by Erik Carter
I was floating in air. A white mist, a cloud. Floating. I felt serene. And I heard voices. Smelled something. Flowers? No. Alcohol. The pungent tang of booze. The voices were louder now, clearer. There was a ceiling above. And a sweet face.
Fannie.
I was in a bar. There was a handful of folks around me, looking down upon me.
“What happened?” I said.
“You took a pool cue to the dome,” Fannie said. “Barnaby Wilcox in the side pocket.” She smiled tenderly.
I tried to get up, and she softly pushed me back down. She stroked my face. With her other hand she held a wet cloth to the side of my head.
“You always take care of me, don’t you?”
She sighed. “Against my better judgment,” she said and motioned to the hole in the wall to our right. On the other side was the Funhouse. Some of Fannie’s gals watched us curiously.
And then I remembered. Jake Adamson I jumped up and out of Fannie’s embraces. “Adamson. Where is he?” I looked at Fannie and the others who were circled around us.
Fannie shook her head. “I’m sorry, Barney. He’s gone.”
I leaned against one of the nearby pool tables. A mug of beer sat on the side, apparently abandoned in the chaos. I grabbed it and took a drink.
Jake Adamson was gone.
And with him went any vestige of hope for the case. It was over.
My heart sank. I was going to have to go back to Lilly yet again and give her more bad news, this time the ultimate in bad news. The man who took the kettle and killed her father was gone, likely never to return.
I took another swig of the beer, sat it down, and headed toward the saloon’s entrance. The crowd parted for me.
“Barnaby,” Fannie called from behind.
I turned back to her. She opened her mouth, said nothing.
I pointed at the hole. “Sorry about the wall, Fannie.” I started toward the door again. Stopped. Turned back around. “And thanks. As always.”
“You’re welcome.”
I left the saloon.
Outside, I walked over to a hitching post, kicked it hard and let out a yell. A prudish woman who was walking by gave me a sour look and steered clear of me. I lumbered over to Bob—a few blocks away outside the Bank and Trust—hitched up, and slowly made my way out of the downtown area.
I headed back to the Cosgrove mansion.
When I arrived and knocked on the door, Lilly was the one who answered. Just my luck. I was hoping it would be Pattison, believe it or not. Anything to delay this latest gloomy meeting with Lilly.
She gave me a puzzled look. “That was quick.” She smiled now, as though my quickness might be the result of good news.
“Didn’t I tell you I’d talk to you soon?” It was a lame attempt at humor. Anything to soften the moment.
She smiled again and looked at me, evidently waiting for me to say something.
I said nothing.
“Well …” she prompted.
I tried to say something. Nothing came out. I knew I was being spineless, but I just didn’t want to break this girl’s heart again.
The corners of Lilly’s mouth descended. Her lips tightened into a thin line. “Walk with me, Barnaby.” She stepped past me, and I followed her. “You look like hell.”
“Been a rough morning.”
We walked past the gardens to a large field of mown grass behind. Trees lined the perimeter of this area. We were at the back of the Cosgrove property. I didn’t say anything, and neither did she until we were halfway across the field.
“So what happened?” she said.
I took out a cigarette and lit it. “I ran into Jake Adamson this morning.”
“The banker.”
“Right. And it got me to thinkin’ about who would have known about both the kettle’s theft and the kidnapping. The only person who knew about both was Jake. He … well, let’s just say he wasn’t your dad’s biggest fan.”
“Then he was the one who killed Macintosh and took the kettle so that when the kidnappers didn’t get what they wanted, they would then kill Daddy.”
“Well, that’s what I thought too. So I stopped by his office this morning. Got a confession out of him. And it looks like he and his buddy Kurt have also been the kidnappers all along.”
“I take it he got away.”
I paused. “Yeah.”
“Don’t imagine he’ll ever come back.”
“Neither do I.”
Lilly nodded slowly. “So you didn’t figure out that he was involved until this morning when you saw him?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, why hadn’t you suspected him before today?”
