by Jim Pascoe
“I’m Benjamin Drake of the Always Reddy Detective Agency. I’d like to speak with you about your husband’s death.”
“You mean murder!”
“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
“Well, come on in. Don’t mind the dogs. They’re friendly.” Then, more for my benefit than for the dogs, she commanded, “Laza! Apsos! Settle down, you two! This man’s here to help us.” Back to me. “You are here to help, right?”
“Sure.”
I set my hat on a tiny table near the door, then she led me into the main living room, the damn dogs nipping at my heels. We sat down in a pair of matching red leather armchairs. I tried to stay focused despite the number of trinkets, trophies, and other bowling knickknacks scattered about the room—and despite her skimpy red negligee.
Before I could start my questions, she came at me with: “So, how can I help you, Ben—that’s your name, right?”
“What do you know about murder, Mrs. Biggs?”
“Only what I read in the novels,” she giggled, and turned coyly away with a hand to her smile.
I didn’t know if she was trying to be cute or if she was tipsy. I knew she’d been drinking; I could smell the faint tang of alcohol in the room.
“By the way, you can call me Suzi.” She stopped talking and looked around the big colonial-style living room, her smile fading into melancholy. I noticed her gaze stop on a portrait of Joe over the fireplace. Her mood changed quickly and melodramatically. “And of course, I know my husband was murdered.”
“Of course. Know anybody who’d want him that way?”
“If you’re asking me if I know who killed him, the answer, Ben, is no. This wouldn’t be a detective story if I knew who the killer was.”
I hadn’t wanted the questions to start out antagonistic, but since we were already warming up with the verbal fisticuffs, I tried this combo: “Funny, when I talked with his mother, she said you—”
“Don’t even tell me she said I did it!” Suzi was on her feet, her pink-nailed fingers rubbing her temples. “That bitch!”
“Hold on, young lady. Don’t get all excited and start jumping to conclusions. Now, it’s no secret how you gals feel about each other. Why don’t you give me the Suzi Biggs side of the story.”
“I’m sorry for acting like that. Ben, she makes me crazy. And it’s her who doesn’t like me; I don’t have a problem with her other than that.” She was already heading for the liquor cabinet when she turned this trick: “If you want us to have a real discussion, you’re gonna have to drink with me.”
“Not going to argue with that.”
“What do you want?”
“Old Grand-Dad, if you’ve got it.”
She threw me a look that said try again. Before I could, she asked, “Is that some kind of brandy?” How did I forget she was twenty-four?
“Ah, it’s bourbon. Do you have any bourbon?”
Her laughter kept me company while she worked the drinks. She brought over a goddamn water glass full of hooch. Looked like she was going to shoot tequila. Brave. And it could play to my advantage.
“So, why doesn’t the old lady like you?” I started in again.
“You must not be a very good detective if you can’t figure that one out. I’m . . . what some people would say . . . ‘significantly younger’ than Joe. Mama Biggs couldn’t understand our love. She thought it was all about his money.”
“But it was really true love?”
She downed her second shot, still managing to pause long enough to make me suspect.
“Well, yeah. When I met Joe, I never thought I’d fall for a bowler. But he really was a gentleman. He really paid attention to me, treated me like I was some kind of important person.” Her eyes were drifting off. She was getting full of drama again.
“I believe you, Suzi,” I lied. “Just one more question.”
I took a long pull off the bourbon, giving her time to have more of the Mexican poison. She seemed to enjoy my attempt at conversational tension.
“Can you think of anyone else, besides Joe’s mother, who may have been unhappy about your marriage? An old flame, maybe?”
“Nobody.” She hung on that word as she licked the lime juice off the tips of her fingers, seemingly lost in thought.
Liquor makes people either talkative or unreasonably quiet. It was clear what camp we were in. I wasn’t going to get any answers, and until I had more of an angle, I didn’t really have any more questions. I took my last swallow of bourbon, set the glass down, and said, “Well, Suzi, I just have one favor to ask: may I use your bathroom?”
