By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  “I said drop—”

  Bam! Bam! Bam! The sound of Goiler’s gun alone would have dropped this delinquent, but several bullets in the stomach did the job proper.

  “I ain’t your goddamn bro,” Goiler said.

  He went over to the girl and undid her gag and started untying her arms and legs. She didn’t move and had no more tears left to cry.

  At that moment, Bo Stickler got up and said, “Now that was close.”

  Goiler almost fell back. “What the hell?”

  “Wait till you hear this one. Kid with a nine jumps outta the closet, a’ight?” Stickler said, while dusting himself off for effect. “How come we didn’t check the closet? Don’t ask me. So he jumps out and shoots at the Stick Man. Shot musta gone wide, I tell ya. I hit the floor. Then I went all Elmer Fudd–like and just played possum.”

  “I don’t wanna hear another word outta you or I’ll shoot you myself.” Goiler picked up the gag and threw it at him. “Grab that briefcase and get back ta the car.”

  Stickler grabbed the case and lowered his head to look at the girl.

  “You watch any of that Bugs Bunny shit, kid?”

  She pulled her legs to her chest and sank her face into her knees.

  “Don’t listen ta him, girl. Faze him out. Faze it all out. You’ll be home soon.”

  He took her hand in his. It fit like a key into a lock that wouldn’t turn.

  Chapter One

  Another Miserable Day in Testacy City

  Rain clouds hung low over the flat expanse of the desert town, spewing forth torrents of water that turned the dirt-caked streets into rivers of mud. I’ve spent most of my life in either Testacy City, Las Vegas, or somewhere in between. Living in the desert has taught me to hate the rain. I prefer the dry air and near-constant sunshine that you normally find in the American Southwest. When it rains, trouble comes down.

  The trouble started last night. I’d worked late, tracking down leads on a big jewel heist, and had come away with nothing but a name and a severe hangover. I thought I could handle my detective work better than that; hell, I thought I could handle my drinks better than that. A name, a hangover, and now I was late. And it was raining.

  I climbed the steps to the offices of the Always Reddy Detective Agency, on the second floor of the William Kemmler Building at 1341 Fielding Avenue, right smack in the middle of Testacy City’s business district. The newspaper I’d bought that morning, which had tried its best to shield me from the rain, was a sopping wet mess. I didn’t own an umbrella; I didn’t think anyone in the city did. I tossed the news in the trash as I entered the office, nodding to Rhoda Chang, the agency’s gal Friday, and made my way down the hall to my corner. It was my little plot of workspace real estate, less than an office yet more than a cubicle. The place where I took calls and would hang up pictures of my wife and kids, if I had a wife and kids. I did have a wife once, but seeing her picture this morning wouldn’t have helped my spirits any.

  “Drake!” Hal Reddy’s wrecking-ball-on-concrete voice smashed through the cluttered agency offices, finding me just as I arrived at my desk.

  “Yeah?” I shouted back.

  “Get in here! Now!”

  Normally, I didn’t like to keep the boss waiting, but I needed to take a little detour through the agency’s small kitchen for a somewhat fresh cup of coffee. And with that small solace, I entered the smoky confines of Hal’s office.

  The boss sat behind his desk, chomping on a smoldering Antonio y Cleopatra, one of those dime-store cigars that come five to a box. He was a short, broad man with a wide nose and huge ears that stuck out at right angles from his craggy, bald head. The top half of his left ear was missing (a remnant of his days working homicide in Los Angeles back in the ’60s), which made his right ear seem that much larger.

  “Sit down, Drake.”

  He inhaled deeply from his cigar, and it sprang to life. Hal looked like a bear, and his squinty little eyes gave the impression of ignorance. But if you could hold his gaze—and few could—you’d see the cold fire of intelligence burning there.

  “Know anything about bowling?” Hal asked, as he added to the volume of smoke that drifted about the office.

  “Not much beyond the basics.”

  “The name Gentleman Joe Biggs mean anything to you?”

  “No. I take it he’s into bowling?”

