by Jim Pascoe
“Another whiskey then. With ice.” He handed me the glass. I filled it, then mine, taking a long pull before I settled into the kitchen chair. I took out a tin of cigars, offering a smoke to Flores. He declined with a wrinkled nose. I offered a smoke to myself. I accepted.
“You’re a man of complexity, Mr. Drake.”
I extinguished my match with a flick of the wrist and drew in a big mouthful of smoke. “Yeah?”
He merely nodded and sipped his bourbon. The slightest grimace crossed his face. And this guy drank tequila?
“So, to what do I owe this visit?”
“Let me be blunt,” he responded. “Beth Hrubi told me that Ben Drake is a stand-up guy.”
Beth. Of course.
“She was a stand-up gal.”
He smoothed his mustache with a gloved hand. “She told me if I ever found myself in a jam, Ben Drake would be a good man to call on.”
“Huh. Well, I’m sort of booked up at the moment.”
“You remember that cockfight of mine you busted up?”
“That isn’t exactly chapter and verse, but yeah. Is that what this is about?”
“Yes, but not how you think. Let me tell you a story.”
He sipped his drink again, never taking his eyes off me. I followed suit.
“Once there was a woman with the heart of a girl . . .” He set down his glass and leaned forward, his hands waving in pace with his story. “She didn’t want the limelight. She didn’t want the glory. She only wanted the fun. Despite all that, she had responsibilities. Oh, she hated responsibility, simply hated it. You see, that’s where I came in. People think I’m the heavy, but I’m no heavy. Yes, I participate in some illegal activity. Everybody breaks some kind of law now and again; I just make sure I profit out of these occasional transgressions. I’m an opportunist.”
He shrugged his shoulders as he reclined back into the chair. He picked up his glass and grimaced another gulp of booze.
“That’s why I worked for Beth Hrubi,” he said. “The city belonged to her.”
I didn’t say a word for a long time, and neither did Flores. I felt like a patsy, played for a fool. But if I’d been duped, so had the entire city.
“You telling me Beth ran Testacy City?”
He grinned. “The best-kept secret in the Southwest. Now let me tell you another. A much darker secret about the ultimate betrayal . . . I’m sure you know of the esteemed Kris Kohen . . .”
A cold spider crawled under my skin and up my spine. “Sure.” I fidgeted in my chair, wishing he’d get on with it.
“Oh yes, everyone does. But most people don’t know that Mr. Kohen is more than a politician on the rise. He’s a crook—a real crook: drugs, prostitution, even slavery. His people are the ones who bring drugs up from Mexico into Testacy City.”
I sent a quizzical gaze his way, and he held my stare. He knew what raced across my mind: Manny Flores was known as the biggest drug runner this side of Vegas.
“Sure, I deal in drugs, but all I do is move them through this city, routing the shipments to the coasts. I don’t distribute a thing in my backyard; Beth and I agreed to that. You don’t defecate where you eat, Mr. Drake. I’m more of a gambling man myself.
“However, the elder Kohen had no such scruples and decided to cut me out of the loop for a bigger slice of the pie. So Beth hatched a plan to send a little message his way. We orchestrated her split from my camp; she played off a few grudges, and set up that business that went down at the cockfight. That heroin belonged to Kohen.”
“A lot of people died that night,” I said.
“True, and as much as I regret it, you can’t fight a war without losing some soldiers. Most of them were out-of-towners on Kohen’s payroll, anyway. All we really did was gum up the Kohen works for a while.”
The cold feeling spread from my spine, washing across my whole body, numbing me; if Flores spun me the straight dope . . .
“Kohen killed his own son . . . in retaliation?” I took a shot at filling in the blanks.
“You’re a man of surprises, Mr. Drake, given what you know and what you don’t know. Kohen hired a freelancer named Finch, one nasty customer for the deed, then framed me.”
I rubbed the back of my hand across my stubbled chin, thinking about all the insanity of the past few weeks, and how it suddenly seemed to make some sort of sick sense.
“What did Travis Kohen do for you?”
