By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  “Why not? I could present you with an extended social theory, but suffice to say, if you take a group with a shared, specialized interest—add to that money and fame, however relative—you’ll find individuals trying to sleep their way up the perceived ladder, like salmon swimming upstream.”

  “I was asking you about that guy over there, the one bowling with the brunette.”

  “That would be one Jerry Iverson. He was Gentleman Joe’s protégé. A fine bowler with a skill level that comes from more than nightly practice; skill like that, my friend, is genetic. And as you can witness, he is popular with the ladies too.”

  “Joe have any other friends? Any non-bowling friends? You know what I’m getting at—anybody you think’d want him dead?”

  “There is nothing, except for the certainty that he is, in fact, dead, that would suggest somebody would want to do him wrong. Gentleman Joe had an enormous number of friends. People loved him—especially women.” Spence smiled a testosterone smile. “He treated them nicely; that is how he got his nickname. Non-bowlers, though, I don’t know. He was known to patronize Van Winkle’s when he was not at Penny’s Lanes.”

  “The bar over on Cosgrove?” I’d never been there.

  “Yes, a lot of bowlers drink there.”

  A swarthy-looking man came conspicuously into the bar and gave Spence Nelson the eye. Spence nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  “Now, Mr. Drake, I must take my leave. Business calls.”

  It was pretty clear he wasn’t talking about the business of renting shoes to bowlers. Whatever bad business he was in, it wasn’t my concern. At least not yet.

  “No problem. Thanks for your time.”

  There was no need for me to get up. I had a good view of Jerry from this stool, and he was still throwing balls with the babe.

  Spence made a final comment while scratching the little patch of hair growing below his bottom lip: “That was a good story you told. Were you to ever need some more questions answered, I would be happy to let you buy me another Zima.”

  * * *

  I took my time finishing my drink. Things seemed to be progressing for Jerry. After what I figured were about three games, he and his young bowling groupie—I was still amused by the concept—headed for the exit together. I wasn’t far behind.

  Their trail led to an apartment complex on the west side of Testacy City. Jerry parked the car in a convenient space right in front. The couple hastened up the cement steps to the building’s main entrance. They groped at each other, their smiles acknowledging the awkward glee of the moment. I sat in my car and watched. I was old enough to roll my eyes at their youthful display of lust, but young enough to feel a pang of envy.

  An hour passed. My watch said it was only eleven p.m. In contrast to the last case I’d tackled—it was hard to believe that was just the night before—this one held promise. Though I didn’t have a lot of details, it was more than I started with, and the getting was easy.

  I wanted to celebrate. The drumming of my fingers on the steering wheel got me thinking about my next move. I had just enough liquor in me to want some more. And I knew the place to go.

  A call to the Always Reddy Detective Agency from the pay phone on the corner got me a stand-in op. They were sending me Mike Manetti. Truth being the truth, Manetti’s not very smart, he’s not a helluva good detective, and I don’t like the way he dresses. He’s okay to have around when you have to rough up a few birds, but when it comes to sitting and waiting, he can’t always cut it. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to be picky. Besides, my gut told me that Iverson was in for the evening, and I needed a set of eyes to prove me right. Looked like Mikey would be the big winner.

  Soon, but not soon enough, Manetti’s El Camino rolled up to the curb. Under the light of the streetlamp I could make out that he was wearing a grubby T-shirt and dirty jeans. Not really an issue when all you’re doing is watching a door all night. Nevertheless, it lacked style.

  I filled him in on the situation, told him to watch apartment 3G—I’d picked up the number from the registry at the front of the building—and let him know I’d be back in the morning, before six a.m. He assured me he had it under control, so I left him to his task and got into my car.

  Like a moth, I followed the light of the moon. I knew it would lead me to Van Winkle’s.

  Chapter Seven

  What Van Winkle Knows

  Van Winkle’s was a small, dark bar on a small, dark street. Over the heavy wood door hung a burned-out neon sign of a bearded man asleep with his back against the stem of a martini glass. A neon Open sign blazed in the plate glass window. I squinted to get a glimpse inside, but I could only make out a vague sense of movement.

