by Simon Hawke
Leventhal waved at her and she gave him a bored-looking nod as she continued whatever it was she was doing. We made our way over to the crowded booth.
"Okay, like, we're gonna take a break now," the female vocalist said, as the noise stopped with a reverberating echo that shook the walls. "We're Blackie Dawn and the Scum; Trish is gonna be up here in a few. Party till you puke. Catch ya'll later."
"Hey, Dan!" said a young Ripper with long, spiky blond hair that stuck out in all directions.
"Hey, Rob, how's it goin'?" said Leventhal. He said hello to the other young men at the table. "Jesse, Isaac... ."
"Hey, man."
"Meet my friend, Catseye Gomez," he said.
A round of greetings followed, with more or less the same, minimalist approach.
"Do me a favor, guys, and let us have a little privacy, will ya? I need to talk to the Baghwan."
"Yeah, sure, man," Rob said. "We'll catch ya later, Baghwan."
The man to whom that last comment was addressed was sitting quietly against the wall, smoking an unfiltered cigarette. He merely nodded in reply. Unlike the others, he wasn't wearing any leather, but a black cloth sport jacket over a rumpled, dark green, button-down shirt. He had on a black wool beret and black-rimmed glasses. One of his eyes looked a little funny and out of focus, what they called a "wandering eye." He had a wispy, black goatee and the face of an ascetic. Leventhal slid into the booth and I hopped up beside him after the others left.
"Evening, Dan," said the Baghwan. He glanced at me and smiled. "Catseye Gomez, eh?"
"Just Gomez will do," I said.
He nodded once. "Pleased to meet you. Why don't you hop up on the table here, so you can see okay?" He slid aside some cups and glasses to make room.
"Long as the management doesn't mind," I said, jumping up on the table.
Oh, they're pretty loose around here," said the Baghwan. He crushed out his cigarette butt and immediately took out another one. Leventhal lit it for him with his Zippo. "Thanks."
A pretty, dark-haired waitress came up to the table and set a cup of coffee down in front of Leventhal.
"Thanks, Becky," he said. "And can we get a saucer of cream for my buddy, Gomez, here?"
"Sure," she replied, with a dazzling smile, as if she served cats every day. Around here, maybe she did. I'd noticed more than a few thaumagenes around the room, perched atop tables and on chairs and on people's shoulders. I decided I could get used to this place.
"I could use a little information, Baghwan."
The Baghwan merely nodded.
"You hear about anybody dealing in explosives lately? Something unusual? Maybe somebody who doesn't normally handle that kind of commodity?"
"You mean like C-4?" the Baghwan asked.
Leventhal raised his eyebrows. "Word gets around fast," he said. "Or do you know something?"
The Baghwan shook his head. "We're talking about the Susan Jacobs murder, right?" he said.
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
"Hell, don't you people talk to each other?" the Baghwan asked. "Or is this some kind of new, double-redundancy investigative technique?"
"What are you talking about?" Leventhal said, frowning.
"I've already been braced tonight on that one," the Baghwan replied. "I told them I didn't know anything about it, but I guess they didn't believe me. So what's this, the good-cop/bad-cop routine? They figure I'll talk to you because we've got some history? Hell, you should have come around up front, Dan, I'd have given it to you straight, you know me."
Leventhal took a deep breath and drew his lips together into a tight grimace. "Let me guess," he said tensely. "Chavez and McVickers."
The Baghwan frowned. "You telling me you didn't know?"
"No, I had no idea they were sniffing around on this. Those fuckers."
"What's going on with you guys?" asked the Baghwan. "It sounds like the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing. Who's checking up on whom?"
"I don't know," Leventhal replied, in an annoyed tone. "I was told I was going to have a clear field on this one, but either they fed me a line of bullshit or the commissioner is talking out of both sides of his mouth. Shit. I'm sorry about this, Baghwan. They give you a rough time?"
The Baghwan shrugged. "No more than usual. They came sauntering in, looking tough and talking tough and making threats, and then they sauntered out again, dragging their knuckles on the ground. Even if I knew anything, I wouldn't have told those turkeys, anyway. So what's going on? You being double-teamed?"
