A Bullet Apiece

by John Joseph Ryan

  I took a seat at the bar in front of Jimmy. I guess expecting he would give me a drink was too much. He took a slug from the bottle of bourbon and then sealed it back up. I lit a cigarette and waited.

  “The Beef is dead,” he said with a sigh of finality. I read both melancholy and relief in his tone.

  “What happened?”

  “Someone sapped him in the back alley and then slit his throat. Or vice versa. Either way the job was done.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  He gave me a look like I was a slow learner.

  “What the hell for? They’d ruin my business for months. Maybe even do me for good. Nah-ah. I’m hirin’ you.”

  “I’m flattered, Jimmy, but this is a police matter. If we don’t report this, you could be charged as an accomplice after the fact—or, at the very least, for obstruction of justice. Hell, it could go the same way for me.” I gulped some nervousness back into my gut. Jimmy’s eyes narrowed further as I finished. “I’m not interested.”

  “For a dick you don’t notice a lot.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Big man or no, I still had some pride.

  “I know who did The Beef.”

  “Then what’d you call me for?” I was regaining some composure with a lungful of cigarette smoke.

  “Because it ain’t that easy. Kira!” he shouted, turning to face the kitchen off to the side of the bar. The red curtain parted and out came Kira in some kind of pajama-kimono. As ridiculous as Jimmy looked in the robe, Kira looked sexy as hell in silk. My eyes must have registered this incontrovertible fact, because Jimmy growled at me low and menacing. “Get your hard-on somewhere else.”

  I said nothing, but loosed a lungful of smoke in the direction of the puke-colored pool table.

  “Kira, tell Mr. Darvis what you saw. And no ching-chong crap!” Kira ignored him and looked at me. Even at this hour her face was damn near immaculate.

  “You want drink, Misser Darvis?”

  “Funny you should ask—”

  “No drinks! The goddamn story!” Jimmy’s arms flapped in the air, one tattoo on his forearm looking cheap and ink-smeared in the direct light, as his sleeve slid up. Kira poured me a shot of bourbon anyway from the same bottle Jimmy had just corked. I fought my usual smile in her presence and slugged the shot. I set the glass down hard, and for a moment only the concussion of glass against wood lingered in the air.

  “Now tell it,” Jimmy commanded. He grabbed the bottle of bourbon and took a fast drink. He seemed overly nervous to me.

  Kira looked from me to Jimmy. She folded one arm atop the other across her chest. Not folded exactly, because her palms lay flat; more like she was summoning some energy—or maybe nerve—to begin. I stubbed out my cigarette and kept my eyes on her. She looked back to me.

  “I cleaning the bar top. Jimmy, he go in kitchen.”

  “Kira,” Jimmy growled. He took hold of her shoulder. “Drop that crap!” She snatched herself away from him.

  “All right, Jimmy,” she said in a tone of affection—laced with poison. “Here’s what I saw, Mr. Darvis. George was the last one to go tonight. I woke him up myself. He was mumbling and looked as though he could barely see. But he smiled at me. I remember that. And he muttered something about a fight he threw.” Kira paused and looked at me fully. Maybe it was the light, but she seemed to have grown three inches before my eyes. And her English had sharpened, as though a warped record had been straightened. It had a practiced lilt, the consonants crisp and jagged, and the vowels clothed in ice. Even in the stark overhead light, with Jimmy scowling in his ridiculous yellow robe, I couldn’t help but stare at her face and bask in this new voice. I could feel Jimmy looking at me over the bourbon. But for once, he was quiet. This was Kira’s show, and she had us both by the balls.

