The twins must have remembered everything Tommy said about me. I have never paid for anything at his newsstand. The nephews are a little more hand-over-your-money-and-no-free-samples types.
"Wait a minute, Irving,” said Matthew as he looked at me. He was the twin on my left. “I think he's serious. Are you, Blake? Is Holiday Spirit really missing?"
"Yeah, he is. I've been hired to find him—stop looking at me like that! I've had it with all the Blake-couldn't-apprehend-a-cold jokes. I'm here to ask questions, so be good little boys and give me some clues that will help me, okay? Now, when Holiday Spirit visited you, did he ever say anything that sounded like he might be concerned about his welfare? Did he voice a concern about being mugged or followed? Hell, you guys, give me some help, will you? I've got to find the guy and right now I don't have a single lead to go on."
Matthew shook his head. “He mostly talked about Uncle Tommy. The guy did seem to know everything about our uncle, from the time he was born, until the day he was—"
Irving interrupted. “Holiday Spirit told us one thing that really got me wondering. How did he know so much about one of Uncle Tommy's Christmas wishes? Uncle Tommy had a Buck Rogers Atomic Pistol that he absolutely treasured. But he didn't have the holster that usually came with the weapon. It was a heavy duty one, made from real leather and made especially for that twenty-fifth century gun. Well, according to Holiday Spirit, Uncle Tommy wrote a letter to Santa Claus, saying that all he wanted for Christmas was that holster."
"And did he get it?” I asked.
"He sure did,” said Matthew.
That was interesting. It was becoming apparent to me that Holiday Spirit somehow knew a lot about everybody. But that fact still didn't give me any clues that would lead me to him. The smell of fresh, delicious-tasting donuts was overpowering my system. My stomach rumbled in protest.
"All right, Blake. We heard your gut growling,” said the twins in unison. “In the spirit of the season, have some donuts and coffee. I guess we have to keep up our uncle's tradition of letting the city's poverty-hill detective mooch from us."
Compliment or insult, I didn't care. I partook of the freebies.
Chapter Nine
I figured the six Santa Clauses asking for donations on the city's main streets may have talked to Holiday Spirit. They had, but they weren't able to give me the information I needed. I still had zero clues. For me it was Once more into the breech. Melvin's Comic Book Shop was next on the list. Whenever I have the money, I buy comics. The shop is on the second floor of a triangular-shaped building that houses a beauty salon, a small theatre for child actors, an art gallery and a psychic joint. Melvin's shop is not terribly large, at a guess I'd say five-hundred square feet. Upon opening the door, you immediately catch the scent of paper, generously saturated with Melvin's liverwurst and onion sandwich and his gallon of coffee. I love the joint. He has all the DC comics, all the Marvel Comics, and tons of others too. I usually have a small stack waiting for me and Melvin is always glad to see me. Recently divorced, he's in his fifties, short, bald, brown-eyed and slightly rotund. Whenever I see him, he's always dressed in a white shirt and blue jeans.
"Get the hell out of here, Blake,” he growled around the cigar in his mouth that he chews but never lights. “Sales have been rotten today and do you know what that means? It means I don't eat so well tonight. It also means I'll throw your sorry ass out if you're here, trying to solve another murder case, and I'm on a list to be offed. Remember to buy your comics before you leave, though."
I look at him and laugh. “And I love you too, sweetheart. What's the trouble, Mel, besides your rotten sale's day? I know. You've realized there's nothing in my wallet and I'm going to tell you to hang on to my comics for a while longer."
"No kidding? Tell me something new. Every man and his dog has said the same thing today. You certainly didn't have to repeat it. The look on your kisser alone told me you are your usual money-starved self. As for me, my main problem is that I've lost some customers, thanks to Holiday Spirit."
"That's why I'm here. Holiday Spirit is missing. Let's join up here. You tell me your problems and then I'll tell you mine."
