By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  “What did Hal say when you told him that?” I didn’t think Hal would be real happy about losing a big case to the cops, let alone being wrong about who committed the crime.

  “I haven’t told him yet. He’s out today, some business in Vegas.”

  I nodded, hunching against a low table, throwing my fist into my palm. My mind wandered; I thought of Spuds.

  Pappy noticed that I had slipped away from the conversation, and he knew me well enough not to keep quiet about it.

  “You’re hungry for another one, aren’t you, Ben? Hungry for another big case . . .” Then, as he looked at me with his wizened face, his smile widened. “Why, you little rascal. You’re onto something, something big, aren’t you?”

  I told him about finding Spuds. “It’s not fair, Pappy, that a guy like that gets put down and nobody stands up to fight for him.”

  “Precious little in life is fair.” He laughed his usual dry, raspy laugh. “But you don’t need to hear my clichés. Go do your job and give this Spuds a proper funeral by finding his killer. It’s the right thing to do.”

  * * *

  I wanted to do Pappy proud, but the whole day passed, and I had gained little ground. The time I’d spent on skid row talking to transients who knew Spuds yielded me only that he had been in the war. All the local VFW offered me was his real name of William Turgall; the “Spuds” nickname apparently stemmed from repeated turns on potato-peeling KP duty during the war.

  Turgall had been married, but his wife left him before he returned from overseas; no one even knew her name. Her desertion hit him pretty hard. He had no remaining family, no one he could call a friend, and—most important to the case—no real enemies.

  Still more news to bring down my spirits: Rhoda’s search for similar murders turned up a big goose egg. She said she would continue to look, but somehow I knew that road wouldn’t go anywhere.

  So I wore a heavy brow when I walked into the H.M.S. Pandora.

  Barton Bourke’s irritating presence weighed down the bar. He had an old paperback mystery gripped in one hand; his other hand rested on his head, fingers scratching his scalp. He let out a wide-mouthed yawn, his tongue wiggling around like a worm on a rainy day.

  Normally, the only way I could put up with Bourke’s inanity was with Pappy at my side; if I came in alone I’d always sit at one of the Pandora’s comfortable leather booths. But tonight I just wanted a single drink before hitting the sheets—getting up early had started taking its toll on me—so I saddled up to the bar and got his attention.

  “Hey, Barton, is this a library or can I get a drink here?”

  “Drake! I was hoping you’d come in tonight! Wait’ll you see what I got to show you.” He dog-eared his page and tossed the book onto the back bar.

  “How about showing me my drink first.”

  “All right, all right. Hold your horsehairs.”

  After he poured my Old Grand-Dad, he reached beneath the bar and pulled out a newspaper that had been folded up into a neat rectangle kept together with rubber bands. He threw it down on the counter and slapped it with his thick hand for emphasis.

  “Get a load of that.”

  I took a slug of bourbon and looked at the paper, the morning edition of the Testacy City Herald-Tribune. Tiny classified ads filled the page. Barton, presumably, had circled one in blue ballpoint. It read:

  Dear Mr. Detective:

  The game is afoot.

  —Jack

  “This could be you, Drake!”

  “Come on, Barton. It could be any number of detectives.”

  He threw his hands up defensively and moved them back and forth like he was doing push-ups. “Okay, okay. I know this is all circumstantial and all. But it’s a clue, nevertheless, so mark my words. Follow up on it, Drake.”

  “How am I supposed to follow up on it? Place a reply ad in tomorrow’s paper?” I gulped down the rest of my drink.

  “Of course. That’s what any good pulp detective would do.”

  Christ. “I’ve gotta get out of here.” I put some cash on the bar. “Keep the change . . . and your advice. Have a nice night, Barton.”

  On my way out I couldn’t help but shake out a little laugh. Barton had probably been showing that damn paper to every dick who walked into the place that day.

  I yawned and struggled to keep my eyelids from crashing down. When I poured myself into my car, I was tempted to put the seat back and snooze right there on the street. But I didn’t live that far away.

