by Tom Rich
“See? Maybe the guy’s just—”
“No! Maybe it’s because the Earth will be tilted perfectly on its axis that day. Maybe we’ve passed through that alignment before but it didn’t matter because we weren’t tilted right. But this time the poles will be pointed precisely at the sun and the black hole and the difference in gravitational influences will set off the flip flop. That’s something the People of the Maize would know from their astronomy. And look how far inland Indy is. Down in Central America? I would think that narrow strip of land would be the worst place to be with the continents on the move and the oceans rising up. Maybe that’s why the ch’ak and the stela are in Indianapolis. It’s drawing the People of the Maize to where they can survive the cataclysm.”
“I don’t like where this is about to go.”
“And maybe Kurtwood Franz—”
“Knew it.”
“—is meant to draw them. Maybe he knows that, maybe he doesn’t. Avendano Xaman made it a point that he and his brother didn’t ask to be the Hero Twins.”
“A minute ago your criteria for believing this doom theory was that it’s grounded in science. Sounds to me like Franz has one more person convinced he’s a god.”
“And what about the Four Horses of the Apocalypse—”
“Don’t you mean Four Beers of the Apocalypse?”
“—matching up color-wise with the four birds that rise up after an eclipse in Mayan mythology? And if the four birds can’t see to perch in the trees, the cycle of life ends. An eclipse, Jones. This astronomer says the ultimate eclipse is coming. Revelations has a major eclipse, didn’t you say?”
“Something like that.”
“And all these important things going on in the Midwest for the People of the Maize right now; the People of the Corn? Tell me what the Midwest is known for.”
“There’s the Midwestern work ethic, Heartland values—”
“Cut the shit, Jones, you know what I’m talking about.”
“’Fraid I do.”
“Right. Corn! Whoa, and with Cincinnati only a hundred miles from Indianapolis? Maybe Mark Twain was on to something.”
“What’s Mark Twain got to do with any of it?”
“Boy, I thought you knew everything. Twain said that when the world ends he wants to be in Cincinnati because everything gets here ten years late.”
“Aly!”
“What?”
“Relax,” said Pelfry.
“You need to—”
“I know the map is a fake.”
“What? What map?”
“The map you drew to Franz’s office. And now you’re presenting evidence that Franz won’t be responsible for the end of the world because you think I’m on my way to kill him.”
“Uhh, maybe? I mean, aren’t you?”
“I advise you never to take up lying as a profession.”
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad.”
“But this page in the book is real. I’m looking right at it.”
“Like I said, that would be bigger news than Clove’s book could have an exclusive on. But I would like to thank you for being concerned about my welfare.”
“Jones, look, I… It’s just that… Sometimes I don’t know who you are.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Let me tell you a little story. Do you know who Sweet Daddy Sol is?”
“Think I’d remember a name like that,” said Aly. “What I’m saying is, never heard of him.”
“He’s big in Indy. Or was. Big time solar panel manufacturer.”
“Like this guy already.”
“Shot dead with two bullets to the chest.”
“Shew. What’s up with the world?”
“He was a well known philanderer, named in at least two high profile divorce suits. He even alluded to his free love exploits in his television ads. Said things like, ‘Freeing yourself from the power grid allows you to enter a brave new world free of the moral constraints of the powers that be.’”
“Free condoms with every purchase?”
“The veterans of Indy Homicide were convinced that seeking a humiliated husband was the direction the investigation should take. That, and the department’s retirement fund is heavy into utilities, so they figured Sweet Daddy got what he deserved in more ways than one.”
“Your ‘powers that be?’”
“During a daily staff meeting I suggested the murder could be an early skirmish in an inevitable war where New Age forces would rock the foundations of traditional power structures, and that Sweet Daddy’s killer could have acted under the influence of unseen forces.”
“How’d that go over with your peers?”
“Everyone laughed.”
“I have a feeling you found laughter to be no deterrent.”