"Looks that way," said Leventhal. "Either that or they're doing this on their own, which I wouldn't put past them. Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it. I'll make sure they won't bother you again."
The Baghwan made a dismissive motion with his hand. "Not to worry. Those bozos couldn't find their dicks with a magnifying glass. So what's the story? They played it pretty close to the vest. All I know is this broadcaster lady got blown up in her car in front of her building, where the commissioner also happens to live. Something about the ERA?"
"That's the way it's being played," said Leventhal, "but I don't know that for a fact. For all I know, maybe somebody had a hard-on for the lady. Maybe it was just personal. Right now, I haven't got a lot to go on."
The Baghwan nodded. "So what do you need?"
"Okay. The job was done, as you've already gathered from the Bobbsey Twins, with plastique, C-4. That stuff hasn't been made since the Collapse, so the lab boys think somebody stumbled on a cache that was buried in one of those survivalist safes or something. They figure it had to be a recent find, otherwise it would have shown up somewhere before now. I don't know, it's possible that maybe somebody was sitting on the stuff for a long time, but I'm inclined to agree with their theory. So, what have you heard?"
"Not a thing," said the Baghwan, with a shake of his head. "But I'll ask around and see what I can come up with. Anything else?"
"Yeah, maybe. What do you know about the Tabernacle of True Faith?"
The Baghwan smiled. "You mean the true believers?" He shrugged. "Small bunch of die-hard Fundamentalists.
They've got a church over on the corner of Eighth and Ogden. Looks like just a plain old white mansion from the outside, nicely tended and kept up, wrought-iron fence all around it, very low profile. But they've got a state-of-the-art security system and on the inside, it looks like a biblical wet dream. Fancy chandeliers, gold candle sconces and braziers, religious murals all over the place, meditation rooms, library, study rooms, the whole ball of wax. They run a Bible college out of the place, too."
"You've actually been in there?" Leventhal asked, with surprise.
"I'm a man of diverse interests," the Baghwan replied, with a shrug. "I'm always open to a new educational experience."
"So what's your impression?"
"They're very serious and earnest, but essentially harmless," the Baghwan replied. "They're not terribly political, but there's a faction in there that thinks they ought to be. It's like about seventy percent of them think the world is going to hell in a handbasket and only the righteous will be saved, and the other thirty percent think maybe they ought to do something about it."
"What about that thirty percent?" asked Leventhal.
The Baghwan shrugged again. "Who knows? If you're asking me are they militant enough to make bombs, I'd say no, but you can never really know for sure, can you? I'd say it was a long shot." He grimaced. "I wouldn't think so. They're pretty serious about their beliefs, and the Bible says "Thou shall not kill."
"It also says something about an eye for an eye, doesn't it?" Leventhal said.
"True," said the Baghwan. "But they didn't really strike me as a bunch of desperate individuals. Fanatical, maybe, but violent? Possibly, but I rather doubt it. Why, you got anything firm?"
"No, not really," Leventhal replied wryly. "I guess I'm just reaching. But somebody out there seems pretty intent on the media getting the message that this is a religious killing, knocking off
a blasphemer and all that. I don't know, maybe it's a smoke screen, but I've got to check out all the angles. Right now, I haven't got shit to work with, and the pressure's on."
"You know, it's interesting," the Baghwan said, "but before this killing, the ERA wasn't all that big a deal. Lot of people here were into it, passing around petitions and all that, but now it's suddenly a hot issue and it's getting a lot of press. If your killer was out to squelch it, it would seem he's accomplished exactly the opposite."
Leventhal frowned. "So what are you suggesting? That maybe someone in the ERA decided they needed a martyr? I don't know, Baghwan, that seems pretty farfetched to me."
The Baghwan shrugged again. "Hey, you're the detective. I was just thinking out loud."
Leventhal nervously tapped his Zippo on the table. "I need more than I've got, Baghwan. I need some help on this."
"I'll do whatever I can."