  I pulled the door open and entered a crowded, noisy room filled with the bluish haze of smoke and the strains of Sammy Davis Jr.’s voice in the background. Thirsty patrons clogged the long bar on the left side of the room. On the wall behind the bar, a collection of bowling fliers and pictures covered every non-mirrored surface. A little shelf overflowed with trophies, and a pair of beat-up, red-and-blue bowling shoes hung over the antique cash register.

  The right side of the narrow room featured a number of small booths occupied by what I’d come to recognize as the bowling type and their groupies.

  Intermixed with the typical alcohol advertisements were a number of old-style paintings of Rip van Winkle. In many he slept under a tree while a group of dwarves cavorted in the background, playing a game of ninepins. In others he played a little ninepins himself.

  I felt the heat of a hundred eyes as the door slammed behind me. I licked my lips and approached the bar. The bartender did his best to ignore me. He finally got the hint I wasn’t going anywhere and moved my way. Maybe it was the twenty in my fist.

  “Help ya?” He looked at me as if to ask what I was doing there.

  “Bourbon. Old Grand-Dad.”

  A chuckle. “Don’t have it.”

  Damn. “Jim Beam?”

  “Don’t got that either.”

  What kind of place was this? “What do you have in the way of bourbon?”

  “Only one bourbon here. Van Winkle’s.”

  “Okay,” I grinned, the absurdity cracking my composure. “Give me three fingers, straight.”

  He went away and came back with the smallest three fingers of bourbon I’d ever seen. And I’d seen plenty. When he told me what I owed him I thought I should have asked for fewer fingers.

  “Kind of pricey.”

  “I don’t set the prices.” He took my cash and headed off again. He poured a few more drinks before I got my change.

  I thought I’d throw a few questions at him. “Did you know Gentleman Joe?”

  “Sure. Everyone here did.”

  “How often did he come in?”

  “Couple times a week. Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

  “He drink with anyone in particular?”

  A sigh. “Look, man, I’m just paid to pour drinks. You want answers, you gotta talk to the boss.”

  “Yeah? Where can I find him?”

  “In the back booth.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he popped the cap off a Bud. “That’s where you can always find him.”

  I glanced toward the back of the tavern. “Pretty crowded back there. Who am I looking for?”

  “Walter Wilson. He’s a little guy.”

  “Thanks.”

  I left the guy a tip and made my way through the packed club. It was a nice crowd; no one went out of their way to let me by. At the back of the bar, ten people crowded around a large table, listening to a raw-throated voice scratch out a story. All of the listeners were typical of the bowling type I’d been spending time around today. All of them, that is, but one. She was a blond bombshell, the kind you see in the movies. Her skin was too perfect. Underneath her flowing blond hair she had large, ruby-red lips over unbelievably white teeth and blue eyes that held a vacant stare. She wore a black sleeveless top that showed off her ample bosom an
d a short, black skirt that showed off her alabaster legs.

  The storyteller sat in her lap, a hood ornament to the blonde’s mannequin. He was a hatchet-faced midget, his dyed-black hair, slick with pomade, combed straight back over his skull. His ears were large and grew so close to his head they seemed pinned together from behind. His right hand was missing its thumb and forefinger. I figured this guy for Walter. He talked fast and gesticulated wildly, keeping his audience enraptured as he spun his yarn. I lit a cigar, determining that I came in somewhere about the middle of the story.

  “. . . So Dvorkin steps up to the line, ball in hand. He pauses and looks down the lane. A full set of pins waits for his smoke gray–pearl OutRage. He’d just bowled eleven strikes in a row. If he got this strike, he’d have a 300 game. But remember, so far Reado had bowled a perfect game too, and was riding high with nine strikes.”

  He paused while he surveyed his audience.