“I … I don’t know,” I said.
She was right. Why hadn’t I figured it out before?
Guilt hit me then like a blind punch to the gut. Two men were murdered. A fantastic little gal had her whole world destroyed. And I, Barnaby Wilcox, hadn’t figured it all out until it was too late. I’d felt this kind of hurt before, long ago. It was a bad kind of hurt.
Lilly was stoic and dead. She looked like one of those porcelain dolls that were lined up on the shelves in her bedroom. It tears you apart to see someone so full of life lookin’ so damn lifeless.
She gazed out across the grounds of the mansion. A moment later she said, “The kettle’s gone. Two people are dead … including Daddy. And for what?” She paused and looked at me, evidently hoping for some sort of response.
I didn’t know what to say.
She said, “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Barnaby.”
“Hey. Even though it ended like this, you’re gonna be fine … for what it’s worth,” I said. It came out awkwardly. Yikes. Sentiment was not my strong suit.
But it must not have been all that bad because she pulled me in for a big hug. I thought she might be smiling when we pulled away, but her eyes still had that glazed look to them.
She said, “This whole business happened because of men wanting their trinkets and their money. What does it all mean, Barnaby?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, kid.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A cigarette dangled from my lips. I carried a bottle of whiskey. Rain pounded me. Sheets of it ran down my duster, and it fell in tendrils off the front of my hat.
It was a dark night. The city was black. All those stars that lit up the sky so brilliantly just last night were hidden. The gloom dripped down from the sky and oozed between the shabby little buildings and over all the crumpled souls like myself.
Laughter and light poured out of all the batwing doors of the city, flowed out a few feet before it too was engulfed in the gloom. I looked in some of these places as I stumbled by. Oh, they were happy people. But they were drunk too. We weren’t that different. They chose to be drunk inside, and I chose to be drunk in the rain. They could have it their way. I would have it mine.
They mocked me. The city was mocking me. The rain was mocking me. Yet I couldn’t help but laugh.
“What does it all mean?” Lilly had said.
The truth was I didn’t know what any of it meant. What had all this kettle business really been about? Money had traded hands, people were dead, but what did it mean in the end?
As far as I was concerned, the case was over. The killers were gone, and the kettle with them. I could continue chasing it; I could hunt it all over the country. But in the end I’d just be treading water, wasting Lilly’s money. I was gonna tell her I was done with it all.
This case had been hell. It seemed like every time I got another step further into it, I got another foot deeper into the muck. Every time I made a move, someone died, the kettle got farther away. And now a gal had lost a father. A greedy old miser, but her daddy all the same. My record as a detective now had another check under the loss column. And who knew what happened to the kettle.
No, I didn’t know what any of it meant.
When you’re piss drunk, life starts hitting you in
little flashes. One minute more you’re here, another you’re there—and you’re not quite sure how you got there. This night was happening very much in that fashion. One moment I was out in the road, tromping the muddy streets, the next moment I found myself at a table in one of the fanciest restaurants in town.
The place was called Hollington’s. It was one of my favorites when I could afford it. I knew the owner, Stephen Peddins. Great guy, Steve. And it was a good thing we were acquainted—because otherwise I wouldn’t have gotten in that night considering my current condition.
When you’re down, the best thing you can do is get yourself a nice salad. And this one was a humdinger. The base was leaf lettuce. But not just any old leaf lettuce. They went the extra mile on this one. There was green leaf lettuce and red leaf lettuce. A few bean sprouts had been tastefully spread about. People tend to get carried away with their sprouts. Not at Hollington’s. They do it just right. There were a few rings of red onion. Over that, some carrot shavings. Beautiful. Just beautiful. On top of everything, I had added my own special touch—a handful of licorice sticks.
I looked at the licorice on top of this gorgeous creation, and laughed at my own brilliance. An older lady sitting a couple tables over gave a disgusted look my way. I stuck my tongue out at her.
