Angel With a Bullet

by M. C. Grant

  Frank’s forehead crinkles into a series of deep furrows. “You broke into Diego’s studio and took this?”

  “Chill,” I say. “The police have closed their investigation. No one has claimed the body. And a close friend of his knows I have the damn thing. I just didn’t want this piece disappearing before I find out who legally owns it. Everything’s a clue, Frank. You taught me that. Now I have to find out how all the clues fit together, right?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t quote me after you break the law.” Frank’s jaw is tight. “It doesn’t sound good.”

  He turns to face the bar. “Give me a shot, Bill.”

  Bill grins wide, showing all his crooked teeth, and deliberately folds thick arms across a thicker chest. He barely moves his head, but the intent is clear.

  Frank’s eyes drop to my empty shot glass and then back up to meet my gaze.

  “You piss me off, kid.”

  I almost choke. “Me?” I sputter. “Why?”

  “You make my life too damn complicated.”

  “Hey, I took lessons on being difficult from you.”

  “Bullshit! You were a pain in the ass long before we met. I’m just been trying to make you a better journalist so you can get a job at a real newspaper and move out of my jurisdiction.”

  “Well, you’ve failed.”

  “Damn right I have.”

  We’re silent for a few moments until we both begin to laugh. With the laughter, Bill relaxes and resumes his bartender duties.

  “Oh, by the way, you owe me twenty bucks,” I say.

  “What for?”

  “I had to pay off your gambling debt with a Sergeant Woods before he would give me the time of day.”

  Frank reaches deep into his pocket and throws a couple of bills on the table. I pick them up.

  “Hey, this is only ten,” I complain.

  “That’s all I owed.”

  Twenty-three

  When the clock strikes seven, Frank helps me on with what is left of my overcoat, tucks Diego’s painting under my arm, and leads the way out of the Dog House.

  From the doorway, I wave to Bill and for a hazy moment think I see Capone in his reserved seat at the end of the bar. His face is thick with heavy jowls and a bulbous nose that sports the misshapen tenderness of bruised fruit. A fog-gray fedora with a black silk band is tilted back on his head, exposing a forehead creased with deep wrinkles and a single slash of bone white. The scar runs diagonally from his left eyebrow to vanish beneath the hat. Clamped between his teeth is a thick cigar, and tendrils of yellow smoke curl above his head like the frayed ends of a hangman’s rope.

  Damn the luck, I think as the heavy door swings shut. I finally see him and I’m too drunk for an interview.

  Dixie’s Tips #11: Before drinking heavily at a haunted pub, make sure to eat more than an egg-salad sandwich and horrible tea.

  Frank and I walk, singing old Sinatra songs in off-key splendor. When we reach my building, Frank points in the right direction and watches as I climb the stairs.

  “’Night, ol’ Building and Loan pal o’ mine,” I call down.

  “I hate that movie,” Frank calls back.

  “No, you don’t.”

  Frank grins with sparkling eyes.

  “No, I don’t,” he admits and heads home.

  _____

  Inside the lobby, I glance over at my mailbox and wonder if it’s worth checking.

  The tin slot isn’t big enough to hold a “Let’s do it again—soon” box of chocolates or an “I’ve been thinking about you all day” bouquet of flowers. As such, it seems to subsist on a simple diet of bills, unwanted flyers, and missed payment notices. It seems particularly fond of the notices, as they come in varying shades of red and taste just fractionally like licorice.

  I sometimes suspect the box destroys the real bills, just so it can treat itself to another tasty notice. But try telling that to a bill collector.

  Deciding against disappointment, I leave the mailbox alone for another day and head for the stairs. Despite the short distance, I don’t make it. My feet trip over a solid, unyielding, and extremely furry object.

  With a yelp, I find myself falling. One corner of Diego’s painting hits the floor first and skids out of my grasp. It slides under the stairs as I throw my arms in front of my face a microsecond before I smack the ground with a solid whap.

