A Bullet Apiece

by John Joseph Ryan

I woke up with a start to full daylight. As I sat up, shirt and pants still on, I rubbed my face. A final nightmare image of Meeki’s scarred cheeks and laughing teeth filled my vision until they exploded in blood spray and bone fragments. I slapped my face and felt something like consciousness. My alarm clock showed 8:30. I stood up and headed into the kitchen. God, I needed coffee.

  While it brewed, I called St. Mary’s. Bertie Albanese was still critical, but stable. They’d taken him to surgery to repair his intestines. The single bullet had cut through on his right side, missing other neatly-packed vital organs. Barring any serious infection, his early prognosis looked good. I leaned my head back and flicked my eyes heavenward.

  My next call was to the District 9 station. When I identified myself, the desk sergeant sounded like an old buddy. Kill a cop-killer and you get all the love. He told me that Jerri Hanady had been released on bond, and that Miss Brennan was still being held. That meant she wasn’t talking. Had to hand it to her. Even though her boss no longer had a care in the world, she was still protecting him. Or maybe just herself.

  Next, I planned my call to Jerri Hanady. It wouldn’t be easy to talk with a client who just killed her husband. Maybe I’d better do it from the office. I showered, shaved, and changed my clothes. I felt like a new man, born again, somehow from the detritus of death.

  I arrived in the industrial court at about 9:30. It was bright out, but the sunshine didn’t seem so punishing. The kids were playing in the fenced yard next to the preschool. I watched them for a full minute before going inside my office. When this was all over, I would pay a personal visit to Marni Reyes, too.

  Inside my office, I just stood there, staring with unfocused eyes at my desk. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember why I had decided to go there. The phone. Right. Ella, the Hanady’s cook, answered after six rings. She spoke in a hushed tone.

  “Miss Ella,” I said, “this is Ed Darvis.”

  Before I could ask to speak to Mrs. Hanady, Ella said, “She sleepin’, Mr. Dahvis.”

  “That’s good. Don’t wake her on my account. I’ll be in my office all afternoon. She can reach me later.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her you called.”

  I hung up, leaned back in my chair, and put my feet up on my desk to wait—and think. Again, my thoughts turned to Meeki. He’d mentioned investors in Colombia. I pictured fat, rich, bald Americans getting heavy on young field workers. Were the girls just used for sex? No, they were impregnated, too. Baby-making machines. I snorted as I wondered if they were seeded according to some sick design. I wondered how many other adoptions had gone through besides Rachel’s. I shook off more questions. All this was just too much to take in. And, with weird relief, I figured it was a federal issue now. Extradition. Grand Juries. I would have to testify in Jerri Hanady’s trial. That I knew. She wasn’t gas chamber material, but if she was lucky, she’d get manslaughter and ten years. Maybe a partially suspended sentence. And, of course, there was her daughter to consider. For a brief time inside Miss Brennan’s bungalow, I wondered if Meeki had molested her. I didn’t have the luxury of contemplating her health in such a tense scene, but now thoughts of the giant petting her, or doing worse, filled my head. I shook my head to banish my thoughts about the little girl. This is a hell of a way to make a living for a couple day’s work. Then it hit me. If I even got fucking paid.

  I stood up and looked outside as some of the leaves on the Bradford Pears rocked back and forth in the breeze. Tomorrow I’d try to get in to see Bertie. That bullet he took could have been for me. We were even now. A bullet for each other. A bullet apiece. But then, I was just counting for the hell of it, because friends never owe.

  In a couple of hours the afternoon pickup would begin across the street. Maybe I’d cut across after that and find Marni Reyes. Maybe I’d just leave her the hell alone.

  In the meantime, I decided to ignore everything else I should be doing. I owed it to myself. I lit a cigarette, sat down, and propped my feet back up on the desk. As the pear trees swayed, the image of Meeki Osagae’s dead face seemed to materialize amid their black boughs. I shuddered to shake the vision.

  * * *

  I woke up with a start, my shirtfront soaking wet.

  Stiff, I pulled myself up and stretched as I walked over to the counter and put some coffee on to brew. Then I lit another cigarette. Then I stubbed it out.

  I picked up a crushed butt off the linoleum.

  I sorted through some bills on my desktop.

