By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  * * *

  Rhoda Chang stood up when I came through the door. Her eyes went big as she glanced toward Hal’s office and then back at me. She exaggerated her frown so that I could see her tiny teeth.

  “I take it the boss ain’t too happy?” It was mostly rhetorical; if everything had been hunky-dory I wouldn’t have bothered to stop in.

  With downcast eyes she shook her head no.

  “I don’t suppose he found out that I was at the bowling alley yesterday?”

  Slowly and with sympathy she nodded her head yes.

  “Thanks for the warning, Rhoda.”

  I managed to break my stoic expression long enough to wink at her. Damn cops. When I made the deal with Makoff and Nolan to keep me out of their report, I didn’t really expect them to play fair. I was just hoping to buy some time. Looks like all I bought was a fast train ticket to an earful of heat.

  When I entered Hal Reddy’s office, the hell I’d expected launched out of his mouth like a rocket to the morgue. All I could make out between the spittle and swear words was his distinct brand of frustrated anger.

  “I’m not going to argue with any of your accusations, Hal. Right or wrong, I had my reasons; now I got to see it play out.”

  Hal was flicking his ear, the one with the piece missing out of it. I’d seen him do this at other times when he was frustrated and wanted to remind people—and probably himself as well—that he could take a lot and still not back down.

  Hal turned down the volume of his voice, which meant he turned up the sarcasm. “I suppose you’re so wrapped up in right and wrong that ya forgot ya got a boss to answer to?”

  “I know this isn’t going to make you happy, but I’ve been working straight for the mother. And I know this means I might lose my job, but I can’t let the lady down. Besides, I know who the killer is.”

  “You know better than to play games with me. If ya got a name, then let’s hear it.”

  “All I ask is that you believe I’ve got a plan that will put all the problems churned up by this murder to rest. I’m meeting with the killer at the bowling alley bar tonight. If you’re going to fire me, tell me tomorrow. Tonight, I have work to do.”

  As I turned to go, I expected more screaming, maybe even something thrown at me. Instead, Hal Reddy just sat there fuming, his finger flicking his ear.

  It was all about waiting now. A large chunk of the day was already gone, and I wanted to spend the rest of it alone. I don’t remember exactly where I went. Where I went and what I did are not important.

  What’s important is that I walked down a dusty street into the open arms of Testacy City and became one of her ghosts.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Drinks with the Killer

  I walked into Penny’s Lanes Bowling Center for what I knew would be the last time. For all the hours I had recently spent here, everything felt new. I was immediately overwhelmed by the low rumble of rolling balls and the crash of falling pins. I was aware of the twangy country-western music that played in the background.

  And I noticed that lane 13 was back in operation; the young family gathered there was bowling happily, oblivious to the murder that had taken place where now they stood.

  I walked slowly to the bar, right past Enrico, the shoeshine kid. He called out to me, “Shine, mister?” I turned away, surprised that he didn’t seem to recognize me. Though maybe he did, because he kept after me: “Come on, mister, how’s about a shine? They’re some nice shoes you got. I could shine ’em up real good!”

  I disappeared into the comfort of the bar. It was empty.

  After my first glass of bourbon, I had the feeling that the killer might be stalling, hoping that I’d drink myself out of commission before he got here. When Mabel came back to get me another glass, I switched to ginger ale. I wanted to keep a clear head, and without a steady flow of drinks to soothe my raw nerves, my small cigars had to carry that burden. Waiting was always easier with tobacco.

  I kept my back to the door of the bar. I didn’t want to seem too anxious. I knew the killer would show up at some point.

  Shortly past midnight, after several hours of waiting, I heard a body shuffle up behind me. The foul-smelling smoke of a cheap dime-store cigar told me my hunch was right. I glanced to my right and saw Hal Reddy sit down on the barstool next to me. I said, “I wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was you until now. Here.” I pulled out the diamond bracelet and slid it across the bar counter toward him.

  “What’s this?” he asked, nonplussed.

