by Jim Pascoe
I recoiled, pulling my legs up to my chest.
A bright flash blinded me as Duke Wellington’s gun exploded with a shower of fire.
I tried to turn into a ball. The killer was almost on top of me.
Torrents of pain ripped through my head.
Jack’s shoulder erupted in a wet firework of blood.
His albino rag-doll body flew through the air, into the elevator car. But the shot came too late.
The hilt of Jack’s butterfly knife stuck out of my thigh.
I hit the floor, hard; the pain kept coming.
Jack Finch crunched against the back wall of the elevator and slid to the floor, painting a bloody smear above him.
I pulled myself to my feet, wincing as the knife in my leg scraped against my femur. I decided I’d be better off leaning against something solid.
Duke Wellington held his smoking gun on Jack Finch.
I pointed at the pale-skinned murderer.
“There’s your raspberry killer, DW,” I coughed, spitting out a gob of bloody phlegm. “He killed Travis Kohen too.”
“What’s that?” Duke Wellington asked, walking over to Finch, keeping his gun trained on the killer’s head. “Get on your face,” the big cop commanded.
Finch flopped over onto his belly. Duke Wellington cuffed him. Hard.
“Yeah, I know it’s tough to believe, but Kris Kohen paid this guy to kill his own kid,” I explained.
“You got proof of that, Drake?”
“No, not me, but I’ll bet your man downstairs had enough to bury Kohen and Finch. That’s why he’s dead.”
“And what about the raspberry letters, Drake?”
“You’ll have to find that out, DW. You’ll just have to find that out. Looks like the score’s even, huh?” I grinned.
I didn’t see it coming.
Duke Wellington’s boulder-sized fist rocketed off my skull, sending me sprawling to the floor.
“Now we’re even, Drake, now we’re even. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
It’s the last thing I heard before I passed out.
V
A wind had come into town, cooling things off considerably. It did nothing to lessen my troubled dreams. I was so hopped up on painkillers the last couple of days, my mind could barely focus on the nightmares.
I pulled myself together for the funeral. I put on a clean black suit over all my bandages and limped to the taxi waiting to take me to the cemetery.
Hal and the other detectives stood in a solemn row, their heads down, their hands clasped in front. I gave a nod to Manetti, who showed up in a suit; I hadn’t thought the kid owned one.
Rhoda dabbed a handkerchief to her tears as she shook her head back and forth.
A handful of cops, including John McCluskey, stood on the other side of the freshly dug hole. McCluskey, one of the few officers on the TCPD whom I considered a friend, showed up in his best uniform. His polished shoes shined as bright as sunlight off a placid lake.
Sometimes the smallest things make you feel good.
His wife Kathy walked alongside him, holding his arm. I went to high school with Kathy all those years ago. I actually introduced her to John after he and I sparked up a friendship back in my days as a firefighter. They were a good couple.
“Hey, Drake. How you holding up?” John asked. He stuck out his hand, and I shook it, although the cuts from the broken glass made me wince.
“It’s been rough, these last couple days,” I said, trying to get my voice out of my throat.
“We’re really sorry, Ben,” Kathy said as she gave me a soft hug.
“Thanks, Kath.” I did my best to put on a game face and give these guys whatever smile I could. “So, how are you two doing?”
“Keeping busy with work, like always,” Kathy said. “You know, we’ve been meaning to have you over for dinner. If you feel up to it, we’d love to see you later this week.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. How’s things at the station, McCluskey?”
“You know me, I’m a tiger,” he countered. He pointed toward the grave with his solid chin. “He was the best. The whole city will miss him. I’ll miss him.” He gave me a supportive clap on the shoulder.
“Yeah . . .” I breathed in deep and long. “I’ll miss him too.”
“I just want you to know, Ben, Finch is behind bars. Once we got him inside, he sang like a bird—based on the case Pappy and O’Dare had put together. And another thing . . .” His head swiveled on his beefy neck, first left, then right, as he glanced over his shoulders, confirming that no one was close enough to hear him whisper. “We brought Kris Kohen in this morning, and it doesn’t look good for the bastard. Not too many juries are going to give him any sympathy.”