  I put my feet back up on the desk thought about my life.

  Tired of everything—my routine, the shitty hands I kept getting dealt, my job, my life, myself, I picked up the phone. The business with Broad Jimmy—and my being an accomplice in hiding a murder—still had to be dealt with. Maybe he’d want to decline my services at this point. That would be AOK. Hell, at this point, I wanted him to.

  I called my answering service. I had two messages. I could tell by the eager tone in the messenger’s voice—that brief note that masked the ever-funny ‘yuck, yuck, yuck’ I imagined she’d shared with her fellow messengers—that she’d been looking forward to this call.

  “The first is from a man named Jimmy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He said—um—do you want me to quote, or just paraphrase?”

  “Is it quotable?”

  She snickered. “Well, yes . . . and no. There’s some language. . . .”

  “I can take it, if you can, honey.”

  “Here goes, then. But don’t say I didn't warn you.” At this she laughed. “He said, ‘Darvis, you dick-smoking PI, where the hell are you?’” I heard giggles in the background. Her sidekicks most likely listening in. “‘Pull your pud out of your light socket, comb your hair back down, and get your flabby ass down to my place. Pronto’. Then he spelled out the word ‘pronto’. Shall I spell it out for you, too?” Without waiting, she started, “P-R-O—.”

  “I think I got it. Anything more?”

  “No.” She sounded disappointed by my lack of reaction. She added, “Isn’t that enough?!” Her full-throated laugh, followed by some harsh shushing, set me on edge. “But I do think he may have tried to pick me up. He sounded a little bit in his cups.”

  “He’s like that. And the other message?”

  Again, she laughed. “She didn’t leave her name, but she wanted me to ask if you needed your . . . and I quote—‘venetian blinds cleaned?’—unquote.”

  This time, I laughed right along with her. “Boy, do I. But maybe another time, hon. And thanks.”

  Back home I twisted open the lock to my mailbox in the building foyer and pulled out a stack of more bills. Nothing there that couldn’t wait a few days. Also nothing to help delay me thinking about The Beef's murder. I retired upstairs to my wingback chair, loosened my collar, and kicked off my loafers. If I wasn’t careful, I’d fall asleep, but the uncomfortable chair worked against that. My stomach growled, but I didn’t know whether to feed it breakfast or lunch. Think Darvis. Think. You light socket-fucking idiot, you.

  Officer Downing’s nightstick still lay on the side table. He may not have slit The Beef’s throat, but he was involved. I just wasn’t sure exactly how. At least not yet. I had called The Beef’s death a vengeance killing. I didn’t know his death from a common mugging, yet Downing didn’t correct my identification of the crime. You get matter-of-fact with people and push their buttons, and eventually they’ll trap themselves in their own defense mechanisms. This I knew. Experience paid for something.

  I check-listed what I knew so far. Someone had it in for George Reynolds. Based on the way he treated folks, more than a few people did. Tim Hamill, the cabbie, who had implied he spoke to Kira Harto on the phone the night The Beef was murdered, but said he didn’t recognize her voice. Yet, when she called the cab company, she would have gotten a dispatcher, not Hamill. Either he was sloppy about his lies, or she hadn’t gone through the dispatcher at all. Which, in that case, meant she called Hamill directly.
And she was involved.

  But why? The fact that Hamill lived in Dogtown, part of Officer Downing’s beat, was a little too convenient. They could be accomplices. Also, Hamill claimed not to know or recognize Kira Harto at the bar. Something was fouling the gears of a plan, and Hamill was the grime. He covered the most territory in this situation. Plus, he spilled too easily. Let’s say, I told myself, an arrangement had been made to off The Beef in the alley next to Broad Jimmy’s. Kira could have called the killer after everyone else had left the bar and while The Beef was relieving himself outside. She also could have reached Hamill to arrange for a pickup, which would also have given him an alibi: drunk guy at a bar at the end of the night gets cab ride. That guaranteed that Hamill was a witness, if not an accomplice. In this scenario, Kira was deeply involved. If so, why? And was Broad Jimmy involved, too? I thought back to his demeanor and appearance last night. He looked like he had been asleep. His defenses were down, and some nervousness was playing around his tough edges. Was it the nervousness? Or involvement? Or could his demeanor be chalked up to having a regular customer killed outside of his establishment? Even more sinister, could Kira be involved in something as complicated as murder right under Broad Jimmy’s nose?

