hand. The weight of reassurance. I rested my finger on the trigger, thought about what may or may not be waiting for me.

  I put the gun back inside the jacket's inner pocket. I opened the door and stood. It was a clear night, bone-chilling cold.

  The main glass doors opened without a hitch, as if oiled just for this occasion. I scraped my feet on the mat just inside the door, noted that there were small puddles leading away from the mat. Definitely more than one person.

  The receptionist's desk was dark, the bright Krahn logo still glowed behind it. A light at the end of the hallway beckoned me and I walked toward it. This was the way to Philip Krahn's office, I remembered. Stealth was not an option as my shoes, wet from the snow, squeaked on the polished maple floor. When I got to the end of the floor, I saw another light on my right spilling from an open door.

  As I approached, my hands flexed and my body braced itself for gunshots. I stopped just outside the door and waited, held my breath.

  "Come in Michael," Philip Krahn's voice said.

  I stepped into the doorway with no attempts to shield myself from anything.

  Philip Krahn was at his desk, not dissimilar from the way I remembered him; thin, polished, good-looking. Hair slicked back. An expensive sportcoat, Henley shirt. Rolex.

  In the corner of the room, an older man lounged against the edge of a bookcase. He nodded at me.

  “Mr. Ashland, we meet again.”

  His voice took me back to the brewery, when I was beaten and nearly drowned. He was the man with the crewcut. The smoker who had overseen my torture.

  “You two have met?” Krahn asked.

  “We’ve met, but haven’t been formally introduced.” He smirked at me. “Jack McDonough. Chief of Security.”

  Krahn looked back and forth
between us, and then I saw his eyes flicker over my shoulder.

  And then I smelled him. The cologne.

  Cold metal pressed firmly against the base of my skull. Dug into the skin.

  "Hello, Burr."

  A firm hand pushed me into the office and I turned.

  Ordell faced me, grinning, with an Uzi in his hand. He spread his arms wide. A gleeful smile across his shiny face. Eyes bright.

  "Ta-da," he said.

  Forty

  He was a new man. Gone were the T-shirts, black sweatpants and high top basketball shoes. He had on a pinstripe suit, probably Armani, with a flashy silk tie. Looked like Gucci. Allen-Edmonds wingtips. A brand-new Rolex hung from his considerable wrist.

  "The blackmail business really pays off, doesn't it? " I asked.

  The light in his eyes changed. It was subtle, but I could tell he wanted to know what I knew. Not out of any instinct for self-preservation, but just pure arrogance. He wanted to know how well he'd done.

  How smart he was.

  "The timing was interesting," I said. "A few months before Tim is murdered, Fred gets a new boyfriend. A big, good-looking guy with no visible means of support? A mysterious trust fund somewhere?"

  The room was quiet, save for sound of sleet hitting the big window behind Krahn’s desk.

  "And how Tim died. Thrown through that thick window? I figured it was one of two things; either a couple people did it, or one very strong, very motivated asshole."

  Ordell smiled and holding the Uzi with one hand, raised his other arm and flexed his bicep. The muscle was big and well-defined. "I tossed him like a sack of potatoes, baby."

  Let it go, I told myself. Stay cool. "I wasn't really sure what happened," I said, "until Mary Schletterhorn said something about 'another orphan.' I had no idea what she was talking about. But then I found out about the murder. Otto Hilgert and his black mistress."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw McDonough, who had been leaning casually against the wall, stand up straight.

  "He really loved her, it's pretty obvious in the film," I continued. "But Krahn's cronies were afraid he would throw it all away for her. The de facto head of Krahn breweries couldn't very well marry a black woman, could he? So they killed them both. Made it look like an accident.”

  I looked directly at Ordell. “Her daughter, your mother, got sent to an orphanage. I figured Tim had tracked her down and was going to make a documentary about her, but found out she was dead. So the only possible solution was that she had children, and it was her orphan that was behind it. Tim had the whole thing - put you back in touch with your true lineage. He probably even told you that it would be big news, that the Krahn family might even have to pay you money. Legally. But then you figured, the hell with that. Fuck legal. I'll do it illegally. I'll kill the history professor and take all of his evidence. At first, I thought it was one of his competitors who took all the files from his computer, but when I confronted him about it, he didn't have a clue what I was talking about. You took the files and blackmailed Krahn. You figured they owed you, right?"

  "Fuck yeah!" Ordell said, laughing and pointing at Krahn. "They're rollin' in it!"

  "The only problem was, you knew there was one more piece of evidence. When you killed Tim, you were probably trying to get him to talk, weren't you? Tell you where the film was? The one big loose end. The proof of Otto Hilgart and his black mistress. But he wouldn't tell. And you'd fucked him up so bad, you knew he was going to die anyway, so you chucked him out the window."

  "All the bitch would say is that he had 'visual proof of the union' as he put it. But he wouldn't tell me where it was. I beat the crap out of him, got so pissed…but he wouldn't say a thing! For a nerd, he was a tough little shit, I'll give him that."

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Krahn look at his watch.

  "You saw the film he did send Fred but since the woman was white, you knew it wasn't the whole thing,” I continued. “But when I started getting close and by then Fred was involved, you decided to kill two birds with one stone. Kill Fred, and frame me. So you forced Fred to write the suicide note and then shot him in the head," I said.