Melvin sighed, puffed on his unlit cigar as he gave me a Clint Eastwood squint, and then nodded. “All right, Blake. If you want to put your collar on backwards, go right ahead. Just pay attention while I'm talking to you. To be perfectly honest, Holiday Spirit was right when he said I shouldn't have let myself be talked into selling certain comics. Children come in here with their parents every day. Only decent comics should be on the stands for everybody to see and not that illustrated shit I was talked into selling. And that's the way it's going to be from now on. I told those certain comic distributing bastards to get their filthy stuff out of my store permanently. Instead they threatened me. I was in for a beating when Officer Flannery happened to walk in the store to buy his stack of police comics. He promptly arrested them. Luckily for me, he was taking a break before he had to go back on patrol. Flannery's real tough. You should have seen how he managed those three human shit piles."
"Sounds like you were lucky, Mel. Was Holiday Spirit in the store at the time?"
"No, he wasn't. Why do you ask?"
"I thought, perhaps, there may have been a fourth bad ass who never came into your shop. He may have had an opportunity to abduct him and done so. Go on with your story."
"The downside is the reduction in my income. Those particular comics sold pretty well, and the customers who bought them have gone elsewhere. The comic book business is not a terribly lucrative one. Because I have an ex-wife who, money-wise, has me by the balls, I need every customer I can get. What the hell. I guess I can always sell pencils on the street.” He switched his cigar from the left side of his mouth to the other, a smile on his kisser as he looked at me. “Okay, it's your turn to spill your guts, Blake. You mentioned something about Holiday Spirit. Did you say he is missing?"
"Yeah. From what I can gather, he's been gone for five days now, or maybe more. I've been hired to find him."
"Oh God, he's in big trouble with you on the case."
"Very funny, Mel, and for the record, you might be right. When he visited you, did he ever mention any kind of trouble he might be in?"
"No, but he might be the instant you find him."
"Come on, Mel. I'm serious. Holiday Spirit has to be found. He is the one person this crazy world can't do without."
"I agree, Blake. I wish I could help you, but I can't. Promise me one thing, though. When you find him, try not to get him offed."
Chapter Ten
I went back to my office, swearing forcefully enough to peel wallpaper. Frustration and indigestion gnawed at me. I was so clueless I didn't even know my name. Well, actually I do know. I'm Thanet Blake, presently the most inept detective of all detectives.
I opened the bottom drawer of my desk, pulled out a rye bottle and shot glass, and put them in front of me. As usual I am thirsty, but I never poured a drink for myself. My head was already muddled enough without the rye.
A loud knuckle-bruising knock sounded at my office door and I looked up to see the city's best cop walk in. Captain Holt. As always, his time-bludgeoned face looked sad. Today he was wearing his uniform and it had the distinct appearance of being slept in. A sniff of the air he brought with him smelled of stale cigar smoke and strong coffee. Without a word, he flopped into the chair in front of my desk and stared at my rye bottle. I waved my hand in its general direction. “Help yourself, Captain."
"No, not this time. I'm here on business. My car's out front; I want you to come with me."
I studied him for a moment, his gloomy eyes an indication he was thoroughly pissed off at what was going down. “Am I under arrest?"
"No. It's something worse. Not only for you ... for everybody."
* * * *
As Holt drove his unmarked police car recklessly through the streets, he began filling me in with details. “I heard you were trying to locate the wh
ereabouts of Holiday Spirit.” He waited for my nod before continuing. “During the holiday season, the guy frequently stopped by headquarters to spend time with me and other officers. He always made me feel comfortable and relaxed while encouraging me to remain a cop as long as possible. We talked about my undying love for Lisa; how it's wonderful that I think about her everyday, how I continue to cherish the moments we had together. Because of his visits, November and December have become my favorite months of the year."
If you've read Who is Offing the Collectors?, you would know that when Captain Holt started out as a young policeman, he drove a patrol car. His partner was Lisa and they fell in love. Three days before they were due to be married, they apprehended a drunk with a gun. Lisa died in Holt's arms.
"I feel the same way about November and December myself, Captain. I'm sorry to say that as of this moment, I don't have a single lead as to where Holiday Spirit might be. He's been missing for about a week now."
"Not any more.” His voice was flat, devoid of all emotion. “We found him."
