By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

“The best? The best? You gotta be kiddin’ me! Who told you these pastries are the best?”

  “No one told me, I thought everyone knew it.” Spuds reeled in confusion.

  “Everyone, huh? And just who’s this ‘everyone’ think he is, goin’ round and spinnin’ this garbage?”

  Just then Costas Papademos burst out from the kitchen, wiping his hands angrily on his apron. He stormed across the floor toward the argument. I could almost see the smoke rising out of his hairy ears. He got up close, right into Duke Wellington’s face, and shouted: “Garbage? I baked that pastry fresh this morning, like all my pastries!”

  I may not have known this new cop that well, but I knew he wouldn’t let himself be outshouted by a cook. He rose to his feet and, towering over the tiny Papademos, bellowed down at him: “Fresh is not that pastry’s problem! What we got here is a seriously under-sweet baked good. What I’m saying is, this pastry’s too damn tart!”

  “If you want sweet—go to the candy store!” Costas screamed.

  The two opponents stood there, eyes locked.

  “Yeah,” the forlorn Spuds mumbled, licking his fingers quizzically, “maybe they aren’t that good after all.”

  Costas erupted into Olympian rage. “What? You come here every morning begging and annoying my customers—and now you listen to this fool and insult my pastries!”

  “No, it’s not like that at all, Mr. Papademos.” Spuds smiled confidently. “I’d love another danish.”

  Costas pointed a finger at the diner’s door. “Get out before I tear you limb from limb! You and your begging! I could kill you!”

  Spuds slunk out of the restaurant, casting a helpless gaze my way before he disappeared out the door.

  “You’d better tone it down, chef,” the policeman warned. “I don’t like hearing threats thrown around like that, even if it saved that old man from eating another of your pastries.”

  “That’s it! I have had it! Out of my diner, you! Right now!”

  “But I haven’t paid my bill . . .”

  “Fine! Your money is no good here! Get out! Out! Out!”

  Duke Wellington hurriedly retreated from the crazy chef, beating a path toward the door. He left so fast I didn’t have time to say goodbye.

  Costas stood in the doorway and shook a knobby fist at the detective. “I never want to see you in here again! If you ever come back to my diner, you’d better have a damn good reason!”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the small diner for a few moments after the door slammed shut. Costas slumped down into a booth and dropped his head in his hands. Then the fuming Greek looked around, seeking another target. He stared right at me.

  “What do you want?” he snarled.

  “Hey,” I slurred around a mouthful of coffee, “I just want my steak and eggs, that’s all.”

  He gave a low grunt. “Okay. They’ll be right out.”

  * * *

  I’d been working this one case for almost a week; my fourth or fifth infidelity investigation in a row. I’d been staking out the business-day activities of a gent by the name of Richard Keevil. For the better part of a week, my prey hustled from office building to office building, conference room to conference room. He showed all the signs I’d come to expect from this type, but he did nothing I could use to prove his unfaithfulness.

  Today, though, he got sloppy and reverted to cliché. He took an extra-long lunch at the Purple Knights Motel with a long-legged blonde. You don’t have to be a detective to realize she wasn’t there to take dictation.

  I collected the evidence I needed. There’s never any satisfaction in a job like this. Now came the worst part for me—presenting the facts to the jerk’s wife, letting her know her suspicions weren’t unfounded. I called and told her to meet me at the Always Reddy office.

  Mrs. Keevil took her time; denial, I suppose. She arrived hours later, sometime near dusk. Well, some women cry, some throw things, others act like it doesn’t even bother them. This one fell to pieces the moment she saw me, and I had to resist the urge to play hero and put the pieces back together.

  That’s not how this game is played. It hurt me to admit, but I’d finished my part of the job. The rest was up to her.

  I couldn’t wait to get home, sink into my favorite chair, and soothe my depression with a glass of bourbon. Maybe Hal would give me some real meat tomorrow.

  The short drive back to my place seemed to take forever. I pulled into a parking spot and sighed. I was glad to be out of the car. Comfortable as it was, I’d spent entirely too much time inside it lately.

