by Jim Pascoe
I realized this after my wife died. I was a firefighter back then. One night I was going up against a particularly nasty burning building. We thought we had everybody out, but a hysterical woman was crying for her baby. Well, I’m a sucker for a woman in tears. Out of some sense of duty, I reentered the inferno. Eventually I found the little girl. She lived.
That night, that building—it was the longest I ever worked a single fire. The boys were calling me a hero. I just wanted to go home. I’d play big-shot hero fireman tomorrow after I got some rest.
The police intercepted me at my front door. My wife’s mangled body was at the morgue. She’d been smashed to pieces in a car crash. The police phrased it more tactfully, but not by much.
I was supposed to have met her for dinner at some restaurant, but she knew I was on duty, and when I didn’t show up, she had headed home. Often I wonder: if I hadn’t gone searching for the little girl, if I had let her die, would I have been able to be at the restaurant in time to save my wife?
The answer was probably not to be found in Kant. But his cold, convoluted language soothed my mind, like the post-national anthem static following a long day of television programming. And my mind, my body, my whole person needed rest.
After all, I planned to be back at Jerry’s early. I cracked open the book and read until I drifted off into unconsciousness.
Chapter Eight
Sleeping in the Nude
My eyes snapped open just after six thirty on Tuesday morning. I cursed under my breath; I’d wanted to be back at Jerry’s by now. I splashed some cold water on my face, ran a comb across my head, threw on a fresh shirt and tie, grabbed my hat, and hurried out the door.
About thirty minutes later, after stopping for two cups of coffee to go, I pulled my car into a spot a few spaces behind Manetti’s El Camino.
I knew I’d find him sleeping. It took two hard raps on his window to pull him out of his slumber. He sat up fast and, though he’d never admit it, scared. He fumbled with the big automatic sitting in his lap before he noticed me.
Relief flooded his face. “Drake!”
“Sleeping on the job, Mike?”
“No way, man. I was just resting my eyes.”
“Uh-huh.” Idiot. “Fill me in.”
He got out of his car, yawned, and stretched like he was in his bedroom.
“The chippie left by six. I figured you wanted me to keep an eye on . . .” He stopped talking, noticing the pair of steaming coffee cups resting on the hood of his car. “Aw, Drake, thanks!”
He reached for a cup, but I stepped in his way. His brow furrowed. My actions were too much for his intellect.
“It’s not for you, Mike.”
“What? You gonna drink both of ’em?”
“I could, but I’m not going to. One’s for me, the other’s for Iverson.”
“You got the pigeon some joe but nothin’ for your man Mike?”
“It’s like this,” I sighed. “I’m going up there to play a little game of good cop–bad cop with Iverson. I might have to get rough, and that’ll make me the bad guy. The coffee,” I pointed at the twin cups, “will be the good guy.”
He didn’t understand, but I didn’t really expect him to. I told him to go home and get some sleep. He hopped into his car and sped off, tires screeching as he turned the corner.
I trudged up two flights of stairs and stopped in front of the door marked 3G. I set the coffee on the railing behind me and pulled a black leather wallet out of the inside pocket of my coat. I sized up the lock, selected the right lockpicks, and got to work. I wasn’t an expert at this, but I was no slouch either. In about five minutes I had the satisfaction of feeling the tumblers roll into place. I grabbed the coffee and slid into the apartment.
A typical bachelor pad, a little fancier than most. The living room was sizable, with a huge entertainment center against the far wall. Above it was a wide shelf holding five trophies. Framed bowling posters hung on the other walls. The clothes Jerry was wearing the night before, including those slick saddle shoes, were strewn about the floor.
I set the coffee on the counter that divided the living room from the kitchen and made my way down the hall, past a set of sliding doors that opened onto a balcony, until I reached Jerry’s bedroom.
The door was wide open. Jerry was sleeping on his king-size bed, wrapped around a bowling-themed comforter. He was totally nude.
I bent down, lifted the mattress, and flipped it over. I drew my gun. I carry a Smith & Wesson Model 637. It only holds five rounds, but it’s easy to hide and, at this range, has plenty of stopping power.
Getting tipped on his can woke Jerry right up. He sprang to his feet, fighting mad. He extricated himself from the unwieldy mattress and brought his fists up into boxing position. He made a move to attack, but seeing my gun made him back off. Then he realized his goods were hanging out in front of God and everybody, and his attack completely fell apart. The red of embarrassment spread across his face.
“Morning, Jer,” I greeted cheerfully. “I brought you a cup of coffee.”
“What gives?” he asked, covering his privates with his hands. “Who are you?”
“Let’s go to the living room and have a chat.” I made an “after you” gesture with my free hand. “After all, that’s where the coffee is.”
“At least let me put on a pair of pants first,” he whined.
“There’s a pair in the other room.”
The friendly gesture didn’t work, so I waved him out with my gun. This time he obeyed.
“Y’know, I used to sleep naked until I started doing detective work,” I explained. “Now I wear boxers, at the very least, when I sleep. Sure, it’s not as natural, but that way when someone busts into my house in the middle of the night, I’m not too embarrassed to deal with it. Trust me, you feel much more manly if you’re wearing pants.”
