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By the Balls

Page 37

by Jim Pascoe


  “I don’t know! I don’t know! Drugs? Gambling? You know how crooked this city is, Ben. It could have been anything!”

  “What are you talking about? You saying that Iverson had a hand in this business?”

  She slumped back down into the kitchen chair, the hysterics gone from her. “I just don’t know, Ben. I don’t know what Jerry had got himself into. It was something bad—bad enough to get him killed.”

  The phone rang. I debated not answering it, but Suzi was staring at me with an aren’t-you-going-to-answer-it look. So I did.

  “Yeah, Drake here.”

  “Let me get something straight: do I pay you to be a detective or just to run around this city causing trouble?” It was Hal. And though he usually delivered his lines with a pinch of playfulness, there was none of that now.

  “Hal, you’re one of the main people who taught me that being a good detective means stirring up some trouble sometimes. You got a specific bit of trouble in mind?”

  “You’re damn right I do. Police tell me you’re busting into Jack Walker’s office like some crazed vigilante. Problem here is you’re not some vigilante, you’re one of my men! I don’t give a lazy rat’s tail if you want to turn up the heat on some bowling loser, but you turn the heat up on a guy like Walker, ya know whose rump gets roasted? Mine, damn you!”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger as I squeezed my eyes shut. I wasn’t used to Hal not backing me up. Letting him down crushed my spirits.

  “Hal, I know I acted, well, rash . . . but I got some information—”

  “I don’t care if you got a photo of the pope, the president, and Jack Walker all holding bowling balls over the body of Joe Biggs. Let me tell ya what I got for you: this case is closed.”

  “What!?”

  “You heard me. The Always Reddy Detective Agency is dropping the Biggs murder. The whole thing is getting way too political for us, now that ya dragged Walker into this. The police aren’t happy about that. And quite frankly, I wouldn’t give a good goddamn about the police, but the old Biggs broad isn’t giving us enough dough for me to want to throw the finger at the cops.”

  “Hal . . .” I didn’t know what to say.

  “Save it, Drake. Take the day off, then come in tomorrow. I’ll have a new case for ya. Besides, it sounds like you need to sober your sorry self up.” He slammed the phone down.

  Suzi was wearing a frown of sympathy. “Are you okay, Ben? Is there a problem?”

  “Yeah, there’s a problem. I think the fact that you’re Jack Walker’s slut has something to do with this murder, and him throwing his weight around has got me—”

  She slapped me harder than any girl had ever slapped me. And I’d been slapped plenty hard by plenty of girls.

  “You bastard! Yes, I had an affair with Jack Walker, but that was before I met Joe. I have never been unfaithful to Joe! I might be young, I might have done some bad things in my life, but I am not a slut! How could you, Ben? I thought you could help me! All I wanted was your help. I hate you, Ben Drake! I really hate you! You’re no hero.”

  I stood and yelled, “I never said I was a goddamn hero!”

  She ran crying into my bedroom and slammed the door shut. I could hear her loud sobs through the door. Christ, I felt like a stranger in my own home. But one thing was certain: I wasn’t about to just sit there and listen to her cry.

  I picked up the phone to call Elizabeth Biggs. I didn’t know if Hal or anybody else at the agency had bothered to contact her, but I figured it was my duty to talk with her either way.

  Being hungover, beaten up, fired from my case, and verbally belittled by Suzi Biggs must have all scrambled my brains if I thought for a moment that calling Mother Biggs would be better than just sitting there.

  She knew right away something was wrong; I’ve said before she was a smart woman. When I told her the news, she cried and cried.

  Now I had girl tears in stereo.

  Just when I thought I had all the surprises I could take this crazy morning, Elizabeth threw this ringer my way: “Benny, you have to help me! Please, I know you’re the only man who can put this nasty business to peace. I’ll . . . I’ll pay you personally to handle this.”

  It was the kind of offer that could only spell trouble. I’d be working outside the law, and I’d be working outside the rules of my job. It would mean me boiling down everything to the very essence of who I was.

