2 Grand Delusion

by Matt Witten

  I threw my foot in the way. "Whoa. You don't have to answer, but give me back the forty."

  She brought out the money. I reached out to take it, but then she stuffed it right back in her pocket. "Get your ass in here," she said.

  So I did. Meanwhile she went out on her porch, looked both ways to make sure no one was watching, and came back in and closed the door.

  I looked around me. This was no high-class New Orleans-style bordello. The most romantic thing in the place was a box of rubbers sitting next to some Band-Aids on top of a grimy old bureau. I wondered what the Band-Aids were for, then quickly realized I didn't want to know.

  The prostitute faced me with her hands on her hips. "Why you want to know about Cole?" she asked. Her lips were big and pouting and her eyes were open wide. She still had a good body, and in this dark hallway, where I couldn't see the pallor in her face or the grease in her hair, she actually looked attractive. I was so surprised, I stood there with my mouth open.

  "What you staring at?" she said angrily.

  I couldn't think of any answers that would be better than the truth. "I'm sorry, it's just I hadn't noticed it before, but you're very pretty."

  She stared at me incredulously, then burst out laughing, a surprisingly hearty sound rising from deep inside her. "Man's sweet-talking me," she gasped between guffaws, "sweet-talking the old neighborhood whore. Shit, now there's a gentleman for you. Sit down. What you want?"

  I told her, and she gave it to me. She explained that Pop used to take his payoff in trade, not money. He'd come to the whorehouse twice a week.

  Then, two days after he died, Cole showed up. Since then, he'd been coming over every night at the end of his shift. "He hurts too," she said, wincing. "I ain't saying he's big, 'cause he ain't, but he just jams into you, know what I'm saying? I told him, and the other girls did too, but he just thought that was funny. Started doing it even harder." She shook her head. "Man's fucked up. You figure out some way to get him out of our short hairs, we'd sure as hell appreciate it, but you better not let him know I ratted on him."

  "I won't," I promised. "By the way, what was Pop like? He seemed like a pretty sadistic guy, too."

  The prostitute laughed again, but harshly this time. "Pop wasn't a problem. All you had to do was piss on him, and he'd be happy."

  I shook my head, amazed. "Gee, I wish I'd known. I'd have been glad to piss on him myself, free of charge."

  She wagged a finger at me. "Hey, don't be cutting in on our business now."

  On my way out the door, I asked her, "By the way, I'm dying to know. What is a jiffy lube, anyway?"

  She winked. "Pay me another forty and find out."

  After spending most of my adult life at a computer, wrestling with words and feelings, it felt good to explore the Sam Spade in me. Acting like a hardass, I was learning, was fun. No wonder so many guys do it.

  And not only was it fun, it was productive. I now had evidence that Cole had strong economic incentive to kill Pop. Come to think of it, he had strong sexual incentive, too. I mean, unlimited access to free jiffy lubes—what a deal!

  There was only one problem with all of this. It didn't prove that Cole was the killer. The killer could conceivably be any one of the many drug dealers, prostitutes, and thieves that Pop was extorting money from.

  It could even be Dennis.

  As I headed up Beekman toward Arcturus, I tried to picture Dennis getting into a crazed, one a.m. fight with Pop and killing him. Once again, I found myself almost rooting for a friend of mine to be unmasked as a murderer. I opened the door to Arcturus and walked in.

  The place smelled of incense, candle wax, and all the other ingredients of a teen arts center and hangout spot. "Hi, Dennis!" I called out cheerfully, like I was his best buddy.

  "Hi, Mr. Burns!" Tony called back as he ran in from the other room. His T-shirt was covered with splotches of paint. I was glad to see that he didn't look like he had suffered any under Dennis's care.

  I hugged him, being careful not to get any paint on me. "How you doing, Tony? Everything okay?"

  "Yeah," he said solemnly. "I heard about Zapper. Do you know who did it?"

  "No, I'm trying to find out."

  "You need some help? I went by your house this morning but you weren't there."

  I didn't want Tony to be any more involved in all of the recent carnage than he already was, so I changed the subject. "Wait a minute. It's Tuesday. How come you're not in school?"

