A Bullet Apiece

by John Joseph Ryan

  But by whom? It couldn’t have been Jimmy or Kira. This time of night they would be at the bar. Then I remembered what Officer Downing had said to me: “I’m gonna be talking to him, too.” Maybe he’d done it. It was possible. He’d been mighty damn upset with me by the size of the lump he’d left on my head. Would he have motive enough to ice Hamill? And where the hell was Simon if he did leave with Hamill just now? This couldn’t have been Simon’s work. Without a knife, there was no threat in him.

  I looked around the room. There were some signs of a struggle that could be confused with poor housekeeping. I decided that Downing hadn’t been here long before he went for Hamill. Maybe Hamill made the first move. But I doubted it. Unless he was scared and threatened. Where would Downing be now? I thought of Simple Simon, bound in his own living room. Maybe I imagined Simon’s voice outside his house. Now my attention returned to Downing. I couldn’t imagine he had time to knock off Simon before getting to Hamill. This shit was getting too confusing. I decided to risk a couple more minutes in the apartment and look around.

  The place was small and not as clean as Hamill protested it was during our meeting in the bakery. A light was on over the kitchen sink, which held slimy rinse water the color of sewage. An ashtray on the countertop had spilled and Hamill hadn’t bothered to clean it up. I left the kitchen and passed the bathroom. The door was wide open and it was dark inside. I could make out a claw-footed tub, but no shower curtain. One more room, the bedroom. The door was partially closed. Opening it brought some light in, but not much. Rather than risk turning on more light or getting fingerprints everywhere, I took out my Zippo and and struck it above my head. The room was the one neat space in the whole apartment. One bookshelf held folded clothes. There was no closet door to be seen. The carpet looked clean and empty of refuse. At the foot of the made-up bed were two pairs of polished shoes. On top of the bed was another pair of shoes. These, however, were attached to human feet. I moved the Zippo up the length of the bed and was startled to see Simple Simon looking at me through half-closed eyes. I snapped the lighter to cut the flame. I didn’t move.

  After a minute of listening, a snore escaped from Simon. I felt my way along the side of the bed close to the exterior wall and then flicked the Zippo again. This time Simon’s eyes were closed, although his left eyelid looked cracked open. Blood from his beating caked one side of his face. Had he momentarily awakened? Had he seen me? I didn’t know if he could have in the light. But what the hell was he doing here? If he had been abducted by Downing, why didn’t Downing finish him, instead of just dumping him here? These were too many questions to ponder in a murder victim’s apartment.

  I stepped back away from the bed and left the apartment. I hadn’t touched anything except Hamill’s neck. No time to think about that. I raced down the stairs, then peered out through the front door. There were a few pedestrians on the other side of the street, reeling and cheerful, their drunken voices testifying to their obliviousness. I opened the door with my handkerchief, wiping both knobs as I exited, and closed the door quickly behind me. I started back to my car, forcing a slow, measured pace, trying not to draw attention to myself. But when I sighted my Chevy, I broke into a trot, got in, revved her up, and drove away.

  Nothing was making sense. If Downing was Hamill’s killer, why didn’t he do Simon, too? Why cart him over to Hamill’s apartment and leave him untied on his bed? Maybe Downing was hoping Simon would stay passed out until someone discovered Hamill’s body, implicating Simon. That was a big stretch, and I knew it. I also knew that Simon was somehow involved in The Beef’s murder. And Downing’s actions and protests suggested he was doing a little more than necessary to clear his own name. It was time to make the trip to Broad Jimmy’s again.

  It was also time for me to stop pretending that I could exclude the police from my little adventure. I was smart enough to know that. I stopped at a pay phone on McCausland before getting on the highway. The operator connected me with District 5, north of downtown.

  “I’ve got information on The Beef’s murder.”

  “Who is this?” the desk sergeant asked. He half-covered the mouthpiece and told someone in the background to shut the fuck up.

  “Not tellin’. Go to Broad Jimmy’s tavern. Downtown.”

  “I know where it is. Now who is this?”

  “Ixnay. Broad Jimmy’s. The answer to The Beef’s murder.”

  I hung up before he could ask me who the hell I was again. I hoped that was enough to get some law down there. I was going to need it.