She escorted me to the first-floor bathroom. True enough, I had to use it; but over the years, I’d found that you could learn a lot about a person by using their john.
Here was the layout: deep-basin sink, round mirror above, standard head, no shower, hardwood floor, mauve throw rugs, matching mauve hand towel, lots of plants. The thing that most caught my attention was a framed photo of Gentleman Joe wearing nothing but a Speedo. He was striking a weight lifter’s pose in the midst of an array of fallen bowling pins. Cute.
Before I flushed, I figured I’d try something. With one hand on the door to steady it, I slowly, silently turned the knob with the other. When I got the door open, I could hear Suzi’s voice. Stretching my neck to catch a glimpse of the scene, I saw her motioning to someone I couldn’t see. Her hushed voice seemed to be telling this mysterious third party to stay put.
Now that I had a clue, I slipped the door back into place, flushed, then audibly opened the door. When I reentered the room, Suzi looked as if nothing were going on; in fact, too much so.
“Are you done with me, Ben?”
Her smile was playful, almost enticing; paradoxically, her body language exhibited the most modesty I’d seen since my arrival. She stood legs crossed, elbows pinned inward, trying in vain to cover herself, or at least giving the illusion of caring to. This girl knew her game.
“I’m done asking you questions, for now.” I turned to the door and retrieved my hat. Then, giving her the game right back, I said, “You know, it’s not a good idea being alone at a time like this. Maybe you should call somebody, like a mother or a sister.”
“Why, Ben, that’s awful sweet of you to think about my needs like that. Oh, but my mama’s dead, and I’m an only child. I’ll be all right. I . . . I can call you if I have any problems?”
“Of course you can. I hope you do . . . if you have any problems, I mean.” I handed her my card, and then I was out.
* * *
The bourbon made me want to smoke, but for whatever reason I didn’t feel like burning the tobacco in the Biggs house. I’ve got a deep-down respect for the fairer sex. Sure, she wasn’t playing straight with me. But in this business it doesn’t take long to realize that nobody tells the truth, at least not all the time.
I would have plenty of opportunity to smoke in the car, because my next move was crystal clear. It was Suzi who made a passing joke about this being a detective story, and as it goes in all good detective stories, it was now time to stake out the widow’s house to see what might develop. Especially considering she most definitely had a mysterious visitor.
My small cigar had not even reached its end when out from Suzi’s door came yet another clue: a young chap, tall, clean-cut, and good-looking. He was wearing a checkered button-down shirt opened in front with a white T-shirt underneath. What most caught my attention were the nice pair of black-and-white saddle shoes. You can’t tell whether to trust somebody based only on his shoes—though this was one fella I wasn’t trusting; still, you gotta like a guy with a fancy set of soles.
He kept twisting his head left and right, looking like he was trying to spot someone—probably me. I’d have to be extra careful shadowing him. If I could let him get out of Victory Gardens without him picking up on my tail, I’d have him.
When we were both on the open road, I knew I was out of his mind. One of the Ben Drake rules of shadowing is not to be ov
erly focused on your target; it’s too easy to show your hand. I eased back just enough and peered up over the road. The Testacy City sun was setting low in the sky. It made the sand swirling off the plains glow red like neon dust.
The moment we hit the city, I had that strange feeling of knowing where we were going. I’d be damned if we weren’t headed right back to the bowling alley. Good ol’ Penny’s Lanes.
Chapter Six
Jerry Goes Bowling
When I entered the bowling alley, the low rumble of rolling balls and the crash of falling pins immediately overwhelmed me. Some twangy country-western music played in the background. Lane 13, with its lights off, was noticeably vacant. Maudlin bowlers had piled dozens of colorful bouquets at the foul line. I guess everyone did love Gentleman Joe.
Our man went over to a locker and pulled out his own ball and shoes. I was still new to this bowling stuff, but my keen detective skills were telling me that this guy was a serious bowler.
The last thing I wanted to do was stand around in a bowling alley. I already stuck out like a hitchhicker’s thumb. I figured this would be a good time to ask around, get the lowdown on the scene.
