by Jim Pascoe
I spun in a slow circle, carefully scanning each house and scrutinizing each empty lot. Again, nothing suspicious jumped out at me.
Something on the street caught my eye, though; I looked down to see a lipstick case. Its cap was missing and the bright red lipstick stuck outward, melting in the rising heat. Not too far away, just on the edge of my vision, I spotted a single black shoe—a high-heeled number with a strap designed to wrap around the ankle. It rested against the curb, right in front of the empty land on the southeast side of Fifth.
I looked out across the lot. The tall grass swayed in the light breeze. I played a hunch.
It didn’t take me long to find her. She lay where the grass grew the tallest, gazing up at the sky with glassy eyes.
Bright red lips—slightly parted to show off dainty white teeth—still begging to be kissed.
Her throat had been slit, and the drying blood had spilled across her porcelain skin. On her forehead, just below her neatly cropped, jet-black bangs, a reddish-purple letter V advertised her killer.
As always, Beth Hrubi dressed in black.
She held a single piece of steno paper in her left hand. On one side, Jack had scrawled a crude drawing of a heart being punctured by a knife. On the other, he’d written me a note: Meet me at Lepke’s.
This cat-and-mouse Jack and I were playing had been personal, but I hadn’t fully realized that until the moment I’d found Beth’s body.
I considered her a friend, although we’d only met that one night at the H.M.S. Pandora when she dragged me into a cockfight that doubled as a den of crime. Of course, I knew she had ulterior motives: what was supposed to be a simple takedown turned into a bloody mess.
It had required all my skills to get out of that joint alive. I’d had to ruffle some feathers on my way out the door, and more than a few guys had tasted my knuckles that night.
Beth got out without a scratch, stranding me high and dry in the desert to sweep up her mess. When I found out she used to be Manny Flores’s girl, I figured she probably always got out all right—but now I found her butchered and left to bake in the hot sun, a pawn in some game I didn’t understand.
I imagined Beth’s bright red lips whispering in my ear words from the note her dead hand held . . . Meet me at Lepke’s.
I hated being led around from body to body, task to task, like an errand boy. I decided I’d keep playing along, but I’d have my own set of rules.
I wouldn’t be doing myself any favors by letting Duke Wellington know I was a step ahead of him, so I dropped an anonymous tip to the cops from a nearby pay phone—after all, that’s what pay phones are for.
I wasn’t done. I dialed another number. Tony, the bartender at the Long Mile, picked up on the first ring.
“Ben! What’s up? You need a hand?”
“That’s why I’m calling, I need some backup.”
“What’s the job?”
“I’m meeting someone. Things might get messy, and I want a guy I can trust in my corner.”
“Where do I gotta be?”
“Lepke’s Diner. You know it?”
“Yeah, I been there. When?”
“Right now.”
He hung up without saying goodbye.
* * *
The lunchtime crowd packed Lepke’s to capacity. A quick scan of the room didn’t register any familiar faces except Tony, who sat in one of the small booths at the rear of the restaurant, drinking a cup of coffee and slurping a bowl of soup. He didn’t even look my way, but I knew he’d be ready for action the second it came.
I stood at the front until a booth opened up. Then I ordered myself a cup of coffee, cracked open the paper, and pretended to read, keeping an eye on the room as I waited for my mysterious messenger to show his mug.
Two waitresses hustled from table to table doing what waitresses do, and two cooks scurried behind the grill doing what cooks do. I didn’t see any sign of Costas Papademos.
Though I tried, I couldn’t keep Beth Hrubi’s frozen face from floating around in my mind.
Finding her dead body tore up my insides real bad. In a city full of cheap dames, Beth Hrubi had been a classy lady, and even though I’m not the type to chase skirts, something about Beth got me running. I’ve always fallen for the bold, dangerous type, and she knew it. She played me for a fool the night of the cockfight, and I played along—half knowing she wanted me around for more than my company and the other half knowing she was up to no good. We both knew what we were doing though. She may have been a crook, and I may have been a crook chaser, but we played by the same rules.