  My injuries from the night before return in jabbing shards and my alcohol-brittle toughness threatens to burst into a blubbering of tears. Before the walls come down, however, an unexpected sound makes me roll onto my back and glance at my feet.

  King William of Orange is rubbing himself against my legs and purring. When he senses my perplexed attention, he strolls toward my face, purrs rumbling louder with every step, and places one paw against my cheek.

  The pads on the bottom of his feet are much softer than I expect. I frown at him, my eyes still welling with the possibility of tears.

  King William gently bonks his furry head against mine and then proceeds to lick my nose. His tongue is as rough as his fur is soft, but the affection it imparts is unmistakable.

  “How did you get out?” I ask as I stroke his cheek.

  King William continues to lick my nose and though I appreciate the exfoliation, I worry that I won’t have many more layers of skin before he hits bone. Sitting up, I lift the large cat onto my lap. Instantly, he curls into a ball, covers his face with his paw, and falls asleep.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I’ll just sit here. It’s not like I have plans to go up to my own bed or anything.”

  Apparently the idea of my being stuck in the lobby all night doesn’t bother him. He is perfectly content in my lap.

  Cradling the cat in my arms, I struggle to my feet and knock on Mrs. Pennell’s door with my toe.

  After the fourth knock, she answers. And when she spots King William in my arms, her face lights up with heavenly delight.

  “You silly, silly boy,” she scolds in baby talk as she transfers the sleeping cat into her arms.

  King William yawns, but stays curled, completely undisturbed.

  “How did he get out?” I ask.

  Mrs. Pennell tuts her tongue. “He ran out when I was bringing in the groceries, and then he hid somewhere so I couldn’t find him. I don’t know what gets into him, but sometimes he just needs to go for a wander. I wish he understood how it worries me.”

  “Well, he looks happy to be home now.”

  Mrs. Pennell smiles. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, he does.”

  She lifts her gaze from the cat and scrutinizes my face.

  “And what about you, dear?” she asks. “How are you doing?”

  “A little tipsy, Mrs. Pennell,” I admit. “And a little sore. But nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Just remember, you don’t have to carry it all, dear. You have friends.”

  I nod, grateful for the concern.

  “And speaking of which,” Mrs. Pennell continues, “Mr. French was looking for you earlier. He was acting rather odd, but then when is he not? Him and that silly bird of his. He said he had news for you.”

  I thank her as she closes the door to give King William his evening feast. I contemplate leaving Mr. French until morning, since my stomach is rumbling and my scrapes and bruises could use a warm bath. Unfortunately, Mr. French must have been waiting behind his peephole.

  No sooner does Mrs. Pennell’s door close than his opens.

  _____

  Mr. French’s face lights up as he opens the door, but it instantly falls again when he sees the state of me.

  “Oh, dear, Ms. Flynn, whatever happened?”

  Having not looked in a mirror for hours, I’m not sure what part of me looks worst. I shrug.

 
“Well, come in, come in,” Mr. French urges. “I’ll make some tea and we can chat.”

  I follow the diminutive man inside the apartment, inhaling a smoky fragrance of vanilla bean, cane sugar, and something muskier—like black tobacco leaf grown in a peaty Cuban swamp.

  The living room is lit by an array of candles and a gas fireplace set on a low flame. I make sure to gently touch Baccarat’s cage in greeting before settling into an overstuffed armchair close to the fire. The heat is wonderful and I gratefully slip out of my boots and torn overcoat.

  “I’ll make us that tea,” says Mr. French. “Make yourself at home.”

  I must have closed my eyes. When I open them again, Mr. French is sitting on the couch beside me and nibbling a triangular sandwich. Arranged on the coffee table is a large glass teapot filled with amber liquid. Floating inside the liquid is a large and rather beautiful flower.

  Mr. French notices my interest.