* * * *
One of the most unpleasant things in life is visiting a morgue. Cool, unfriendly, stinking of antiseptic and other things I don't want to think about, it's so quiet you can almost hear your heart beat. My indigestion exploded inside me, along with the usual gut ache, when the long drawer with a red number seven scrawled on it was slid open to reveal a covered stiff.
"Steel yourself, Blake. Somebody did a real job on him."
I steeled myself, swallowed three times and wished for more sand in my spine.
The coroner removed the sheet from the corpse with all the smoothness of a bullfighter. It sounded a little like a rattle, just enough to chill my body. What I first saw were remnants of a long white beard and a face that had been almost completely shot away. Forcing myself to take a closer look, I saw that his fingers and thumbs had been cut off as well. Somebody really hated this guy. The name tag on his right big toe said he was Holiday Spirit. I didn't believe it. I couldn't believe it. This guy wasn't Holiday Spirit. My gut feeling hollered at me; the police were wrong.
I must have turned white. I was repeatedly swallowing down the bile rising in my throat about three seconds before Holt grabbed my right arm. “Are you all right?"
"Sure.” Bullshit! I was feeling sick enough to be stuffed into the open stiff drawer to my right. “You sure this is Holiday Spirit?"
"Yeah, the initial findings say so. We also got an envelope full of proof that backs up the findings."
At a nod from Holt, the coroner motioned me to his desk. “I've got his things. Want to see them?"
There wasn't much to look at. His possessions were in a large manila envelope, the contents of which I sifted through on the table my knees were knocking against. Three small candy canes, four crumbling chocolate-chip cookies, a packet of six letters all addressed to the North Pole—the printing on the envelopes was obviously done by young hands—a pair of white gloves, a comb, car keys, assorted credit cards, and a driver's license.
Wait a minute! Car keys? Driver's license? I looked up at Holt, excitement and relief adding volume to my voice. “Holiday Spirit doesn't know how to drive."
"What? Who told you that, Blake?"
"I checked out Gordon ‘Rumpott’ Adams for clues. Holiday Spirit visits him, too. According to Rumpott, Holiday Spirit told him he never learned how to drive automobiles.” The expression on Holt's face knocked my excitement flatter than a cow pie. Something big was puckering his bunghole. “Are you going to tell me what's wrong, Captain, or do I have to guess?"
"A golden taxi always brought Holiday Spirit to visit me. I thought it was because he didn't like driving in the city. Shit, Blake, think about it. If you could afford to take a taxi wherever you went instead of praying for your life every time you had to get behind the steering wheel, would you want to drive in this crummy city? It is possible to have a driver's license and still not drive a car."
"Yeah, I would say you're right.” My elation deflated quicker than a tire punctured by .45 slugs. “Bumper-to-bumper traffic, horns honking nonstop. Even when I walk to the parking lot for my car, crossing the street downtown is like taking my life into my hands. There's always some nutcase in a dark-blue Dodge truck waiting for me so he can yell at me. Today he shouted, “Merry Christmas, Thanet. Now get the hell out of my way, you horse's ass."
There was nothing to say after that; each of us got caught up in our own thoughts. Something I had forgotten muddled its way up to the surface of my memory. I looked at the coroner and asked, “How are his teeth?"
He gave me a puzzled look before walking to the body and probing where a mouth used to be. “I see four, no five, teeth” he said over his right shoulder. “Why do you ask?"
"According to Father Sidney Anderson, Holiday Spirit had a perpetual toothache. The father gave him the name of his dentist."
"Spill it, Blake,” said Captain Holt.
"Dr. Tusk."
"Okay, we'll make a note of that name. We may need to do some DNA work, but I really don't believe we need to go that far.” Holt loosened his black tie and opened the top button of his shirt as he sighed. “We know the stiff is Holiday Spirit. Shit. Shit. Shit!"
Some words that would make Holt's verbal ones pale in comparison echoed in my mind. My gut said the police investigation was wrong about the stiff we'd finished eyeballing. But what if I was wrong? How could I tell little Jimmy MacWilliams that Holiday Spirit would not be showing up at church anymore? I pictured his cute little face puckering up with tears all over it. I escaped through the nearest exit and made it outside about a second before I began crying.