  “I helped him to the door. I’ve done that a few times.” Kira stopped and shot a look at Jimmy. “And no, he’s never made any advances on me, Jimmy. He said good night, and when he opened the door, he looked as though he were making up his mind which direction to go. I decided I should call him a cab; so, I came back in to use the bar phone. I went back out a minute later, but didn’t see him. Then I heard him in the alley. He was muttering, half singing. I walked towards the alley, but I heard urine hitting the wall. I decided he wasn’t going anywhere, at least for the moment. So, I yelled over to him, ‘I call you cab, Beef!’ I thought he said ‘All right’, but it was slurred. I went back inside and closed the door. I kept cleaning. Jimmy had gone upstairs about ten minutes earlier. Pretty soon a cab pulled up out front. I heard a car door slam, then nothing for a moment, then a pounding on our door.” As Kira continued, the story picked up speed and the sequence of events tumbled out. “I opened it and saw a cabbie there, looking terrified. ‘Miss’, he said, ‘are you alone?’ I told him no and got suspicious. ‘Jesus God’, he said. Just like that. I’ve never heard that expression before.”

  “Go on with it, Kira.” Jimmy sounded tired and resigned.

  Kira continued. “He wouldn’t say anything. He just kept glancing towards the alley. Oh, and he was shaking the whole time. I wasn’t about to let him inside.” She glanced at Jimmy. “I told him to wait outside. ‘Beef around the corner,’ I said, and I locked the door to go get Jimmy.”

  For the first time since I’d shown up, Jimmy seemed to be aware of how he was dressed. He pulled the yellow robe together across his massive chest, and I fished out another cigarette to spare him the embarrassment.

  “When Jimmy and I came outside, the cabbie was at the door of his taxi, looking like he was scared out of his wits. Jimmy confronted him in his inimitable style, shall we say.”

  ‘Inimitable’—I liked that. I wondered if Jimmy thought he might be getting insulted.

  “The cabbie pointed at the alley, but refused to move from his car. Jimmy went into the alley and I followed. That’s where we found George Reynolds. On his stomach, a pool of blood circling his head and shoulders.”

  “And you knew he was dead?” I asked.

  Jimmy spoke up. “I’ve seen death, Darvis. I didn’t need a coroner.”

  “Did you feel for a pulse?”

  “Kira did. Gotta hand it to her. I didn’t want to walk through his blood.”

  “Nor did I,” Kira began, “and I didn’t. No pulse. He was quite dead and warm together. It was a disturbing moment for me.” Funny, her face didn’t register ‘disturbing’. I wondered what she’d seen in her lifetime to be so matter-of-fact about finding a dead man, and for that matter, one she knew.

  “Then what?”

  “We came back around the building, and Jimmy walked over and asked the cabbie what he saw. I was going to go inside and call the police, but the cabbie stopped me. He leaned in to Jimmy’s ear and hissed a few things I couldn’t hear. Then he got in the cab and drove off. Jimmy was—” She looked at Jimmy for confirmation, or maybe permission, then simply said, “I couldn’t tell.”

  “Go on and say it, Kira,” Jimmy muttered.

  Kira hesitated a moment longer. “Scared. He was scared. I’ve never seen that look on his face. I came over to him at once. Tell him, Jimmy. Tell him what the cabbie said.”

  Jimmy cleared his throat. The act did nothing for the gravel rattling around in it.

  “It was a cop, Ed. Out of uniform, but a cop. A beat-cop, from Dogtown. He came running out of the alley when the cabbie showed up.”

  “Is he sure?” I spat out.

  “Cabbies know faces. And cabbies are friendly with the beat-cops. He said his headlights caught the guy right as he came out of the alley. The guy froze, and then covered his face and ran.”

  My head raced with questions. “Kira, did you see or hear anything while you waited inside?”

  “No. Between phoning for the cab and its arrival, I was wiping tables, running water.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Nothin’. Hell, I was upstairs, about to go to bed.”

  I kept my eyes level with his and tried
to ignore the glowing bathrobe. “Was anyone else around?”

  Kira responded. “Nobody that I could see. But I only looked outside briefly, when I heard George in the alley.”

  “Who was the last person to leave tonight, Kira? Besides The Beef, obviously.”

  She thought a moment, seeming to recall the faces of every middle-aged drunkard from the night. For a split second I saw my reflection in the bar mirror. Seeing my bruised and beat-up face, I winced and looked away. Then, Kira lit up.

  “I know. Simon. The one George calls—called—Simple Simon.”

  I flashed back to seeing Simon’s uneasy countenance under The Beef’s powerful arm earlier in the night. His lips had been trembling.

  “You know where he lives?”

