By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  Makoff noticed Wellington and Weisnecki strolling through the club just as the blonde ran a wet tongue up the side of his neck. He shoved her away roughly and took a big bite of his lunch, wiping his free hand across the front of his navy-blue windbreaker. He chewed slowly, not swallowing until Wellington and Weisnecki stood in front of the table.

  “Hey, Makoff, how’s the wife?” Weisnecki asked.

  Makoff’s tiny eyes turned to a glare. “Now, why you gotta be that way, Weisnecki—always ridin’ me like that? I don’t need this when I’m eatin’ lunch.” As he spoke, tiny bits of pastrami sprayed out of his mouth and danced through the air.

  Nolan looked up from the girl on his lap. “Yeah, we got enough problems without you mouthin’ off alla time.”

  Weisnecki smirked at the brutish cop and said, “Nolan! Look at you—all dressed up. Almost didn’t recognize you in the tie.”

  “We got court.”

  At this, the redhead on Nolan’s lap giggled and jerked sharply on his tie, pulling the cop’s head down, then playfully bit him on the end of his nose.

  “Hey!” Nolan moved fast, smacking her across the face with the back of his hand. “I’m in the middle of some business here.”

  A line of blood welled up on the girl’s cheek where Nolan’s over-sized class ring cut across her flesh. She dabbed at the wound with her fingers as tears welled up in her red-rimmed eyes. “I . . . I’m sorry . . . I was just—”

  “You just sit still when we’re doin’ business.” Nolan shoved her off his lap, and she tumbled out of the booth and floundered to the floor. “Shut your mouth an’ get outta here.”

  Duke Wellington watched open-mouthed as the skinny girl picked herself up and skulked toward an open doorway at the back of the room covered with a ratty red curtain.

  Makoff gave the blonde next to him a hard nudge with his elbow. After she took the hint and quickly followed the other girl, he waved his sandwich at Duke Wellington. “So, this the new guy?”

  “Yeah, Duke Wellington. My new partner.”

  Nolan chuckled and gave Wellington a once-over. “Sucker.”

  Makoff set his sandwich down on a piece of wax paper, then smoothed back his thinning hair. “So why’d you drag yourselves down here to bother us? . . . Wait, let me guess. You guys caught the Bones killing, and now you need Makoff and Nolan to dig up the prime dirt.”

  “Now that’s detective work in action, DW. We can take lessons from this guy.”

  Makoff’s eyes narrowed and he paused a moment before he said, “You know, we’ve been working an angle on Bones for . . . how long, Nolan?”

  “A long time.”

  “That’s right. A long time. And now you’re just gonna stroll in, interrupt our lunch, and expect us to hand over everything we know? Sorry, but that ain’t how things work here in vice.”

  “Look, Makoff, we don’t care about whatever it is you have on Bones. Whatever you’re running on him, that’s your business—and it can stay your business. We don’t care.” Weisnecki turned and looked at Duke Wellington, dropping his voice an octave. “Do we?”

  Wellington thought for a moment. Weisnecki had been right, he didn’t like these two at all. He jingled the keys in his pocket as he thought, then answered: “Not one bit. What’s your business stays your business. We don’t care one bit about that.”

  Weisnecki sighed in relief as he held his hands out in front of him. “See? All we need is a short list of folks who’d have liked to put a few holes in old Bones.”

  Makoff sat with a hand wrapped around his chin as he drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments. Then he looked over at his partner. “What do you think, Nolan?”

  Nolan shrugged his shoulders and grabbed a handful of Beer Nuts from the bowl on the table, then crammed them into his maw.

  “All right. We can give you a guy. Likely suspect.”

  Duke Wellington’s eyes opened wide. “Only one?”

  “Hey, greenhorn, this ain’t the Salvation Army,” Nolan said.

  “What the . . . ? That’s—”

  “Fine. It’s fine. We’ll take what we can get,” Weisnecki said.

  Makoff looked around at the others. “Okay, then. Now that we’ve got this understanding, why don’t you check out Arthur Wells. He’s in deep to . . . ah . . . Bones.”

  “I heard of him,” Weisnecki said.

