By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  “No. You know, I’m not really a drinker. When you saw me yesterday, I wasn’t really myself. I mean, I was totally denying Joe’s death.”

  “Suit yourself. Me, I’ve had a rough day, and I need a bourbon.” I struggled to get out of the chair. “After I get that drink, I’m going to sit down to the sandwich I brought home, and you’re going to tell me what you’re really doing here.”

  She laughed a light, playful laugh, hiding her mouth behind her dainty hand. “You’re so funny, Ben. I like your style.” It was such a put-on it made my brow wrinkle with annoyance.

  My fatigue must have chased away the subtlety of my expression. As I turned back to her with my full glass, she drew quiet, sensing my lack of patience with her games.

  My body found the chair again. I reached for the bag and pulled out the sandwich. On my lap I spread out the white butcher’s paper my snack was wrapped in. Before I started eating, I offered Suzi a bite. She declined.

  “How about a pickle then?” I asked, my mood lightening.

  “No thanks. How are things going on the case?”

  “At this rate, I won’t have to do any detective work. All the clues are coming to me. I can barely keep up with them.” I licked some mustard off my fingers.

  “So do you know who killed my husband?”

  I didn’t like the know-it-all attitude she was using. I felt my good humor starting to slip away again.

  “Not yet. But I do know a good detective secret—and that is to maintain a balance between action and inaction. If you’re a good detective, like me, just the briefest sniffing around will bring the clues to you. So it’s not a matter of me finding the killer; it’s a matter of the killer finding me.”

  I offered a content, drowsy smile. The pastrami hit the spot, but now I was even sleepier. Still, the two long swallows of bourbon mixed with Suzi’s attitude made me feel like causing a little trouble.

  “You know, Suzi, I was going to ask you earlier—if you just didn’t want to be alone tonight, why not go over to Jerry’s place?”

  I could see her face turn red. “Why would I go over there?”

  “You two seem to be pretty friendly, what with him spending the afternoon at your house the other day.”

  Her face turned even more red as she sprang to her feet, hands on her hips. “You’ve been spying on me!” she accused, shoving her face into mine.

  She was angry. She looked better that way; it gave her an edge.

  “I’m a detective, sister. I’m spying on everyone.”

  She harrumphed and crossed her arms before picking a new seat on the far side of the room. She pouted there for a while as I sipped my Old Grand-Dad. The glass was getting dangerously low.

  I had the feeling that she was waiting for me to apologize, but that wasn’t happening. And since I didn’t care if she was there or not—or even if she talked or not—the evening turned into a waiting game. I waited longer.

  “So . . .” A dramatic pause. “You want to know what’s between me and Jerry?”

  “Sure, if you want to tell me. If not, that’s no problem. See, I’m going to find out either way.”

  “You can be a real son of a bitch, Ben.”

  “I’ve been called worse. I thought you wanted to talk about you and Jerry?”

  “Yeah, okay.” She paused again, this time to take a deep breath. “It all started even before I met Joe. I went down to the bowling alley one night, now I can’t even think why . . .”

  I remember closing my eyes, telling myself I was still listening to her. But I wasn’t, and I fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Too Many Possibilities

  When I was shocked awake the next morning, I was still in my favorite chair. I had been dreaming, and while I couldn’t recall the details, I was left with a lingering sense of blood and violence. A result of yesterday’s events fueled by a healthy dose of pre-shut eye bourbon, no doubt.

  I shuddered involuntarily and looked over at the clock. It was nearly ten in the morning, and my whole body ached.

  A loud ringing startled me. It was a moment before I realized the phone had roused me from my chaotic snoozing. I picked it up. “Yeah?”

  “Where the hell ya been?” Hal Reddy’s gravelly voice demanded.

  “Yesterday was rough,” I explained. “The cops needed a playmate for most of the afternoon, and I was it. We were having so much fun they kept me occupied for most of the evening too. By the time I got back to my place I was too tired for anything but bourbon and bed.”