I kept going with my forced smile. Finch and Kohen and all the goddamn criminals in the world could go to hell.
I took my place next to my fellow detectives as the ceremony began. We all muttered a prayer in unison. The coffin was lowered into the ground. We each took our turn tossing a spadeful of dirt over the grave. All that should be said was said. The crowd dispersed, everyone heading off their separate ways. Some returned to their jobs, some returned to their families.
Not me. I stood there until the sun sank low in the sky, wondering why life is so unfair. I continued to wonder as I walked over to the familiar plot of my wife’s grave. I missed her more than ever.
At last, with the coolness of the evening settling in, I limped toward the small chapel, soaking up the cemetery’s solitude and isolation.
I called a taxi from a pay phone. I had a few more moments to myself before it arrived and took me back to the world of the living.
* * *
Once home, I found a single red rose resting on my doorstep. I picked it up and sniffed. Its gentle aroma lingered in the air as I entered my apartment and poured myself a drink.
_______________________
Buck Bixel’s wrecking-ball fist rocketed into my gut, choking me on the air I’d just sucked into my lungs and sending my innards painfully sloshing against each other.
I had to admit that while the guy didn’t look too bright, he sure knew how to throw a punch.
My feet flew out from under me, and I teetered over backward, heading for a hard slam onto the rough gravel. As I fell, Bixel crossed his arms and glared, daring me to not collapse at his feet. He would have been scary if he didn’t look so damn goofy; his skin drooped off his massive frame like a pinkish prune, and he wore an oversized suit that hung loosely on his doughy body. Hard to believe this guy was one of Testacy City’s toughest tough guys.
I crumpled to the ground and thousands of tiny rocks dug into my back. Wincing, I rolled onto my side and managed to wheeze some air into my lungs, but trouble came on all over again when I tried to blow it back out. A vise cranked tight around my chest as waves of nausea and pain fought for the right to take over.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t do either.
“You’ve gotta be gettin’ a little tired of this, Drake,” the diminutive Zef Ehrenreich wheezed as he stepped forward to loom over me.
The tiny thug, the civilized half of Small-Tooth Kelley’s main muscle duo, whipped out a cigarillo and set fire to it, then cocked his head and bored his narrow, sparkly eyes into mine. He looked like a chimp in a cheap suit, but I knew he could be every bit as deadly as his giant partner.
How’d this happen to me? I’d been feeling good when I left the Long Mile earlier that night—too good, it turns out. And that’s why these thugs got the drop on me and dragged me out here to the dump. A tight spot to be in; people didn’t get hauled here to play cards. I’ve been in plenty of tight spots before, but I’d always known the score. This time, the worst of it was that I honestly had no idea what these guys wanted from me.
Ehrenreich jabbed me in the belly with his foot. “Eh? I asked if you were gettin’ tired, Drake,” he said, this time with a rising edge of violence in his voice. His scuffed shoe
anxiously pawed the loose gravel as he spoke. “Hell, we are, ain’t that right, Bixie?”
Bixel’s floppy jowls waggled back and forth when he grunted an affirmative.
I tried to grunt my affirmative, but it felt like a big hand had wrapped around my heart and squeezed, so I just moaned.
Ehrenreich slid his tiny bowler far back on his head, then squatted down and stuck his mousy face right into mine. He stank of cheap gin and even cheaper tobacco.
“Now, I’m gonna ask ya this one last time, Drake, and I ain’t gonna fool around no more. You get me?”
I nodded, but I knew things didn’t look good, no matter what I said.
“Awright then . . . Mr. Kelley wants to know where them oranges are at. You care to help us out, Drake?”
If you can’t breathe, it’s not that easy to answer questions, especially when you really don’t know the answer.
I managed to croak out a short, fractured sentence telling Ehrenreich I had no idea what he was talking about. I knew it wouldn’t make him happy, but he’d be a lot less happy if I made something up. At least I’d be a lot less happy if I made something up.