  “Yeah, gambling addict, because of which he’s also a perpetual petty crook. He’s been busted something like a hundred times. Devious little guy. Don’t let him out of your sight.”

  Nolan leaned in near Makoff and whispered a little too loudly, “What do you want to tell Knicke?”

  Makoff’s face went white, and his head snapped around fast and pinned Nolan with hot eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Well, hey, thanks for the help, boys. Me and DW got a murder to solve.” Weisnecki rapped his knuckles on the table. “See you ’round.”

  When they got outside, Weisnecki started laughing as he lit a cigarette. He blew a long smoke plume straight up and said, “What a couple of clowns.”

  “So, that’s your idea of smooth talkin’?”

  “I never said anything about talking smooth. That was my idea of speaking the right language. It’s like this—Nolan ain’t that bright, and Makoff ain’t that good at poker. Between all that, I figured they’d let something slip. And they did.”

  The big Dodge pulled away from the curb and roared off into the sparse traffic. “So, whaddya think? We goin’ after this Knicke?” Duke Wellington asked.

  “Let’s hold off on that. If he’s hooked up with Makoff and Nolan somehow, I’d rather know more about him so we don’t walk into some kind of setup. Would rather see what kind of stink they’re trying to spray on this Wells fellow.”

  Weisnecki made a quick call on the radio and found out that the last known address for one “Wells, Arthur Lee” was on Laramie Drive.

  “Take a left at the next light. His place’ll be on a side street a few blocks down.”

  As Duke Wellington eased the big car around the corner, Weisnecki flipped what was left of his cigarette out the window and slipped on a pair of gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses. “I gotta admit, partner, you handle this beast pretty well.” He patted the dashboard.

  Moments later, they stood on the front porch of a cracker-box house that looked just like the ones on either side of it. Duke Wellington knocked on the front door and it swung open with a long, slow creak.

  Weisnecki shot his partner a hard look that said not to ask any questions, then he walked through the doorway.

  “But—” Wellington interrupted himself with a shrug of his shoulders. Instead of saying anything else, he brushed his fingers across the gun on his hip—a nervous habit—and, with a deep sigh, followed his partner.

  On the other side of the door, a worn maroon sofa took up most of the space in a tiny living room. A small television stand was crammed against the wall in front of the sofa, complete with an oversized television blasting out some daytime talk show. A narrow walkway behind the couch led toward the back of the building, ending at a closed wooden door. A matching door stood open in the right wall, leading to a smallish bedroom. Off to the left, an archway opened into what looked to be a kitchen.

  Weisnecki stood guard, sweeping his eyes back and forth between the archway, the bedroom, and the back door. Duke Wellington strolled over to the blaring television and cranked down the volume just as a short, balding guy waddled out from the kitchen.

  He jumped when he saw the two cops in the living room.

  “Holy . . .” he stammered. His soft white skin made him look as if he were made out of raw bread dough.

  Duke Wellington’s pulse quickened. He spun around, fumbling for the pistol he should have had drawn before he walked in, feeling stupid at being caught in such a silly situation.

  Weisnecki flipped back his jacket so the little man could see him put his hand on the butt of his gun, and said, “That’s far
enough, Wells. Hands in the air.”

  “Wh . . . wha . . . what’s going on? Wh . . . who are you guys?” he asked, his hands held high above his head.

  Wellington moved his jacket so the guy could see the badge he wore on his belt. “I’m Duke Wellington. That’s my partner, Mark Weisnecki. We’re Homicide, here on an investigation.”

  “Homicide? Oh, man. I didn’t do nothin’.”

  “Then you won’t mind having a little chat with us, will ya?”

  “Chat? Sure, sure. No problem. You guys want some coffee? Hold on, make yourselves comfortable, I’ve gotta make a fresh pot.” With that, Wells dropped his hands and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Wellington drew his gun and held it pointed down at the floor, aimed about two feet in front of him, and cautiously inched his way through the arch into the kitchen. He could feel Weisnecki covering him from behind.