I’d already sucked down four cups of coffee when Costas Papademos, wearing an ugly, ill-fitting plaid jacket, burst through the front door and disappeared right into the back room.
Moments later he emerged, now dressed in sparkling white T-shirt, pants, and apron. He moved behind the counter and started wiping down the Formica.
Just as I pondered how strange it was that he wasn’t saying anything, let alone shouting at his staff, the piercing sound of squealing tires drowned out the murmur of conversation running through the restaurant.
All eyes watched the brown Dodge screech to a halt in front of the eatery.
Two patrol cars pulled up as the pair of homicide cops exploded through the door. Costas, so angry he almost ignited, rushed forward to meet Duke Wellington and Weisnecki.
“How dare you come in here like this!” Papademos shouted. “You are bothering my good customers!”
Tony sat rigidly in his booth, ready to strike. He had no fondness for cops, especially Mark Weisnecki. I hoped he wouldn’t do anything rash; I’d feel pretty bad if he landed in the cooler while on my payroll.
Duke Wellington stood tall, hands on his hips, and scanned the room, meeting every eye in the place. “This city, as well as God Himself, has put us on the righteous path of justice,” he lectured, “and we have come here to dispense that justice.”
I’d never seen the big cop so calm. It was downright eerie.
Costas, now right in front of Duke Wellington, stuck a finger straight at his broad nose. Before more words could escape the angry cook’s mouth, Weisnecki snatched up the offending digit in his doughlike grip.
“Don’t you ever point at my partner,” Weisnecki slurred, giving Costas’s arm a little twist.
The cook couldn’t help but spin around as pain lanced up his arm.
He gasped—surprise and agony paired on his face—and shouted: “What do you think you are doing? I pay my taxes!”
Weisnecki slapped a pair of cuffs around the pastry chef’s wrists and began to hustle him toward the door.
“We’re taking you in, sucker, that’s what we’re doing,” Duke Wellington snarled as he followed Weisnecki.
I jumped to my feet, hurrying after them. I could feel Tony hot on my heels. I bolted through the door and shouted for Duke Wellington just as he stuffed Costas into the backseat of one of the patrol cars.
He pulled himself to his full height and turned around, hand reaching for his gun. When he saw who had yelled his name, he cracked a wide grin and walked my way.
“What the hell is going on here?” I demanded.
The twin prowl cars pulled away, and Weisnecki leaned against the unmarked Dodge, watching our confrontation, cooly content.
“I don’t have to explain myself to anyone, Drake, let alone a private dick—but I’ll tell ya, ’cause I’m in a good mood. I’m always in a good mood when we solve a big case.”
“What case?” I cried.
“What case? The case, Drake. We’re closing the book on these sick murders.” He nodded his big head. “That’s right, we’re closing the book tonight.”
“You’ve got the wrong man there, DW. This guy isn’t your killer.”
Duke Wellington pulled a neatly folded peach-colored handkerchief out of the pocket of his shimmering lavender suit and mopped his massive brow.
“You see, that’s where you’re wrong, Drake. What you don’t know
is we’ve been watching this guy. We’ve got a whole dossier on him.”
“Dossier? You work for the feds or something?”
“I’m talking about evidence here, Drake, tons of evidence.”
“Come on! Like what?”
“Like I said, Duke Wellington ain’t in the habit of explaining himself. But, ’cause I’m happy, I’ll give you the basics—let you in on the secret of how real detective work gets done.”
Please. I opened my mouth to cut him down, when his list of “secrets” cut me off.
“First off, this guy threatens to kill a harmless bum one morning, right in front of a cop—hell, Drake, you were there for that.”
“Get serious,” I said, not able to fully fathom this guy’s ignorance. “You know he didn’t mean it like that! You can’t use that as evidence!”