  "Mr. O'Keefe said I don't have to go to school if I don't want."

  "He said what?"

  "Mr. O'Keefe is so cool." I felt a sharp twinge of ... what was it exactly? Jealousy, that's what, jealousy that another man was replacing me in Tony's affections. As he talked about Dennis, his face filled with adoration. "He says school is just a propaganda tool of the imperialist ruling classes."

  I closed my eyes. "Oh, no."

  "He says school is a ridiculous waste, and I should use my time more wisely—"

  "Look, let me tell you something. You can't take everything Dennis says seriously. He's a great guy and everything, but he's stuck in time to about 1967, and—"

  "Hey, but I'm right, aren't I?" Dennis broke in. He was standing in the doorway, filling it with his belly. Today's T-shirt carried my favorite slogan from the 60s, eschew obfuscation. It struck me that if his beard and long hair suddenly turned white, he'd look exactly like a radical left-wing Santa Claus. "Name one thing you learned in elementary school that you couldn't have learned a lot easier somewhere else. All school really teaches you is how to raise your hand and wait in line."

  "And a few other minor details, like how to read and write."

  "School didn't teach those things to Tony, did it?" Dennis was standing close to me, and he peered into my eyes. There was an edginess to him today; he was talking even faster than usual. "So what happened last night with Zapper? You have anything to do with it?"

  Since I had the uneasy feeling that the videotape I made did have something to do with it, I didn't answer his question. "Look, if Tony doesn't go to school, they'll sic Social Services on him by the end of the week. He'll have to go back to his mother, or some weird foster care situation. If you open your home to kids that need help, you have to take responsibility."

  "I am taking responsibility. Come here. Wait 'til you see this." He headed off to the back room, and I had no choice but to follow.

  As soon as I entered the room, the smell of paint overpowered my nose, and a medley of colors overpowered my eyes. The whole floor was covered by a huge square of brightly painted cardboard. When I say "painted," I'm using the term in its most liberal sense. Some of the colors looked like they had been thrown on, and still others had been dripped on, or fingerpainted on, or mixed with mashed potatoes and then splotched on.

  Ordinarily this kind of stuff is not my cup of tea, but the hodgepodge of colors and techniques somehow "worked," as they say in the art world. Even more impressive, the painted cardboard had been carved into a giant jigsaw puzzle with about fifty pieces, and each piece had its own fullness of color and proportions, its own artistic integrity.

  "Who made this?" I asked, not trying to hide my amazement. Dennis pointed at Tony, who was beaming like a thousand-watt bulb. "You're kidding," I said to Tony. "This is yours?"

  He was too overcome with pride to say anything, so he just nodded. Dennis spoke up for him, that slightly manic edge still there in his voice. "I asked Tony what he was into, and he said jigsaw puzzles. So I gave him some old cardboard and leftover paint and other junk, and he's been in here working ever since yesterday morning. Not bad, huh?"

  "Not bad? It's fabulous!" I slapped the kid five. "From now on I'll have to call you Picasso."

  "Picasso? Who's that?" Tony asked.

  Dennis cut in quickly. "So tell me, you think Tony would be doing anything remotely this exciting if he was in school? Hah. He could go to school twelve years straight without a single one of his teachers ever giving him stuff to ma
ke a puzzle with. They'd never even know he was into jigsaw puzzles in the first place."

  I felt bad that I hadn't known about Tony's love of jigsaw puzzles myself. Dennis's idealism was making me feel like an old fogy, as I often felt when I was with him. Time to put an end to this line of conversation. "Dennis, I need to talk to you."

  "So, nu?" An Irishman who spoke Yiddish—it was hard to dislike the guy. "Go ahead, talk."

  "Privately."

  We both looked over at Tony, who squirmed and said, "Okay, see you later—"

  "No, stay right here," Dennis interrupted, frowning at me. "Children deserve for us to be up front with them, not whisper behind their backs." For a guy who'd never had any children, Dennis sure had a lot of opinions about them. If he ever got around to having pipsqueaks of his own, I'd root for them to be especially wild kids who drove him crazy. "If you have anything to say about Tony—"

  "I don't. It's about me and you." I was surprised by the tough-guy timbre of my voice. Without even meaning to, I'd switched into Sam Spade interrogation mode. It was becoming second nature.

