By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  “Ah, this is a pretty big one.”

  “Then I’d say rabbits.”

  “Do you sell rabbits?”

  “Normally, but little Billy Wilkins bought my last two earlier this week. That kid loves his bunnies. Keeps a hutch out in his backyard. Says he’s going to be a world-class rabbit breeder.”

  “Good for him. How about rats, then?”

  “I only have a few rats left. I sold a whole bunch to a couple of guys earlier this afternoon . . .” She wrinkled up her pretty brow. “Come to think of it, those boys were asking about snake food too. You wouldn’t be looking for them, would you? Being a detective and all?”

  I was hoping if I threw out some lines, I might reel in a lead. Looked like I got a bite. This was one savvy pet store owner. I told her so.

  “Thank you very much, Ben. I pay attention to what goes on in my little part of the city.”

  “You’d be surprised how many people don’t,” I commented. “Any chance on one of those boys was a big blond fellow with tattoos?”

  “No, no big blond fella. It was a bald guy and a dark-haired guy—he was a real dirty one. They both had plenty of tattoos, though.”

  “Hmmmm. So they drop any hints about where they might be found?”

  “As a matter of fact, they did. They kept asking me if I wanted to go out for a few beers with them. They were going to something like . . . the Crowbar?”

  I was willing to bet this would be Jake and Al’s Crow Bar, a rough-and-tumble biker dive down on Solitaire Road.

  “I see you didn’t go with them.”

  “They didn’t seem to be my type. Besides, I have to go home and take care of my animals. I don’t get out much these days.” She gave me a little shrug. “You know, I’m a pet lover.”

  “I guess that would keep you in on Saturdays, huh?”

  “Not all Saturdays.” Again with the wink. “Anyway, what did these guys do that you’re after them?”

  “They stole a snake named Georgia from the Gesner Wild Animal Park late last night.”

  “You mean the reticulated python?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “What a beautiful snake. I hope you catch them, Ben. If I can do anything else . . .”

  “Thanks, Jan. I’ll let you know. And thanks for all your help. If I ever need a dog, now I know where to go.”

  I tipped my hat and left the comfort of Jan’s Pets, retreating to the comfort of my Galaxie 500. I spun the wheel and pointed the car toward the Crow Bar.

  * * *

  A flashing neon sign blazed in the night, a beacon leading me down the unpaved Solitaire Road. Its words lit up in sequence, first Crow then Bar then Crow Bar. The only trouble was that the w was burned out, so it looked like Cro Bar when completely lit up.

  In the glow of a floodlight mounted high on a pole, I could just make out a fading painted sign towering above the neon. It sported two cartoon crows in biker gear, winglike arms around each other in buddy fashion, stubby cigars hanging out of their beaks. Their free hands held beer bottles of the brand XXX. In an arc over their heads the sign read, Jake and Al’s Crow Bar.

  The chrome from a dozen or so motorcycles, parked in a neat row in front of the bar, gleamed in the light.

  I drove slowly around the building and slid into a spot behind the bar between more bikes and a handful of souped-up hot rods. My car was pretty out of place at this joint, so I didn’t want to park in front in case anyone came in after me and started asking who the blue Ford belonged to. And I didn’t want to be parked too far from a door in case I had to hotfoot it out of the place.

  I took off my new hat and set it on the passenger seat before I climbed out of the car. I didn’t need too much unwanted attention coming my way. As it was, I worried my suit and tie would attract enough trouble for the evening.

  I stowed my worry at the back of my brain and walked toward the bar. I didn’t lock my car, another step to aid a quick getaway. Besides, these boys were interested in bikes and muscle cars, not my beat-up sedan.

  Easing my way through the back door, I found the inside of the Crow Bar to be nearly pitch dark. I could barely focus on the outline of a bar to my left and a few booths off to the right. Rock music came at me thick and heavy like honey. It wasn’t anything I recognized. Mingling with the notes were the twin sounds of laughter and conversation.

  Normally in a situation like this I’d just belly up to the bar and get myself a drink, but considering I was a fish out of water here, I opted for the seclusion of a booth instead.