  “Not just into bowling; as far as Testacy City goes, he was bowling: PBA tour, endorsements, the whole bit.”

  “You said was . . .”

  “That’s right. Was. They found him dead at Penny’s Lanes this morning. What’s the matter with you? Don’t you read the papers?” Hal punctuated this point with a deep draw on his cigar.

  “Christ, give me a break! I just got in.”

  “Then you should get in earlier.” He pointed at me with the glowing tip of his stogie.

  “Come on, Hal. You didn’t call me in here to bawl me out for being late. What gives?”

  He took one of the many manila envelopes that littered his desk and pushed it toward me.

  “I’m giving you the Biggs case.”

  “What? But I’m working on the Haufschmidt jewel heist.”

  “Yeah, I know that. Tell me how far along you are.”

  I winced at the thought of letting Hal down; I didn’t have nearly enough to justify him keeping me on the case. I was half-tempted to lie but knew that wouldn’t play with the boss. Hal was the best detective I knew. He had plenty of experience with lies—both telling them and seeing through them.

  “Just got started. I did a little digging yesterday and came up with Marcel the Mangler.”

  “Isn’t he that French jewel thief who got sent up after he strangled a street mime?”

  “That’s the one. The word on the street says he’s in town, recently out of Leavenworth.”

  “You got any leads on this French fry?”

  “Nope. It took me all night just to shake his name loose.”

  “That’s what happens when you read the morning paper in the afternoon: you lose the jump shot,” Hal chided. He leaned back in his chair. “I gave that case to Henry Goiler this morning.”

  “Goiler?”

  I had nothing against Goiler, even though he was a slob and a braggart. He’d worked a couple of jobs with me, and I found him to be handy on a caper. It just rankled me that I was being replaced on a case.

  “Yeah, he’s already got something on Marcel,” Hal explained. “Apparently, they did the cat-and-mouse a couple of years ago.”

  I couldn’t really argue with that, plus the truth of the matter was I didn’t really like the case. I didn’t have a whole lot, and I’d had a rotten time getting what little I did have.

  “Fair enough,” I relented. “So now I’ve got the bowling alley butcher. What do we know?”

  I flipped open the file. Except for the facts that Joe Biggs was five feet ten, 207 pounds, fifty-four years old, and dead, it was nearly empty.

  “That’s about it,” Hal said, indicating the folder. “Biggs was found about nine this morning by the guy who cleans the place. His head was in the ball return on lane 13, smashed between two bowling balls.”

  “So who’s our client?”

  “The mother, Elizabeth Biggs. She lives at the Desert Flower Retirement Complex. The cops gave her the impression that they were more interested in running Joe’s name through the mud than finding his killer.”

  “Any other family?”

  “I hear he’s got a wife. Don’t know much about her. No kids. He’s got a house in Victory Gardens.”

  Victory Gardens was a high-class suburb of Testacy City. If you lived there you were money—old or new, it didn’t matter.

  “So he was doing all right, huh?”

  “Guess so,” Hal shrugged. “Get out and interview the mother. See what she’s got. Then talk to the widow.”

  “I’m on it.”

  I grabbed the sparse Biggs file and left Hal to his smoke. There’s som
ething about a new case that really gets the blood pumping. I grabbed my hat and hit the road, blowing Rhoda a kiss on the way out.

  Chapter Two

  The Crime Scene

  A few minutes later I was navigating Testacy City’s barren streets in my powder-blue ’65 Galaxie 500, heading toward Penny’s Lanes. I didn’t necessarily agree with Hal’s plan of visiting the mother first. I thought my time would be better spent at the crime scene, especially since the body was discovered only a few hours ago. I was pretty sure the mother wasn’t going anywhere fast, but I couldn’t say the same thing about any evidence still at the scene of the crime.

  I took a left off Broadway onto Dickerson and drove past the bowling alley, slow enough to take in the details but fast enough not to raise suspicion. Just another rubbernecker. The place was crazy with cops; there were six black-and-whites parked out front and four uniforms managing the barricade.