  Dennis was startled into silence—no small achievement. Tony said, "I'm going skateboarding," and started out.

  I expected Dennis to warn him to be careful and stay on the sidewalk. But he offered no such admonitions; maybe they didn't fit in with his ultra-laid-back childrearing philosophy. So that made it my job to play the cautious parent, a role I hate. "Watch out for cars," I told Tony.

  "Yeah, yeah," he called back, in a bored voice.

  "Jake, I got to be honest," Dennis told me as soon as Tony was gone. "I'm not too comfortable being alone with you."

  "Why not?"

  "Because as far as I can figure it, you killed two people."

  Hmm. That would explain the manic edge I'd noticed. But on the other hand, maybe he had other reasons for feeling uncomfortable, reasons he wasn't telling me. I cut to the chase. "Dennis, why were you paying extortion money to Pop?"

  His eyes widened in surprise. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

  He looked utterly sincere. But Zapper had been positive that Pop was getting money from Dennis. I acted like I was positive, too. "Don't fuck with me."

  "Have you gone off the deep end?"

  "Hey, I thought lying was supposed to be bad for your sobriety."

  "Jake, I realize you're under a lot of pressure, but—"

  "And now you're paying off Manny Cole, aren't you?"

  He shook his head in bewilderment. "Are you kidding? Why would I pay him off?"

  Had Zapper been wrong about Dennis? Was he actually clean?

  I felt like crawling underneath Tony's jigsaw puzzle, but instead I forged full-speed ahead. "Here's the deal. Pop extorted money from you and about five other people. Cole found out and demanded that Pop share the profits. When Pop said no, Cole killed him and took over the business for himself. Now you can either help me prove it, in which case I do my best to keep you out of it; or you stonewall me, I go straight to the cops with everything I know about you, and your ass is theirs. Your choice, buddy."

  He just stood there looking stunned, but not afraid. Damn, he was calling my bluff. My Sam Spade act had failed miserably. I better get out of there before I broke down and started crying. I threw him a fierce glare, snapped, "Suit yourself," and walked around the jigsaw puzzle to the door.

  But then he stopped me. "Hey, you think those cops will even give you the time of day? They're all a bunch of asshole buddies, from the chief on down. Even if Pop and Cole were extorting money, Walsh would hush it up."

  My heart pounded. Was this an oblique admission? Had Zapper been right about Dennis after all?

  "Let me straighten you out: nothing is getting hushed up around here," I said, keeping my hand on the doorknob like I was threatening to leave at any moment. "This is a murder investigation. I've got Dave Mackerel on my side. You don't help me out, then Dave will be all over you, and so will Bobby Hawthorne, the Assistant D.A." I was throwing names around like crazy. If Dave found out what I was saying about him, he'd shoot me.

  "I still don't see what all this has to do with Pop being murdered," Dennis whined.

  Yes, whined. I had him.

  "Well, too fucking bad. You either eschew the obfuscation—right now—or I tell Dave to come in here and throw the book at you." I was so full of shit my ears should have turned brown. I turned the doorknob, praying silently for Dennis to stop me—

  And he did. "For God's sake, all right!” he said, putting his hand to his forehead like he had a headache. "If I really thought this had anything to do with the murder, I'd have told you a long time ago." He glowered at me. "I still think you did it. You're just looking for some stupid alibi."

  "Spare me the legal commentary and tell me what happened."

  He gave an exasperated wave of his arm. Then he sank down defeatedly on the floor next to Tony's puzzle and told me his sordid tale.

  It all started back in January, when Pop cited Arcturus for littering the sidewalk out front. Cost to Arcturus: $100.

  Then in February, Pop gave Dennis and several Arcturus volunteers numerous nitpicky parking tickets. Total cost: $200.

  In March, Pop cited Arcturus for a grab-bag assortment of traffic, littering, and noise violations. Total cost: $400.