The dressing was in a cup on the side. It was a Hollington’s original—orange-raspberry vinaigrette. I poured it on, right over top of the licorice. I giggled.
There was a tapping at the window next to my table. I turned. Fannie was outside on the sidewalk. She had apparently seen me as she walked by. She was holding an umbrella and wearing a concerned look.
Oh, great.
Undaunted, I simply smiled at her and pointed with pride at my salad creation. She nodded and walked away, evidently heading for the entrance.
I heard the jingling of the bell on the front door, and a moment later Fannie walked over and sat at my table. She looked cross.
“Hey,” she said.
I giggled again.
“You’re drunk.”
“You know,” I said. “I think you’re right.”
She looked at me flatly. “That looks good,” she said, nodding toward my salad.
“Yeah, it’s a new creation of mine.”
“Great. Why don’t you call it ‘self pity’?”
I shoved a bite of the salad into my mouth. Awesome. It tasted even better than it looked.
“You know,” I said as I chewed, “I’ve been working on this case for five days. I couldn’t catch the bad guy, and I couldn’t find the kettle.”
“And life happens,” Fannie said. “Isn’t that what you always tell me?”
“Sounds like something I’d say.”
She smiled at me, a pained smile, almost a grimace. It was one of those maternal, Oh look at the poor thing sort of smiles. I didn’t appreciate her pity. She said, “For someone who claims to be so flippant, you’re taking this awfully bad.”
“A man can’t enjoy a good salad?” I said, a piece of licorice flopping about my lips.
“And the booze?”
“That’s neither here nor there.”
“You’re being awfully hard on yourself over one cute little girl, Barney.”
“Two people are dead, Fannie,” I said. “And the killer is gone. This is much bigger than one cute girl.”
“Not for you. For you it’s a job. That’s what you always say, right? So unless you’re going to dust off that badge of yours, you need to pull it together. You got paid, didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
“Then what do you care?”
I thought about it for a moment. Why was I upset? Fannie was right. I’d gotten my money. The killer was on the loose, but as far as I could tell he was done with his killing. He’d gotten what he was looking for—the kettle. So I was probably safe at this point. And so was Lilly. Then why did I care so darn much?
I looked at Fannie. She was wearing another maternal look as she waited for my answer; this one was a smug look, as though she already knew what I was going to say.
“I … don’t know,” was the best I could come up with.
Fannie snorted.
I thought of my self-imposed challenge of enjoying some Fannie time before I was finished with the case. Guess I missed the boat on that one. Well, no time like the present. “Why don’t we head back to the Funhouse, Fannie? You seem awful concerned about me. There are ways a broken man can be mended.”
She snorted again. “If you need somewhere to sleep this off, you can come get a room … alone.”
“My office is right down the street. I’m used to sleeping there.”
“Suit yourself.”
She left. I stabbed at my salad.
I stumbled back into the streets of Desecho. It was still raining. There was a strong wind now too. The rain blew up under my hat, got in my eyes. I squinted and rubbed it away with my hand. I’d had a couple more beers back at Hollington’s once that old shrew had finally left me in peace. Steve had cut me off eventually. Bastard. He’d earned himself a spot on the Barnaby Wilcox shit list.
More rain was in my eyes. I rubbed it away viciously. Someone spoke to me. The voice came from my left. “Hey, buddy. You okay?”
I turned but couldn’t find him. It was too dark. Too muddled. He’d asked if I was okay. Maybe I was stumbling more than I thought. No matter. Either way, it was none of this stranger’s concern.
I grumbled out some primordial noise in response, never breaking my stride. Damn do-gooders. I’d be back in the comfort of my office any minute now. There I could close the door and lock them all out.
Then I saw him. Jake Adamson!
He was sitting on the sidewalk outside one of the saloons. He looked straight at me. The black bandanna covered his face, and again he lingered in the shadows. Except this time he wasn’t hiding or creeping. He sat with a group of men, laughing, drinking. He was leaning back in a chair, and his legs were propped up on the railing. One of the men said something, and Jake leaned back and let out a belly laugh.
