by Tim Cockey
“Terry Haden. Yes.”
“I guess you didn’t get any information, did you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve got something new I’m trying to figure out. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
She gave me a funny look. “You’re not going to shoot me are you?”
“Misty, why in the world would I do that?”
“I don’t know. It’s a fucked-up world is all. You never know what anyone is going to do.”
“Well, I’m not going to shoot you.” Hell, I wasn’t even going to touch her. Or ask her to touch me. Didn’t the stripper know a saint when she was squeezed into a dark booth with one? “I want to know if you can give me some information.”
She laughed. “Shoot.”
“You’re a card,” I said. I set a handful of cash on the table. It disappeared in a heartbeat. “About two weeks ago, this would be a Wednesday night. Do you work on Wednesdays?”
“Every day but Sunday.”
“So, you would have been working here that night. It wasn’t this past Wednesday, but the one before that. The night of the big blizzard.”
“Sure. I was here.”
“Was Popeye here that night? Do you remember?”
“Popeye was here every night. Except for lunch, he spent all his time here. Nice life, huh?”
“So then he was here that night. Now here’s what I want to ask you. Do you have any memory of a man coming in that night. A man in a suit.”
“You have no idea how many suits we get in here.”
I pulled a newspaper clipping from my pocket. The previous week’s blizzard had snaffued the weekly recycling schedule. Piece of luck. I handed her the clipping.
“This guy. Do you recall seeing him in here?”
Misty took the newspaper clipping and squinted at it. There was just enough light seeping into the booth for pulling down zippers and groping in the dark, but not a hell of lot for looking at newspapers. But Misty seemed to have decent night vision. She held the clipping nearly to her nose, then handed it back to me.
“Maybe. I think so. Yes.”
My heart—which had not even blipped an extra beat when I was groped by the android—jumped now.
“Misty. Which of those three answers is it? Maybe? You think so? Or yes?”
“Let me see it again.”
She took the clipping from me again and again held it up to her nose. “Sure,” she declared. “That’s the guy.”
“The guy? What do you mean, Misty? The guy what?”
“The guy who came in. It was one of those nights. Crazy night. Poor Popeye. I almost felt sorry for him. I mean, I really didn’t like him, but still, he was getting jerked around all over the place that night.”
“Jerked around. By this guy? Did this guy come in and jerk the old man around?”
“Well, wait. Hold on to your big horse. One thing at a time, okay? I was dancing. We weren’t all that full yet. You know how it is. Like the last time you were here. A few guys at the bar, a couple tables. Not a real fast night. And in comes this guy.”
“The man in the picture?”
“No. I told you, hang on. He was later. You got to listen. It was this other guy. I’ve seen him coming in and out of here a bunch of times. Kind of like that other guy you were asking about the last time. The porn jerk.”
“Haden.”
“Yeah. Like him. Coming around like he owned the place. This guy was kind of like that. Except he didn’t hit up on us or anything. I mean, he wasn’t trying to get us to star in porn flicks or anything. He had some sort of business with Popeye. He never paid any attention to us. I thought he was a creep. None of the girls like him. There’s just something nasty about him. You know the type.”
“Do you know his name?”
“We just call him Bob. I don’t think that’s his name. Someone just came up with that. You know, like a nickname. Bob. It’s the same forward as backward.”
“So, what was ‘Bob’ up to that night?”
“He was pissed off. That’s why I remember it. He came storming in here like he was ready to take someone’s head off. Like I said, I was up on the stage, so I could see it pretty good. He went right over to Popeye, who’s always over there at the corner of the bar, and he started yelling at him. I couldn’t hear about what, because of the music. And it wasn’t too long. He and Popeye went into the back office and shut the door. And you could still hear the guy yelling at him back in there. Even with the door closed and the music going. You could also hear something hitting the wall.”
“Like maybe Popeye?”
“Like maybe him, yeah. The guy was definitely roughing the old man up.”
“How long were they back there?”
“I don’t know. Fifteen minutes? Maybe more. I don’t wear a watch onstage.”
I didn’t bother to note that if she did it would be her biggest piece of clothing.
“So then what else, Misty? Did anything else happen?”
“Nah. The guy finally left. He practically knocked over a couple of customers on his way out. He was pissed off, I mean really pissed off. Popeye stayed in the back for awhile, and when he came out no one said a word to him about it. He had a cut on his chin. It looked like he was moving even slower than normal. But no one said a word. Hell, he doesn’t care about us, what are we going to do, start caring about him?”
“So, what happened next?”
“What happened next was later on the same night this guy in the newspaper, this guy here, he came in. I don’t know when it was. Maybe like a couple of hours later? I couldn’t tell you for sure. It was a lot later. I was sitting at the bar. I had a customer. So, I was, you know, busy. But I saw Popeye’s face when this guy came in. I’d seen him before, by the way. This guy you showed me in the picture. I’d seen a couple of times before, over in the corner, talking with Popeye about something or other. I just figured Popeye was mixed up in something illegal, you know. It’s none of my business.”
“Why would you think that?”