"No offense, old buddy, but that may not be enough. I'm groping in the dark here, and I need to cast some light on this situation, real quick." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You think you can set up a meeting with the Mystic?"
The Baghwan raised his eyebrows. "The Mystic, huh?" He nodded. "It's possible. But are you sure about this?"
"Hey, I'm grasping at straws here," Leventhal said. "I'll take whatever help I can get, even if I can't use it in a court of law. And word has it the Mystic gets results."
"Oh, he gets results, all right," the Baghwan nodded, "but they might not be the results you're looking for. With the Mystic, there aren't any guarantees. Especially for cops."
"Hey, look, I know the Mystic's not a certified adept," said Leventhal. "I couldn't give a shit, you know? I'm not a BOT agent, I'm just a street cop trying to do his job. Hell, you know me, Baghwan. You can put in a good word. I'm not out to bust him, I just want some information."
The Baghwan gave a small snort. "Oh, I don't think the Mystic's worried about being busted. It's been tried before, you know. And nobody who's tried has ever been seen again. If you want me to try to set up a meet for you, I'm willing, but I'm going to be straight with the man. The Mystic's not somebody you want to cross. I'm going to have to tell him you're a cop."
"So? Tell him."
"Okay. But if he agrees, from there on in, you're on your own, Dan. I wash my hands of the whole thing."
"Fair enough," said Leventhal. "And you can tell him I don't expect any freebies. I'm willing to pay, or trade, or whatever he wants."
"Be careful about that 'whatever he wants' part," said the Baghwan. "I'd think very carefully about any bargain I made with the Mystic. Because he will hold you to it, whether you like it or not."
"Hey, if I say I'm gonna do something, I do it," Leventhal replied. "You know me, Baghwan. I've never gone back on my word."
"No, you never have." The Baghwan nodded. "Okay, I'll see what I can do. But no promises, you understand?"
"Just give it your best shot, that's all I ask," said Leventhal.
"Right," said the Baghwan, getting up from the table. "Let me go make a few calls. You stay right here. This could take a while."
"Thanks, Baghwan," Leventhal replied. "I owe you one."
"If I come up with any information for you, then you'll owe me one," the Baghwan said. "This one I'm doing for old times' sake. And not without a few reservations, I might add. I'll set up a meet if I can. Whatever happens after that, I don't want to know about it, understand?"
"Got it," said Leventhal. "And thanks again."
As the Baghwan left to make his calls, somebody took the mike and made an announcement.
"Okay, people, it's that time again," the announcer said. "Ladies and gentlemen... give it up for Irish!"
The announcer stuck the mike back into the clamp on the stand and walked over to the piano. Amid sporadic applause, a woman walked up to the stage ... no, she floated up to it, with moves a jungle cat might have envied. Every man in the place was suddenly staring at her hungrily, and not a few women, too. Full, light brown hair cascaded down to her shoulders, framing a face that was enough to take your breath away. One look at that face and you could tell that she'd heard every story, every line, and every promise the mind of man could manufacture. She'd heard and seen it all and found most of it amusing. But she could be polite and listen to it all again. Not that it would get you anywhere.
She had a lush and voluptuous figure packed into a tight, black dress you could have washed in a martini glass. It looked like it was painted on her. She looked out at the audience, which had suddenly gone real quiet, and as her gaze traveled slowly in our direction, she smiled slightly and whispered into the mike, "Hey, Dan.. . this one's for you."
And as the piano player started doing bluesy things with the keys, she launched into "I Only Have Eyes for You." And every guy in the room turned around and stared at Leventhal, hating his guts.
"Friend of yours?" I said.
Leventhal cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh...yeah. Guess you could say that."
"I just did."
"Right," said Leventhal. "Shut up and drink your cream."
I gave him a wink with ole Betsy and busied myself with the nice cool saucer of cream Becky had brought me. Yes, sir, I thought, friendly atmosphere, pretty waitresses to bring me nice, cool drinks, a sexy lady with a lot of cat in her to sing the kind of songs I like, and nobody getting all bent out of shape because I'm sitting on the tabletop. This was definitely my kind of place.