  “Don’t be gettin’ old on me, Drake.” His idea of a joke.

  “No problem. What d’you want from me?” I knew something was up. Hal never called just to make small talk, thankfully. The last thing I needed this morning was the boss making a social call.

  “You talked to some joker by the name of Iverson yesterday, right?” He was all business now.

  “Yeah, why?”

  Hal dropped the bomb: “’Cause he’s dead—they found him hanging off his balcony with an extension cord around his neck.”

  “An extension cord?”

  “Yeah, the long orange kind. You know, the industrial-strength ones.”

  “Sure. Who found him?”

  “The dame who lives two floors below him. She came tripping home after the local bar closed and saw Iverson’s body hanging in her backyard. Must’ve woke up the whole block with her screamin’.” I could hear a tinge of glee in Hal’s voice. He enjoyed the distress of “civilians,” as he called them.

  “What are the cops saying?” I asked.

  “Looks like the initial call is suicide.”

  That just didn’t fit for me. From what I’d seen, Jerry had too much going for him to want to end it all. “You got anything else on it?”

  “Uh-huh. The cops are fingering this Iverson for the Biggs murder. You wanna check it out and see how it plays?” It sounded like he was asking me, but I knew better than that.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Good. Fill me in later.” He hung up in my ear.

  I set the phone back in its cradle and began to strip off my rumpled clothes. My mouth tasted like something had died in it, and I was off to the bathroom for a remedy when I suddenly remembered that I wasn’t alone last night when I ran out of gas.

  My pistons still weren’t all firing this morning, and I actually looked around my small apartment before I realized there wasn’t any place she could be hiding. Suzi Biggs was long gone.

  I dug through the pockets of my coat until I found the notebook with all the information about the Biggs murder. I flipped through it, found Suzi’s number, and grabbed for the phone. My guts felt like they were filled with ice water as I dialed. I knew she wouldn’t be there, but I had to try. My guts were right on target: no answer.

  I dropped the receiver and got cleaned up. Suzi Biggs was heavy on my mind as I dragged a straight razor across my two-day growth of beard. I still wasn’t positive that she didn’t have anything to do with Joe’s death—or Jerry’s, for that matter—but I sure had a few questions for her, like where she’d got to last night. Hell, what she was even doing here last night was a puzzle. She was playing with me, and I hadn’t even figured out the game.

  The way I was feeling, I was going to be no good to anyone—especially myself—without a little coffee. There wasn’t any in my kitchen. I kept my cupboards pretty bare. I took a little trip down to the corner grocery and picked up a can of Maxwell House. I knew when I got back I wouldn’t feel like waiting for the coffee to brew, so I also got a hot cup to go.

  When I returned home I got a fresh pot going, biding my time by finishing my deli coffee and enjoying a cigar. I had a few thoughts on Jerry’s death. I wasn’t buying the suicide story the cops were selling. It sounded like a frame-up to me, and I needed to dig up some solid dirt to bolster my theory. The police sure wouldn’t give me anything I could use, and I didn’t trust the press. That left one person who could h
elp me.

  I got Rebecca Hortzbach on the phone on the first try. We exchanged the cursory pleasantries before I brought the conversation down to brass tacks.

  “So, have you gotten Jerry Iverson’s body yet?”

  “Yeah, they brought it in early this morning.” She sounded tired, not at all her normal, jovial self.

  “Look at it yet?”

  “Just a glance. His neck was broken and he has a deep contusion around it, but that’ll happen when you take a dive from a third-story balcony with a cord around your neck. I haven’t been able to take a closer look. It doesn’t seem to be a priority to the cops.”

  “What’s the general thought?”

  “You mean what do the police think, or what do I think?”

  “Both, actually,” I said as I poured myself a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. “Police angle first.”

  “Word around here is they’re calling it suicide.”

  “And what do you think about that?”

  “Of course I’m skeptical, but it’s feasible,” she admitted. “Apparently there was no sign of struggle in the apartment, no evidence of forced entry. The techs couldn’t find a single thing that would suggest anything other than death by hanging. But then again, there was no suicide note.”