  “And Reado was the better bowler. Dvorkin began his approach. It was perfect, right down to his follow-through. The ball made a beautiful curve and hugged the right side of the lane, kissing the lip of the gutter. At just the right moment it swung to the left and hit the head pin in that sweet spot. Pins went flying . . . and when the table dropped, there was nothing left for it to pick up.”

  Walter stopped for a dramatic sip of beer. The entire table followed suit. This Walter had juice.

  “It was a 300 game, but Dvorkin only got a smattering of applause.” Another sip, the blonde kissed the top of his head, then he resumed. “Now it was Reado’s tenth frame. The crowd cheered wildly. He stepped up to the return, rolled his shoulders, and crossed himself—he was quite religious, y’know.”

  Everyone around the table nodded. They knew.

  “He hefted his ball and focused somewhere beyond the pins. Reado had been bowling for a long time, and it was mostly reflex for him. His first ball of the tenth was a solid strike. He turned and bowed to the crowd as they cheered. He wiped his hands, then his ball, and did a quick pray before he quickly rolled another strike—his eleventh. One more strike and it was a tie game.

  “Now the way the bet was set up,” Walter explained, “the odds were stacked against Dvorkin. If the game was a tie Reado still won. Dvorkin had complained about that, but that’s what happens when you challenge a champ.

  “Even though Reado was good, he was still worried. He waited for his ball to come up the return, drying the sweat off his hand with the blower. He wiped his face and hands, then his ball. Once more he crossed himself and stepped up to the line, his fire-red Primal Rage in his hand. He stood a long time, just staring down the lane. When he moved, it was sudden. The ball was out of his hand, headed toward the pins with his trademark arc. It hit dead on; he threw the ball with a lot of spin so he always got great pin action. This time was no exception; those pins were flying every which way—”

  “He missed it, didn’t he?” one chubby-faced guy blurted out.

  Walter pinned him with a steely eye. “You telling this story, Larry?”

  “No, no, Walter,” Larry apologized, hands in front of him defensively. “I just got excited, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, well, you keep your mouth shut.” Walter scanned the crowd for any other excitable types. “Now, where was I?”

  “Great pin action, baby,” the blonde got him back on track.

  “That’s right, that’s right. Thanks, sugarplum.” He paused, taking a moment to recreate the tension that had built up before the interruption. “Those pins were flying every which way, a strike for sure. We all thought it. Everyone was up, cheering, screaming Reado’s name. But someone—I don’t remember who—shouted, ‘Look!’ and pointed down the lane.

  “And suddenly everyone stopped cheering. There was dead silence. There wasn’t a pin standing; not a whole pin anyway. The seven pin had split in two—right down the middle—and only half of it was up. I swear to God. Everyone in the place just stared. Well, they had to get the judges in on this one, and they ruled that Reado had bowled not a 300 as everyone expected—but a 299 and a half.” Walter finished his beer in one gulp, slamming the empty mug on the table. The slightest smirk colored his face. The story was over.

  “I don’t believe it!” Larry cried out, looking around for supporters. He found none.

  “Too bad, tough guy”—Walter’s face was getting a little red—“because that’s just how Diamond Dan Reado lost the bet and fell from grace. No one’s heard from him since.”

  Before this Larry could get himself in more trouble, I walked up and tossed a few business cards on the table and introduced myself. “You Walter?”

  “Yeah, an’ this is my joint. What can I do for ya?”

  “I’m looking into the Biggs murder.” I had the attention of everyone in the place now. It was just me and Sammy singin’. “Wondering if I might ask you a few questions.”

  “Shoot,” he answered, leaning back against his flesh pillows, throwing his feet up on the table. He was wearing the tiniest bowling shoes I’d ever seen.

  “How about we talk alone?”

  “These here are all my friends. Anything you got to say to me can be said in front of them.”

  I knew I had to stir up a little trouble. “Why would anyone want to kill a bowler?” I got blank stares as an answer. I tried again, turning up the heat. “Gentleman Joe was into drugs, wasn’t he?”

  “You better watch your step, dick.”

  “I’m just saying that he was chock-full of drugs when he died.” I heard a few chairs scrape back as angry bowlers got up behind me.