  I didn’t know if Jimmy and Kira would be awake yet, but I needed to talk to them before I went any further. I picked up a contract to give to Broad Jimmy, swallowed down some cold, burned black coffee, and walked out the front door. As I closed it, I tucked a flyer advertising a cleaning service into the doorframe underneath the bottom hinge. Then I locked the door. If anyone decided to make any surprise visits while I was gone, I’d know.

  I drove east on Route 40 and made Locust in about ten minutes. My watch said quarter to twelve. One of the two unlikely love birds would be awake by now, getting ready for the liquid lunch special the salesmen and stock brokers traded on.

  I parked at a meter and fed it its thirty pieces. Broad Jimmy’s looked dark inside. I tried the door, but it was locked. I stepped back to take in a fuller view of the place. There wasn’t much foot traffic at this end of downtown. I noticed a little sign taped up to the left of the front door. In a quick-looking neat hand, it read:

  Closed due to illness. Expect to be open again tonight.

  Well, I didn’t blame them. I doubted Jimmy would be able to keep his cool—or

  keep from spilling what happened to someone. Kira would be able to, though. Ching-chong crap, as Jimmy said. What other secrets do you possess, Kira?

  I walked around to the alley and saw it for the first time in daylight. There were the usual metal trashcans and a dumpster. Kira and Jimmy kept it remarkably clean. There was an extra level of dazzle, thanks to Kira’s wash job last night. Or maybe she just shined up the grime. The untrained eye wouldn’t notice anything.

  A fire escape climbed the brick wall near the dumpster. The retractable ladder leading up to the stairs was halfway down. I jumped a few times and finally caught hold of the bottom rung. It slid down, the clatter of squeaky iron echoing in the alley. I started up, huffing and puffing when I reached the landing. Maybe I needed to cut down on the smokes. On the second floor there was a dark window. I pushed my face up to the glass. An un-curtained bathroom. Guess you don’t need much privacy with another brick wall for a neighbor. I continued to climb to the top floor to another window. This one looked into a bedroom. No curtain here, either. The place had a light clutter of discarded crumpled paper and file boxes. A twin bed was pushed against the right wall. Broad Jimmy’s sleeping form filled it. He was wearing a tanktop t-shirt and boxers. The yellow robe lay crumpled on the floor. One of his tattooed arms, the one with the squashed Japanese soldier on it, lay across his face. His body and the general disorder of the room belied the definite lack of a feminine touch. So, Jimmy and Kira slept in separate rooms. The door to the bedroom was closed. I couldn’t hear any sounds coming from the apartment.

  I climbed back down the fire escape and gave the ladder a good push to get it back up. It grated to a stop halfway. I’d leave it how it was then. I stood in the alley, right over the spot were The Beef’s body had lain. Jimmy was sacked out. No visible sign of Kira Harto. The tavern was closed. This all felt funny. Something wasn’t right.

  I got back into the Chevy and decided to go by St. Mary’s to see if I could visit Bertie. Later, I could try to find the cab dispatcher, Ben Hartog, in the phone book and talk to him face to face. Not that I had high hopes of him being overly cooperative, though.

  Chapter 15

  Back into the Lion’s Den

  When I came in the hospital room door, Bertie raised a coffee mug.

  “Whatcha got in there, Bertie?”

  “It’s just water, detective. But cheers anyway.”

  “Don't tell me you’re off duty because of a little scratch?”

  “Naw. It’s just my lunch hour.” He gestured at a plastic chair. “Have a seat. Miss Weathersby, is it? Now, I’ll be the one to ask the questions.” Bertie giggled, of all things. “Tell me about your estranged husband and why you think he’s dead.” I smiled at that, then sat in the flimsy chair. Bertie must have a dandy narcotic on board. He looked strangely relaxed, while I was feeling sleepless and uncomfortable.

  “You look like shit, Ed. Broad Jimmy’s already treat you right today?” It was my turn to stiffen. I passed off the sudden jolt with a big yawn.

  “You know me. Never met a happy hour that didn’t deliver. How are you feeling?”