“The ultimate irony, almost nothing. I liked him. Smart, a good kid, a true showman with real talent. All he wanted to do was perform, so I put him in charge of the cockfights.”
My jaw dropped open. Again he flashed a grin. He liked dropping the hammer on me.
“That’s right, you knew him as Tyler.”
“Look. What do you want from me?”
He gave me a deadpan gaze, all the playfulness from his eyes now gone, replaced with cold, frightening malice. He uttered: “I want you to get this Finch character and get him to tell the truth about me, about Kohen. I want my name cleared, my reputation restored.” His voice grew louder, sterner. “If I didn’t need his confession, I’d have taken care of him myself.”
“I’d help you except for two important things: one, as I already told you, I’m kinda busy at the moment; and two, I don’t work for criminals.”
“You don’t have to work for criminals!” He stood up. “And to sweeten the deal, I’ll leave town—there’s nothing left for me here. All you have to do is finish the case that Mr. Meriwether put together and bring in Jack Finch!”
Numbness washed over me. Jack Finch? Jack? Oh hell . . .
Spuds. Donna. Beth.
And Pappy.
My numbness gave way to white-hot rage. My half-empty glass of bourbon slipped from my hand, shattering on the wood floor of my living room.
I turned and paced away from Flores, letting my body sink against the support of the far wall. I crashed my fist into the plaster. I spun back around, screaming: “You knew! You knew he was the killer, and you didn’t do anything! You could’ve whacked him. You could’ve stopped him before . . . before . . .”
He stood there frozen.
“What if I kill him?” I said.
“You won’t. You’re a man with integrity.”
* * *
I sped toward my destination, heedless of stop signs, pedestrians, and other traffic. Every nerve in my body fired off a feeling that I had to get to Squirrel’s Mini Storage before it was too late.
If this nightmare was going to end, it would end there.
Manny Flores had given me his offer, and I’d finally accepted, perhaps more for personal reasons than I cared to admit.
After he left, the scent of rosewater lingered in the air. I cleaned the broken glass and whiskey off the floor, then cleaned myself up.
I desperately wanted to feel better. Putting on a clean suit helped—enough to make me ready to get to work. Trouble was, my body craved sleep, and I didn’t know where to find Finch.
Next thing I knew I snapped awake from my slumped-over position at the kitchen table. The sun had gone down. I had scribbled some notes that I couldn’t read. If only I could ask Pappy . . .
A bit later, I was at the office, sitting at Pappy’s desk. I poured over various scraps of paper, clues from previous cases and notes for the memoirs he’d always meant to write when he retired. Strangely, I couldn’t find his casebook, but I did notice a hastily scrawled name in the upper corner of his desk blotter.
I picked up the phone and called David O’Dare, the cop Pappy talked to the day before he died.
I thought of all this as I raced toward my destination, squealing around a hard corner and pressing the accelerator to the floor. Out of nowhere, a glaring red light forced me to skid my Galaxie 500 to a halt just in time to avoid hitting a downtown-bound semi.
The light flicked green; I stomped on the gas and resumed my breakneck scream through the night.
I had received a little of the typical runaround from the
police operator when I called, but thanks to a little Benjamin Drake charm, she finally patched me through to O’Dare.
His partner, Peterson, answered the phone and told me O’Dare wasn’t around. After I dropped the name of Finch, followed by Harper Meriwether, he reluctantly gave me the goods: O’Dare had gone out to meet an informant at Squirrel’s.
My instincts buzzed because I knew the storage scene smelled like trouble. Thankfully, Manetti still hung around the office. I told him to wait by the phone. If I didn’t call him in a half-hour, he was to ring the cops and get them over to the storage building.
Nearly at my destination, I ripped through the ramshackle south side neighborhoods. The speedometer told me I was roaring along just under ninety; the dashboard clock told me I was blowing into eight p.m.
I screeched to a stop in the near-empty parking lot; another lonely car waited by the front of the three-story facility, its engine still crackling with heat.