When we got to the living room, Jerry climbed into his jeans and sat down on his ugly gray-green couch. I brought him his coffee and took mine over to a comfortable leather recliner. I kept my Smith & Wesson in plain sight; you never can tell when a guy might decide to fight.
He took a sip of coffee. “I’m pretty sure you’re not here to rip me off—”
“Many crooks bring you coffee?”
“No, but I don’t get many friends busting in at seven thirty either,” he snapped back. “And you still haven’t told me who you are.”
“Ben Drake, PI.” I sent a card flying in his direction. “I’m investigating the death of Gentleman Joe Biggs.”
“Oh,” he answered before he took another sip of coffee. “It’s a damn shame.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“I don’t know nothing but what’s in the news.”
“I understand you knew him well,” I prodded.
“Yeah, he was like a big brother to me. He taught me everything I know about the game. But that don’t mean I killed him!”
He was getting defensive and that didn’t do me any good. I needed Jerry to be free with his speech.
“Relax, Jerry. No one’s pointing the finger at you.” I strategically sipped my coffee. “Know who might want to see him rubbed out?”
Jerry shook his head. “Everyone loved Joe. I can’t imagine who might want him dead.”
So far all these conversations had been pretty much the same. Everyone loved Joe, no one wanted him killed. Well, I had news for these people: someone did. I thought I’d try the male-bonding approach.
“Cute girl you were playing with last night. See her often?”
“No, that was the first time . . . probably the last.”
“So you don’t have a steady girl?”
“What’s it matter? They’re all the same.” He dismissed women with a wave of his hand and a gulp of coffee.
“Same as Suzi Biggs?”
“Joe’s wife?” His eyes popped wide, incredulous.
“You know another Suzi Biggs?”
“Guess I only know
one Suzi Biggs,” he confessed. “I’m just wondering why you’d bring her up.”
“I don’t think you’re that dumb, Jerry, and don’t make the mistake of thinking that I am,” I cautioned.
“Whatever.” What I assumed to be his everyday bravado was slowly creeping into the conversation. I was hoping this know-it-all attitude would make him careless.
“She and Joe get along?” I sipped from the Styrofoam cup.
“Sure. Joe really loved her, y’know. She was his first wife, and he just adored her. I don’t know if she felt exactly the same way, though.”
“Why do you think that?”
“I got my reasons.”
“Share ’em with me,” I coaxed.
He paused, thinking it over before he started. “Joe was always kind of self-absorbed. The guy slept, ate, and breathed bowling. And he was always nice to the ladies, but when it came to relationships, they always took second place to bowling . . . and his mom.”
He paused and took in another dose of caffeine. “Sometimes people have other needs, y’know?”
“Are you telling me Suzi was fooling around on Joe?”
“All I know is she’s been trying to get into my pants for . . . seems like years.”
“But you didn’t go for it?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like the ladies.” He puffed up his chest like a rooster. “It’s just that I couldn’t sleep with Joe’s woman. I always figured she was half-joking. Besides, it wouldn’t have been doing right by him. Anybody else’s wife, sure. But not Joe’s.”
“When’s the last time you saw—”
“Joe? Sunday night at the center,” he answered fast.
“Actually, I was going to ask about Suzi. When’s the last time you saw her?”
“Man, I don’t know. I don’t keep a datebook. Couple of days ago?”
“You’re lying to me, Jerry. I know you were at her house last night.”
He looked to the floor and muttered, “Man . . .”
“What were you doing there?”
“I just wanted to see if she needed anything. Y’know, after Joe’s death.”
“Uh-huh. Fight about anything?”
“Fight? Why would we fight?” The faintest line of sweat beaded his brow.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Jerry glanced away, out across his balcony. He answered without looking at me. “Nope. We didn’t fight about a thing. I just wanted to see if she needed anything.”
“Did she?”
“No . . .” His voice trailed off.
I sensed he had something else to say, so I let the quiet sound of the waking neighborhood fill the apartment.
After a few moments, Jerry looked over at me. “So, you wanna find out who killed Joe?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“You might wanna check out Jack Walker,” he whispered.
The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Who’s that? Some bowler?”
“C’mon, everyone in Testacy City knows who Jack Walker is.”
“You mean the ball bearing guy?”
A bit of a local celebrity, Jack Walker was the head of Walker Industrial, Testacy City’s sole big industry which manufactured ball bearings.
“Yeah, the ball bearing guy.”
I laughed. The idea was ludicrous. “That’s the best you can do, Jerry?”
“No, really, man, I’m giving it to ya straight,” Jerry insisted.
“What do you know that would connect him to this?” I was still skeptical.
“Couple of years back, he and Suzi used to be an item. He bought her all sorts of fancy things, told her he’d leave his wife for her, but never got around to it. Suzi got bored with him and hooked up with Joe. Walker never really could let her go, though, and he’s been trying to get her back ever since. Joe didn’t know about it. Hell, no one knew about it.”
“Then how’d you find out?”
“Suzi told me, man.”
“Why?”
“She trusts me. We’re pretty close in age, we like the same music. We get along.”