  I parked my car in the next block. The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle. It still didn’t make me happy, but at least I could walk a block without getting soaked. I pulled my hat low on my forehead and started off.

  It’s no secret that cops and private eyes don’t always get along. But this morning I didn’t see any unmarked cars in front of the alley or in the parking lot of the diner next door. Without any detectives around, the direct approach might work best.

  My gut feeling paid off. John McCluskey, a friend of mine in the Testacy City Police Department, was on duty outside the barricade. We go way back to my days as a fireman; his wife was a high school friend of mine.

  He saw me coming. “Hey, Drake! How are ya?” He stuck out his hand. I shook it.

  “Good, thanks,” I lied. “How about you?”

  “You know me, I’m a tiger,” he countered. He pointed toward the bowling alley. “Hell of a thing for a Monday morning, huh?”

  “Yeah. You got the skinny?”

  “Well, first I gotta warn ya. Duke Wellington told us that no one but officers and witnesses go in.”

  Homicide detective Duke Wellington wasn’t fond of private dicks in general and me in particular. Awhile back I took a case he’d solved and solved it right. He hadn’t forgotten about it.

  “He mention me by name?” I asked.

  “No, but it’s no secret you’re included.”

  “That was expected, I guess. Can you at least fill me in on what went down here?”

  His head swiveled on his beefy neck as he confirmed that no one was close enough to hear us talk. “You didn’t hear it from me,” he cautioned.

  “Not a problem.” I meant it.

  “Okay then. The janitor, a guy named Dino, found the body at about nine. It’s been here since early this morning, probably about two or three. They just removed it about fifteen minutes ago.”

  “What was this guy doing here at three in the morning?”

  “According to Dino, the guy liked to bowl from one a.m.—when the place closes—until about three. I guess it was easier for him to concentrate on his game.”

  “Right,” I chuckled. “I don’t suppose you can look the other way for a second or two . . .”

  He slowly shook his head no. “This place has a set of rear doors,” he continued. “We think the killers used them to get in and out quick and quiet.”

  I took the hint. “Thanks, John. See ya around.”

  “Sure thing, Drake.”

  I ambled away and headed across the diner’s parking lot, making my way toward the back of the alley. A couple of cops were milling around, but there were also enough parked cars to make it look like I had business being there.

  I got to the back of the building and tried the double doors. Locked. Damn. As I moved away to contemplate my next move, I heard the distinctive cla-clack of a steel door opening. Out walked a mousy little guy in his late forties. He was rail thin, dressed in a denim shirt and pants, lugging a huge bag of trash. He looked like a convict. I shook the dice and took a guess that this was my man.

  “Yo, Dino!” I rolled.

  He turned around, jumping a couple of feet in the air. It’s always good to be right. He shifted himself into a stance that suggested he might know how to deal a little damage. I was too pressed for time to try him out.

  “Morning. I’m Ben Drake.” I extended my hand.

  He took my hand and pumped it, relief etched on his face. He seemed a little skittish.

  “So whatcha want?”

  “I’m a private detective.” I handed him a card.

  He turned it over in his hands before shoving it into his back pocket. “A PI, huh?”

  “Yeah, the genuine article.”

  “Mebbe I can help ya.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping,” I encouraged. There’s a part of everyone that wants to be a detective.

  “Let’s go inside where it’s dry,” he suggested after thinking things over. Just the invitation I was waiting for.

  He led me into the eerie, industrial atmosphere of the back room. Ahead of us, down a short set of steps, row upon row of identical robots with gaping maws of steel lay silent and motionless. A narrow catwalk built atop the machines and an equally narrow walkway—little more than a crawl space—between the back wall and the machines were the only paths available to get from one side to the other. I could only imagine the noise and madness that filled the air back here when the alley was in full swing.

  “Take a right here,” Dino instructed, just as I was about to enter the guts of the alley.

  Instead we walked past a long workbench littered with a wide variety of tools and went through another door into the part of the bowling alley that most people see. We weren’t alone; a handful of forensics types and a few blues were hanging about. I tried to act inconspicuous, but a guy in a fedora and a rumpled suit is bound to attract attention sooner or later. Especially in a bowling alley.

