By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  Then, feeling anxious, I got out of there as fast as I could without making too much noise. I left the door as I’d found it, unlocked, and pulled a small supply of crime scene tape from my pocket to reseal the door before I headed back to my car.

  Once there, I returned my tools to their hiding place and removed my gloves, rolling the left one inside the right one, like I’d seen Rebecca do. I tossed them onto the passenger seat so I would remember to get rid of them in a dumpster before I got too far.

  The Galaxie 500’s engine roared to life. After the strained silence of Jerry’s apartment, it seemed abnormally loud. As I pulled away from the curb, I thought about how I’d got in and out of Jerry’s place so easily.

  It nagged at me all the way to Penny’s Lanes.

  * * *

  I don’t know why I headed there; I was just following my detective’s intuition. I certainly wasn’t going to do any bowling. The place was busy as ever, but it was a late-night crowd. There were no groups of kids on school outings, chaperoned by bored adults. There were no families. It seemed darker and more dangerous at night.

  I went straight for the bar. I guess I needed a drink, and while I can’t ever imagine wanting to bowl, I can definitely imagine drinking at this bar on a regular basis.

  The bar was a little more crowded than the last time I was there, but I saw some of the same faces. The old lady bartender was still on duty, and the solitary lush was holding down what I guessed to be his regular table in the back. It looked like he was passed out; his head was on the table atop his outstretched arms, a thin line of drool leaking between his big lips.

  Of course Spence was there, leather cap and all. He was seated in a booth, and it looked like he was making a deal with some shady character who had about as much business being in a bowling alley as I did.

  Walter’s comments about Spence and his relationship with “some of the boys” came back to me. This deal looked suspicious enough to warrant keeping an eye on.

  I moved to a dark corner of the bar, opposite Spence and his playmate. I’d been watching them for only a few moments when they got up and started to leave together. I followed them, thankful there were plenty of people who chose to bowl at ten p.m., giving me ample cover.

  My quarry departed through the front door and headed west. I was right behind when I got held up by a gaggle of drunk young folks coming through the front door. By the time I fought past them and made my way outside, there was no trace of Spence Nelson or his dancing partner. I took a quick stroll around the building just to be sure. I flushed out a teenage couple groping each other in the darkness behind the building but came up empty otherwise.

  Next time, Mr. Nelson.

  I went back in, sat down at the bar, and had a couple of Old Grand-Dads. No one except the bartender, whose name I’d learned was Mabel, said a word to me. And all she asked me was: “Want another?”

  Yeah, I liked this bar all right.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Necking with Rebecca

  The next morning I made my way downtown to the morgue. Rebecca greeted me wearing a blood-spattered apron and a smoking cigarette. She still looked good.

  “Morning, Ben.” She gave me a little wave. “Too bad you couldn’t make it earlier; it was a lot of fun.”

  “I’m sure,” I drawled. “What’d you find out?”

  “Jerry had some interesting tales to tell. Come on back. I’m sure he’ll share them with you if you ask real nice.”

  She led me through the bowels of the morgue to the autopsy suite. She had apparently just finished the postmortem on Jerry. His body still rested on the steel table, chest split wide open. What I took to be Jerry’s internal organs were piled atop one another on a metal table at the body’s feet. Looking at a mound of guts and blood, I never failed to be amazed at just how much stuff is inside the human body.

  Butcher-style scales were suspended above the table—hooks slick with blood. In fact, there was blood everywhere—on the floor, on the autopsy table, even on the chalkboard where Rebecca had scribbled the weights of Jerry’s various organs in neat block letters.

  The room’s smell was overpowering: a combination of meat just starting to rot, vomit, urine, and feces.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Rebecca joked.

  I laughed. “That’s all right. I can take it.” I pointed at the body. “So what’s his story?”

  “Okay. He died about midnight; cause of death: strangulation. His last meal was a burger and fries about three hours earlier. That was kind of messy.”