  The seat of my pants picked up something sticky from the vinyl seat. Another suit for the cleaners.

  As my eyes continued to adjust to the gloom, I noticed the two pool tables further toward the front. Both had plenty of action. A serious game of darts off in the corner kept a few other folks busy.

  During my surveying, a peroxide blonde wearing a tiny leather skirt, along with matching halter top and boots, walked over to me. She carried a round tray holding a few empty bottles. Seeing her surprised me; I wouldn’t have figured the Crow Bar as the kind of place that had a waitress.

  “If you’re sitting here, you gotta buy something. House rules.”

  “Wouldn’t want to break the rules, now, would I? Old Grand-Dad, if you got it. Three fingers.”

  She shook her head. “We don’t stock that stuff, mister. You drink anything else?”

  There were many reasons why I usually drank at the H.M.S. Pandora: the soothing wood decor, the real leather seats, the way your arm fits right into the groove of the bar. But the best reason for me was the fact that they always had Old Grand-Dad on hand. It contained a little more rye than your more common bourbons, and it had a strong, spicy taste that really hit the spot.

  “Jim Beam then?” I asked hopefully.

  She thought a moment. “Yeah, we got that. Be right back.”

  I continued to look around while I waited for my first drink. Photos of women in swimsuits advertising numerous brands of beer and motorbikes lined the walls.

  My waitress came back, carrying a watered-down Jim Beam on the rocks. A far cry from three fingers of Old Grand-Dad, but it would have to do.

  “Three bucks,” she demanded.

  I went for my wallet. She started in with the questions.

  “Say, you waitin’ for someone tonight?”

  “Nope. Just hanging out.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, you don’t really fit in here.”

  “I don’t mind you saying it.” I set a five on the table in front of her.

  She crinkled up her button nose. “Then why come here? This don’t seem to be your sort of hangout.”

  “I’ve had a rough day. I wanted to be somewhere where no one knows my name.”

  A high-pitched giggle leaped from her throat. “That’s funny,” she chirped as she took the five and returned two ones in its place.

  I lifted my glass and tilted it at her, then took a sip. I came here to do a job, so I got down to it. And to be effective, I needed to keep a low profile. I moved as much into the darkness of the booth as I could and slouched down over my drink. I hoped that if anyone did notice me, they’d think I was just another drunk.

  The entire bar buzzed with conversation, rising like filthy waves over the rock ’n’ roll only occasionally. I had my ears full trying to listen everywhere at once with little success. I caught snippets about bikes, broads, beer, and billiards, but nothing about boas.

  My waitress, who I found out went by the name of Peggy, kept the watered-down bourbon flowing from the bar to my glass, and as long as I had a full glass I kept on sipping.

  On one trip over, Peggy let me know that some of the folks in the bar were wondering if I was a cop. Looked like my low profile wasn’t so low after all. I told her I was no cop, just a guy looking to get lost. She let me know that if I needed help getting lost she was available. I let her know I appreciated the offer.

  I really hadn’t planned on drinking all
that much, but it kept going down smooth, real smooth. Too smooth. Add to that my minimal food intake, and it became more and more difficult to concentrate on the task at hand as the babble continued to swim around me.

  I decided to cash in my chips for the night. I staggered a straight line to the men’s restroom, which had a bulgy-eyed cartoon crow holding its crotch painted on the door. Beneath the bird, someone had scrawled rooks in permanent marker.

  Some biker threw me a shove before I could even try the door. “There’s a line, pretty boy, and you’re at the end of it,” grunted the voice behind the shove.

  I glanced at the guy. A thick upper lip of hair weighed down his face, and his sideburns, which extended into ridiculous muttonchops, didn’t help any.

  I slid out of his way, and perched on the edge of a stool along the back wall. I was just about to skip the john when two leather types brushed past me. One of them said something that caught my attention.

  “ . . . all those rats?”

  My pulse quickened, and a shiver shot down my spine. My hand went to my forehead, and I leaned in to listen.

  “I tried to drop them off, but no one was around.”