  “The missing Haufschmidt jewel, of course. I figure you were in on that too.”

  “You keep working on all the cases I kick ya off of?”

  “Don’t play dumb, Hal. Time for that is over.”

  “What kind of fool ideas you got cooking in that noodle of yours, Drake?”

  “Goddamnit, Hal!” I said in a loud whisper, not wanting to start a commotion. “I’m trying to level with you. Now you level with me. Here’s how I figure all this played out.

  “You, Hal Reddy, are the head of the Red Herring Syndicate. Something must have got to you in LA back when you worked homicide. When you moved up here, the town was ripe for someone to take it over. So you got this bright idea: start a detective agency and gather as much information about the crime world as you could. Once you got set up and established a reputation and all, you brought on a select group of people you knew you could really trust—people who were in this for the long haul and not out to make a quick black buck. They do all the ‘administrating,’ so most people in the Syndicate, the people under them who do the dirty work, don’t know who the real boss is.

  “Even better is the fact that you can set up crimes and then put your own detectives on the cases to ‘solve’ them—the driving force behind the Red Herring Syndicate being to pull off random, almost absurd crimes that you can frame on some hapless pigeon. That way, the media’s attention turns away from the big-money capers.

  “This case is the perfect example. You found out that an enormous collection of jewels was coming into the city. You and your inside buddy Henry Goiler staged a heist. Though, let me tell you, Goiler wasn’t the man you thought he was. But I’ll get to him soon enough. Then all you had to find was a punk who was expendable in case you needed a fall guy. Enter young wannabe crook, Jerry Iverson.

  “After the robbery, Mrs. Haufschmidt came to the Always Reddy Detective Agency. This was nice and convenient for you because she brought with her a list of the stolen jewelry. That’s when you found out a bracelet was missing.

  “Of course, Iverson is the main suspect; his first job and already he’s trying to skim off the top. You get Goiler to brace him with the question, and he finds out that bonehead Jerry gave the rocks to his bowling buddy, Joe Biggs, so that Joe could keep his marriage from slipping away.

  “So you had to come up with a new plan: kill Gentleman Joe with an over-the-top display of violence to take the spotlight away from the stolen jewels. The public would become obsessed with finding out who could commit such an atrocity, which means the police would feel the pressure to find the killer quickly. Then a couple days later you have Iverson killed, making it look like he hanged himself. There’d be enough circumstantial evidence to connect him to the Biggs murder, so the police would have a nice, neat package to sell to the news hounds. By that time, the jewel heist would be yesterday’s news.

  “Didn’t count on me being smart enough to figure all this out, did you, Hal? You thought I’d be just as gullible as the police on this one. What you really didn’t count on was Jerry Iverson talking to me about Suzi Biggs’s affair with Jack Walker.”

  “What?” Hal blurted out. It was delivered with just enough surprise to make me believe that he really didn’t know about it. That was good; telling him something he didn’t know would give me a small advantage.

  “Getting beat up by Walker’s goons—that’s not my idea of a good time, Hal. I’d love to knock him down a few notches. That’s why we’re
here. I have a proposition for the leader of the Red Herring Syndicate. I was pretty sure it was you, but I had to get you to meet me here to be certain. Well, here you are, so let me give you my offer.” I paused. He eyed me suspiciously. “I want in. Cut me a piece of the action.”

  “You’re mad in the head, boy.”

  Hal waved the old bartender over his way and ordered a bottle of light beer.

  “No way, my head’s crystal clear now. I’ve come this far. I figured you out. Now deal me in. I’ve shown good faith here, returning the bracelet to you. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you about your man Goiler. I saw Goiler tonight, and he sold you out.”

  “What do you mean he sold me out?”

  “You heard me. He filled me in on most of the details I was missing. If you don’t believe me, take a trip to the quarry, maybe his corpse’ll tell you something.”

  “His corpse?”