  “It’s white tea from China,” he says. “The Chinese pick the leaves and buds when the tea is quite young and bind it by hand into these beautiful arrangements before drying. When you steep it, the flower blossoms and the full fragrance of the tea is released. White tea possesses great healing properties. Shall I pour?”

  I’m feeling great affection for this kindly little man, though I wonder why everyone I’ve met lately appears to be so into tea. I thought we were a nation of coffee drinkers. Then I spot the plate of tiny sandwiches beside the teapot and remember how famished I am.

  I wolf down four of the triangular delicacies before my cup of tea is poured, but Mr. French seems delighted by my appetite rather than disgusted by my lack of manners.

  “These are wonderful,” I say as I lift a fifth.

  “I’m glad you approve. They’re nothing special. Just a little potted meat, thinly sliced scallion, and a hint of hand-churned butter that I get from a local farm.”

  “We have farms?” I lift my cup and take a tentative sip of the unusual tea.

  Mr. French laughs. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispers conspiratorially, “but there is a whole world beyond these concrete towers.”

  “You’re having me on,” I say playfully.

  “Au contraire, mademoiselle. I have seen it with my own two eyes. Tracks of land so vast one can stand on a hill, look across lush valleys, and not see another soul.”

  “Hmmm, you must be thinking of the Midwest. They say in Kansas, your dog can run away and two days later you can still see him.”

  “Ahhh.” Mr. French’s eyes glisten with delight. “Perhaps you are correct.”

  I giggle into my tea and help myself to another tiny sandwich.

  When the sandwiches are gone, Mr. French produces a plate of finger-length shortbread cookies. After I have consumed two and am on my second cup of tea, Mr. French opens a small leather-bound notebook to a page filled with neat but incredibly tiny handwriting.

  “Thank you for the second note,” he begins. “The author used the same paper as the first, which lets us know the paper trail has a good chance of bearing fruit.”

  “What did you make of the wording?” I ask.

  Mr. French sips his tea before answering. “I’m no cryptanalyst, and I hate to oversimplify, but the couplet struck me as the words of a jilted lover.”

  “Angry?”

  “Most definitely,” Mr. French agrees. “The opening line of verse states that loss of love is acceptable. Here, the author is putting on a brave face. The breakup of the relationship isn’t something that was desired, but the author is willing to accept it. The second line, however, admonishes the recipient for abandoning responsibility. This gives the author an excuse to cling to the relationship, which means she won’t move on until the matter is settled.”

  “So,” I join in. “I don’t love you anymore either, but you’ve hurt me, so you have to pay?”

  Mr. French claps his chubby hands together in delight. “Isn’t poetry fun?”

  I smirk. “I’ll stick with Tom Waits.”

  “I don’t believe …” Mr. French pauses. “Ah, the singer. Hookers and gin. Quite, quite.”

  “So where did the paper lead us?” I ask before he veers off on Waits’s fondness for singing about loneliness and patricide.

  “Now this is rather interesting. Clifford—erm … Mr. Clements, he owns the stationery store—well, he and I had a wonderful day together going through his records. You know, paper is almost as fascinating as stamps. A touch more rudimentary in terms of history, perhaps, but—”

  I yawn, my mouth opening so wide it eclipses my entire head.

  “Sorry,” I say once I regain control of my jaw muscles. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Shall I cut to the chase?” He sounds only slightly annoyed.

  “That would be great.”

  “I have five addresses of five women all within a five block radius of the stationer’s.”

  “Wow, that’s great. And … tidy, with all the fives.”

  “Yes, we were rather pleased.”

  “Can I have the names and addresses?”

  “Naturally. However, I was wondering if you would allow me to continue the investigation until I can deliver the sole name?”

  “Well, sure, but you’ve already done more than I could have hoped. This is terrific.”

  Mr. French blushes. “This may sound a touch egocentric in light of the threatening nature of the correspondence, but I am rather enjoying myself. Digging into the meat of a mystery like this is the most exciting thing to cross my desk since the Okotoks kingfisher incident of 2004.”