“I presented the notion that the person highest in Hoosier Power and Light who lacked grounding in spirituality, politics, family, or any other institution that might keep one from being vulnerable to unrecognized forces in the power grid’s instincts for survival could be the perpetrator.”
“Slaying them in the aisles, no doubt.”
“They never laughed at me again. After that it was nothing but head shaking, eye rolling and whispering.”
“Some work environment. You told me about that Baney character.”
“Captain Weeks gave me a week to come up with something. after that I’d be taken off the case entirely.”
“The Captain Weeks I met seemed way too practical to bite on something like that.”
“The true content of Mel was obscured by a gruff image necessary to placate the—”
“Powers that be.”
“Mel always had confidence in me. He just wasn’t allowed to show it. He even threw up a smokescreen that the week he gave me was a prelude to being fired.”
“I’m expecting a happy ending, you know.”
“After a week of background checks I came up with W. B. Lutz, vice President of Acquisitions for Hoosier Power and Light. Lutz had no siblings and no living parents and he and his wife were childless. He had no religious affiliations, never served in the military, nor was he a registered voter. Captain Weeks called in some favors to procure a warrant for me to search Lutz’s house.”
“I’m no expert, but—”
“The powers that be.”
“Right. Score one for the powers that aren’t.”
“Mel drew up a list of favors to put at Lutz’s disposal to make up for any inconvenience the investigation might cause him. Another smokescreen to—”
“Placate the powers that be.”
“When I found a pistol in the kitchen cupboard, Lutz denied knowledge of its existence. When ballistics proved the weapon to be the one used to pump two slugs into Sweet Daddy Sol’s chest, Lutz was brought in. When only his wife’s prints were found on the gun, she confessed to committing the crime in a fit of rage after figuring Sweet Daddy was using her to get information from her husband about the latest heat transference technologies.”
“Ah, the happy ending. You became the hero—”
The broken connection cut Aly short. She looked at her phone, smacked it twice, held it to her ear. Nothing.
39: Witness
Pelfry snapped his phone shut and dropped it on the seat. “Thought for sure that was Hemingway said that about Cincinnati,” he said to himself.
He was forty minutes east of Indianapolis. He’d been thinking about the bond women have with each other when Aly Roarke called. He couldn’t get the phrase “get her fixed up” out of his mind. It intrigued him, how Aly and Trish had rallied without question to the support of another woman. Okay, so maybe the movie star status had stoked their commitment. But Aly didn’t know it was Sylvie Averling under the bridge when she made him stop the car. And whatever problem Aly and Trish had between them was brushed aside when coming to the aid of a sister.
“Get her fixed up,” Pelfry said as he rocketed past a westbound Midwestern Orchardz truck on I 74. A black Jagu
ar shot from behind the truck and drafted behind the Mustang.
Pelfry imagined a lot of “get her fixed up” had to do with hygiene. But there was something else hanging in those words. Something the women didn’t want the men to know about.
“Get her fixed up,” he said as he passed a Lincoln Continental. He looked at the man behind the wheel. His collar said Catholic priest. The priest smiled, nodded, gave a priestly wave. Pelfry saluted, then juiced the Mustang ahead.
He thought about Trish’s reaction when he and Aly had arrived with Sylvie. Trish made her little Hollywood joke. But there was no pause to revel in the glory of her witticism. Nor did she gape or get flustered or squeal with delight over the movie star suddenly arrived at her doorstep. And no, “What’s that bitch doing here?” as an acknowledgement of her problem with Aly. There was only the recognition of a sister in distress and the immediate decision to take care of her.
The more Pelfry thought about it, the more he realized there was no decision to make on Trish’s part. The decision had been made eons ago, say, around the time the Neanderthals wooed their women with all the finesse of a club to the head. The gals probably started talking in the mornings while they cleaned up around the campfire after the men had gone a-huntin’. What else could they do until the men adopted gentler methods but stick together and fix each other up?