  “Mebbe I can shadow someone for ya, like in the movies?”

  “Maybe.” I was feeling rushed. “Tell you what I need right now, though—”

  “Yeah? So I can help?” Dino interrupted.

  “Yeah.” I talked fast, suspecting I wouldn’t have much longer. “Here’s what I need you to do. In my experience, cops got a lot to do and sometimes they get sloppy. It’s almost a guarantee they miss something at the crime scene. So if you see something suspicious, give me a call.”

  Dino looked a little disappointed. “So—”

  “Aw, sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, don’t tell me that’s Ben Drake!” a booming voice bounced off the walls, cutting Dino off. “Someone gimme a stick so as I can beat the man who let this rapscallion onto my crime scene!”

  Duke Wellington was heading right at me, eyes filled with hatred. He wore a wine-colored suit with a bright green neon tie; he looked more like a pimp than a homicide detective.

  He closed the thirty-foot gap between us with a few strides of his long legs. “You got no business being in this building!” He shoved a huge finger in my face. It was attached to a huge fist; a fist I’d felt once before and was not anxious to feel again.

  “Easy, man. I’m just working a case, like you.”

  “You’re working this case? You’re working this case?” He was the type who liked to hear himself talk. “Now who in high holy heaven hired you?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that, DW. Client confidentiality and all.”

  Duke Wellington’s dark skin began to blossom red. The muscles of his jaw jumped out from his face as he clenched his teeth. I could tell he wanted to hit me. He turned toward Dino instead. “You don’t be talkin’ to this guy.” He gestured in my direction with a wild waving of his arms. “You find anything, you talk to me, Duke Wellington! Got it?”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Dino started.

  “But nothin’! I’m the guy you talk to, understand? I am the guy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. No problem,” Dino caved.

  “Good,” Duke Wellington purred before his attention swung back my way. “You get outta here.�
�

  “Come on. I’ve gotta earn my paycheck,” I pleaded. I didn’t think it would get me too far.

  “O’Neal!” Duke Wellington shouted toward one of the uniformed cops. “This guy seems to be lost. Help him find the way out.”

  A brawny cop with a cruel mouth headed toward me, drawing his baton and gesturing my way. “Let’s go, buddy,” he ordered.

  I shrugged at Dino and began the trek toward the front door. O’Neal marched behind me, prodding me with his stick.

  On the way out I heard Duke Wellington giving Dino the third degree. Wellington was a good detective; he had a keen sense of deductive reasoning. But that’s only one thing a detective needs. What he lacked was people skills. You can do all the deductive reasoning you want, but it’ll get you nothing if people won’t talk to you. I didn’t mind that Wellington had kicked me off the scene; I got what I came for. I had a man on the inside.

  “Now beat it, tough guy,” O’Neal commanded when we reached the front door.

  I walked the block back to my car, stopping at the diner for a cup of coffee to go. It was just about noon, and I was feeling good about my progress, especially after the dead end I’d hit last night.

  I hadn’t had a cigar all morning, so I pulled out a tin of J. Cortès Grand Luxes. These aren’t big stogies; they’re quite small, close to the size of cigarettes. I never seem to have enough time to finish off a nice Churchill, so these do the trick.

  I fired up a smoke, then I fired up my car and headed out to see my client, Elizabeth Biggs.

  Chapter Three

  The Grieving Mother

  The Desert Flower Retirement Complex was a pensioner’s community a stone’s throw north of the city. I wasn’t really looking forward to this interview. I didn’t expect Elizabeth Biggs to be able to tell me much about her son’s death, and it’s never any fun dealing with relatives of the recently dead.

  The sparse traffic on the road made my drive go quickly, and before long I pulled into the barren gravel lot and parked my car. It didn’t look like this place got too many visitors. I opened my car door, then paused and sat for a moment, pulling out my cigars. I contemplated smoking one but decided against it, realizing I was stalling. I began a slow walk to the gated entrance, the gravel of the lot crunching under my shoes.