The little guy let out a big breath full of smoke as he stroked his pencil-thin mustache, then drew himself up to his full height, which really wasn’t all that much.
“Well, Bixie, looks like our boy ain’t too good at learnin’.”
He tossed his half-smoked cigarillo to the ground right in front of my nose, snapped his fingers, and spun on his heel, heading across the lot and back to his black sedan.
Bixel unfolded his arms and took a clumsy lumber closer to me. I squinted as his size-15 wingtip came sailing at my face.
I knew it was going to hurt.
* * *
The crickets woke me up; at least it seemed like they did. My head throbbed, and after a while I dared to open my eyes.
I struggled to my feet and took inventory. My ribs hurt, my back hurt, but most of all, my head hurt. I probed the tender and moist spot above my left eye that had met with Bixel’s foot. Fresh blood on my fingers told me he got in a good kick.
The dump was about ten miles outside the city. Stranded without a car, I started the long trudge back to town. Every so often someone whizzed by me, going too fast down the road, but no one stopped. I didn’t expect them to; Testacy City wasn’t the type of town where you pulled over to pick up strangers.
By the time I limped my way downtown to the William Kemmler Building, my left eye throbbed and had swelled so much it felt like it would pop right out of my head.
I took the steps to the second floor, then slipped through the familiar door that read, Always Reddy Detective Agency. Rhoda Chang, the wily receptionist, had long since gone home; the small waiting room where she did her work was dark, but it still felt comforting.
I walked past her desk and crept through the door that led to my office, wishing Bixel hadn’t swiped my Smith & Wesson Model 637 before he beat me up. I half-expected to find someone waiting for me in my chair, so I flicked on the light, clenched my fists, and got ready for action.
But my chair was empty. Instead, a medium-sized, beat-up cardboard box waited for me on my desk. A note, written in Rhoda’s carefully penned handwriting, read: Manetti brought this in. Said you’d know what it was for.
I decided to wait a few minutes before I took in whatever bad news the box had for me, so I filled the sink in the corner full of cool water, stripped down to my T-shirt, and washed my face. My left eye stung something fierce as the water splashed over it. I took a look in the mirror; I sported a deep gash, right below the eyebrow. Bixel had done some damage all right.
After I dried myself off, I poured three fingers of Old Grand-Dad into my office coffee mug and took a healthy swig. Then I sliced open the top of the mysterious box.
Nestled inside was a mesh bag full of oranges.
Great.
Now what the hell was I supposed to do?
* * *
Mike Manetti answered the door only after my fist pounded on it a good six or seven times. I didn’t care about waking him; if he had answers, I was ready with the questions.
“Drake? Ah . . . are you crazy, man? It’s like not even morning yet.”
“Yeah, I’m crazy—crazy enough to wear these bumps, bruises, and bandages like cheap earrings on a hooker. And crazy enough to think your shenanigans got me this way.”
The bandages were courtesy of my friend Rebecca Hortzbach, the city’s ace medical examiner. I had cabbed over to her place straight from my office. She liked to take care of my wounds, and always told me that fixing me up was a lot more fun than stitching up her regular customers. I didn’t mind; she kept my hospital bills low.
“Whoa, hold on, Drake! Your man Mike wouldn’t . . . I mean, what are you saying?” His knuckle rubbed at the sleep in his eye, while his other hand scratched his ribs.
“I’m saying I want you to tell me about the bag of oranges that’s sitting on my desk.”
“Well, yeah. It’s . . . It’s got to do with that thing I’m working on.”
“What thing?”
“You know, that thing.”
“Manetti!” I invited myself in and offered him a seat.
“Okay, I’m still waking up, man. Come on, you remember that job I was working, the one with the worried mother hen thinking her son was up to no good?”
“Yeah?”
The young detective leaned back in his grubby love seat. A smile leaked onto his tired face. “Well, he was up to no good.”