  “Yeah.” It was Jimmy’s turn to try to regain control. “He lives in Dogtown, too!” he exclaimed as though on the path to discovery.

  “What street?” I asked.

  “Ah, he lives on West Park. No. Wait. The other one. Parallel to it. Nashville. Yeah, that’s it. Nashville. First block in from McCausland.”

  “Kira, did Simon leave right before George?”

  “No. He left perhaps half an hour before him.”

  “All right. I’m gonna need to find him and this cabbie. Jimmy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You hiring me here?”

  “What do you think?”

  Tough guy. In a yellow robe, no less.

  “I think you are. I’m fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. I’ll start today. Today being now.”

  “Okay. Where do I sign?” Jimmy asked. These are the moments I felt like a life insurance salesman.

  “We’ll do the paperwork later in the day … today.” I wanted to make sure I didn’t get stiffed.

  No one said anything then. Kira had sunk back into her own thoughts, folding her arms again. Jimmy planted both his hands on the bar top, his natural propriety rooting him, despite the ridiculous get-up. I puffed on my cigarette, thinking about all Kira had said. That’s when Jimmy raised his hand and slapped his forehead.

  “What?” I asked, anxious to know what epiphany had come to him.“Goddamn. George. The Beef. The body! What the hell am I supposed to do with the body?”

  Kira’s eyes fluttered, but she held still. I glanced from her to Jimmy. None of us had considered what to do with the body—till now. What have we become, if such a thing as body disposal goes to the back burner? I focused on Jimmy.

  “Got a spare freezer?” I asked evenly. Jimmy looked at me to see if I was kidding. He turned to Kira, and a slow, deliberate smile spread across her face. She nodded slightly at me. I sucked on the tail-end of my cigarette and gave her the grin I’d been restraining since she walked out of the back room. “We’ll need some gloves,” I added.

  Jimmy’s laugh sounded like an old coffin creaking open, then splitting to pieces.

  Chapter 7

  Simple Simon Meets a P.I. Man

  We wrapped The Beef’s body in an old tarpaulin. Sweating and cursing the whole way, Jimmy and I hauled him to the basement freezer. The inside of the freezer felt damn good, and we both lingered with the body for a moment, catching our breath and not looking at each other. Kira volunteered to do hose duty in the alley. By the time we finished, it was dawn. Jimmy was grouchier than usual—which was understandable. Hell, I wasn’t so great myself. Besides my throbbing head, my empty gut was begging for a fill-up. I didn’t think staying around to wait for a continental breakfast was going to get me fed, so I bid them good morning and promised to come by later in the afternoon. The Courtesy Drive-in on Kingshighway would be near enough to Dogtown, so I headed there.

  The restaurant was mostly full with blue-collar guys and a few business types. I sat at the counter, the sunshine beaming through the glass and bouncing off the chrome trim. My stool was still warm from the last customer, but the A/C was already cranked up.

  As usual, Carl, the short-order cook wearing his characteristic smudged white apron, was flipping patties and spreading hashed brown potatoes around on the top of the grill. The smell of strong dark coffee mingled with the mouth-watering grease. I ordered a slinger, extra cheese, and onions. Lois, who has waited on me for a few years now, poured my coffee and moved on to another customer without a word. The “courtesy” is everyone gets treated the same—pour the coffee, take the order, and slap the plate and ticket down in one swift motion. No chit-chat or how-you-doin’s. Eat and get out. It suited me just fine.

  As I sipped my hot coffee and tried not to salivate at the sights and smells of heavy food, I thought about Kira Harto. Here, like some two-bit Mafioso, I’d spent the morning hoisting a big, dead man into a freezer, and all I could think about was Kira, and her transformation from a broken-English war-bride, to a well-spoken, educated woman. I’m sure she had good reasons for keeping up the act inside the bar. I suppose it kept most men at an enjoyable, tense distance. What I couldn’t figure, though, was how she connected with a lug like Broad Jimmy? But hell, there’s probably plenty about him I don’t know, either.