Misty took hold of my chin and ticktocked my head to look around the club. “Look around. A guy in a big-deal suit comes in to talk to Popeye? What do they have to talk about? The guy sure isn’t Popeye’s stockbroker, you know what I’m saying? I’m just guessing. Running this joint was probably about the most legal thing Popeye ever did. And I know for a fact he had to grease some palms here and there to keep us going. They can bust you for just about anything these days, you know?”
“Go on. What happened?”
“Well, Popeye saw this guy come in and I swear, if the old man knew how to look scared, that’s how he looked. It was like he expected this guy to come over and rough him up too. But he didn’t. I mean this guy with the suit, he’s not a tough guy or anything. Besides, he had his arm in a sling. I remember that. How good can you beat up an old man when you got one arm in a sling, you know?”
“Good point.”
“Well, he and Popeye go back into the office too. This time there isn’t any roughhousing. And like a half hour later, out comes this guy, and he storms right out of the club too. It was funny. Both these guys going into the office and then storming out. I don’t know what Popeye was telling them back there, but it wasn’t making either of them too happy.”
I wasn’t sure of the specifics either. And I wasn’t real certain that I would ever uncover them. Killers don’t like to talk. And dead men can’t. And if I was reading things correctly, that’s what I was dealing with here. A killer and a dead man.
“How about something to remember me by?” Misty said as I motioned her to let me out of the booth. She slid out first and turned to face me. The light from the bar and the stage behind her filtered in through her transparent gown and outlined the dancer’s body in an amber silhouette.
“I’ll remember you.” She didn’t give me much room to pass as I squeezed out of the booth and stood up. She looked up at me and tapped a finger against my chest.
“I still got your card,
” she said. “If I die I’ll call you.”
It was too late to be calling on people unannounced. But there was nothing I could do about that. The clock was running. I was now holding on to way more information than I should. Kruk would want to know what I now knew. What I should have done when I left The Kitten Club was to walk down two blocks to police headquarters and leave Detective Kruk one hell of a message. An early Christmas gift.
That’s not what I did. I found a pay phone and called Jimmy’s Cabs. The dispatcher told me that she had a couple of cabs idling down at the harbor and that she’d send one up to me. Several minutes later a powder blue car pulled up to the curb. I got in.
“Homeland,” I said to the driver. I gave him Ann Kingman’s address.
It was too late to be calling on people unannounced, but there was nothing I could do about that. I’m aware that I’m repeating myself, but the thought occurred to me twice; once when I gave the cabby the address and again when he pulled up in front of the darkened house. We had passed midnight on the way over.
“Wait until you actually see me go inside,” I instructed the cabby. “Then you can go.” I gave him enough money to cover an extra ten minutes past what the meter was reading. I figured it could take that long to wake Ann Kingman and to convince her to let me inside for a little chat.
It took much less than ten minutes. Ann Kingman came to the door only a few minutes after I pummeled the mallard.
“Sorry to disturb you so late,” I said.
“No you’re not.”
“Can I come in?”
She gave me a frank look. “Are you going to give me one good reason why I should? The last time you came in here you accused me of being a murderer.”
“That won’t happen again, I promise.”
She wasn’t convinced. “It’s late. Why don’t you—”
I slammed my hand against the door before she could shut it.
“It’s me or the police, Ann.”
“Don’t threaten me, young man.”
“Look, I’m about to collapse, okay?” I indicated my bum leg. “I wouldn’t be in this condition if it weren’t for your husband.”
Despite herself, she smiled, albeit grimly. “Wasn’t he a sweetheart?” She paused. “Oh what the hell.”
She pulled the door open wide. I waved off the cabby. He flashed his headlights and pulled away. I followed Mrs. Kingman into the house. She was wearing a quilted bathrobe and slippers. But she didn’t look like someone who had just been woken up.
“I’ve been up reading,” she said to me as if she had intercepted my thoughts.
“Anything good?”
She was leading me into the living room. She stopped, her hand on a wall switch, and gave me a sour look. “You’ve come all the way out here in the middle of the night to hear a book review?”
She hit the wall switch and a row of track lighting over the fireplace lit up. She turned a knob and dimmed the lights.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asked, starting for the liquor cabinet. A mirthless chuckle followed. “We’ve already done this once today, haven’t we?”
“We have.” Just to break up the pattern, I stepped over to the couch and sat down there. “I’ll take a brandy if you have it,” I said. I wanted something abrasive yet warm. Come to think of it, I often want something abrasive yet warm.
“I do,” she said, and she pulled out a bottle and two small-globed glasses. “I’ll join you.” She poured out the drinks, brought mine over to me and retreated to the chair where I had sat earlier in the day. A day that was feeling to me about a week old at this point. I knew that when exhaustion finally hit me, it was going to hit hard. I could feel it beginning to creep up.
“Just to answer your question about the book I was reading, I can’t even tell you if it is any good. I’m just using it to try to put me to sleep. I haven’t slept well ever since Richard’s funeral.” She raised her glass in a toast. “I’m sure you understand.” We both took a sip of our brandies. Mine could have stood to be a tad rougher. Mrs. Kingman’s sent a flash of red across her face. She set the glass down on the table next to her and folded her hands on her lap.