  The loud roar of the engine woke me up a bit. As I focused through the windshield, I saw a slip of paper tucked under the wiper blade. I didn’t feel like reaching out and trying to grab the handbill while I drove, so I watched it flap in the wind all the way home.

  Once I got my car parked, I noticed the flier wasn’t a flier at all but a note written on a folded page from a steno pad. Despite my curiosity, my eyes hurt and the parking lot’s dim light wouldn’t do them any favors. So I crumpled the paper into my coat pocket and headed upstairs.

  Inside, I flipped the light switch and read the note.

  I see you appreciate my work.

  Don’t worry, there’ll be more soon.

  —Jack

  I suddenly felt off-kilter. A ruthless ring from the phone shook through the quiet room, rattling my nerves even further.

  I snatched it up but didn’t even get the chance to say hello before Rebecca’s urgent voice raced through my ear.

  “Jesus, Ben! Thank God you’re finally home! I’ve been trying to reach you all night.”

  “What’s up? Find something else?”

  “More like something else found me. Another body turned up. You’ve gotta come check this out.”

  Despite the warm air, I shivered again. “Hold on, what do you mean ‘another body’?”

  “I mean another body with a letter written on the forehead.”

  I didn’t need to hear any more. I dropped the phone and sped to the morgue.

  * * *

  Rebecca waited for me on the front steps, smoldering cigarette in one hand, steaming cup of coffee in the other. Heavy lines of exhaustion circled her eyes.

  “Hey, that was fast.” Her voice had the rough quality that comes from not enough sleep, too many cigarettes, and too much coffee.

  I shrugged, mounting the steps. “After such an enticing invitation, how could I not rush? What do you have?”

  She finished her smoke and flipped it out into the street, then held the door open for me. The stench of death and decay assaulted my nostrils and settled in the back of my throat, making me gag.

  “Pretty typical slasher-type murder,” she answered, “except for the capital E scribbled on her forehead.”

  “This time it’s a woman?”

  “Yeah, a young girl, about college age.”

  “Man, that’s rough. How’d they find her?”

  “Some guy walking his dog through Jackson Park found her draped over the branch of one of the big willows down there. Numerous stab wounds in her chest and neck, E on her forehead, pretty much the same MO as last night’s bum.”

  We rounded the corner, walked past the twin metal doors leading to the autopsy room where Rebecca did most of her work, and entered the large refrigerated vault filled with dead bodies resting on wheeled gurneys.

  “Here she is,” Rebecca said as she pulled back the sheet that covered one of the bodies.

  A spasm of sentiment ripped through me, and I quickly spun around, gesturing to Rebecca with broad swipes of my hand. “Cover her up . . . please.”

  “You know her?”

  I spat out a cough, half from revulsion, half from emotional overload.

  “Yeah, she was a waitress at Lepke’s named Donna Dust. Good kid.”

  “Looking at the severity of her wounds, I’d say our boy had something to prove.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her injuries came at the hands of an angry man.” She paused, sparking up a cigarette. “And I’
ll tell you something else, Ben. This mess is just beginning.”

  III

  My head hurt, and I felt the pressure right behind my eyes as I took a slow drive home.

  Spuds, Donna—there must be a connection . . . but what? Other than being in the same restaurant at the same time, what do a helpless veteran trying to keep food in his belly and an innocent waitress trying to make an honest buck have in common? Maybe they saw something . . .

  I was grasping at any scenario I could imagine; the heat and my fatigue led me down plenty of likely dead ends. One road I kept coming back to made me wince—these strange notes flying at me played into this somehow, and that put me uncomfortably in the middle of things.

  At home, I peeled off my clothes and tried to grab some sleep. I could close my eyes, but the sleep wouldn’t come.

  Damn the heat. Damn this killer.

  Every time my body gave in and I drifted off, some nightmare would haunt my mind.

  Damn my dreams . . .