  “Did he set himself to swinging or not?”

  “Not on your life. After we spoke yesterday I made sure to pay special attention to his neck. Come here.”

  I followed her over to the hollow shell of Jerry’s body. The vacant chest cavity reminded me of birch bark canoes I’d seen in pictures. She threw her spent cigarette into a metal washbasin, pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, and slipped on some oversized wraparound glasses.

  “Here, put these on.” She handed me a pair of the glasses. “Put on some gloves too.”

  Jerry’s scalp was pulled down over his face and the top of his skull had been cut off. Inside it was just a hollow bowl with a cleanly sliced spinal cord sticking up from the bottom. Rebecca caught my expression of surprise and pointed to a glass jar filled with liquid in which a brain was suspended.

  “We’ll get to that in a couple of weeks, but I don’t think it’ll tell us anything new.” She grinned. “We’ve got all we need right here.”

  She flipped Jerry’s scalp back over his head. It flopped into place, sounding like a wet chamois slapping against the hood of a car.

  “This,” she indicated the deep line that circled his neck, “you might guess is from the ligature.”

  She glanced at me. I nodded. “Sure. I’d guess that.”

  “And you’d be right. But look here.”

  She took a long-bladed knife and deftly flipped the skin of the neck back. My untrained eye didn’t see anything unusual, other than the deep, ugly line that ran around his neck right under his jaw.

  “This contusion,” she pointed at the deep line, “is where the ligature cut into the flesh. It matches the one on the outside of the neck. But these,” she indicated a series of deep, bluish-purple bruise marks lower on his neck, “were made by a very powerful pair of hands.”

  A low whistle escaped my lips. “Would ya look at that.”

  “You know it. You were right again, Drake. Jerry Iverson was murdered,” she confirmed. “But it was set up so that no one would think twice about it being a suicide.”

  As I’ve said before, it’s always good to be right.

  “So why didn’t we see those finger bruises on the outside of his neck?”

  “Any number of reasons, not the least of which is that our boy Jerry here doesn’t bruise very easily. Plus, I believe the killer, thinking he knew what he was doing—I say ‘he’ because those were some damn big hands—used some sort of padding and mistakenly assumed that the ligature would effectively erase any sign of his hands.”

  She took off her gloves and glasses and lit another cigarette. I joined her with a cigar. I could taste the smell of the room in the back of my throat; I hoped a J. Cortès would wipe it away.

  “His neck was broken a short time after he died,” she said, finishing her analysis. “That happened when he was tossed over the balcony.”

  My mind was working overtime, sorting out the possibilities. One kept coming to the surface. “Do you think the same guy killed Biggs and Iverson?”

  “All I know for sure is that both dead guys were killed by a strong individual,” she said.

  “There’s no way you can connect them?”

  “They were both bowlers,” her voice took on a misty quality, like it did whenever she spoke of conspiracies, “but there’s something more to this than bowling.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Guess I’ll have to figure the rest out on my own.”

  “Be careful, Dr
ake. Duke Wellington isn’t going to like you upstaging him again. After you uncovered the truth in the Raspberry Jack case, you’re not high on his list of favorite people.”

  “Hey, I couldn’t have done this without you. I just had a hunch—you found the proof. You’re on his hit-list too, and this discovery certainly won’t do anything to get you off it.”

  “True, but he’s used to me. And he kind of needs me around—who else would do this job in Testacy City?” Rebecca smiled, chin in her palm.

  “Yeah. Well . . . I’ll try to steer clear of him, but he’s already got a mad-on for me, so what can I do?”

  “I’m not kidding, be careful. I’ve got a bad feeling about this case.”

  * * *

  I pulled into the parking lot at Penny’s Lanes and eased the Galaxie 500 into an open spot. For a guy who doesn’t bowl, I sure seemed to be spending a lot of time here.