  “Male suicides don’t always leave notes, and I knew Jerry well—okay, maybe not that well, but enough to know that he wasn’t ready yet to dangle off his balcony on the end of a cord. When are you going to get to his body?”

  “Last night was busy, so I’m kind of backlogged down here. Since the police aren’t in a rush for it, I don’t know . . .” She paused. I could hear her tapping her teeth with a pen. “Maybe a couple days from now?”

  “I’ve got a feeling about this. Could you push that up any?”

  Another pause. I heard the lighting of a cigarette, followed by her inhaling, then exhaling. “I guess I can fit it in tomorrow. Wanna watch?”

  “No, I’ve got a full day.”

  I’d seen a lot of dead bodies in my day, and I could handle them just fine. But there’s a big difference between seeing a dead body—even a decapitation—at a crime scene and seeing the same body being taken apart in the morgue. For some reason, autopsies gave me the willies. Plus, they take at least a couple of hours.

  “I’d like to stop by when you’re done, though. What time do you think you’ll finish up?”

  “Hold on.” The phone thunked to her desk and sat there for a few moments. I heard the rustle of papers before her voice returned. “Stop by about eleven tomorrow morning. I should be just about finished by then.”

  “Right. See ya then, and thanks.”

  “Anytime, Ben.”

  As long as I had the phone in my hand, I decided to call Elizabeth Biggs to let her know about Jerry’s death. After all, if Jerry was like a little brother to Joe, he was probably like a son to Elizabeth.

  She took the news pretty hard and started crying. It hurt listening to her sob.

  When she got hold of herself, she wanted to know if I thought the same person killed them both. I told her I didn’t know, mentioning that the police thought Jerry committed suicide. She didn’t believe it any more than I did. Smart woman.

  I promised her I’d visit soon and hung up.

  Jerry’s death kind of threw me for a loop. That made two bowlers murdered in the span of three days. Testacy City is far from crime-free, but it was definitely strange that the fix seemed to be in on bowlers this week.

  I stretched out on my bed and smoked as I turned it over in my head. Compared to the last case I was on, this one was a cakewalk. I almost had to dodge the clues as they came flying at me, and now there were just too many possibilities: Jack Walker, Suzi Biggs, Jerry Iverson, and even Spence Nelson all worked into the mix. Sure, I had a lot of leads, but they all got knotted together in the middle, like one of those kids’ games on the back of the menus at Denny’s. I tried to unravel everything in my mind, but I felt the weariness of my sore muscles creeping into my thoughts. I quit trying to fight it and closed my eyes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Crime Scene, Redux

  When my eyes opened again, the sun was just going down. I dragged myself off the bed and stumbled to the phone, dialing the number of the Biggs residence. There was no answer. Not that I expected one.

  Now that it was starting to get dark, I decided it was a good time to check out Jerry’s apartment. Like I’d told Dino, forensic technicians sometimes get a little sloppy, especially when their days are filled with one job after another. Rebecca said last night was pretty busy. I was hoping that would play in my favor.

  Speaking of Dino, it hit me that I kept forgetting to swing by and see him to pick up his “hot tip.” I wasn’t taking my junior ace detective too seriously, but nevertheless I made a mental note to check in with him tomorrow.

  A light purple dusk had just descended on the city, and I wanted to wait until it was a little darker before I busted into Jerry’s. So I steered my car onto the 15 and ended up at the Long Mile, the best restaurant Testacy City has to offer.

  It’s a comfortable place, dimly lit, with deep black leather booths. It’s not fancy or anything, but it’s dark, it’s quiet, and they serve the best chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy in the tri-state area.

  John Coltrane played quietly in the background as I strolled through the tenebrous atmosphere of the restaurant, its serenity slowly stripping away my anxiety. I took a seat at my favorite table in the back. Detectives by nature are a paranoid lot. I’m no exception, and this table allowed me to keep an eye on the whole place.