  He shrugged and gestured impassively at his abdomen. Bertie was too casual. His left hand trembled almost imperceptibly.

  “Yeah, well. I wanted to see if you wanted a Hi-Lo rematch. So I could take back some of my money.”

  “You’re on. Got the cards?”

  I nodded, took out the pack, and handed it to him. I lit a cigarette, too, which drew a look from Bertie.

  “Feel strange to be in here, Ed?”

  “I’ll say. Especially with the likes of your mug looking at me.”

  “The view ain’t so pretty from over here, either.”

  “I’ll give you that.” He shuffled the deck on his tray and I cut the cards. He started to deal as I blew out a smoke ring. When he winced, I stayed his hand, then took the deck away from him. He lay back and blew a breath out slowly. I dealt instead.

  “Bertie,” He seemed to know what I was going to say.

  “Ed, don’t bother. I’ll be all right.”

  I wanted to reassure him, ask him how he felt, make sure the pain wasn’t too bad. I also wanted to fish for any mention of The Beef’s disappearance. I wanted to insure he knew nothing about The Beef, or worse, my involvement in hiding his body. Actually, I didn’t want to hear anything about The Beef coming from Bertie’s lips.

  “You know George ‘The Beef’ Reynolds?”

  Damn. I leaned over to fiddle with one of my shoes, keeping my eyes averted.

  “Sure. I wouldn’t call him a pal, but I know him. He holds court at Broad Jimmy’s most nights. You can get a ringside seat every night if you want. Some lucky customers even get a chance to fight him.”

  “Including you?”

  I raised up and steeled myself. “Nix. The Beef may be retired, but I wouldn’t put him on my dance card.” I paused to pull on the cigarette. I squinted as I did so, but my eyes were riveted on his face, scanning for a tell. “Why do you ask?”

  “Some buddies of mine in the Three are looking for him.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Bertie just studied me. I studied the face-up cards as though I was unsure of my next move. “Where’d he go?” I asked, without looking him in the eye.

  “They don’t know. But he’s in some shit.”

  And how, I thought. Frozen shit.

  “What’d he do?”

  “He’s been rigging fights on the South side. Amateur stuff. But he’s suspected in some backroom deals. Illegal gambling.”

  “Small stuff. And common. Why the sudden interest in bringing him in?”

  “Ther
e’s been some talk. Possible mob connection. Maybe a hit or two. That gets the local boys worked up. Might mean Feds.”

  I forced a chuckle. “Territorial pissing.”

  “You got it. It’s bad enough having to deal with you PI’s.” He smiled emptily at me and turned over a queen of diamonds. We played for about half an hour. I barely spoke, but Bertie held up his end of the conversation cheerfully. Neither of us was addressing the previous night’s events. I had more than Meeki’s killing on my mind. I was feeling guilty. I wanted to spill what I was involved in and solicit his help. I was close to opening up a few times, but I couldn’t get past the feeling of The Beef’s dead weight in my arms as Broad Jimmy and I slung him into the basement freezer. Until I put together a few more pieces, I would have to keep my lips sealed around Bertie. And that hurt in a way. To my knowledge, he had always dealt straight with me. I couldn’t think of a more honest guy.

  In fact, it reminded me of the time I was having girl trouble at sixteen. My father was off philandering on a sales trip somewhere. My mother was sweet with me, but her advice about love was old-fashioned: you wait until you’re married, and that’s that. The problem, as it was, was that I finally got with this hot number who put out once, but then strung me along, holding back after that. I was convinced I was in love with her and something was wrong with me because she wouldn’t let me touch her. I recriminated myself, tried to do anything to please her, even wrote her love letters. But no soap. Every night I lay awake, sleepless, anxious, horny. Even afraid. How could I tell my mother that my sanity depended on getting some? My mother could tell something was eating at me, but there was no way I could talk about sex with her. Eventually, this girl and I hit the sheets again; I don’t know to this day what made her change her mind. We lasted maybe another two months. My mother was relieved when it was over. I was, too, but for reasons I could never tell her about. I never learned what—or if—I did wrong. Since then, I haven’t gotten close enough to anyone for long enough to feel much more than a strong lust. And with my few friends, I was just as cautious.