  In April, Pop cited Arcturus for improving the rear exterior of their building without getting prior approval from the Zoning Board. Arcturus had to hire a lawyer to deal with it. The lawyer gave them a bargain-basement price, but even so . . . Total cost: $600.

  In May, Pop came to Dennis one evening when he was in the building alone. He showed Dennis a citation he'd written up against Arcturus for operating a skateboard store in a residential neighborhood without a proper license. Total projected cost, if Arturus fought it: who knows? At least four figures, maybe even five.

  And if Arcturus fought and lost, they'd be forced to find another building. "Only we have a cash flow problem right now, until our Youth Services and CDBG grants come in. So by the time we sold this building and found another place that's cheap enough, we'd be bankrupt," Dennis said bitterly. "Sayonara, Arcturus. I'm out of a job, and more important, all the kids who depend on Arcturus, kids who are growing up without decent parenting or food or love, except what they find here—"

  I cut him off. "So what happened?"

  Dennis made a fist, either wanting to punch Pop or punch me, I'm not sure. "I paid him to go away."

  "How much?"

  Dennis rubbed his forehead with his fist. His headache was getting worse. "Two hundred bucks a month."

  I whistled through my teeth. "Two hundred a month? You mean, like, forever?"

  "That was the arrangement. And then we'd operate free from police interference. If the neighbors bitched about skateboarding or noise or whatever, he'd take care of it."

  "So this payoff thing started in May?"

  "Yeah."

  "And kept going all the way until he died?"

  Dennis nodded ruefully. "First of every month. Regular as the phone company."

  "But with Arcturus dead broke, that must have been a huge hardship."

  "You're telling me. August and September, it came right out of my own paycheck."

  My heart was pounding again. I tried to keep cool. "So when Pop died, you figured that would be the end of it."

  "Hell, I won't lie, I was ecstatic when he died. But then that asshole Cole came along, and now I have to pay him."

  I gave Dennis a friendly nod. "Fucking pigs, huh?"

  He nodded back, grateful that I was being so agreeable. "Yeah, fucking pigs. I don't blame you for killing the guy."

  "Only one thing."

  "What?"

  "I didn't kill him. You did."

  Dennis's head snapped back, and he tried to laugh. "That's crazy!"

  "Where were you that night?"

  "How the hell should I know?"

  "Because you do." I stepped around the puzzle, giving him my best Clint Eastwood loo
k. He backed up, almost knocking over a paint can. "Here's what happened that night. You were driving home from the Thursday night coffeehouse at Arcturus. You saw Pop's car parked in front of 107 Elm. It was the first of the month. You were broke. You decided to confront him about lowering the payoff amount. But he just laughed at you. So you got on your usual high horse. He lost his temper and popped you a couple. You got mad and grabbed his gun—"

  "I don't believe this. You're trying to frame me!"

  "And you killed Zapper too, didn't you?"

  "Why would I do that?!"

  "Because he saw you kill Pop, and he started blackmailing you, too!"

  Dennis's big, hammy hands opened wide, like they were eager to squeeze my neck. "You get out before I . . ."

  "Before you what? Kill me?"

  "Get the fuck out!" he roared.

  No problem. I'd gotten what I came for. I opened the door.

  Little Tony was standing right there, with a skateboard under his arm and paralyzed fear on his face.

  "Tony—" Dennis and I both said at the same time.

  But Tony threw his skateboard at us and ran away. By the time I made it outside he was gone from sight.

  Dennis was right behind me. "Now look what you've done. He was just starting to trust me."

  "Good thing he stopped," I said.

  But I wasn't sure I meant it. Was Saratoga's left-wing Santa Claus really the killer?

  I jumped on my bike and headed down the street, looking for Tony so I could try to comfort him. I didn't know what I'd say to the kid, but maybe I'd come up with something.

  I rode all around Saratoga for the next hour, but never found a trace of him.

  19

  The wind picked up and the temperature dropped another five degrees. I wasn't wearing my jacket and I was chilled to the bone.

  I rode my bike up Elm Street toward home. Maybe a PB and J sandwich for lunch would cure all of my physical and spiritual ills. It often does.