  "With pleasure," he said.

  "And you'd already begun the blackmail scheme. That's why you," I said and pointed to McDonough, "were following me. But you couldn’t tell me what you wanted, so you kidnapped me and nearly killed me to get the film."

  Krahn sat up. "What?" He looked at McDonough. I didn't know if he was acting or not, but why would he?

  McDonough shrugged his shoulders. "Some things are better off being kept from you," he said to Krahn.

  "But-" Krahn started to protest. He leaned forward, his face flushed with anger.

  Krahn was about to tear into McDonough when I heard the soft shuffle of feet behind me, then pain shot through my side as Ordell drove a fist into my ribs.

  "You don't want to be turnin' your back on me, bitch," he said. I dropped to my knees. Gasped with pain.

  Ordell stood before me. "I ought to-" he began. The Uzi pressed against my temple.

  "Now, now, boys..." McDonough said.

  "Are you fucking nuts?" Krahn said to McDonough who simply shrugged his shoulders again and watched us all with silent amusement from his perch in the corner of the room.

  "I do apologize for fucking up both of your friends," Ordell said. "I knew you and Fred and he were all buddies, but Tim didn't want to go along with the plan, you know what I'm saying? His priorities were all fucked up."

  "Well you sure straightened them out, didn’t you?"

  "As far as my new duds," Ordell said, strutting in front of all us with the Uzi as an accessory. "I always deserved this kind of wardrobe. Your buddy Fred bought me nothing but Dockers. Dockers? You believe that?"

  I got to my feet, the pain in my side still shooting through me. Broken rib for sure.

  "Now look, Burr. I know you got the film," Ordell said. "You probably already looked at it."

  "What makes you think I have it?" I asked.

  "What the fuck else you need with an old movie projector?"

  I waited.

  "I've been keeping my eye on you. Once you picked up the projector, I knew you had it. So you give me the film. Philip gives me the number of the Swiss account into which he's put the money, and everyone goes away happy."

  I knew that was complete bullshit. After I gave him the film, I wouldn't be going away happy. I would just be going away - permanently.

  "I made copies, you realize that," I said. I didn't think he'd fall for it, but it was worth a shot.

  "Doubtful, my friend. Not quite enough time to do that." He kept the gun on me and moved sideways. "Now give me the film or..."

  "There's only one problem with my theory," I said to Ordell. "It was really bugging me for awhile because I was positive you were behind it all."

  "Shut your fucking mouth and give me the film," Ordell said.

  "What are you talking about?" McDonough asked.

  "It has to do with the timing of everything," I said. "If Tim contacted you and told you about Otto and your possible fair claim to some of the Krahn fortune - how did you manage to worm your way into Fred's life so fast? And if you'd done it after he told you about it, wouldn't eventually you and Fred and Tim have gotten together? A party? Dinner? At some point, as Fred's lover you would have bumped into Tim. So you seduced Fred long before Tim ever contacted you. But I couldn't figure out how."

  "What's your fucking point?" McDonough asked.

  "The point is," Ordell answered, "I really don't want to kill Burr right now, here at the brewery. I had other plans. But since he isn't giving me the film despite the fact I've asked him several times, I'm just going to have to kill him and take the fucking film.”

  Forty-One

  The Uzi moved up and I went for it.

  I got a hand on the short barrel, away from the muzzle. I got the other hand on the base of the grip.

  Ordell squeezed the trigger. The Uzi bucked in bot
h of our fists. Bullets punctured the wall around McDonough, and then his shirt exploded red with blood. I swung it away from me. My arms shook as rounds blasted from the gun.

  We stood there, the two of us, locked as the gun continued to burst.

  Ordell shifted to try to get better position and I suddenly let go of the gun and drove an elbow into his face, felt his nose squash like a sour grape.

  He sank to his knee and his grip on the Uzi relaxed. I wrenched it free, swung it, a short, vicious blow that clocked him on the temple. He swayed on his knees and I brought the gun crashing down on his head. Blood poured from his ears. He collapsed onto his side. Reached into his waistband. I saw the butt of a gun. His hand closed around it, pulled it free.

  I pointed the Uzi at his chest and fired. Two shots barked out and then the hammer clicked on an empty chamber. It was enough. Ordell's shirt gushed red, blood poured from his wounds and a pool of blood seeped out from underneath him.

  From behind the desk, Krahn moaned. I had no idea he’d been hit, too. I started toward his desk, pulling out the .357 to make sure I’d be ready if he was playing dead.

  And then I felt a gun barrel pressed into my back.

  I straightened. The adrenaline coursed through my body.

  "Hello, Eve," I said.

  Forty-Two

  "Drop the gun, Michael," she said.

  I did as she said. It thudded on the thick carpet. She kept her gun in my back and dragged mine back with her foot.

  Krahn staggered up from behind his desk. His crisp white shirt was covered in blood. The wild shots from the Uzi had indeed found more than just McDonough.

  Krahn whimpered.

  A cloud of acrid smoke hovered in the room. McDonough and Ordell were dead, their blood mingling on Krahn’s plush carpet. Krahn moved, lifted an arm.