  Shaking off thoughts of Kira, I returned to The Beef’s death. So much for my middle-of-the-night squeamishness about taking the police out of the equation. The coppers—at least one of them—were already in the thick of it. I didn’t know what to make of that. If it was a cop from Dogtown, he had strayed a good six miles from his beat. So, I figured, he was there on his own time. Did he work with a partner? Did he have something on The Beef that necessitated giving the boxer a permanent KO? My stomach churned. A sour taste erupted in my mouth. Whether from the ramifications of this budding case and my part in hiding a dead body, or the coffee I was now slurping, I’d need some rye toast. First to even out the Joe, and next, to decide what the hell I was going to do, since I was now an accomplice in covering up a murder.

  At 6:30 I paid my check and left. I took Kingshighway to Manchester and then onto Hampton. I cruised down West Park, went several blocks, then cut over to Nashville. I parked at the top of the last block, just east of McCausland, and got out. The rising sun was at my back as I started down the sidewalk checking house numbers. Jimmy said he didn’t know which house belonged to Simon, only that it was on the north side of Nashville. He thought it had blue shutters, but couldn’t remember if the cracker box was brick or asbestos shingle. I decided to case each house on the way towards McCausland. As I walked along the street, my nifty detective senses didn’t perk up, and I was starting to feel like a boob. I didn’t even know if Simon had a car. I didn’t know, either, if he was a bachelor and led a solitary river life, or had a loud-mouth wife and a brood of squalling kids. Hell, I didn’t even know his last name. I’d be better off contacting Bertie Albanese to help me out with this. But I was leery of talking to Bertie, friend that he was, if I had to cover up my involvement in a case that might include a killer cop.

  I made McCausland without any sign that I’d nailed the right house. Time to turn around and contemplate a door-to-door. Luck favored me then. A woman in a house dress, her greying hair twirled around curlers, shuffled out of her front door to retrieve the morning Post-Dispatch. I took out a piece of scrap paper and pen and wrote down the nearest house number on it. Then I put on a happy face and called out to her.

  “Ma’am? Excuse me. Eddie Arnold.” I extended my hand to her. She took it, leaning slightly back, as though I might execute a wrestling move on her.

  “Eddie who?” she asked. A line of red lipstick was smeared over her upper lip and crept up toward the short channel of flesh under her nostrils.

  “Arnold. You know. Like the singer.”

  “Oh, yes. Like the singer. What can I do for you, Mr. Arnold?”

  “Well, ma’am, I was looking for Simon, you know? Guy with a grey beard? Yeah, I’m foreman for the second shift. He left his keys yesterday.” I held up my own ring of keys. “I wanted to drop ’em off to him. Figured he probably had a spare to get home, but still, you know how it feels not to have your keys.”

  “O
h, sure. I can’t stand that.”

  “Me neither. Like I said, I was just heading home myself, over in Maplewood, just off Southwest, and I thought Simon might need his keys.” I gestured westward, smiling big and booming with early-morning, good-guy cheerfulness. She’s buying it, I thought to myself, as she cradled the bound paper to her chest. “So, if you could point me to his house, I’d be obliged. I got his address from one of the guys at work, but I’m not so sure.”

  She looked at the address I had scribbled down. “No, that’s not it. You’re off by one number.”

  I rolled my eyes and mumbled something like, Those guys in the shop. I swear! She gave me the missing number and pointed me two houses east of hers.

  “That’s his.”

  “Well, I thank you. I’ll be sure to tell Simon you helped me out, Miss…?”

  “Mrs. Reynolds.”

  I shook off a chill when she said her last name, but kept my smile on. Reynolds? Probably a coincidence. Surely. I turned away and waved again. “All right, Mrs. Reynolds. I’ll be sure to tell him. And thanks again.”

  She said goodbye and headed towards her door.

  Just as I got to Simon’s front walk, Mrs. Reynolds called to me from her porch.

  “Oh, Mr. Arnold?”

  “Yes?”

  “How about a little song for this beautiful morning?”

  I decided there and then to retire the Eddie Arnold alias. Still, what the hell. I gave her the opening bars of “Cattle Call” and then beat a quick retreat before she asked me to yodel. It was a relief to knock on Simple Simon’s door. It opened immediately after I heard an agitated voice inside.