  * * *

  At six a.m., Lepke’s Diner had just started to come alive. Nearly every seat at the counter held a different kind of customer, from lawyers and construction workers starting their days to drifters and ruffians just ending theirs.

  Then there was me, somewhere in between. I took the first open spot at the counter and tried to wave down the frantic Costas Papademos.

  “Hey, Costas, I’ve gotta talk to you,” I called out as he rushed by, delivering orders to hungry breakfasters.

  “What is it with you people? You gotta talk to me, and so does everyone else in my place. I’m busy, so wait your turn!”

  “This can’t keep, my friend . . . the game is afoot.”

  I played a hunch, a test to see if this crazy cook could be my mysterious messenger. Costas just stared at me like I was an idiot as he collected a stack of empty plates.

  “What are you talking about? Why this foolishness? Can’t you see I’m short staffed today? This girl who works for me doesn’t come in, doesn’t phone—”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  “Donna Dust.”

  He stopped in his tracks, dirty dishes stacked on one arm. I had his attention now. “You’re not funny,” he snorted.

  “I’m not trying to be. I saw her body last night at the morgue.”

  He looked at me through squinted eyes, cocking his head to one side. I paused, knowing what I had to ask would be difficult.

  “When’s the last time you saw Donna?”

  “Yesterday, here at work!”

  “Two days ago when I was in here, she acted awful depressed. You know why that would be?”

  He set his stack of dirty dishes on a wheeled cart and wiped his hands on his apron, then turned back to me.

  “I do not pry into the personal lives of my employees.”

  “Any weird people bother her the last few days?”

  He held his arms out wide and shook them in the air for emphasis. “Look around you, there are always weird people in my place, begging for meals, dirtying my restroom.”

  “How well did she know Spuds?”

  “Spuds?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I do not know any Spuds.”

  “Sure you do, he’s the old bum you threatened to kill—”

  “Are you accusing me?” he accused.

  “Hold on, that’s not why I’m here; I’m here to get some answers,” I promised in my best reassuring voice. “You were probably with some friends last night, or maybe your wife?”

  He clenched his teeth, trying to hold back his emotion. He couldn’t, and exploded: “I certainly wasn’t out killing my waitress so I could cook, clean, and take orders by myself!”

  By now the entire restaurant had stopped eating and stared at our little exchange.

  “I’m finished with you,” he spat hotly. “I have work to do.”

  He turned on his heel, pushing the cart with the dirty dishes through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

  I’d had enough of Costas, and after a few more sips of coffee, I’d had enough of Lepke’s.

  Getting into the office early was turning into a bad habit for me. I hadn’t had much sleep the past few days, and my limbs complained as I walked down Fielding Avenue toward the William Kemmler Building, home of the Always Reddy offices.

  A plain brown Dodge sedan was parked in front of the building; Duke Wellington sat inside. He pulled himself free when he saw me coming, and by the time I got to the steps leading up to the offices, he stood on the sidewalk, glowering at me.

  I stopped when I got near him. Neither of us said a word. With a flourish, he whipped out that morning’s paper and brandished it in my face. The headline read: Sick Raspberry Killer Strikes Twice! Testacy City Gripped in Fear!

  Only then did he start in with the typical Duke Wellington routine: “You been talkin’ to the papers, Drake? If you been talkin’ to the papers, you better pray to God Almighty I don’t get wind of it. You ain’t ready for the kind of trouble I’ll be bringin’ down around your ears.”

  Two photos, side-by-side shots of Spuds and Donna, jumped out at me from beneath the headlines.

  “Hell, DW, I seldom find the time to read the things, let alone talk to them,” I cracked back.

  “Don’t be wise with me, Drake. The cat lady—”

  “Her name’s Rebecca.”

  “I don’t like it when people interrupt me, Drake. But let me tell you right now, I’ll call her what I want to call her, an’ I call her the cat lady. She tells me you been askin’ around about the vagrant and this dead waitress, so don’t be thinkin’ you’re wise at all.”