I walked past an effeminate shoeshine boy. He called out to me, “Shine, mister?”
I looked for the guy I’d tailed here from the Biggs house. He was just hitting the lanes; he wasn’t going anywhere soon. I climbed up into the chair.
“Wow. Nice shoes, mister,” he said with a mischievous smile across his young, light-brown face.
“Thanks. You can call me Ben.”
“Okay, Mr. Ben.”
“What’s your name?”
“Enrico.”
“Pleased to meet you, Enrico.” I lowered my voice just enough to match his mischievousness, though not low enough to sound suspicious. “Say, who knows the score around this place?”
He looked up at me as he snapped his rag over my shoes. “There’s lotsa scores here, Mr. Ben. Everyone’s got a score.”
I pulled out a twenty and set it on the chair next to me. “I’m thinking of a guy who might know the big score. You know who holds that scorecard?”
The twenty disappeared in a flash.
“You might wanna go talk to Mr. Spence.” Enrico was glancing over behind the shoe rental booth at a solemn-faced man in a sharp, black leather cap, the kind with the snap on the front brim that’s left unsnapped. “Mr. Spence Nelson. He’s the guy that gives out the ugly shoes.”
I looked again and saw this particular fellow heading for the bar. Enrico saw me giving the guy the eyeball. He nodded that I’d spotted the right Mr. Spence, then added a little twitch of his eyebrows to make sure we were on the same page.
It’s always good to attack in one’s natural element. So I climbed out of the chair and set my course to the bar.
“Thanks, my man. Nice job on the shoes. How much?” He gave me a price of three bucks. I gave him a five.
On my way to rendezvous with Mr. Spence, I made a visual check on our friend from Suzi’s. He was knocking back his second Budweiser. I don’t know jack about bowling technique, but I know plenty about anger. Here was a guy trying to blow off some steam.
Just then a cute little brunette number in a tight sweater and short skirt came over to him and started with the conversation. It was pretty clear they didn’t know each other. When it was clear that they were going to get to know each other, I moved along.
The bowling alley bars I remember from my childhood in Las Vegas were not like this beauty: At the Penny’s Lanes bar, dim lights reflected cooly off the burgundy leather covering the high-backed curved booths. Smoke hung around in the upper corners. The bar counter had a cushion along its edge wrapped in the same well-worn leather. That edge snaked around the room at random angles, making the bar top look like a dancer’s stage at a strip club.
Behind the old lady working the bar were rows and rows of bottles with the prices written on them in black felt-tip. Possibly the best part of the whole scene was the scarcity of drinkers. The joint was almost empty except for some lush in the back corner, Spence Nelson, another guy with him, and me.
Luckily, this Spence character hadn’t ordered a drink yet. Buying a fellow a drink is a great ice breaker as long as you have something to follow it up with. He had just finished talking with the other guy. Neither of them looked like he belonged in a bowling alley. When Spence turned to pony up to the bar, I was in the stool next to him.
“If you’re Spence Nelson, I was told I should buy you a drink.”
“If I were this Spence Nelson, I would think that I would like to know who this stranger is that so freely offers me a drink.”
“I’ll give it to you straight. My name’s Benjamin Drake, and I’m a PI. I’m working the Biggs murder. I’ve been through the standard Q&A regarding this scene. Now I’m looking for more stimulating conversation that might bring up some points that wouldn’t normally show up on a crime report. You want that drink?”
That little old lady bartender was waiting for our order. I told her to bring me three fingers of Old Grand-Dad. Then I glanced over at the man I was hoping could give me some answers.
“I will have a Zima.”
A grin broke loose on my face, and knowing that I wasn’t hiding it, I decided to ride him a bit: “You actually like that stuff?”
“Yes, I do like that stuff. But more than liking it, I admire it. Zima has character, admittedly a much maligned character, but that is part of the charm it holds for me.”