  The kitchen was little bigger than an alcove. A counter ran along the back wall, complete with a sink on the left and four grease-caked cupboards above. Tucked along the right wall, a metal bread box sat forgotten next to a well-used hotplate and a disassembled, dented percolator. A refrigerator hummed loudly on the left wall next to the sink, and a small metal-and-Formica table with two mismatched chairs had been shoved up against the right wall.

  Wells hurriedly filled the percolator with cold tap water. Then he fitted the stem and basket inside before he began an anxiety-filled rooting through the kitchen.

  “You fellas don’t need those pistols. I don’t keep no guns around here,” he said as he frantically opened a cupboard door, peered inside, then quickly slammed it shut. He continued his search at a frenetic pace, banging one cupboard door shut as he pulled another one open. There seemed to be no pattern to his searching; several times he’d open a cabinet he’d already investigated before continuing on.

  “How about we skip the coffee,” Duke Wellington said after a few minutes of watching Wells play hide-and-seek with nothing in particular.

  “Ah, that’s where I put them,” Wells said, ignoring the detective’s comment as he stretched his arm up to the top shelf of one of the cabinets. He angled up on the tips of his toes so he could reach inside. Even then, he could barely make it, but managed to pull out three plain white coffee mugs, the kind they use in diners, and set them on the counter. With the cups in place, he quickly spun and opened the freezer, rolling his head around on his stubby neck as he looked inside. Just as quickly, he pushed the freezer door shut and scanned the small kitchen.

  He smiled and snapped his fingers, then walked over to another cabinet and pulled a can of Chock full o’Nuts off the bottom shelf. He peeled off the plastic lid and began filling the percolator’s basket with coffee. He jammed the top of the percolator in place carelessly and plugged it in. A low hiss leaked into the room as the water started to heat up. Wells plopped down on one of the two cheap chairs and sighed.

  “Now that you’re done playin’ around here, you ready to answer some questions?” Weisnecki said.

  “Sure, sure,” Wells replied, waving his hand toward his face in a “bring on the questions” motion.

  “All right,” Duke Wellington said. “Where were you—”

  Without warning, Wells jumped to his feet. “Hey, before we get started, gotta hit the head. You guys wait right here. Be right back.”

  Before either of the cops could say anything, the man scurried out of the kitchen, across the living room, behind the sofa, and through the wooden door. The cops got a glimpse of the room beyond—a bathroom all right.

  “You think he’s got a gun in there?” Weisnecki asked as he slipped his own heater into its holster.

  “No, but I think he’s gonna run. This guy is as loony as a minister sippin’ too much communion sauce.”

  “Can’t argue with you there. You stay here and watch that door. I’m goin’ outside.”

  “Me watch the door? Why don’t you watch the door an’ I go outside? Why do I gotta watch the door?”

  “I see it like this,” Weisnecki said, “you’re the one does the driving, so you’re the one gets to lean up there against that wall and watch that door. I got to grab a smoke.” He slipped a Lucky between his stained teeth.

  After Weisnecki left, Duke Wellington leaned against the archway between the kitchen and the living room. He checked his gun, making sure he had a round in the chamber, then he stared at the bathroom door, listening to Wells clunk around inside.

  Duke Wellington turned his head and peered into the kitchen. He stood there thinking about what a bundle of nerves this Wells was. Funny how some people got when talking to cops. They weren’t even in an interview and this guy flipped out, like he had something to hide.

  Then it hit him. He glanced back at the bathroom door. Still closed tight, but he could hear the toilet running. He didn’t have much time. He clicked on the safety of his gun and put the piece back on his hip, then walked over to the bread box. His mind replayed Wells’s frantic search of the kitchen; the guy had looked everywhere. Everywhere, that is, but the bread box. He pulled the handle, and the door flopped open with a small magnetic sound. Inside, tucked behind a loaf of Wonder bread, was a gun.

  He pulled the handkerchief out of his breast pocket and gingerly picked up the cheap .38. He held it up to his nose and sniffed. Recently fired. He slipped the gun into his pocket and smiled.

  When he heard footsteps behind him, Duke Wellington turned around. “Well, well. Looks like we’re gonna have a few words about what’s in your bread box . . .” he said, trailing off as his smile faded to a dumbfounded grimace. He stood looking at a slim black man in a shabby suit and tie carrying a bag of groceries.