  I was a detective. A damn good detective.

  I told her I’d do it.

  If I was going to go underground, I would need some help. And I knew just the shoe-renting geneticist I needed to recruit.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Beautiful Yet Dangerous

  I fixed myself some fried eggs while I let the pain in my head melt away to steel resolve. The best plan for approaching Spence Nelson had me showing up at the bowling alley near dark, which was fine with me because I wasn’t about to leave Suzi crying in my bedroom.

  The pressure of two murders was wearing her down, but she was still holding back. With a couple cups of coffee in me I realized the mistake I’d made with her: she was just starting to trust me enough to unburden her soul. I had to regain that trust. And I had until evening to do so.

  I cracked open my bedroom door. Suzi was curled up in a fetal position, staring wide-eyed at me.

  “I’m sorry I yelled at you, Suzi. I had some bad news from my boss come down on my head like one of those 500-pound Acme weights you see in the cartoons. I took it out on you. That wasn’t fair. I’ve also spent too much time thinking about my needs and not enough thinking about what you are going through. I’ll tell you something. I lost my wife in a car accident. You’re handling this a helluva lot better than I did.”

  A smile found its way onto her sad face. I could tell she wasn’t the type to stay mad at me for long.

  “So, Suzi . . . It seems I’ve found myself with the afternoon off. Want to go grab a bite to eat, maybe get some fresh air?”

  She sat up looking as though she hadn’t cried a single tear. “I’m not really that hungry, but I do have a crazy idea if you’re up for it.”

  “I’m probably up for it, and I’d be shocked if it was anything less than crazy.”

  “Let’s go see the animals at the Gesner Wild Animal Park!”

  The Gesner Wild Animal Park was what passed for a zoo in the area. Located about fifty miles south of Testacy City (and almost the same distance from Las Vegas), it was mostly composed of large expanses of natural habitat for the captive animals to run free in. Modeled after the famous San Diego Zoo, it was a much smaller version. I thought the drive there and back might be just the retreat I needed to cleanse my mind.

  “Okay,” I told her. “Let’s go see the animals.”

  “We’ll take my car! I just love to drive the desert highway!”

  She should have said she loved to drive the highway like a demon shot out of hell. I was strapped into her white convertible Mustang, hand clamped down on my hat, wondering if I’d live long enough to solve her husband’s murder. We were racing past the desert sand so fast I thought it would turn to glass.

  On top of that, she insisted on playing me tape after tape of her favorite music. Every time I cringed at the onslaught of sound she sent my way, she would eject the cassette, throw it on the backseat, and try again. “Oh Ben, that song wasn’t you at all. But listen to this. You’ll just love this!”

  Once we were in the park, she took my hand and started running, screaming, “I want to see the tigers! I want to see the tigers!”

  The park’s star attraction was its pair of Siberian tigers. If I was here to win points with Suzi so she’d tell me her secrets, I was in luck. I happened to know the head animal keeper, a jake I’d met while investigating a boa constrictor snakenapping a couple of years back.

  We got to the ledge that overlooked the tigers’ habitat and waited only a few moments for my man, Bobby Regardie. He was a tall, lanky gent wearing a p
air of blue-green coveralls with Bobby sewn in gold stitching on his left breast. His curly brown hair sprouted wildly beneath the matching cap on his head. I made the introductions.

  “Hi there, little lady!” His watery brown eyes sparkled brightly at Suzi.

  “Hello, Bobby—I can call you Bobby, can’t I?” she beamed.

  “Sure as sunshine you can!”

  She put her arm around him. “I was just telling Ben how much I love tigers, especially Siberian tigers.”

  “They are wonderful animals, aren’t they? So beautiful,” he dropped his voice to a whisper and bent close to Suzi’s ear, “yet so dangerous.”

  Suzi gave a little start, her face a mask of mock fright solely for Regardie’s benefit.

  He continued in his normal voice: “They were almost made extinct, you know. D’ja know that there, Suzi-Q?”