“I can and I will; it sounded damn genuine to me. Number two: the next day, who turns up dead but his waitress—and this guy shows not one ounce of remorse when we tell him about it. He wasn’t even surprised. And three: just now some coward phones in another body, and this one’s holding a note that ties this restaurant right in with the whole wang-dang-doodle. Like I said, case closed.”
“That’s thin, DW. It’ll never wash.”
“Oh, it’ll clean up real nice. Just give me one night.” He turned his back on me and strolled to his car. Weisnecki climbed in behind the wheel, and Duke Wellington slipped in to ride shotgun.
“Sorry, Drake, you lose this one. This round goes to Duke Wellington.”
I kept him from rolling up the window with a shout: “What about the raspberry letters?”
“Oh, we’ll find that out, Drake, don’t you worry. We’ll find that out.”
The car spun a U-turn and peeled off. Tony, who’d been waiting just on the inside of Lepke’s, came outside and watched as the car vanished down the street.
“What was that all about, Ben?”
“Results, Tony, at the expense of justice.”
“That Weisnecki is no good.”
“Yeah, I know. But until now, I honestly thought his partner was better.”
Costas Papademos was in for a long night of abuse—verbal and physical—and all for nothing. I didn’t mind giving out a few lumps to a chump who deserved it, but I knew Costas was innocent. And deep down, so did Duke Wellington. While I certainly didn’t get along with him, I always thought he would be a decent cop. This incident left a bad taste in my mouth.
I needed to crack this case for real.
Tony and I headed back inside. The place felt like the morgue. No one made a sound, except for the occasional clink of forks and knives.
I walked up to the shell-shocked waitress behind the counter and settled the bill for Tony and me. As I turned to leave she called out: “Wait! I almost forgot! Some guy left this for you.”
She handed me a blank envelope. All the hot coffee I’d drunk that afternoon didn’t keep my stomach from freezing over. I knew what it was—and what it meant.
“When did he leave it?”
“Just before Mr. Papademos came back from the bank. I meant to give it to you right away, but I got busy and sort of forgot about it. Then the cops stormed in here and—”
“What’d this guy look like?”
“Just a regular guy.”
“Seen him before?”
“Sure, he comes in a couple times a week. Quiet type.”
“Know anything about him?”
She thought a moment. “No, it’s like I told you, he’s just an average guy.”
I sighed, and uttered a terse thanks.
Tony and I left the little diner, avoiding the chaos that was sure to come.
Outside, Tony pointed at the message I grasped in my fist. “What’s in the envelope?”
“Bad news.”
“You gonna open it or what?”
I ripped open the flap, took out a slip of green steno paper. It read: Don’t forget to throw out the trash.
“What the hell does that mean?” Tony asked.
“It means death!” I cursed angrily. “Trash . . . trash . . . trash . . .” I ran the possibilities through my head.
Tony interrupted my thoughts: “How ’bout we check behind the diner? I’m sure they’ve got a dumpster of some sort.”
We looked at each other for a brief moment before we bolted to the back. A narrow alley ran behind the small diner. Next to the alley, butting up against the eatery, rested a green dumpster.
Tony pointed at it. “That’s where I’d put the trash.”
A collusion of flies and rancid smells filled the air. Tony waved his way through the dense insects and lifted the bent metal lid.
We peered inside.
“Oh, hell!” I shouted, stumbling back.
I expected to find a dead body.
And I did.
I stood in the middle of the alley, no balance, world spinning around me. I could vaguely hear Tony calling my name.
I expected to find the corpse mutilated, stab wounds lacing its chest and neck.
And I did.
I staggered backward, arms flailing, until I crashed into the chain-link fence bordering the alley.
I expected to find a slit throat and blood-soaked clothing plastered to the front of the lifeless body.
And I did.
I slid down the fence, ripping my coat, landing in a ragged heap on the alley’s rough pavement.
I expected to see a letter drawn in raspberry-colored ink on a cold forehead.
And I did, the letter E.