  The guy on the left, a squat, hairy hoodlum, checked his wrist then scratched his chin through his thick, black beard. “Where the hell could he be?”

  “Damned if I know,” said his pal, taller and as hairless as his buddy was hirsute.

  My friend from the front of the line, the one fond of shoving, turned to add his two cents. Apparently, he was part of the party.

  “How about that dress today?” He sent nudging elbows at his buddies.

  “Yeah. Man, she was good enough to eat.” A wolfish smile flickered through facial hair. “I wouldn’t mind seeing more of that. Might have to buy me a dog.”

  “A dog? Man, that’s too much work. Get yourself a turtle or something.”

  “A turtle? What kind of pet is that?”

  “A lot better than a giant snake.”

  All three let loose with big belly laughs. The bathroom door opened, and a slight man in leather spilled out, stumbling off toward the bar.

  The hairy one leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and scoped out the room. In the process, his shifty eyes fixed right on me. I averted my gaze, trying my best to make it seem like a natural gesture. I failed miserably. My heart pounded fast and heavy in my chest.

  Looked like I got the lead I was searching for, and it came with a load of trouble. I needed to get out of the spotlight and find a place to watch without being watched. I retreated toward the back door.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the hairy guy follow me. I knew if I ran he’d be right behind me, so I decided to play it cool. If my cool failed me, I had a loaded gun.

  I moved toward the gaudy liquid lights of the jukebox. I looked up as I plunked a few coins into the slot. My adversary stood a few feet away, fists clenched tight, ready for action.

  I glanced down at the selections the jukebox offered. I couldn’t read a single word. I’m sure I wouldn’t have recognized anything anyway. I punched a few buttons as my mind raced to find a way out of this jam.

  His eyes burned into me, and I was compelled to meet his gaze. We stood there, eyes locked. He was all I could see through a rage-filled stare.

  I could feel the leather holster under my arm rubbing against the skin over my ribs. It itched, begging me to move, but I couldn’t.

  Just as I was about to whip out my revolver, my target snapped his head to the side. I got a grip on my fury and my vision widened.

  His bald buddy had just smacked him in the arm and pointed toward the front of the room.

  “He’s here! It’s about time, eh?”

  A commotion erupted from the front of the bar. Kirby Doyle had just walked in.

  He seemed to be pretty popular in the Crow Bar. A lot of people went out of their way to wave or say hello. Many offered him a beer.

  No way could I confront him here and now. I’d had a moment to cool down, and I could see that the odds weren’t in my favor. So I spun my shoulders against the back door and headed out.

  I pulled out of the lot and parked behind a row of shrubs that hid me from sight but still offered a clear view of the Crow Bar. The big floodlight illuminated the front door nicely, allowing me to see who came and went.

  Stakeouts were my least favorite aspect of detective work, but at least the cover provided by the bushes allowed me to smoke, so I lit up and took a hard look at my situation.

  My best plan had me waiting here until these thugs finished their carousing for the evening, then following them to where they held Georgia. Case closed. Problem was, there were four of them and only one of me. If I took a risk and got to a pay phone to call in some backup, I stood a good chance of losing my quarry. I’d just have to figure out who to follow when the time came.

  Doyle seemed like the ringleader of this gang, but my knuckles were itching to pop a couple of teeth out of Hairy’s head.

  I sat there for hours, watching the slow stream of people come and go. I still hadn’t caught a glimpse of Doyle, my buddy with the beard, or the other two guys. My eyes started to droop, and I shook my head to keep them open.

  Even though the sharp sting of tobacco was still thick on my tongue, I lit another cigar, needing the routine more than the nicotine. All I had to do was stay awake . . .

  * * *

  The first light of morning woke me up. A half-smoked cigar rested neatly in the ashtray on top of three small stubs of rolled tobacco. I cursed violently and pulled myself out of the car. Looking down I noticed ashes covered my gray suit, rumpled from a night in the front seat. My muscles, still stiff with sleep, complained as I brushed myself off. A quick glance at my wristwatch gave me the time of almost six a.m.