“Jung wrote that every male has a female side,” Pelfry said aloud. “The anima. Maybe I could access my anima to find out what ‘get her fixed up’ means.”
Pelfry slowed the Mustang when he realized he was doing a hundred and ten. The black Jaguar swung from behind and flew past.
“Maybe Clove could give me a few pointers.”
~ ~ ~
When he arrived to the station in Indianapolis, Pelfry was told that Interim Chief of Homicide Lloyd Baney was waiting for him in Melvin Weeks’ vacated office.
Baney didn’t look up when Pelfry entered.
“First order of business,” said Baney. He kept his eyes on the report he was writing. “You will not miss another morning staff meeting without prior permission. Nor will you be late.” He looked to the ceiling, touched his pen to his chin, then looked back to the report. “What you will do is arrive precisely on time with everyone’s coffee. And I do mean precisely. It’s all in the timing, Jo-wones. As far as arriving with the coffee hot, that is.” Without looking up Baney slid a sheet of yellow legal paper across his desk. “This is the list of how everyone wants it. This will be your most important task of the day. Do not fuck it up.
“Second order of business.” Baney slid another sheet across his desk. “Kid called in said he may have waited on Alvaro Xaman the night of the Colts Pats game. Check him out and get back to me before your shift ends.”
Pelfry took the name and address of the potential witness and left the office.
~ ~ ~
Aaron Liggette lived in downtown Indianapolis, two blocks from the restaurant where he worked. He and Pelfry made the short walk to Gumption Junction.
“See, the sidewalk café is closed now,” said Aaron. “Would have been closed that night except it was so warm and we really jam when there’s a Monday night game.”
Aaron stepped over the low iron fence that defined the sidewalk café’s boundaries. Pelfry followed. Black wrought iron tables and chairs were stacked and chained against the bright red wall of the building.
“His table was right about here,” said Aaron. He outlined a table with his hands.
“What makes you think you waited on a murder victim?” asked Pelfry.
“I heard about it after it happened. I mean, who doesn’t talk about a blue head showing up in a public place? It took a few days, then I remembered a guy from that night who was obviously from out of town. He had a heavy accent and was kind of dark. Well, I don’t mean to sound racist, but he looked really, really foreign. And he made some kind of comment about the weather. I mean, who doesn’t? But he seemed confused about Indian summer.”
“What else can you remember about him? Did he say anything else? Was he carrying anything? Briefcase, maybe?”
“Uh, just that he drank coffee and didn’t eat anything. Normally one person at a table not eating would get me pissed. Those tables are my living. Man, we were really jamming, though. So I didn’t mind the low maintenance table. Guess what I’m saying is, I didn’t have time to strike up a conversation. Or to notice much about him.”
“He was alone the entire time he sat at your table?”
“Far as I remember.”
“Okay, now, this is probably the most important thing you can help me with, so even if you can’t come up with an answer now, keep it rolling around. Even if it takes days. I’ll give you a number where I can be reached. What I need to know is, what can you tell me about his leaving? Did you see him leave with anyone, or maybe walk towards someone in the café, or out on the sidewalk?”
“Man, I don’t think so. I didn’t see him have any kind of exchange with anyone.”
“But did you see him leave? Whether he left in a hurry? Or casually strolled out?”
“Yeah, see, I don’t think I saw him go.”
“I want you to understand, Aaron, that I understand about your tables being your living. Okay? So maybe a lone guy at a table not eating, maybe even if you’re really jamming, you want to see if the guy was considerate enough to pay his rent and take care of you with a nice tip, which you’d want to be sure to thank him for. See what I’m saying? Maybe you were looking out for that without being conscious of it.”
“I see what you mean, but—”
“On the other hand—and I completely sympathize with your situation here— maybe you wanted to see if some foreigner stiffed you so that you could let him know what an asshole he was.”
“Man, you’ve waited tables.”
“No, but I can imagine.”
“Yeah. That’s cool. And you’re observing the whole time, even in a restaurant, because you can’t turn off being a cop.”