  As I climbed the few outside steps to my apartment, a streak of black hurled out from the darkness and collided with my leg. I looked down to see one of the neighborhood stray cats at my feet. He meowed at me with a sense of urgency.

  “Hey, buddy, you have something to tell me?” I asked, reaching down to pat his sleek fur.

  I hadn’t expected the little guy to be wet. I pulled my hand away; no telling what sort of trash this kitty had gotten into. I looked at my hand in the dim light. Squinting, I could see that my palm was covered in red.

  I glanced down the side of the building from where the cat had sprung. A dumpster for the apartment complex rested along the wall. Beyond it, the narrow alley stretched into blackness.

  After wiping my hand off on my handkerchief, I dashed back to my car, popped the trunk, and got out my pocket flashlight. When I crept around the dumpster and down the side of the building, I found a man lying on a dirty mattress, covered with a few sheets of newsprint.

  I shined my light on the prone figure and called out: “Hey there! You okay?”

  He didn’t respond.

  I took a few steps closer and tapped the bottom of one of his heavily worn shoes with my foot.

  He didn’t move.

  Fearing the worst, I rolled him over slightly to feel his pulse, and when I did I saw that his neck had been sliced wide open. Blood, still fresh and red, covered the front of his green army-surplus outfit and soaked into the mattress.

  Vacant eyes—eyes that belonged to Spuds, my pal from the diner—stared lifelessly back at me.

  No need for me to check for a pulse—Spuds was dead.

  Then I noticed the purplish mark etched on his forehead: a capital letter R. Strange . . . I wondered what it meant.

  I never liked finding dead bodies, especially when they turned up in my own backyard. Dead bodies meant police, and police meant Ben Drake in the hot seat. And lately Duke Wellington had been the one to do the roasting.

  Nevertheless, I stumbled to my apartment and called the cops. They said they’d send someone right over.

  I poured myself a shot of bourbon, downed it, and pulled out a small cigar. Even though I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies, they always make me a little queasy. Smoking always makes me feel a bit better.

  I went back outside to sit on the front steps. There I stayed: waiting, smoking, sweating.

  A good while later, a patrol car pulled up, lights blazing bright, and two cops got out. The driver walked with a swagger that told me he had years on the force. The other guy, a kid really, looked around like he didn’t know what to do.

  I stamped my almost spent cigar beneath my heel and went to greet them.

  “You the guy who found the body?” the veteran asked me.

  “Yeah. Ben Drake. I’m a private detective.”

  The veteran rolled his eyes. “Show us where he is.”

  I nodded and led them to the body of poor Spuds. The older cop had a little trouble squeezing by the dumpster, but when he shoved his way past, he pointed at the corpse.

  “Your work?” he asked.

  “No. I found him just like this.”

  “You touch anything?”

  “I sort of rolled him over to see if he was sleeping or what,” I answered. “That’s when I saw he was dead.”

  “Christ. Billy, get this place sealed up. We don’t want anyone else mucking things up before homicide gets here.”
>
  “Sure thing, Chuck.” The young cop scurried off.

  “Say, why don’t you get out of our way,” Officer Chuck told me. “Stick around though; the detectives will want to talk to you.”

  “Sure thing, Chuck.”

  I extricated myself from the cramped alley and found that a crowd had started to gather, no doubt drawn into the open by the twirling red-and-blue lights of the patrol car.

  A lot of people gabbed back and forth, speculating on what sort of crime had taken place in their neighborhood. Most people guessed murder, but I wouldn’t be doing anyone any favors by confirming their suspicions.

  Just as soon as the boys in blue threw up a makeshift barricade, a brown Dodge pulled up behind the patrol cruiser.

  Mark Weisnecki, a big, tall, shapeless detective, climbed out from the passenger seat and flicked his cigarette butt onto the ground. His new partner, Duke Wellington, came out from behind the steering wheel. The hot-tempered cop jammed his green Panama hat on his head, then began yelling, “What the hell is going on here? Why in God’s name are these lights flashin’ like this? All you’re doin’ now is drawing a crowd, an’ the last thing we need here is a crowd! Would someone tell me what’s going on?”