He didn’t care now if I saw him. He was taunting me. He had his friends to protect him.
That’s what he thought. He underestimated Barnaby Wilcox.
I sprang up the steps of the sidewalk, and pushed through the group of men. There was a lot of shouting. A beer spilled down my arm. Hands pulled at my duster. More shouting. I yanked Jake out of his comfortable shadowy hiding place and pulled him up to my face.
I was about to shout something like, “You think you can pull the wool over my eyes?” when I noticed that this man wasn’t Jake Adamson. The guy didn’t look anything like him. In fact, he wasn’t even wearing a bandanna.
Perhaps I’d had one too many.
The man’s friends were angry. Hands grabbed me from all sides. Suddenly a new, stronger hand pulled me out of the group.
It was Frank O’Nalley. That meant I must have been outside his saloon … the saloon I’d been told to never return to. I hadn’t noticed where I was.
Frank grabbed my shirt with bratwurst-sized fingers that dug into my flesh with a machine strength. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Frank screamed and spit flew from his pink face onto mine. “It’s your lousy ass again. I thought I told you not to come back here.”
“I … Well, you shouldn’t be having Jake and people like with others …” I said. It made as much sense to me as I’m sure it did to him. I was slurring more than I thought. I felt pathetic and small.
“Listen to yourself! You nasty old drunk!” he said and shook me. “You don’t come back here again, you hear?!”
He threw a big brick of a fist into the side of my head. There was a black flash, and my hearing went numb for a moment. I fell from the sidewalk and landed in the mud of the street.
I groaned and rolled onto my back. Raindrops pattered my face. I watched them fall from the sky.
The group of men on the sidewalk laughed hysterically. One of them fired a round into the air, and I jumped. I hear
d Frank grumble as he went back into his saloon. “Goddamn pathetic drunk.”
I pulled myself onto a knee. He’d given me a good blow, but I’d be all right. Sore head. Destroyed ego.
I got myself onto both feet and took one step forward, nearly falling back down into the puddle again. This received a new chorus of laughter from the brutes on the sidewalk. In my well-trained periphery I noticed people beginning to stop and stare in my direction.
Not to worry. Soon I’d be back in my office. Soon I could escape all this, block it all out. I was only a couple blocks away, and I could already feel its comfort.
I plodded forward. The buildings, the road, and the laughing gawkers all twisted and turned around me. But I was making progress. Soon I would be there. I could see it, up atop the rise.
I put a heavy foot in front of me. Climbing this little hill was going to be a challenge. It was slick, muddy. Streams of rain rushed down from the apex, deepening the ruts in the road.
I made it a few feet up. My foot slipped, and I fell. My long frame flopped into the mud like a steak on a butcher block. I slid on my back to the bottom of the hill.
Somehow this was all because of that damn kettle. I was lying in the mud, drunk and beaten, because of that goddamn trinket. I should never have taken the case. I knew that when Lilly first offered it to me. It wasn’t right.
I thought of my men.
I hadn’t been there. I didn’t see it happen. But I knew what happened. We found their bodies the next morning at the base of the hill.
Climbing the hill. Goal at top. Buildings. Gun barrels protruding from windows and doors. A volley. The first wave of men severed. Shrieks, howls.
I rolled onto my stomach. People on the sidewalks were laughing. I looked to the top of the hill. There was my office—the sanctuary, a place away from the laughter. Raindrops fell in my eyes.
Snowflakes. Falling in clumps, falling into eyes. Burning, fogging vision. Men climbing forward, even after collapsing, taking rounds. Crawling on stomachs. Moving in inches. Firing, pulling forward by fingers, fingers that dug and clenched into snow and half-frozen mud.
I pulled myself forward with my hands, dug my fingers into the mud, dragged myself along inch by inch. It could take all night. It didn’t matter. I’d make it.