  She blushed, giggled, and pushed him away coyly. “Oh you. Of course I knew that. I know lots of facts about tigers. I know there are three reserves for Siberians in Russia. I’ve always wanted to go to Russia and see them.”

  “Righty-right you are! There’s the Sikhote-Alin, Lazovsky, and Kedrovaya Pad Reserves. Wowie, you’re pretty and smart. Hey, Ben, she’s a keeper!”

  I tried not to laugh. “Yeah, a real keeper.”

  “Bobby! I just thought of something!” She was working her eyelashes on him. This would be good. “Do you think I could . . . I mean, do you think you could let me . . . pet one of the tigers?”

  “Re-he-hur-hur-hur,” he laughed. He was a strange man. “You see, you see, you don’t just, you don’t just go up and ‘pet’ the animal.” When he said the word “pet” he made invisible quotation marks in the air with his spindly fingers. “They’re deadly killers, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” She was bummed. “Deadly killers.”

  * * *

  All in all, the trip south did what I had hoped it would: now Suzi seemed to really trust me. Several times on the ride back to the city, she would reach over and rub my shoulder or pat me on the knee. It made me uncomfortable, but I kept telling myself it was for the good of the case.

  Once we were back at my place, I knew I should start in with my questions, but the sun was getting low in the sky, and I was itching to talk with Spence Nelson. I told Suzi I had to go out, that I’d only be gone an hour or two at the most, and then I’d take her to dinner.

  But first I made her promise to stay put in my apartment; I didn’t want to lose track of her again, not when I was this close. Only when she agreed not to stray anywhere did I leave, making sure to lock the door behind me.

  After riding in the Mustang, it was good to get back into my Galaxie 500. It wasn’t as comfortable as Suzi’s car, but it felt like home. That and a cigar soothed my mind, readying me for another foray into the dark world of the bowling alley.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Spence’s Party

  I found Spence Nelson in the bar of Penny’s Lanes, talking to an unwholesome-looking lady with dirty-blond hair. He was dressed in jeans and a leather vest, one that matched his ever-present cap. She was a rail-thin girl who looked older than she probably was. She wore a short, grimy floral-print dress and Lo-Top Chuck Taylors with no socks. She said something I couldn’t hear, and Spence nodded in return, rubbing the growth of hair on his chin. She hopped off her barstool and made a beeline for the bar’s exit, leaving Spence sitting all alone.

  He wasn’t alone for long. I joined him and pointed at his glass. “Hey, Spence Nelson, your glass is looking a little empty.”

  “Ah! Benjamin Drake, ace private investigator. My glass may be empty, but my soul overrunneth. What brings you down to this bowling establishment on such a fine evening?”

  “Let’s just say I’m looking for help.”

  “Intriguing. And am I to assume that I can be the provider of said assistance?”

  I blew out a big breath of air. “Well, that’s what I’m hoping. I’m still trying to find out who killed Gentleman Joe, and I’ve run into some . . . trouble with the law.”

  “And what is your rationale for approaching me with this dilemma?”

  “Look, I know you’re not exactly Mr. Clean when it comes to dealing with the authorities . . .” I trailed off, hoping he’d get the point. He didn’t let me off so easily.

  “And you are looking for Mr. Clean? I am certainly not him, nor do I know his whereabouts. I will tell you, though: if, instead, my likeness were to be placed on bottles of cleaning supplies, many more units would be sold.”

  I liked Spence’s humor—at least I did the first time I talked with him. This night, however, my capacity for his brand of absurdity wasn’t as high. “Cut the shtick. I was making a point, and you damn well know it.”

  He slid his shoulders back away from me, lowered his chin to his chest, and said through downturned lips, “Just what is the point you are trying to make?”

  “I know that your business—and I’m not talking about bowling shoes—puts you on the side of the law that cops don’t like. There’s a lot of talk at the station about drugs being involved in this case.” I leaned in closer. “And that means you.”

  He stared blankly at me.

  I continued what I had to say: “Now, I know and you know the cops are barking up the wrong tree. I also know you’ve got more secrets about this ‘bowling center’ that haven’t made their way to my ears. It’s high time we had a real talk. Here, let me tell you what I know—”

  “I already know what you know,” he interrupted.