  I pulled onto Locust for what felt like the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours. I parked a block away from Broad Jimmy’s and kept in the shadows away from the streetlights. There wasn’t much activity on the block. Just a passing bus and some guy on a motorcycle. I checked my watch: 10:15. There should be a few people entering or exiting the bar at this hour. But there wasn’t a soul around. As I came up to the alley next to Broad Jimmy’s, I looked up but didn’t see any light from either of the windows along the fire escape. And I noticed along the front of the building, the neon lights in the front windows of the tavern were turned off. A surge of adrenaline reunited with my muscles.

  I knew if I peered in the front window, I could be spotted. So, I turned down the alley and walked over to the kitchen door. It was locked. I didn’t want to make a clatter with the fire escape ladder, so getting up to the upper floors was a no go. I came back onto the sidewalk. Just as I came back around to the front of the tavern, a car made the turn off Locust and started down towards the tavern. I withdrew to the shadows and waited for the car to pass, but it stopped instead. I poked my head around the corner. The car, a late-model Buick, idled in front of Broad Jimmy’s. I could see the silhouette of the driver, but no one else appeared to be in the car. The engine cut off. The driver’s door opened, and the dome light confirmed he was alone. I couldn’t see his face as he got out and walked to the back of the car. He ran his fingers along the trunk and mumbled to himself, so he stopped and turned around, opened his door, leaned in and grabbed at something. When he came around again, he gripped a revolver that he held alongside his leg. As he approached the door, the light over the entrance revealed who it was. Officer Downing, wearing plain clothes. He seemed to listen for a moment, then yanked on the handle and burst inside, gun leading the way. If any time was my chance, this was it. I counted to five to steady myself, then ran out of the alley, my own revolver already in my hand. I pushed open the door and stormed in, just as Officer Downing had.

  This was the scene: the bar was empty and dimly lit, save for the colored lights above the bar mirror. Officer Downing whirled around to face me. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around, but I wasn’t able to take an inventory as Downing pointed his gun at me and cocked it.

  “Downing, it’s Ed Darvis. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot!” I spoke in a hissing whisper that gained an octave. He kept the gun on me, and his expression didn’t change. Then oddly, he brought a finger up to his lips and jerked his head towards the red curtain that separated the bar from the kitchen. I stayed glued to my spot and listened. Then I heard a female voice, muffled, so I couldn’t understand what was being said. It might have been Kira, but her voice sounded high and sing-songy. After a moment, I realized it was her, and that she was speaking Japanese.

  Downing seemed to notice my gun for the first time. His eyes widened behind his glasses, then narrowed. I pointed the gun at the floor and raised my left hand in a gesture of no-harm. He raised two fingers in a victory sign, then pointed with the same hand at the red curtains. I understood him to mean two people and I nodded. I crept closer to him. He kept his gun on me and watched.

  I got close enough to him to whisper. He was tense and sweating. “Officer, what’s going on?”

  He held the gun steady, almost touching it to my gut.

  “Kira Harto is back there. With her brother.”

  He spoke so quietly I wasn’t sure I heard him right. Brother? What brother? In
all the years I’d know Jimmy and Kira, I never heard anything about a brother.

  “Look,” I whispered, as though ignoring what he had said. “I was just by Tim Hamill’s place. Yeah, the cabbie.” I waited to see how he would react. His expression betrayed nothing.

  “He’s dead. Strangled.”

  He only nodded and looked at me as though I had read him yesterday’s headline.

  “You do it?” I asked. There’s no way to be nonchalant with that question.

  “No,” he whispered. He was trembling slightly. Another voice in the kitchen distracted us. It was a man’s voice, also speaking in Japanese. Kira interrupted him, but the man I assumed was her brother shouted over her. Then we heard a smack. The brother must have slapped his sister. Or knowing Kira, the other way around. Then silence.

  I raised my eyebrows at Downing. He turned from me and tiptoed to the hinged part of the bar top. I came to his side as he raised it. When it was up, he held up three fingers. He folded his ring finger down, and I nodded in understanding. Next came his middle finger. As he folded his pointer I grasped the curtain and yanked it aside. Downing pushed through the entrance and yelled, “Police! Hands up! Don’t move! Do not move!”