A busybody type by the name of Emma Twitchell had placed a call to my office about a week ago, expressing some concern that her teenage son, Timmy, was running with boys from the other side of the tracks. I didn’t expect much to come of it, so I’d shoved the tail job off on Manetti. Looks like he found something juicy; now all I had to do was get him to spit out the facts.
“Mike, all this talk is getting me no closer to explaining a bag of oranges that seems to inspire thugs to use my body as a punching bag.”
“I was just getting to that, Drake,” Manetti said. “I followed that Twitchell cat all over Testacy City until we ended up south of 15 in the warehouse district. Know what he was doing? He was picking up a delivery. Now, I know what you’re thinking, probably the same as I was thinking—what’s the big deal with picking up a delivery of a bag of oranges? That’s what I was thinking.”
His hand reached into a greasy white paper bag and fished out a cold french fry. “My mind couldn’t take all the guessing and speculating—and I know that us private dicks want results. So when the kid stopped at the gas station for a pack of smokes or something, I swiped the oranges right out of his car.”
I knew I wouldn’t get anything else from Manetti that morning, so I spent a little time chewing him out for such bone-headed eagerness, leaving a job incomplete, and poor follow-up. But that’s the past, and I’m not the kind of detective to dwell on mistakes. Assess the situation, collect the evidence, and make your move.
So I made my move with a few phone calls. A couple hours later, I was in my office staring at Small-Tooth Kelley’s evil, small-toothed grin shining at me from across my desk. The gangster clicked out his question between dry, chapped lips: “So, Drake, what’s it gonna be?”
I took my time answering. After all, it was my move, and I had this whole thing planned real nice. After leaving Manetti’s apartment, I’d ducked into my place, cleaned up, grabbed some coffee, then strolled back to the office to give this bag the once-over in the light of day.
All night I had wondered what criminal activity could come from a bunch of oranges. Poisoning? I’d laughed, thinking of some comic book supercriminal planning to poison the city with toxic fruit. Not likely. Smuggling? A safer bet, but no, the plastic mesh of the bag had held nothing but oranges. Sure, a bag of oranges were often used by professional muscle to deliver a beating without leaving a mark. Though I didn’t think such workman citruses would be valued so greatly.
Then
I’d taken a closer look at the bag itself. Pretty standard: a bright orange net of plastic with a white label around the middle that wrapped the whole affair like one big piece of sealing tape. Lost in thought, I’d absentmindedly flicked at the label’s top edge. And wouldn’t you know, that label wasn’t slapped on there too well at all.
With the thin blade of my Leatherman, I had peeled back the label, and a smile had broken heavy across my face, much like the one I was using on Small-Tooth Kelley right now. I could tell it unnerved him.
“One more time, Drake,” he repeated, “what’s it gonna be? You got my oranges or don’t you?”
He was smug and tense, but I wasn’t worried—even with my two dancing partners from last night flanking him. I had muscle of my own. Tony, the bartender at the Long Mile, was standing behind me, arms crossed. They were the thick arms of an ex-con gone straight. Like I said, I wasn’t worried.
“Oh, I got your oranges. I guess a pasty guy like you needs his Vitamin C, huh? You know, Small-Tooth, they got pills for that now.”
Kelley clicked his angry tongue through clenched teeth.
“No need to get mad,” I said. “You’ll get your oranges. But first, I want three things in exchange.”
“You’re in no position to make deals.”
I had to keep from laughing when Tony cracked his knuckles in response. He was good at that.
“There’s no threats here, just a simple set of requests among gentlemen. First, I want my gun back.”
Small-Tooth’s reply was interrupted by the tiny, spiteful Ehrenreich: “Give us the information first!”
The backhand from the boss hit Ehrenreich’s puffy face swift and hard. “You keep your hole shut; I’m doing the negotiations here. Bixel, give the man his gun.”
Bixel pulled my .38 out from one of the sagging pockets of his department-store suit and handed it over.
“Thanks, Bixie,” I said. “Now, number two. The Twitchell kid, he’s out of the business and left alone. For good.”
Kelley sat up straighter in his chair and showed all his tiny teeth. “Of course, Drake. Not a problem, not at all. And now—”