  “So you know that I’m officially off the case?”

  “No.” His eyes popped ever so slightly in surprise. He licked his teeth. “I did not know that.”

  “Well, I am. But despite that small setback, I’m still going to find out who killed Joe Biggs—and Jerry Iverson. I think you can help me.”

  “Of course I can help you,” Spence confirmed. “In fact, I have already made up my mind as to whether or not I will help you. But first, tell me why you think I would lend you assistance.”

  I paused and collected my thoughts. I needed his help, and from what I’d seen of him so far, I figured I’d only have one chance.

  “It’s my gut feeling that despite your dalliances into the realm of illegality, however minor,” I emphasized, pulling out all the stops, “you have what Kant would call a duty to do what is right.”

  “To do what is right,” he laughed. “You have not yet failed to surprise me, Drake. I had already made up my mind to assist you, but after your use of Kant as a rhetorical tool, I will do so with zeal.”

  “I’m glad.” I breathed a sigh. “So you want to get to it?”

  “In a moment. First, I have to finish a business transaction. It should not take more than five minutes of my, and likewise your, time.”

  “I’ll be waiting right here; then we can get down to business of our own.”

  He walked off, heading toward the men’s room, no doubt. I turned to the bar, signaling Mabel to pour me a drink.

  “Say, Drake,” Spence called to me from the door of the bar.

  “Yeah?”

  “I am willing to say that this partnership shows great promise.”

  “Yeah, I think so too,” I laughed. “Just like Frank and Jesse James.”

  He laughed in return and disappeared from the doorway.

  Mabel brought me a fresh bourbon. I lifted it to my lips, anticipating the sharp sting on my tongue. But just as I was about to drink, something stopped me. It was something that, while not unusual in and of itself, was strange and unexpected.

  The lush who always occupied the back corner of the bar stood up.

  This was the first bit of movement I’d seen out of him all week, and near as I could tell he drank more than I did. He moved across the bar with a strong, confident walk that was anything but the walk of a drunkard. Even though the bar was dark, when he got close to me I noticed that he wasn’t as old as he looked from a distance. He had a strong jaw and thick muscles i
n his neck. He continued strolling, right out of the bar.

  I wasted no time in following him. Something was wrong, and I had a bad feeling it had to do with my new partner in crime.

  As I left the bar, I noticed that the few people who had been bowling this afternoon weren’t bowling now. Instead, all eyes were on the cops—both uniforms and detectives—heading toward the men’s room.

  I heard a voice shout: “Okay, Nelson, give it up! We’ve got the place surrounded!”

  I wouldn’t have been able to hear Spence’s reply even if there were one. I assumed that he didn’t answer, because just then a group of cops showed up with a battering ram and proceeded to knock the door off its hinges.

  I couldn’t see into the restroom, so I didn’t know what was happening until two cops dragged out the dirty broad in the floral-print dress Spence had been talking to when I arrived.

  “He jumped out the window!” she screamed hysterically. “The window!”

  “Who was on the window?” one of the detectives yelled out.

  I didn’t wait for an answer; knowing the Testacy City Police, I was willing to bet no one had been watching the window. I ran as fast as I could for the exit. I still needed Spence’s help; I had to get to him before some too-eager rookie cornered him.

  The bathroom window overlooked the parking lot, so I assumed that’s where all the action would be taking place. I burst through the door into the cool evening air and paused. I could hear the sound of gunfire. I drew my weapon. It sounded like there was a party, and I didn’t want to be caught without any favors.

  I ducked behind the cover of a nearby car to assess the situation. About ten cops had Spence cornered behind a couple of parked cars in the far end of the lot. He was backed against a chain-link fence. His options for escape were few.

  I questioned my sanity as I eased my way toward him, using the several rows of cars to dodge errant bullets, before finally reaching Spence’s side.

  “Drake!” Spence was surprised to see me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to talk some sense into you.”

 

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