I offered him one of my cigars. He declined, pulling out a beat-up pack of Lucky Strikes from his blue jeans pocket. He was quick with a book of matches. After he lit his cigarette, he held out the flame for me.
“I will tell you some things, Drake.” He paused to take a leisurely drag. “But first you must tell me something.”
“What kind of something?”
“Oh, anything. I can judge a fellow by the quality of story he tells. I am not necessarily looking for information that would be perceived as useful. I am through with useful information. I have a PhD in genetics from Tulane, if you can believe that. Now I am interested in the mundane.”
I gazed at him incredulously. “You have a PhD in genetics and you work in a bowling alley?”
“Your first lesson from me: the currently accepted lingo is ‘bowling center.’ Many people now believe ‘bowling alley’ to have a negative connotation, as in back alley or dirty alley. As for genetics . . .” This time he paused to drink. “Genetics is a dead end. I procure much more enjoyment from the renting of shoes to eager bowlers; though I, myself, am not a bowler.”
This was one Zima drinker I could drink with. Though he hadn’t provided me with anything but entertainment yet. I discreetly tipped my glass toward the guy I was tailing.
“Let me ask you, Spence, do you know that bowler—”
“You have not given me my requisite piece of trivia. Tell me something, and I will answer your questions.”
“All right, here’s your bit.” I took a moment to gather my thoughts, then I laid this on him: “Four years ago I was on a case involving a man named M.N. Fallaby. His wife hired me because she suspected him of having another woman on the side. Story she gave me had him spending several nights away from their nest with no reason or explanation given. So I tailed him. He was a small, bookish man. Funniest thing, he acted like he knew he was being followed, though it was not as if he was going to shake me. I followed him to his nighttime destination. And do you know who the mysterious other woman turned out to be?”
Spence Nelson’s small eyes, like black marbles floating in heavy cream, stared right through me. “There was no other woman,” he guessed.
“Right. He was alone at the public library of all places. After I watched him pore through books for close to two hours, I went over to talk to him. Flat out I asked, ‘What are you doing?’ I fingered him as the type that, given a reason and enough time, would be able to come up with a yarn to try and throw me off. But if I hit him d
ead-on, he’d let the soup spill, beans and all.
“Turns out he was an amateur ornithologist and was trying to formulate a theory for the flocking patterns of birds. He was eager to talk. Any of the paranoia I noticed earlier was gone, or at least well hidden, possibly under his slight stutter.
“So after we had been chatting it up, after he brought up how much he loved his wife, I gave him the line on her hiring me to sniff out an affair. I put the question to him: ‘Why not just tell her the truth?’ I’ll never forget his response: ‘I am a . . . weak man. And for there . . . to be danger, there . . . can be no weakness. And for . . . there to be beauty, there must be . . . danger. It’s better if my . . . wife suspects me, just enough to thrill her, not . . . enough for her to leave. It’s the best . . . the best way for the . . . relationship I’m trying to develop to . . . bloom.’ Of course, I assumed he meant his marriage. Thinking back after the case had been filed away, I can’t help wondering if maybe he meant his relationship to birds.”
I turned away to keep my eye on the dope I was following in the here and now. He was still playing with the brunette. She had her hands all over him.
“Bravo, Mr. Drake!”
Nelson had relaxed his posture now that my story was done. It was his turn to talk. I helped him along.
“Did you know Gentleman Joe?”
“Indeed, I did. A better question would be who in this place did not know Gentleman Joe.” Realizing that I was looking for more than a yes or no, Nelson understood my silence and continued. “He was one rich bowler.”
“Really?”
“The man was loaded. Of course, I place that in the respective context of other bowlers.”
“How about his wife?”
A slow, dismissive laughter came out of Nelson’s mouth, following a lungful of smoke from his Lucky Strike. “His wife is nothing but a bowling groupie who married.”
“There are bowling groupies?”
Before he answered, Nelson turned his head toward the couple I was watching. The guy’s game looked like it was improving; he had just thrown a strike. His lady friend bounced up and down, clapping her tiny white hands in quick bursts.