  The man didn’t look happy. “Hey! What the hell is going on here? Who are you?”

  “Who am I? Who am I? I might ask you the same question,” Duke Wellington said, once again flashing his badge.

  “Cop, huh? Well, who I am is the guy what lives here, and I sure don’t appreciate you guys bustin’ in and diggin’ through my lunch fixin’s.”

  “Don’t worry about nothin’, friend. We’re here talking to your roommate.”

  “Nothin’ ’cept I ain’t got no roommate,” the man said.

  “No roommate . . . hold it. What’s your name?”

  “Don’t you guys know whose house it is you go bustin’ into? I’m Arthur Wells.”

  A wolf’s grin broke across Duke Wellington’s face, and he pointed over the guy’s shoulder. “So if you’re Wells, who’s that?”

  Wells spun around and saw Weisnecki standing there next to the short, nervous guy who had disappeared into the bathroom. The guy’s face sported a few new bruises, and he winced in pain when Weisnecki cranked his arm deeper into a wrestler’s arm lock.

  “Knicke! What are you doin’ here?”

  Duke Wellington looked at Weisnecki and said, “Knicke? Our Knicke?”

  “I’d say so,” Weisnecki replied.

  “Shut up, Wells, you squealer,” Knicke said.

  “So this is Wells, then,” Weisnecki said.

  “Well, now, if this ain’t interesting. You boys know each other, huh? That’s damn interesting,” Duke Wellington said.

  “Sure is.” Weisnecki moved into the kitchen and shoved Knicke into the same chair he’d sat in earlier. “Why don’t we start at the beginning. Tell us about Bones.”

  Knicke looked up at Weisnecki, an innocent mask spread across his face, and said, “Bones?”

  Weisnecki backhanded Knicke across the face, then took off his jacket, draped it over the other chair, and loosened his tie. Duke Wellington watched his partner, hoping this wasn’t going to go where it looked like it was going. This wasn’t his style. Not his style at all.

  “You talkin’ about the bookie?” Wells asked, finally walking up to the counter to set down his bag of groceries.

  “You know any other Bones?” Duke Wellington asked, turning so he could keep Weisnecki in the corner of his eye as he grilled Wells.

 
“Yeah, I do . . . but he’s in prison.”

  “Knock it off. You know we mean the bookie,” Weisnecki said.

  “All right, so I know him, but only to place bets with. He treats me good. Gives me credit when I need it, and I always pay him, even if I can’t cover the vig,” Wells said, suddenly embarrassed. “I ain’t exactly what people call a winner.”

  “That’s for sure,” Knicke said.

  Duke Wellington shot a penetrating glance over to Knicke and said, “For sure, huh? What do you know about it?”

  “Nothin’. He just looks like a loser.”

  “Don’t give us that crap,” Weisnecki snapped, aiming his hand at Knicke’s face. Knicke flinched, and Weisnecki laughed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  “Man, I’m tired of your mouth, Knicke,” Wells said. “You got some nerve.”

  Knicke glared at Wells with malice as he rubbed his elbow and said, “Watch yourself, Wells.”

  “Comin’ here every week, takin’ my money—”

  Knicke jumped to his feet. “I said shut up!”

  Weisnecki shoved the diminutive thug backward, forcing him down into his chair.

  Wellington looked from Knicke, who was starting to sweat, to Wells and said, “This guy takes your money?”

  “Yeah, every week. He came by and collected yesterday.”

  “Collected for what?”

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me. You mean to tell me you guys don’t know? He’s an errand boy for Bones.”

  “I’m no errand boy!”

  “Then what are you doing here?” Weisnecki asked.

  Knicke crossed his arms and looked up at Weisnecki with a defiant smirk. Weisnecki unfolded his arms and took a threatening step forward.

  Duke Wellington wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, afraid that Weisnecki would lose control and clean Knicke’s clock, right there on the dirty linoleum. So he quickly shifted gears and changed his approach, turning to Wells and asking him, “Where were you last night?”