  The older cop stepped forward and shouted at his partner: “Goddamnit, Billy! Shut those lights off!”

  The rookie did as he was told, and Chuck laid out the scene to Duke Wellington. He finished the conversation by jabbing a chubby thumb my way.

  I could feel the anger pressurize inside Duke Wellington from twenty feet away. He and Weisnecki walked past me on their way to check out the body. Wellington trained his finger on me as they strolled by.

  I lit another cigar and waited. Soon enough, they were back. Wellington got right into my face.

  “I got a mystery for ya, Drake. How come every time I come callin’ on a dead body in this town, I gotta deal with the likes of you?”

  “I guess you’re just lucky,” I suggested.

  “No jokes, Ben,” Weisnecki cautioned. “Why don’t you tell us how you came to find this one.”

  “Sure. I got home and this cat—”

  “A cat? A cat? That the best you can come up with?” Duke Wellington waved his arms up and down and spun in a circle of disbelief.

  “Come on, detective, if you’d let me finish . . .”

  “All right, Drake. We’ll let you finish. And it better make some good sense or we’re taking you in, and you can tell it to us at the station. You can finish there till you get it right.”

  Weisnecki gave me a look that was both calm and threatening. I ignored their stage antics and laid out the tale of how I had found the body. I don’t know what Wellington and Weisnecki wanted me to give them, but the story I spat out must have been good enough. Still, they weren’t happy. Now they had to do something they weren’t all that good at: detective work.

  II

  The heat made it almost impossible to sleep, and again I woke too early. Despite the weather, I felt a chill of fear. I wanted to retreat to the safety of my blankets, but pulling them over my body would have been unbearable.

  I sat back in bed and grabbed a quick smoke. I couldn’t get poor Spuds off my mind. Who would kill a guy like that, a harmless guy with no money? It really rankled me that with Duke Wellington and Weisnecki on the case, his murder would likely go unsolved.

  I didn’t feel a lot of motivation to go to the office and get handed another rookie job, so I took my time getting ready. Even though my stomach told me I needed to get a little breakfast, I didn’t want to visit Lepke’s this morning. I grabbed a couple cups of coffee to go from some other joint and headed to the one place where I wouldn’t be bothered by food: the county morgue.

  When I got there the place was busier than I’d ever seen it. Then I realized I had never been there so early before.

  When I finally saw Rebecca, she scurried over to me with a scowl on her face, a cigarette between her lips, and a bloody apron wrapped around her waist.

  “I brought you a cup of coffee,” I said. I could tell my attempt to be social wasn’t going to fly, though.

  “Not a good time right now, Ben,” she sighed. She shot a glance to her watch. “What the hell? What are you doing up so early anyway?”

  “It’s the heat . . . Well, it’s a lot of things. Look, I don’t want to go into it if you’re busy, I just need some info on a bum that came in butchered last night.”

  “Which bum?”

  “Older guy, throat slashed . . .”

  Her scowl started melting. I threw out one more plea.

  “I just need a starting point; you know, the standard Rebecca rundown. I could call you later . . .”

  Her smile turned pointy like the cat’s-eye glasses she wore. “All right. Five minutes, and then I’ve got to get back to it. Let’s go outside.” She called out to her assistant: “I’m going to take a smoke break!”

  He gazed up at her with a puzzled look.

  Once outside, she took a sip from the Styrofoam cup I’d brought her. “As much as I like you, Ben, I would’ve made you call back if I hadn’t already sewn up this corpse of yours.”

  She pinned me with her conspiratorial eyes and gave me the quick stats on Spuds: multiple stab wounds in the neck region—laceration of both the jugular vein and carotid artery, perforation of the larynx and trachea. No prints found either on the body or at the scene. She finished her analysis with: “This guy knows how to cover his tracks.”

  “What about that mark on his forehead?”

  “That’s the good part.” She took one last drag, then stubbed her cigarette butt into the cement and exhaled.