"Excuse me, are you Detective Leventhal?"
I glanced up to see two women standing by the table, looking at Leventhal uncertainly. One was dark and kind of short, a little on the heavy side, with dark hair and a wide, pleasant-looking face. The other one was a tall strawberry blond, lean and leggy, with sharp features and a slightly turned up nose.
"I'm Leventhal."
"I'm Dana Cain and this is Christy Ivers," the dark one said. "You were pointed out to us.... You left messages on our machines. ..."
"Yes, of course," said Leventhal. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit down."
They slid into the booth, opposite him. Becky came to take their order and they both asked for coffee.
"This is my partner, Catseye Gomez," Leventhal said, indicating me.
"Ladies," I said.
They stared at me. "Your partner?" Christy said, with surprise.
"Sort of unofficially," I explained. "I'm supposed to be representing animal interests in this case. Actually, I think I'm just along for the PR value."
Leventhal gave me a wry look and I backed off. This was, after all, his show. I went back to my saucer of cream.
"I still can't believe Susan's dead," said Dana, getting a bit misty around the eyes. "We were supposed to get together tonight... right here as a matter of fact...."
"Yes, I know, I heard your message," Leventhal said.
"Oh, yes... of course."
"We'll do whatever we can to help," said Christy, "but I'm not sure that we can really tell you very much. The TV news reported that Susan had received some death threats. She didn't even tell us about that. The whole thing comes as a complete shock. I... I still don't think it's really sunk in."
Leventhal nodded. "Well, I just wanted to speak with you two so I could ask some routine questions. You know how it is, you were friends of hers, and at this point, anything that I can find out about her and what was happening in her life would be helpful. It's just like on TV, you know, cops ask a lot of questions, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. You never really know which piece is going to fit in where."
"I suppose you're going to want to ask us about our alibis," said Dana.
Leventhal smiled. "Well, that may be a bit too much like television," he replied. "I don't really have any reason to suspect anybody yet, and frankly, neither of you two looks like a mad bomber to me, but for the record, we might as well get it out of the way."
"Well, I was at work," said Christy, and she gave us the name and address of the legal firm she worked for.
Then Dana did the same. In spite of the unpleasant circumstances, and their being clearly nervous and upset, there was still something about the situation, "being grilled by a police detective," that was fascinating to them. Spillane, MacDonald, Chandler, Hammett, and those other guys would have understood. The Big Sleep had passed them by, but it had struck close to home and there was a heady fascination to that, maybe the same kind of fascination a small rodent feels when it stares frozen into the unblinking eyes of a rattlesnake. The death of Susan Jacobs had been, for them, a grim reminder of their own mortality, a sudden and graphic demonstration of just how quickly life can be snuffed out. Yeah, they were upset and frightened, and they were doubtless grieving for their friend, but at the same time, there was that adrenaline rush of vitality flowing through them. It could have happened to them, but it had happened to someone else instead, somebody close, close enough to make them shudder and feel the shadow of the Reaper, but the bottom line was that it was someone else, not them. They had survived.
Leventhal took notes on his little pad while they answered his questions. Their alibis for the time of the murder sounded solid. Both women were at work, where others had seen them and spoken with them. Their alibis for the night before the murder, however, when the bomb might have been planted in the victim's vehicle, weren't quite so solid. Dana Cain had been at home, taking a bath, washing her hair, and then settling down in her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers to TV and some pizza. Christy Ivers had gone out on a date at about eight o'clock, to dinner at a local restaurant and then some dancing, then back to his place and, after that, she was a little fuzzy on the time she eventually got home. As she had said before, neither of them knew anything about the death threats-or so they both claimed-and, while it may have seemed unusual that Susan wouldn't have mentioned them to two of her close friends, if she had, in fact, written them off as just crank calls, the sort of thing that happened to people in her business all the time, perhaps she simply hadn't thought enough of them to think they were worth mentioning.
"What about her personal life?" asked Leventhal casually. "What can you tell me about that?"