“That’s what I mean with you. You’re always observing your tables even if you’re not in the process of coming or going to them.”
“Yeah. That’s good. I’ll keep thinking about it because right now I really can’t remember seeing the guy leave. Heck, man, I can’t even remember what he left me.”
“But that’s good. You’re in the game. You just anticipated my next question.”
“Really? Hey, this is kind of fun. Except, I mean, a guy’s dead.”
“Before we move on, that memory of your client leaving? If you did see that, the memory is always there no matter what.”
“Sort of locked in subliminally.”
“Good. So you understand how it may pop up sometime. Anytime. When it does, call me.”
“Okay. What’s next?”
“There’s a place where recent credit slips are kept?”
“Yeah. Back in the manager’s office. But I think I’d remember someone using a credit card for a two dollar check.”
“Doesn’t hurt to look. The victim we’re dealing with was from out of town.”
“Way, way out of town.”
“Everything he spent may have been covered by an expense account.”
“We should go back there now. The lunch rush is going to hit any minute and the manager will be too busy to let us in.”
“Would the lost and found be back there? I’m wondering if he left a coat behind.”
“Yeah. I mean, no. I don’t remember if he left one.”
They stepped back over the iron fence.
“You’re off today?” asked Pelfry.
“Work tonight. I don’t do lunches. Twice the running for half the money.”
A young hostess opened the front door. “Hey, Aaron,” she said. “You want a table or you going to sit at the bar?”
“Neither, Bethany,” said Aaron. “Official police business.”
“Oh?” She was clutching a stack of bright red menus to her chest. Several servers in red polo
shirts milled around her.
“Homicide,” said Aaron. “Can’t go into it right now. Who’s the M.O.D?”
“Scootchie.”
“Perfect.” Aaron nodded to Pelfry.
Pelfry caught the hint. He took out his badge to show Bethany. She seemed impressed. So did the servers.
“This way,” said Aaron. He led the way through a network of tables covered with bright red plastic covers.
“Place has a real thing for red,” said Pelfry.
“Gumption Junction corporate thing. This edgy, in your face shade of red is supposedly the color of gumption. Hey, you think hypnosis might get me that memory back?”
“Possibly.”
“But you guys don’t have a hypnotist at the station? You know, like you keep those sketch artists handy?”
“No, but that’s a damn good idea. Really. But there are other methods. The Yaqui Indians were known to produce total birth recall by using… Well, probably shouldn’t go into that. There’s been some interesting work done with strobe lights. If you’re willing.”
“Heck yeah! You got a set up back at the station?”
“No. Matter of fact, it’d be best if you never mentioned anything about it. Especially if you talk to other cops.”
“Ohh, okay. You got your own methods, huh? Sort of a maverick. Like some TV cop bucking the system and going paranormal?”
Pelfry made no response.
“Must be something like that, huh?”
“So, this Scootchie being M.O.D. That’s a good thing?”
“His real gig is kitchen manager.” Aaron knocked on the office door. “Sold his own recipe for gazpacho to the company. He’ll insist we have some. You hungry?”
“Just as long as someone doesn’t hang a red bib on me.”
“I hear that.”
40: Girl Talk
“It is not the personal human being who is making the statement, but the archetype speaking through him.”
Aly had been thinking Indianapolis Homicide progressive beyond reason for keeping Jones Pelfry on their payroll. Her reading of Jung now made it seem as if the detective existed inside a swirl of archetypes; that he possessed a unique ability to hear the call of the ancients through the “power grid’s” soul deafening static; that he could slip beneath the influences of “the powers that be” that obscured the components of humans as symbol generating beings, him with all his academic theories, pop culture references, Biblical quotes, and bizarre conciliations of disparate cultural entities—Yaqui Indians and The Brothers Grimm? He certainly had a kaleidoscope of birds, beers and horses going on, all made relevant to each other by the colors black, white, yellow and red.