  “I’m not wise, DW, just trying to solve a couple of murders.”

  “You just keep in your mind that this is police business. Now last time I checked, you ain’t got no client, so you ain’t got no business here. This case is all mine. You keep lookin’ into this, we’ll be haulin’ you in.”

  “Threats won’t keep me from cracking this case.”

  “An’ your wise mouth won’t keep me from crackin’ your head. Just back off, Drake. This is my case.”

  He returned to his car, keeping his finger pointed at me until he climbed behind the wheel and sped off.

  Despite Duke Wellington’s visit, I didn’t plan on abandoning the case, but it was clear I had to keep myself off his radar. I had enough real trouble to worry about.

  My stomach sank when I found two manila folders, new cases handed down from above, sitting right in the middle of my desk. I knew what they held, and I didn’t want another tedious case or two distracting me.

  “Mornin’, Ben,” Mike Manetti yawned. “You’ve sure been in early lately.”

  I didn’t really like Manetti, the agency’s greenest detective. He dressed badly, didn’t use his head, and couldn’t hold his liquor. But when push came to shove, he’d be there to watch your back. If only I didn’t have to listen to him talk.

  “Yeah, trouble sleeping the last few days.”

  “Insomnia, huh?” Manetti thrust his hands into the pockets of his grubby jeans and leaned against my desk. “Hey, you seen the papers today?”

  “I had the headlines waved in my face,” I grunted, picking up my new case files. I started to crack one open to take a look, when I noticed a white envelope sitting on my desk, peeking out from its hiding spot underneath the folders.

  “How ’bout that killer? Brutal stuff, eh? Hey, that whole business with the letters in raspberry-colored ink—that’s how the guy who found the girl described it in the Trib anyway—it’s pretty strange, wouldn’t you say?”

  I took a closer look at the envelope; someone had carefully addressed it using cutout letters to: Ben Drake

  “Yeah,” I mumbled, setting the files down and picking up the envelope instead. It didn’t hold much . . . perhaps a single sheet of paper.

  Manetti still buzzed away: “That sort of thing’ll keep a fella up nights . . . Hey, maybe that’s why you’re not sleeping so good!
”

  I needed to get into that envelope, but I didn’t want to do it with Manetti standing around.

  “Look, Mike, I’ve got a lot to jump on today, so I’m going to get to it, all right?”

  “Right, I gotcha, Ben.” He pulled himself off my desk. “Hey, I’m a little light today, so if you need anything just give your man Mike a holler.”

  “Then hold on a second,” I blurted out, reaching for the two files on my desk. “I’m getting jammed up here, can you take these two cases? They’re pretty routine.”

  “Yeah, sure thing. I’ll check these out and get ’em back to you when I got ’em all sewn up.”

  I nodded as he strolled away, then grabbed my letter opener and slit the envelope open. A sheet of steno paper was tucked inside.

  Glad to see you’re playing.

  You won’t guess my next play,

  so let me help you out.

  Get over to Cedar and Fifth.

  You just might be able to catch me.

  —Jack

  I found Rhoda and asked her if she knew who had delivered the note. She told me she found it when she opened up that morning; someone must have slid it under the office door.

  I didn’t have times for guessing games. I had to get across town.

  * * *

  I drove through the intersection of Cedar and Fifth, just four blocks west of where they’d found Donna’s body in Jackson Park. When nothing suspicious jumped out at me, I parked and got out to investigate.

  Silent duplexes stared at me on the west side of Fifth Street. The east side held vacant lots; the houses that used to be on this block burned down a few years ago. Looked like no one had bothered to rebuild, and now the grass grew tall—waist-high in some places.

  The late-morning sun pounded down on me. Other than the occasional chirp from birds, the street remained silent. Just what was I supposed to find here? Maybe I beat my friend Jack to the punch.

  A thought jumped into my head: maybe I was supposed to get here first. Nervous energy buzzed through my body, and I instinctively checked my gun. I should have figured this for a setup, but this case had the inside of my head all twisted up.