“Daniel Kingman had nothing to do with Helen Waggoner’s murder,” I said.
“Daniel? Of course he didn’t.”
“You knew that already when I was here this morning, didn’t you?”
She dipped her chin, almost imperceptibly.
“But you let me think he was responsible.”
“If you recall, Mr. Sewell, you were pointing the finger at me and at Daniel. You don’t know me too well. So, perhaps I should tell you. I am an extremely precise person. I had nothing to do with the murder of that girl. That’s really all that I told you.”
“You implied that it was Daniel Kingman,” I said again.
“I don’t happen to know for a fact that Daniel isn’t responsible. Though I seriously doubt it. Daniel was very quick to run to me and warn me that Richard was fathering a child with this Helen woman and that I had better prepare myself for the likelihood that he was planning to leave me. But I never suspected Daniel of seeking such a nasty revenge. What would be the point, after all?”
“Exactly. Or should I say, precisely. What would be the point?”
I took another sip of my brandy. The fatigue that had been waiting in the wings all of this long, long day was indeed finally gearing up for its attack. I could feel the troops moving into place and taking up position.
“Let me ask you outright. Do you know who is responsible for the killing of Helen Waggoner?”
“Ultimately, Richard.”
“I don’t mean ultimately, and you know it.”
“You’re going to believe me if I answer?”
“Yes, I am. I’ve defended your credibility once already today.”
“How chivalrous. You don’t even know me.”
“I realize that. And you can lie through your teeth to me and make it sound legit. I have no doubt about that. But if I didn’t think I had at least a shot at hearing the truth from you I wouldn’t have come all the way out here, would I?”
“Is that supposed to guilt me into telling you the truth? I could cover your cab fare and tell you to get the hell out of my home immediately. We don’t have to be having this discussion.”
“You didn’t have to let me in in the first place.”
“True.”
“Besides, you can’t sleep anyway. Why not chew the fat with your friendly neighborhood undertaker for awhile?”
“Why not indeed.”
“So?”
Ann Kingman stood up from the chair and went over to a desk that stood in the corner. One of those antique desks whose angled front folds down to become the desktop. She brought the desktop into place and reached into a small cabinet drawer. I couldn’t tell what she was fetching until she turned back around and returned to her chair and sat down. She set a small silver pistol on the table beside her, next to her brandy glass. She crossed her hands again onto her lap.
“So.”
Even if I had wanted to act quickly, I couldn’t have. The marshaled troops of fatigue had begun their march. Besides which, even at full speed the distance between the couch and the chair where Ann Kingman sat was too great. All I would have accomplished in lunging forward would be to give her a larger target. And the distance to the doorway was even greater. My back is large. Hard to miss at that range. The woman had me neatly pinned down. And we both knew it.
“That’s not the gun that was used to kill Helen Waggoner,” I said.
“No, it’s not. At least … to be precise, to the best of my knowledge it’s not.”
“Trust me. It isn’t.”
“You say that with some sense of authority, Mr. Sewell.”
“Helen Waggoner was killed by a professional. Or at the very least, a semiprofessional. I’m not very well versed in this, but I don’t think professionals use popguns like that.”
“You think this is a �
��popgun?’ I’ve fired this pistol, Mr. Sewell. There were a spate of break-ins several years ago, here and in Guilford. Richard bought this pistol for me. For my safety. He was, after all, out of the house quite a lot. I took lessons in how to shoot it.”
“You aim it and pull the trigger. Right?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“Are you expecting a break-in tonight, Mrs. Kingman?”
“Call me Ann.”
“Whatever you say, lady. You’re the one with the gun.”
“I’m not expecting a break-in. However, a man I barely know has showed up at my door in the middle of the night demanding to be let in.”
“You sound as if you’re practicing your lines.”
Her hand reached over to the table. She picked up her brandy glass. “I hope I’m not.”
“Look. Ann. This is all getting too arch for me. You’re not going to shoot me for no good reason, are you?”
“Now you’re the one being precise. No. I’m not going to shoot you for no good reason. All you have to do is convince me that I have no good reason, and that will be that.”
Several advancing snipers within me were squeezing off shots. The brandy had been a mistake. I felt as if my blood was being rapidly replaced with sludge. It might be hard to imagine a man yawning while a woman in the same room has a pistol sitting next to her. But I did.
“Who do you think killed that woman, Mr. Sewell?”
“A hired killer.”
“And who do you think hired him?”
“Michael Fenwick.”
“That’s what I think too.”
“And I think the same guy came around a few days later and killed Fenwick along with his wife, who had the great misfortune of being at his side at the time.”
The woman nodded. “But you think even more than that, don’t you?”
“Yes I do.” That’s when my increasingly sluggish brain finally guessed at the reason for Ann Kingman’s having introduced a pistol into our little talk.
“What is it that you think?” she asked.
“You’re a fiercely protective mother lion, aren’t you, Ann?”
“The mistake was mine. I should never have told Jeffrey about that girl. I mean, that she was pregnant. Or that Richard was going to leave me. That was my mistake.