  “That’s right. I shot him and dumped the body. He was afraid of you, afraid of what you’d do to him if he couldn’t get the bracelet. That’s when I saw my opportunity: I put the plug in him, drove over to Suzi Biggs’s place, and got her to show me the bracelet. Then I put a plug in her. I’ll tell Mother Biggs that Suzi had something to do with her husband’s murder, and that she’s fled the city. No one will miss her.”

  I wondered if Hal was going to bite. He said, “You killed Suzi Biggs?”

  “That’s right.”

  He twitched in his seat. His eyes stayed on me even as he tilted his head back to take long swallows of his light beer. He drank like a college boy. I got the impression he was trying to figure me out, and that had him on the defensive. Right where I wanted him.

  I stood up. “Maybe you don’t understand me, Mr. Reddy, but I’ve got you, got you right where I want you.”

  He chuckled at this.

  “All right, laugh if you want to. What you have to understand is I’m not backing down. This city has Benjamin Drake’s name all over it, and I’m taking hold of it. You don’t want to deal me in, I’ll go right through you. I bet Jack Walker would be interested in finding out the name behind the Red Herring Syndicate.”

  “You can’t take me down.” Hal pointed a finger at me. He was talking between gritted teeth.

  “I can and I will, you smug bastard. That is, unless you’re ready to play ball with me. Actually, forget it. I’ve given you chance enough; I’m going to see my new buddy, Jack.”

  “You little worm—I’ll step on you and smear your guts on the cement.”

  “Why, Hal? Why did you kill Gentleman Joe Biggs?”

  His eyes lit up like a maniac’s. I went too far with that last line.

  “Ya trying to get a confession out of me? Cops got ya all wired up? Well, you’re not going to get me to confess to anything.”

  The fire in his eyes flickered. He pulled a huge Colt Python from his jacket. He leveled the gun at me inconspicuously enough, but it was hard to be subtle with a piece like that.

  “Come on, Ben, let’s go back to the office. I’ve got another case for you.”

  I leaned back against the bar. “Maybe you haven’t been listening. I don’t work for you anymore. Now that I figured out how you operate, I’ll be calling the shots. Me and Mr. Walker, that is.”

  Hal’s temper was getting the best of him. He lunged at me, throwing his empty left fist at my head.

  I was prepared for this, and even though Hal’s swing came at me fast, I managed to duck under his roundhouse, balling my hands into fists. I shot back up, bringing with me five hard knuckles to Hal’s chin. Despite this solid punch, he was already sending a left jab to my forehead. It connected with a heavy thump. I stumbled back and fell to the floor.

  His blow left me dizzy. Before I could shake it off, he was on top of me—the gun at my temple and his meaty, heavy hand around my throat.

  My hands shot immediately to my neck and tried to loosen the grip his strong fingers had on me.

  Mabel spoke up sternly: “You boys want to have a rumble, then take it outside. This is a family establishment. Don’t make me call the cops!”

  I could see the sweat start to bead on Hal’s bald head at the mention of the word “cops.” His hand still around my neck, he slammed my head to the floor. It didn’t help my wooziness, but at least I was still conscious. He should’ve known I have a hard head.

  He got up, hid his gun, and moved to the wide exit way of the bar. As I struggled off the floor, I saw him turn to the left, then waffle nervously and go the other way. So he was rattled and in flight. Good.

  When I scooted out of the bar, I did a quick eyeball of the scene; I saw what spooked him: some boys in blue were loitering to the left near the entrance. Unfortunately for Hal, there was no exit in the direction he headed.

  Hal knew the layout of this place; after all, he had been here just a week before. There were two walkways on either end of the lanes that led into the back of the building. But as I knew from Dino’s brief tour, the exit back there was on the left as well. Doing his best to look casual, Hal hurried down the right walkway, through the narrow door.

  I didn’t have time to be discreet, because I knew that once he got into the back he would bolt for the exit. So I sprinted across the lanes, jumping the gutters, sidestepping oncoming balls. Some bowlers shouted out rude names at me. Rude names I could handle. At least they weren’t carrying guns.