  Normally, Rebecca’s paranoia didn’t bother me, being largely a result of her fondness for finding the esoteric wrapped inside the mundane. But this time, there was something in her eyes that had me worried. I knew there’d be more death before this case was over. I just wished I knew for certain where to turn next.

  I climbed out of my car, the stench of Jerry’s body clinging to my clothes. The two cigars I’d had since I left the morgue hadn’t done anything to get the odor out of my nostrils.

  I walked up to the old guy behind the shoe rental counter—Spence wasn’t in sight—and asked him if Dino was around. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose before he grabbed the microphone and paged Dino. I could barely hear his amplified voice above the sound of the alley.

  “He’ll be calling on that phone over there.” He pointed to a small alcove about twenty feet away. There were two pay phones hanging on the wall next to three other phones: a red one, a yellow one, and a brown one. None of the colored trio had a dial.

  “Which one?”

  “The yellow one,” he spat, as if I’d just asked him how to score a strike.

  “Thanks.” I headed over and waited a moment before the phone rang. I snatched it up.

  “Whatta ya want?” a voice snarled at me from the receiver.

  “Dino?”

  “Of course it’s me, who do you think . . .” A pause. “Who is this?”

  “Ben Drake.”

  “Hey! The private dick!”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I hear you got something for me.”

  “Boy, do I ever,” he whispered. “I’ll meet ya in the bar in five minutes.”

  “Sounds good.” Actually, it sounded great. I hung up and made my way to the bar.

  I checked my watch. It was almost twelve thirty. I never really subscribed to that superstition of not drinking before noon. Believe me, if there was drinking that needed to be done at eight a.m., you can bet I’d be doing it. For me, the “noon rule” was more a polite suggestion. Still, I didn’t like to be impolite too often.

  In the bar it was me, Mabel the bartender, and the old lush in the back who was, as far as I could tell, always there. I sat at the bar and Mabel poured me a bourbon. I took a sip and felt it burning away at the bad taste in my mouth. I should have thought of this sooner.

  Not long after, Dino slunk in and sat down next to me.

  “Hey,” he whispered.

  “What’s with all the whispering, Dino?” I asked.

  “Shh! Not so loud.” He looked around nervously. “Let’s go to a booth.”

  This was already taking longer than I wanted it to, but I followed him to an isolated booth. When I sat down he slid a greasy paper bag across the table to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “Evidence!” Flames of excitement danced in his eyes.

  I opened the bag, and sitting in the bottom were a number of small metal balls.

  “Ball bearings!?”

  “Shh!” Dino hissed.

  I ignored him. “Where’d you find these?”

  “On lane 13, Monday morning,” he said. “They were swept off to the side. Are they a clue?”

  “Just maybe, Dino. Just maybe.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Back to Jack

  I pulled away from Penny’s Lanes and headed for home. I felt dirty and was tired of smelling like a corpse. I was hoping a hot shower would make me feel at least a little better.

  During the drive, the ball bearings kept rolling around in my mind. After my visit to Jack Walker and the working over I got from his goons, it seemed more and more likely that the man was somehow tied up in this mess.

  I ran some facts through my head. Jack Walker was probably the one person in all of Testacy City who really wanted to see Gentleman Joe pushing up daisies. Iverson was killed the same day he clued me in to the relationship between Walker and Suzi. And now Suzi had apparently gone missing. If I were painting a picture, it would look a lot like Jack Walker. Not that I think Walker would be out doing his own dirty work, but another visit to his offices might turn up something worthwhile. In my experience, guys who think they’re untouchable tend to brag about how powerful they are. Walker certainly thought he was untouchable, and I was hoping that with the right persuasion he’d go off on a power trip and let something fly.

  I parked and trudged up the steps to my apartment. I entered slowly, not knowing whether I’d find Suzi Biggs there. I didn’t.

  I got undressed and put my dirty suit in a plastic garbage bag. A little gift for the cleaners. I cranked up the water as hot as it would go and stood under the scalding stream. It felt good, burning my skin a bright pink and penetrating deep into my sore muscles, doing its best to soothe. I stood there until the water turned lukewarm. After a brisk toweling off, I felt almost normal again.