I drew my Model 637, cocked the hammer, and rushed into the building. A small, darkened room sat to the right, with a For Service Ring Bell sign on its metal door. Straight ahead of me, roughly in the center of the building, lay David O’Dare’s crumpled body.
Looming above him stood a pasty, youngish figure with long white hair. He wore a grubby hooded sweatshirt over blue blood-stained overalls. He brandished a thick, blood-slicked, Bowie-style hunting knife in his left fist.
Jack Finch.
“Hold it!” I screamed, thrusting my gun straight at this bastard’s face. “Drop the knife!”
Wait a minute . . .
Finch slowly lowered his knife to the ground.
His hooded sweatshirt triggered my memory . . .
He slowly wiped the bloody blade clean on O’Dare’s flannel shirt.
Something familiar . . .
He reached for the bright silver badge clipped to O’Dare’s belt.
Lepke’s! He was sitting in Lepke’s, shoveling up his breakfast, the morning Spuds had been killed!
He plucked the badge off the butchered cop’s body.
“I’m not joking around here, Finch!” I warned with a low growl.
Déjà vu nagged my brain; that wasn’t the first time I’d seen him . . . Lost in thought, I cocked my head and peered at him closely. That white hair and pale skin, almost albino-like . . .
He moved fast, throwing the badge at my head.
I ducked out of reflex.
A big noise from my small gun ripped through the night.
Finch bolted, vanishing into the darkness of the storage lockers as I remembered where I’d first laid eyes on him.
The cockfight.
That night, chaos and confusion ran through the basement gathering, erupting in slaughter. He’d been in my way as I scrambled to get out alive, so I’d clobbered him hard and broke his face. The night of the cockfight.
Jesus . . .
I stepped over O’Dare’s lifeless body and slipped into the dark, mazelike corridor of lockers. I had just enough light to see a few feet in front of me. Beyond that, nothing.
On the wall at the beginning of this hallway, my scouting fingers felt a small dial. Above it, in painted stencil, the word Lights caught my eye.
I gave a twist and light flared on, but only down the single row of lockers immediately behind the dial. This provided enough light to see that each row featured a similar knob. A loud ticking filled the air, keeping time with my racing pulse, as the dial’s timer wound down. I knew the lights would wink out again when it reached the end.
If I used the lights, Finch could easily keep track of my movement, and in these labyrinthine passages, it would be too easy for him to sneak up behind me.
I swallowed hard and rushed down another dark passage. After a few rows and a few turns, I realized my mistake. There was nothing to keep Finch from escaping back out the front. Cursing my stupidity, I retraced my steps as best I could. I’d gotten all turned around in the dark. I found the main corridor just in time to see Finch step into the building’s industrial-sized elevator.
I ran toward him.
He grinned at me as the metal grate slammed shut. I fired another shot, but it bounced off the grate and ricocheted about the room.
Two wasted shots. Goddamnit!
I reached the elevator and slammed my fist against the steel cage.
Why didn’t he run?
The elevator didn’t stop at the second floor; that meant he’d be riding to the top. I did a quick check; behind me I found a steel door leading to a set of steps and rushed upward—trying to climb faster than the elevator.
I hit the top floor, kicked open the door, and pointed my pistol right at the elevator. Empty. No sign of Finch.
Darkness, even thicker than two floors below, filled the slim corridors.
I knew I had to play this smart. I couldn’t afford to lose my way. If I did, I’d be Jack Finch’s next victim.
I paced forward, pistol extended in a double-fisted grip, until I reached the end of the corridor. The wall in front of me held windows. The dim light from the moon illuminated this narrow walkway ever so slightly.
I paused. I listened. No sound. I turned left.
I moved down along the outside wall slowly; taking a step, pausing, then taking another, trying to hear something besides my beating heart and ragged breath.
Step . . . Pause . . . Listen . . .
Step . . .
The scream of a wild animal shattered the darkness; Jack Finch burst from the shadows. I squeezed off a shot, realizing it went wide as I yelped from a burning pain searing my arm.