  As I went through the door Hal had used, I pulled out my piece. I let it lead the way around the bulk of the monstrous pinsetter machines. Hal was running down the narrow back corridor.

  “Stop running, Hal! It’s all over.”

  He turned to face me, his gun zeroed in on my chest, mine on his. His chin was raised in the air as he tilted his head side to side like a snake about to strike. He moved slowly toward me, his eyes drilling into mine.

  “Shoulda let me walk out of here, Ben. Now I gotta put you down.”

  “You’ll go down with me. That how you want this to end?”

  He continued to pace slowly toward me. “If ya want to end it here, I’ll end it here.”

  My gun arm felt stiff and heavy, but I kept my piece pointed at him. The closer he got, the more certain it was that we both wouldn’t miss.

  “Christ, Hal, you’re a psychopath, you know that? You’re a grade-A, certified nutcase. It was you that killed Gentleman Joe. You did it with your own crazy-man hands.”

  He got closer still. He shouted over the roar of the machinery, “And do you know why? He had integrity and conviction. He really loved that slut wife of his. He would have rather died than disappoint her.” He cursed. “If I could smash those bowling balls against his happy little head one more time, I would!”

  I’d had enough. “Stop right there, Hal! Drop the damn gun, or I drop you!”

  He fired his weapon.

  My gun flew from my hand as I staggered backward into the wall. My legs went out from under me, and I went down. I didn’t dare take my eyes off Hal to look at my wound, but I knew from the pain that he’d clipped my right shoulder.

  He came closer and towered over me, gun in my face. “Well, Ben, it’s been a pleasure working with you. But I’m afraid I have to let you go.”

  The back doors flew open with a metallic clang. “Freeze, sucker!” It was Duke Wellington and Weisnecki, finally come to join us.

  Hal turned and fired on them. That gave him just the moment he needed to climb up into the machines. He reached the overhead catwalk and crouched there, using one of the support beams for cover.

  He had nowhere to go, and I think he knew it. He stood up to shoot off a couple rounds at them, but all he did was open himself up. One of the cop’s shots connected, and blood spouted from Hal’s neck. He let loose a gargled cry of pain and fell back into the huge machine’s inner workings.

  I glanced over at my shoulder. To my surprise, Hal had only grazed me. But it was enough to get blood all down my sleeve and for it to hurt like hell.

  I scuffled over to where Hal lay. His body wa
s mangled, twisted wildly between the metal bars and wheels of the pinsetter machine. A wicked-looking piece of metal had pierced his belly. His eyes were twitching and he was losing a lot of blood. Duke Wellington strolled over, slid his big gun into its holster, and peered down at Hal.

  As if Hal could sense us there, he managed, gritting his teeth against the pain, to lift his head and focus his eyes on me. “Damn you, Drake,” he croaked. “You weren’t supposed to figure this out. No one was.” He coughed violently, spitting a mouthful of foamy blood all over the front of his shirt. “I should have given this case to Manetti.”

  His head fell back against a metal bar with a sickening thud, but he managed to keep his eyes fixed on me.

  Duke Wellington and I just stood there and watched the life fade out of Hal’s eyes. His wounds were far too severe for us to do anything else. Then in my mind, one last problem jumped out at me. Not so much a problem as it was an anomaly. “Wait a second! If you didn’t know about Jack Walker and Suzi Biggs, why did you plant ball bearings at both crime scenes?”

  Hal gasped for air. I could barely make out his last words: “What ball bearings?” Then he closed his eyes, and his body was still. Maybe I imagined it, but the faint trace of a smile seemed to flicker across his face.

  “Well, Drake,” Duke Wellington drawled, “looks like you were right . . . again.” I thought I heard the tiniest bit of admiration slipping out from behind the gruffness in his voice.

  One of the three calls I’d made that morning was to Wellington. When I laid out the whole scenario for him, he was skeptical. But despite his feelings toward me, he knew that I was good at solving convoluted cases, and he understood me well enough to know that I wouldn’t be setting my boss up for a hard fall if I didn’t have a damn good reason.