  I put on a fresh suit, shirt, and tie and headed back out to face the rest of the day, stopping for a quick bite at Lepke’s before I made my way to the office.

  When I arrived, the place was deserted except for Rhoda. I asked her where Hal was, and she told me that he had gone to the courthouse to testify in the Lewis case. He probably wouldn’t be back until late.

  I hadn’t called him yesterday to tell him what I suspected about Jerry because I didn’t like to put guesses into my reports. But now that I was sure Jerry was the victim of foul play, I wanted to let him know. I wrote him a quick note telling him to call me at home when he got the chance and put it in his in-box. Then I left, feeling a little nervous about the prospect of coming down hard on Jack Walker.

  * * *

  After bluffing my way past the main receptionist, I found myself in the posh offices of Walker Industrial, dealing with Jack Walker’s gestapo-like assistant, a petite woman with blond hair, a pert upturned nose, and bright blue eyes peeking out from behind her designer eyeglasses. She wore a conservative tan business suit and a superior attitude.

  “I’m sorry,” she sneered, “but Mr. Walker’s all booked up today.”

  “I was just in the neighborhood and decided to stop by.” I handed her a business card. “I’ll only take a minute of his time.”

  She read my card, screwing up her face as she did so. I got the impression that she wore the glasses for effect. “He has a full schedule today, Mr. Drake. Maybe if you tried calling for an appointment?”

  “That’s okay, I’ll wait,” I said, indicating a comfortable-looking chair against the wall, right next to a framed portrait of a stern-looking man in eighteenth-century attire.

  She sighed in disgust. “I told you, sir, he’s all booked up.”

  “No problem. I’m in no hurry.” I pointed at the portrait. “Who’s this guy?”

  The woman snorted contempt. “That’s Philip Vaughan.”

  “And why is he hanging out here?”

  “Philip Vaughan first patented the radial ball bearing in 1794,” she recited, like she was giving a fifth-grade speech.

  “A real pioneer, huh?”

  “Yes, he was. Just like Mr. Walker.”

  “Right.” I couldn’t help but chuckle.

&
nbsp; I sat down and began to peruse the stack of Popular Mechanics back issues spread out neatly on the short table in front of me. I read about electric cars, solar-powered airplanes, cryogenics, and rocket-powered jetpacks.

  An hour passed. Then another. The woman behind the desk took a few calls, did some typing, and performed some other receptionist stuff. The one useful thing I learned was that Walker was obviously in his office.

  I continued to flip through the magazines, encountering articles that were right out of the science fiction novels I used to read as a kid. I wondered if Rebecca ever checked out Popular Mechanics.

  I had just started reading an interesting article about superconductors when I was interrupted by a terse voice: “It’s for you, sir.”

  Surprised, I looked up at the secretary. She was holding the phone out to me.

  “Are you talking to me?” I asked.

  “Yes sir. Your card says you’re Ben Drake, the private investigator. Is that not correct?”

  “No, it’s correct.”

  “Then I am talking to you. You have a phone call.” She again thrust the receiver at me.

  Puzzled, I got out of the chair and took the phone from her.

  “Hello?”

  Duke Wellington’s loud voice screamed at me: “I had a feeling, since you got knuckles for brains, that I’d find you there! Don’t you learn nothin’?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I answered. “Do you need something? Like a case solved?”

  “Very funny, tough guy. The cat lady told me about you keeping the Iverson death open.”

  “I’m just doing your job, DW.”

  “You think you’re so smart. You think you got all the answers. Let’s try this again: what are you doin’ at Jack Walker’s?”

  “Not that line again. Did you call to interrogate me over the phone?”

  “No, I called because you figure out Iverson was murdered and head straight to Jack Walker’s office. I can’t help thinking there’s a connection.”

  “Keep following my leads, DW. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”