  Fearing that he’s about to launch into another stamp-related story, I rise to my feet and slip back into my shoes.

  “In that case,” I say, “I welcome the help.”

  Mr. French beams over at Baccarat. The bird chirps as if to show she is equally excited.

  _____

  Back in the hallway, Mr. French has just closed his door when Mrs. Pennell’s door swings open.

  I am rather proud of myself that I don’t curse.

  “Oh, Dixie,” Mrs. Pennell calls quietly.

  I fasten a smile on my face and turn.

  “Yes, Mrs. Pennell. Everything OK?”

  “Yes, yes, everything is fine. King William is fast asleep in his bed, but I wanted to get your coat before you went upstairs.”

  I exhale quietly, relieved it is something I can accomplish with a shrug of shoulder.

  I hand her the torn coat. “Thanks again.”

  “Not at all, dear. Have a good night.”

  I return to the stairs and climb, propelled upward by little more than sheer will.

  Twenty-four

  The stairs go on forever, but finally I rest forehead against apartment door and fish for my key. Before I can hook it, however, the door falls open and the unexpected loss of cranial support sends me lurching clumsily off balance.

  Being (much to my mother’s chagrin) a ballet school dropout at the age of four, I naturally fail to find my footing and end up sprawled on the floor; cute ass in the air, embarrassing rug burn on my chin.

  If I had a personal video crew—or a stalker with a camera phone—I could become an Internet superstar: Presenting Dixie Flynn, the klutz on YouTube.

  After the initial shock, I can’t help but laugh. It’s either that or cry; at the moment I’m feeling too stupid to register one more bruise on top of the others.

  Pulling myself to my feet, I flick on the lights.

  Someone is sleeping on my couch.

  A blonde tuft of hair is curled on the sofa with a pillow covering her face. She is dressed in a low-cut, close-fitting lemon-yellow silk dress with matching shoes that makes my couch look even shabbier than normal.

  The shallow rise and fall of breast tells me
she isn’t dead. But if she’s Goldilocks, what does that make me?

  I clear my throat.

  She doesn’t budge.

  I walk over and remove the pillow.

  Yup, Kristy.

  Silly girl must have decided to visit after another big night on the town. Her face is full of make-’em-drool war paint and her normally straight hair is curled so expertly that it would make all three Charlie’s Angels jealous.

  I stifle a yawn and try to shake the sleep out of my eyes. I wonder if she and Sam had a spat. Dressed like she is, Kristy couldn’t help but attract attention, and she loves attention.

  “Wake up, Kristy,” I say, fighting off another yawn.

  She doesn’t move.

  I shake her shoulder. Nothing.

  The yawns keep coming and my eyes are growing heavy. I look down at the soft cushions and Kristy’s warm body, my muddled brain convincing me I should curl up next to her on the couch and let the day come to an end.

  I begin to give in, but the room is too warm, the air tastes stale, and my bladder is too full from cups of tea on top of the beer. I spin toward the bathroom, but my brain doesn’t stop when my head does. It continues to spin.

  Fighting the urge to vomit all over Sleeping Beauty, I stagger to the window beside the computer that overlooks the alley.

  I push up on the frame, but it doesn’t budge. The damn thing is stuck.

  Frustrated, dizzy, and feeling bile rise in my stomach, I hammer the heel of my hand into the top of the wooden frame and feel it give—slightly. I hammer it twice more and push with all my strength, hoping the glass doesn’t shatter in my face in the process.

  Finally, the window slides all the way up.

  I lean out to inhale deep breaths. The outside air is cool, moist, and oxygen-rich, not like the apartment at all. My queasiness begins to ease.

  Brushing the thin curtain aside to see why the window was stuck, I notice a small rubber hose wedged into a crack in the sill. Following its trail out the window, I see the hose is attached to the drainpipe with a plastic clamp. A foot below it, clamped in an identical way, is a shiny metal cylinder.