I fired again, a reflex, but stood alone. Hot, sticky blood ran down my arm from the deep cut across my left bicep. Shooting pain engulfed my entire body. I couldn’t look, knowing if I dropped my eyes to check my wound I’d feel a knife across my throat.
I’d been careless.
My gun held five shots; I only had one left. I’d often remarked that if I didn’t hit my target with five shots, the sixth wouldn’t do me any good. Until now I’d always meant that as a joke.
Step . . . Pause . . . Listen . . .
I started to feel a little dizzy as I rounded the next corner. My concentration slipped, flowing away with the blood trickling down my arm.
Step . . . Pause . . . Listen . . .
I heard noises all around me now; my pulse quickened with every rat skittering along the floor, every roach scurrying through the walls, every cricket singing its mournful song in some dark crevice.
Step . . . Pause . . . Listen . . .
A click-clack echoed behind me and I spun, raising my gun, vowing not to waste my final shot.
I pointed it at empty air.
My eyes roved through the darkness, anxiously searching.
I didn’t see him until he grabbed my arm and slammed my hand, gun and all, through the window. Shattering glass sprayed all around me as he beat my gun-clenched fist against the thin wire framework covering the window on the outside.
A thousand tiny knives lanced into my hand. I winced; my gun, still with its single bullet, slipped from my grasp and thunked to the floor. A quick kick from Jack sent it spinning into the black depths. It clanked against metal somewhere deep in the maze. I guardedly took a few steps back, tensing for Jack’s next attack.
“Why me? What are you after?” I cried.
The low whine of sirens reached my ears; way to go, Manetti!
His answer came at me, a knife glittering in the low light. “Revenge!”
A tight swipe flew at my face; I jumped back and ducked, then came up and pounded a glass-pierced fist into Jack Finch’s temple.
I’m no boxer, but I know how to use my fists. A punch—full of fury and packed with malice—rattled Jack Finch’s teeth to their roots.
He crumpled, landing on his hands and knees—wheezing, spitting blood.
Sirens screamed louder.
I smiled.
My solid oxford slammed down on Finch’s left fist. A grunt rewarded me. He
tried to dig his hand out from beneath my foot; I ground a little sole against his knuckles, then smashed a heel against his fragile phalanges.
Bones cracked. I stomped again. Another grunt. The knife slipped from his fingers.
Flashes of blue and red burst through the windows, joining the piercing, oncoming sirens.
I bent to pick up the big knife. I knew Rebecca could confirm it was the instrument that had taken my friends from me. Just before I touched it, Finch’s head hammered into my skull, toppling me backward.
Voices shouted outside—voices belonging to cops.
The air blew out of my lungs as Finch pounced on top of me. His knife stabbed down at my face. The half-severed muscles of my right arm screamed as I blocked his strike.
I twisted his wrist backward and, prying the knife from his grip, hurled it off to join my pistol. Jack responded with soft blows to my head; he was better with knives than with his hands. I ended that nonsense with a deep uppercut to his gut.
I threw him off me and scrambled to my feet.
Jack got his balance and hustled off, trying to escape. I ran after him, gaining ground; neither of us moved too fast. Sure I felt pain, but I ignored it.
I tackled Finch, and we tumbled into the low light that spilled out from the elevator. I noticed the metal grate was still open as Jack got both hands around my throat. In turn, my fingers managed to wrap themselves around his windpipe.
That’s when I saw Duke Wellington standing in front of the door to the steps, his big .45 aimed right at us.
“All right, boys, fight’s over,” he rumbled. “Now, I want the both of you to stand up real slow. An’ when I say real slow, I mean real slow. Got it?”
Through some unspoken communication, Jack and I haltingly let go of each other at the same time, each sliding away from the other as we followed Duke Wellington’s orders: taking it slow, standing up.
I held my hands in the air, palms outward. Thick blood covered my left hand and quills of broken glass stuck out at odd angles from my right.
I nodded at Duke Wellington, and he gestured with his gun for me to get to the stairs. I limped a step forward, then paused. My ears caught the soft hiss of metal on metal, and the corner of my eye caught an evil glint.