  “Now don’t be lyin’ here, we know Gentleman Joe was clean,” Walter cautioned.

  “I was at the morgue. I read the autopsy report.” Now it was my turn to pause for effect. “He was loaded.”

  Action exploded around me. I was hit from all sides by bowlers defending the honor of one of their own. Fists clubbed my kidneys and plowed into my gut. A set of knuckles slammed into my jaw, bringing with it the tang of blood. It was a good punch. It sent me reeling backward into the bar, where I knocked over a couple of stools and scrambled to gain my footing. Everything went into slow motion. Through hazy vision I saw an angry mob approaching.

  My hand had just found comfort in the butt of my Smith & Wesson when I heard a voice shout out, “All right, you bunch of jamooks! This is no place for a row!”

  The crowd turned to look at Walter Wilson standing crimson-faced on top of the table.

  “Get back to drinking, or get the hell out!” Walter commanded, his little hands balled into fists.

  The crowd reluctantly obeyed. When he saw that the violence was over, Walter jumped to the ground and walked over to me.

  “Are you soft in the head or somethin’? I want you outta here!”

  “Okay.” I rubbed my jaw where I’d been socked. “But I still have to clear up a few points.”

  A stream of obscenities spouted from Walter. “All right! I’ll talk with ya outside, but none of this nonsense about Joe bein’ dirty.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We went out the back door—the path to the front being too hostile. Once outside, I didn’t waste any time showing this little guy I meant business.

  “Okay, Walter, Joe was clean. That’s the problem. He was too clean. In fact, that whole bowling alley is.”

  “So you’ve been there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You meet Spence Nelson?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I got the feeling he dealt in a few illicit things on the side.”

  “A few? That boy’s got a regular drugstore set up in the men’s room! Anything you want, he’ll get it. A lot of the boys carry for him. He wanted Joe to help out, but Joe wouldn’t bite. And he’s only the beginning of the trouble at Penny’s Lanes.”

  “You mean the bowling alley is a center for crime?”

  “No, I mean the bowling center is a center for crime.” He held up his three-fingered right hand. “Believe me, I know.”
>
  I nodded.

  “Now you get outta here!” Walter shouted. “And steer clear of Van Winkle’s.”

  That sounded like good advice to me. I hit the road.

  * * *

  I cruised to the nearest pay phone and called the office, leaving a message for Rhoda Chang to check on the records of Gentleman Joe Biggs, Jerry Iverson, Spence Nelson, and Walter Wilson. Hopefully I’d have a little reading to do in the morning.

  Rhoda was Always Reddy’s best source for hard-to-get information. Although the agency kept pretty extensive records that were shared with other detective agencies across the country, we didn’t have everything. Sometimes we needed police records; when that happened Rhoda magically delivered. We didn’t know what her private life was like, and we didn’t ask questions.

  I hung up and eased on home. My adrenaline surge was wearing off into a somber melancholy, making the pain of my short but thorough beating harder to ignore.

  Soon enough, I climbed the steps to my apartment, a small one-bedroom number in a low-profile part of town. No one bothered me here. I flipped open the lock and out of habit took a quick survey; everything seemed to be in place.

  I headed straight for the bathroom, where I dressed my wounds and swallowed a couple of vitamins. Then I made a stop in the kitchen to swallow a little Old Grand-Dad before I plopped down in my favorite chair. The table to my right held a banker’s lamp and the book I’d been reading: Immanuel Kant’s Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. The older I got, the more I came to appreciate simple reason, pure deduction, optimistic enlightenment. That’s some of what I got out of reading Kant.

  I grew up reading science fiction, mostly, although I took to anything I could get my hands on. Included in that lot were plenty of so-called modern writers. I used to be keen on ambiguity and uncertainty, used to think that life’s problems were giant structures that required dismantling. Of course, when you tear apart a structure, the discarded pieces pile up and form other structures. That’s a fancy way of saying that when you focus your attention on one problem, others creep up around you.