  I raised an eyebrow at her.

  “It’s just a simple letter R scrawled on his head with permanent ink, light purple in color,” she stated.

  “Like from a marker?”

  “Yeah, just like that.”

  It was my turn to exhale. “Any idea what it means?”

  “Nope, but there’s the starting point you wanted. I’ll call you later if I find anything else out, but right now your five minutes are up.”

  * * *

  If I didn’t know what to make of the mysterious letter R, chances are neither did the cops. God knows I couldn’t trust the police to handle a parking ticket, let alone find a potentially psychopathic killer.

  That meant it was up to me to find this lunatic.

  Solving Spuds’s murder topped my list, so I sure didn’t want another trivial assignment from my boss. Still, I needed a little help on this one, the kind of help I could find behind the doors of the Always Reddy Detective Agency, so I decided to brave going in.

  Rhoda Chang greeted me with the same sympathetic look she’d been giving me the last several days. I pulled her aside and told her I needed her research assistance to find whatever she could on any recent killings involving writing on the victim’s body.

  She nodded eagerly, her wide eyes flashing. She loved to dig up arcane facts and unearth bizarre clues, and no one could do that job better than Rhoda.

  The other thing I wanted to do at the office was talk to my friend and confidant, Harper “Pappy” Meriwether. I found him writing perfectly formed cursive script in his worn green leather casebook. He noticed me right away and held up a single finger, telling me to wait.

  He slipped his casebook into a drawer, then stood up and motioned for me to follow him. He led me through the narrow corridor into the agency’s often-deserted file room—a good place to get some privacy.

  “What’s going on, Pappy?” I asked, curious at his furtive behavior.

  “Well, Ben, my boy, I finally figured out this Travis Kohen case, and let me tell you, it’s not very pretty.” He shook his head. “It’s downright nasty, in fact.”

  “How so?” I asked, taking a sip from the cup of bitter coffee I’d grabbed from the office machine.

  “You remember when that bus driver found the Kohen boy all hacked up, heroin needle sticking out of his arm . . .
?”

  “Sure. We all guessed the needle was a plant.”

  “And of course we were right.” He tapped the top of the short cabinet he leaned on to punctuate his point.

  “What we didn’t know was the who and why. The papers, the police—even Hal—had their fingers pointed at Manny “the Rose” Flores; after all, he’s the big drug runner, right? Well, someone had to sift through the muck and come up with the truth.”

  Pappy had been playing with this particular case for quite some time, and it had frustrated him to no end. I was glad he’d finally cracked it.

  “Good job!” I exclaimed, feeling a rush of excitement—a rush I always felt when closing a tough case. A rush I hadn’t felt for a while.

  “So what’s the real story?” I asked.

  He scratched at the thinning patch of gray above his ear, savoring the moment. Then he pushed a pointed finger my way. “The boy’s own father did it, both the murder and the cover-up.”

  I almost spit out my coffee. “What? That’s insane!”

  Travis’s father, Kris Kohen, was Testacy City’s first serious politician, a hot candidate for senate. His whole platform revolved around cleaning up crime, starting with Testacy City. I guess that didn’t include him. He’d been the one to hire the Always Reddy Detective Agency to solve his son’s murder, spearheading the accusations against Mexican mob man Manny Flores. Maybe a lesser detective would have bought the red herring, but Pappy was all aces.

  “So how does Flores fit into this?” I asked.

  “Not one bit, except that Travis used to work for him, which figures as Kris Kohen’s motive. He must not have liked having a son openly associated with crime—that didn’t fit too well into his political aspirations. So he hired some drifter named Finch to take care of his son and throw the blame on Flores.”

  “That’s more than nasty; that’s downright sick,” I said, tasting the last of my coffee.

  “You can’t underestimate the power of the sympathy vote,” he responded with a slow shaking of his head.

  “So our client turns out to be the dirty bird . . .” I murmured.

  “Yes. This whole mess is bigger than the agency, so I’ve decided to turn it over to David O’Dare of the TCPD. I’m meeting with him tomorrow night to fill him in.”