I got out of the recliner and slid the Smith & Wesson back into its hiding place.
“All right, Jerry, go back to bed,” I said, backing out of the apartment. “And for chrissakes, put on a pair of boxers.”
As I walked down the steps I had to wonder about Jerry. I didn’t believe everything he told me. And I think Suzi Biggs left some things out of her story as well. Something between these two was missing.
Jerry’s bit about Jack Walker intrigued me, though. No one really knew Walker, except for what the magazines and papers reported about him. Everything printed told of a guy who was a pillar of the community: good family man, contributor to local charities, member of the Knights of Columbus. Not the kind of image that immediately brings to mind adultery. But now that the idea had been forged, it seemed fairly believable. Definitely worth checking out.
First things first. My stomach, which had only had booze and coffee since yesterday morning, was telling me it needed something a little more substantial. I headed down the block toward the diner on the corner for a spot of breakfast.
Chapter Nine
Lunch in the Commissary
I dropped some silver into the metal box outside of Hopper’s Diner, and took out a copy of the Testacy City Herald-Tribune. My eye caught the Biggs headline on page one. I’d have time to digest it once I’d put some food past my teeth.
Inside Hopper’s I grabbed a counter seat. I was barely situated when a young, gum-chewing doll with pink lipstick placed a coffee mug in front of me. I nodded toward it. She poured.
I opened the newspaper, searched for the page with the crossword puzzle, and refolded the paper into a manageable shape, like I was doing some oversized origami. Completing a crossword puzzle always brought me a healthy dose of joy. Easy puzzles helped warm up the mental muscle, and the Herald-Tribune’s were never very difficult. This morning’s topic: entertainment.
The waitress was back. I noticed her name badge said Dierdre.
“Dierdre. That’s a pretty name,” I told her.
“Thanks. It’s the only one I got. You ready?” She had her ballpoint aimed at her pad.
“Steak and eggs, please.”
“How you want them?”
“Well-done for both. Eggs fried over hard. Tell the cook I don’t mind if they’re crispy.”
“I’ll tell him.”
I let the facts that I had about the Biggs case wrestle themselves in my noggin while I occupied my lesser faculties on this joke of a puzzle.
It was hard for me to be distracted by the crossword today. Jack Walker’s name kept ringing between my ears, and the more I thought about it, the more I believed Jerry’s story. It’s hard to get that big and powerful without getting dirty—especially in this city. Testacy City was corrupt all right. It took the place left vacant by the old Vegas once the strip became some sick family entertainment complex.
Going up against Jack Walker wouldn’t be easy. Getting information out of him would be like springing a guy from Sing-Sing—while not completely impossible, I didn’t want to do it.
Dierdre brought me my plate of breakfast and topped off my coffee. I asked her if she knew an eight-letter word for hairless.
“How about ‘balding’?”
“That’s only seven letters.”
“Then I guess I don’t know.” She cocked her head in the direction of the kitchen. “Hey, Emil! Word for hairless. Eight letters.” She peered back at me. “What’s it begin with?”
Caught off-guard and slightly perplexed, I glanced back at the puzzle. “Ah, the letter g.”
“Begins with g!” she shouted to the cook.
A funny, guttural sound came from the kitchen: “Glabrous!”
I stared at the waitress. She made a loud snapping sound with her gum. “He knows everything. Go ahead, ask him something else. His name is Emil.”
I figured i
t was worth a try. “Hey, Emil, you know who killed that bowler, Gentleman Joe Biggs?”
A funny, guttural sound came from the kitchen: “No!”
Several comments came to my mind, but I let them stay there. Dierdre had already gone off to wait on somebody else. I dug into my breakfast, not wanting it to get cold.
* * *
After breakfast I went to the office. One of the worst things about being a private eye is having to get up early. That doesn’t fit well with my habit of staying up late. Some mornings I wish I had a nine-to-five. But then I’d need to shower in the morning. This way I can wait until the afternoon. It’s a good way to break up the day.
On my desk I found reports on Joe, Jerry, Spence, and Walter.
Joe was clean as a whistle. That matched everything I had heard, guessed, or already found out about him.
Jerry was slightly dirty: shoplifting, minor drug possession, driving without a license, disorderly conduct—that sort of thing. This Iverson character was a walking, talking misdemeanor. These petty crimes either belied some larger offense that he was just waiting to get caught at or served testament to a sloppy life. Either way, I wasn’t done keeping my eye on Jerry.
Spence’s record had a playlist of possession charges. Looked like the dirt I got from Walter was dead on. Though I was certain drugs didn’t play in this murder, that didn’t mean Spence and I were through with each other yet.
Walter, surprisingly, only had a drunk-and-disorderly beef on file from his younger days. That was flat-out no help.
I put the last file down on my desk, then looked up at the clock. It was nine thirty. Time to call Mr. Walker.
I dialed the main number to Walker Industrial. I got an operator who, when I asked for Mr. Walker, transferred me immediately. That meant I was going to be dealing with his assistant.
Sure enough, a perky non-Jack Walker voice picked up the line.
“Jack Walker, please.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Walker is busy. May I take a message?”
“I think he’ll want to talk to me.”