Tony shook me, slapped my face, forcing me back to some sense of awareness.
But I didn’t expect to see who I saw.
I coughed a couple times and shook the cobwebs from my head.
Harper Meriwether.
Damn this murderer.
Oh, dear Christ. Pappy.
I choked back the tears threatening to pop my eyeballs.
Pappy had been like a father to me. My own father died when I was young, a relationship I didn’t know I missed until I’d met Pappy. He taught me nearly everything I know about detective work, and quite a bit of what I know about life. He helped me exorcise the ghosts of my past, just by being who he was.
I couldn’t fight it anymore.
The tears flowed.
IV
After I’d found Pappy, I sort of wandered aimlessly through the city, eventually ending up at the H.M.S. Pandora.
The dark interior and cool wood, once comforting to me, now seemed harsh and uninviting. Inexplicably, Barton Bourke didn’t stand at his usual station, and without him and Pappy the place took on a foreign air of depression.
I ordered three fingers of Old Grand-Dad from the rube bartender and sat there, slowly sipping my bourbon, trying to regain the feeling of home.
It never came. That was the last drink I ever had in the Pandora.
I spent the rest of the night driving, drinking, thinking—trying to make some sense of it all. But everywhere I went in Testacy City, the dead faces of Spuds, Donna, Beth, and especially Pappy haunted me, so I drove into the desert and guzzled bourbon until my bottle ran dry.
By the time I staggered up the steps to my apartment, the first shimmers of dawn started to reclaim the sky, and things made less sense than when the night began.
I unlocked my apartment and pushed the door open, then froze. Something felt wrong. I couldn’t tell what bothered me, but all my instinctual alarms shook my senses.
Pappy taught me the importance of listening to your instincts, and if I’d learned only one thing in all my years as a detective, it was that Pappy was right about most everything.
I took in the silence, letting all my senses work overtime. Something was wrong all right, but I could also tell I wasn’t in any danger—at least not in the immediate sense. Still, I slipped my pistol into the palm of my hand, just to be safe. It fit there like an old friend and gave me the strength to slink into the foreboding darkness of my home.
As
I peered through my tiny apartment, I could just barely see him sitting in my favorite chair, shining like a ghost in the faint light.
“Good morning, Mr. Drake,” he greeted in a rich, spicy voice. His ethereal shape shifted, and I heard the clink of what could only be ice in a now-empty glass. “I took the liberty of fixing myself a drink,” he explained. “I hope you don’t object—though I must say I question your taste in alcohol.”
I sniffed. The thick scent of rosewater wafted through the air. “How long have you been sitting here in the dark?”
“Long enough to settle for whiskey.”
I grunted and flipped on the light.
Manny Flores smirked in my leather recliner, playing his role as a swarthy Southern gentleman for full effect. He dressed in a spotless, perfectly pressed ice-cream suit over a white shirt and midnight-black tie. White-gloved hands rested in his lap. His dark hair was slicked straight back across his head, and a flawlessly trimmed thin, oiled mustache sprang from beneath his slim nose, emphasizing the fullness of his lips. He bent his head and sniffed the bright red rose pinned to his lapel, then uncrossed and recrossed his legs. He wore a pair of polished black-and-white wingtips on his feet. He didn’t wear any socks; for some reason, this struck me as odd.
He gestured toward a kitchen chair, not so mysteriously relocated to my living room. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Drake. We have some business to discuss.”
“Business?”
“Yes, business. I have some information—and a proposition—for you.” A wicked playfulness danced in his dark, wide-set eyes. “But you’ll want to take this sitting down.”
I didn’t trust Manny Flores, yet here he sat, alone in my home—atypical behavior for a notorious mob boss. I decided to play the hand out. I reholstered my pistol.
“Let me get a drink first.” I tilted my head at the empty glass in Manny’s hand. “Refill?”
“Please. I don’t suppose it’s possible to switch to tequila?”
A “no” masquerading as a chuckle escaped my lips.