I know; hardboiled detectives aren't supposed to cry. So sue me.
Chapter Eleven
Holt drove me back to my car in complete silence. I downed what was in my hip flask and drove to my apartment, parked my car where I always parked, and lurched dejectedly to the elevator that would take me to the floor my apartment was on. The unpainted door labeled with the numbers 221 seemed to laugh at me as I fumbled with my keys, dropped them three times, and kissed the floor once while trying to pick them up. I should never drink on an empty stomach.
Finally inside, I sprawled on my couch-bed and tried to think. Something was still lurking in the dark corridors of my mind and I just couldn't put my finger on it. I went back over all the information—or should I say lack of information?—I received from the people I talked to. Sherlock Holmes would undoubtedly declare I was overlooking the obvious, but what the hell was that? Maybe a rye bottle would help. By midnight it was empty. It didn't help. Instead I passed out.
I had a scarier-than-hell nightmare I wouldn't wish upon anybody. It started with a stupid detective who couldn't apprehend a cold, let alone solve a murder case. I couldn't figure out who the guy was, no matter how hard I tried. When I blinked in my dream, I saw a different scenario. It was a street scene. I was standing on the curb next to a lamp post as thousands of Jimmy MacWilliams’ marched in single file past me. Each was carrying a placard that read Down with Mr. Blake. He killed Holiday Spirit.
"No, I didn't,” I scream. “Somebody else did. I'm sorry! I didn't do it."
The signs then took on a mobility of their own. They surrounded me as I scream for help and then the scene changes again. A solid, green, genuine hearse-type vehicle from the 1920's came driving up so close to me, it ran over my shoes and crushed my toes. In the back seat was a skeleton sporting a bedraggled white beard. It leered at me and said, “I'm Holiday Spirit. You're a rotten excuse for a human being, Thanet Blake. You couldn't even find me."
I woke up screaming unintelligible words that seconds later I couldn't remember. Knowing myself, they were probably my personal list of descriptive adjectives.
My head felt like a dozen horses had stomped on it. My mouth had once again substituted itself for the bottom of a bird's cage; my tongue curled back on itself in distaste. At least Alka Seltzer, Tylenol Extra Strong and Rolaids will benefit from my sup
port. They always help get me started in the morning, along with my usual three shots of rye.
I got whammed on my third rye. The memory that had been teasing me all this time finally surfaced. I cleaned myself up, dressed quickly in fresh clothing, and dashed from my apartment to step out onto the street. Seconds later, I was driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
* * * *
Scouting the local dives took more time than I liked. A sense of urgency kept telling me to hurry. It gave me a sore gut. At long last I found him. He was in a seedy beer joint I never visit. All right, almost never visit. One never knows what disease one could come down with just by sitting on the rickety bar stools. The squeal I needed to see appeared to have ownership of a booth in the joint's dimly-lit right-hand corner. He was all alone and glad to see me.
"Jesus Christ, Blake! Get the hell out of here. I'm still not ready to be offed."
"Smile when you say that to me or you will be offed, and I'll be the offer. Monk, I've got to see the Godfather."
"Why?"
"You'll find out when I spill my idea to him. Come on, I've got to see the guy. I have to tell him about Holiday Spirit. He's missing."
Monk was so startled by what I had just said, his eyebrows damn nearly jumped off his forehead. He tossed the remainder of his beer down his throat, adjusted his forty-dollar off-the-rack suit, and put about twelve feet in distance between us. He turned his back on me and began fiddling with a cell phone.
I tried to listen in on what he was whispering, but I could only make out a few words. Blake. See you. Holiday Spirit. Within a minute he was back and seated across from me. “Order two beers, one for you and one for me. Drink it slowly. A car will pick us up in about fifteen minutes. I'm warning you now; when you blab your info to the Godfather, you'd better tell him a good story. His birthday was yesterday and he's still a bit cranky about being a century-note-old."
* * * *
A black and powerful Cadillac picked us up. I was shoved into the back seat, blindfolded, and told by a very gruff voice to either keep quiet or get knocked out. I decided the voice had given me some good advice.
Babes in Toyland II Page 4