  I always liked to come here when, like now, I was waiting for things to happen. The place had a soothing effect on me. While this case might have been easy so far—aside from getting beat up and detained—I’d been doing this long enough to know that whoever was behind this wasn’t done causing trouble.

  Lynda, my usual waitress, walked up and presented me with three fingers of Old Grand-Dad straight up. Being a regular had its advantages.

  “Evening, Ben. How are you tonight?” Lynda was a tall woman who looked that much taller due to the voluminous beehive of reddish-blond hair piled on her head.

  “Just fine, thanks. How are you doing?”

  “Y’know . . . same old, same old.”

  I took a sip of my drink. “How’s Tony?”

  Tony was Lynda’s common-law husband and the bartender at the Long Mile, and although he was a better bartender than husband, he was a good man. He’d done some work for me in the past.

  “He’s staying out of trouble these days.” She glanced over her shoulder at Tony, working behind the bar. “Barely, anyways. Wanna hear the specials?”

  “Bring ’em on.”

  “Tonight we’ve got free-range fried chicken with mashed potatoes, baby back ribs with steamed vegetables, or the chef’s secret coulotte steak. That comes with a baked potato.”

  Now I had a tough decision. Only two coulottes could be cut from a single cow, and it was a damn fine cut of meat. But I had a busy evening ahead of me, one that just might involve some running. The last thing I needed was to be slowed down by a sixteen-ounce slab of meat sitting in my gut. And like I said, the chicken-fried steak here couldn’t be beat.

  “I’ll go with the chicken-fried steak.”

  “It’s good to know some things never change.” She laughed and ambled off, scribbling my order on her little green pad.

  I lit a cigar and smoked, enjoying the silence around me. Lynda came back with another drink before she brought me my dinner. I wasn’t disappointed in my choice.

  * * *

  After I left the Long Mile, sharing a smoke with Tony on the way out, it was dark enough for me to check out Jerry’s place safely. I pulled onto Draydon Avenue and parked a little way up from the apartment where Jerry used to bed his pretty bowling groupies.

  I opened the trunk. I kept a lot of the tools there that I used for jobs like this. I snapped on a pair of surgic
al gloves and filled my pockets with a tiny flashlight, a few little plastic bags, and some other goodies that I thought would come in handy.

  For the second time in forty-eight hours I trudged up the steps to apartment 3G. This time I knew I wouldn’t find Jerry sleeping in the nude, but I wasn’t too sure that I would be alone.

  The door was, of course, sealed with crime scene tape. I pulled out my trusty Leatherman tool and sliced through the tape with one swipe. I tried the handle; someone had forgotten to lock the door. My prospects for finding overlooked evidence seemed good.

  I drew my Smith & Wesson and entered the apartment, locking the door behind me. Maybe not the smartest move, but since it was the only practical way in and the easiest way out, I’d rather not be caught by surprise. I figured I could always take a tumble off the balcony to the second floor if things got too hot inside.

  I did a quick walk-through behind the security of my gun. Once I had determined that I was alone, I began a more intensive search of the place. The report Rebecca got was right—there was no sign of any struggle. The entertainment center, trophies, and posters were still all in place. The place was neat, as neat as it could be, anyway, considering Jerry’s slovenly ways. The bed was unmade, but I had a feeling that wasn’t unusual at all.

  I moved through the apartment, shining a tiny flashlight into every nook and cranny I could find. I even creeped out onto the balcony. Apparently the cord had been secured to one of the metal bars nearest the side of the house and tossed—with Jerry attached—over the railing into the backyard area.

  When I finished my inspection, I’d been in the place about forty-five minutes and had nothing. It was risky being here even this long, so I made my way back through the living room.

  Right before I reached the door, I saw something on the floor glint off the beam of my flashlight. I got down on my hands and knees and discovered, embedded in the shag carpet, about seven small steel balls.

  Ball bearings.

  I pulled out a plastic bag and, with the help of the Leatherman, coaxed the balls into it. I sealed it and put it in my breast pocket.