  Angry that I’d lost the chance to make my move at night, I pounded a fistful of frustration into an open palm. I wanted to catch these punks with the goods sooner than later. If they found out I was on their tail, they’d skip town with Georgia in tow.

  I may not have known where they went last night, but I knew where to find Kirby Doyle this morning.

  After a quick rinse off and change of clothes, I made a stop at Lepke’s Diner for a hot cup of coffee, a plate of steak and eggs, and a fresh bear claw. One of Testacy City’s best-kept secrets, in my opinion, was the pastry-making skill of Costas Papademos, Lepke’s owner and top cook.

  Soon after breakfast, the still-early morning found me back on the highway speeding toward the Gesner Wild Animal Park.

  I pulled in through the back gate, dropped Bobby’s name to Gus, the pear-shaped security guard who surveyed the zoo employees’ lot from his threadbare lawn chair, and drove in. Surprisingly, only a few cars populated the small lot, and I found an open spot right in front of the motor pool.

  I found Kirby Doyle bent over the open hood of a Tiger Tram car, his head out of sight in the engine block. I could see the muscles bulge and ripple across his back as his arms did their unseen work.

  I knocked on the edge of the open steel door and entered the garage. Doyle raised his head just enough to peer under his arm. When he saw it was me, he turned around, setting his socket wrench on a metal tray off to the side.

  “Hey, if it ain’t my pal.” He shot me a grin of pure malice. “What brings you to my part of the zoo?”

  He walked over to a long bench littered with tools, pulling a Zippo lighter out of his pants and a cigarette from the breast pocket of his grubby shirt. The cigarette found a perch on his lower lip as he leaned back against the bench, looking too much like a wild animal about to strike.

  “Well, Kirby, I’ve been doing a little follow-up on that snake that’s gone missing.”

  With a quick flick of his wrist the cigarette burned brightly and the Zippo disappeared. He spat an angry cloud of smoke my way.

  “Yeah? Find anything . . . juicy?”

  “Oh, it’s juicy all right,” I purred. “You see, I think you’ve got it.”

&
nbsp; A low, cruel laugh rumbled out of Doyle. “What makes you think that?” he snarled.

  “How about the rats your boys bought for snake food.”

  “My boys?”

  “The knuckleheads you went drinking with last night.”

  His face sprouted splotches of red. “You been followin’ me?”

  I smiled in response. His eyes squinted to slits.

  Doyle took one last, long drag from his cigarette before flicking it toward me. “I don’t like bein’ followed,” he growled.

  The spent cigarette looped through the air before landing gracefully at my feet. A small shower of cinders erupted near my scuffed Stacy Adams.

  I looked up just in time to see a giant crescent wrench swinging straight for my face.

  I ducked.

  The wrench grazed my scalp, but only enough to make me a little woozy. As I stumbled backward in a bid to regain my balance, I heard a heavy thud; the wrench in Doyle’s double-fisted grip buried itself deep into the wall, my brand-new hat wedged in there with it.

  I pounced. My knuckles found the soft spot of his kidneys—once, twice—before he backhanded me with a thick paw that sent me to the cement floor spitting blood.

  I scrambled to get to my feet.

  Doyle moved faster. He planted a heavy boot in my gut.

  A crunch echoed in my ears. Breath left my chest with a rush. I curled up, gasping for air, holding my arms over my face.

  Doyle picked me up by the lapels, held me steady, aimed, and clocked me a good one across the jaw.

  The force of the blow sent me spilling into the grillwork of the dilapidated Tiger Tram. A heavy clang rattled my teeth as my head collided with the bumper. Blackness rushed in from the edges of my vision.

  I remember thinking that Pappy was going to have some choice words for me. I’d fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book.

  I gave in to the blackness.

  * * *

  My consciousness returned slowly. As I lay there, lacking the strength to pull myself to my feet, I inspected the damage. Dried blood from the wound in my scalp felt like cement in my hair. A huge bump grew on the back of my head. My jaw, though not broken, felt like it was. It hurt to even breathe. I was a mess.