  I jumped in alongside him and also yelled, “Don’t move!” I felt a little foolish, even in the midst of the adrenaline wash. Downing was in charge.

  Kira Harto, dressed to the nines under an immaculate apron, her mouth agape, stood there in shock. Her brother cowered in front of her, clutching his jaw.

  “Hands up!” Officer Downing commanded. “Now!” Seeing our revolvers, both complied. I backed up into the doorway. The curtains pestered me and I yanked them down, not taking my eyes off the two.

  “Hands on top of your heads. Do it! Now, come this way. Slowly. I said Slow!”

  Downing backed up beside me. I, too, backed up into the main room and pulled out two chairs. Downing stayed behind the bar while Kira and her brother walked toward me. Downing waved his gun toward the chairs. “Now, sit!” They did, their hands still on top of their heads. “Sit on your hands. All the way under! Under!” Kira looked up at me. I expected to see hatred. Her eyes were blank, like someone staring off into space. Her brother whimpered and said something in Japanese.

  Keeping my gun pointed in Kira’s direction, I told Downing I was going to lock the door. I didn’t know where Jimmy or Simple Simon were, or, for that matter, where anyone else who was involved in this might be. Last thing I needed was someone like my Uncle Charles to come wobbling through the door.

  I came back to Downing’s side. Kira was composed. Which suggested she wasn’t going to say much. She was smart enough not to implicate herself in anything. Her brother, on the other hand, I wasn’t so sure. He continued to whimper, and maybe not just because of the slap. He looked like a child who had just broken the cookie jar and then stepped on a shard just as his Mommy walked in. Fat tears laid on his cheeks. He mumbled something in Japanese, drawing a harsh look from Kira, along with a rebuke. Downing focused his attention on Kira.

  “Now, Miss Harto. Start from the beginning. And I better hear the truth.”

  Kira looked from me to Officer Downing and then shrugged. With her hands tucked under her thighs, she looked like a schoolgirl. Not an innocent one, but one who knows which boy stole from the teacher, and how she would blackmail him.

  “The whole truth?” she sneered.

  “You know what I mean,” Downing snapped. I didn’t. So I was anxious to hear what she had to say.

  I cut in and pointed my gun at the whimpering man. “Just to be sure, Kira, who’s he?” Downing looked at me like I was an idiot.

  “He’s my brother. Ichiro. Say hello to the nice detective, Ichiro.” Ichiro didn’t respond. He kept sulking, his head down. She yelled something in Japanese, and then he looked at me with bleary eyes. “Heh-roh,” he managed. Kira smiled at me. “Trouble with his r’s.”

  A switch went off in my head and sent a cool message down my spine. Trouble with his r’s. Why was that familiar? Had someone mentioned that to me recently? My mind fluttered and failed me.

  “Enough of that.” Downing broke in. “Spill it.”

  “All right, Officer. My brother is here from California. He’s been in Missouri for six months. It didn’t take him long to get a nice job. With Yellow Cab.” She looked at me again and smiled—the smile of an executioner. “He got to know Tim Hamill very well. Tim trained him, and he wasn’t too much of a bastard to a, a slant-eye, right? You see, we—Tim and my brother—and I—all had something in common. George Reynolds.”

  I didn’t understand why she was so quick to tip that much. Then, I glanced over at Officer Downing. He’d turned pale.

  Kira continued. “In contrast to my brother, who, as you can see, is a rather meek young man. George Reynolds was a brute. And not just in the boxing ring. Did you know that he served in World War II, Officer Downing? You must have been a little boy then. But he didn’t go overseas. He was stationed in California, policing an internment camp. You know what those were, don’t you? Where they kept all those pesky little Japs who might support the enemy? I doubt your comic books told you as much.”

  Downing’s face reddened. “Make it good, Kira,” he said lamely. His non sequitur only seemed to empower her further.

  She continued to smile, although it was more a smirk. “Oh, it’s good, Officer Downing. You see, George Reynolds, the bastard, took a shine to my mother. She was in the camp. Ichiro was just seven years old then—old enough to know things were bad. Only he didn’t know how bad. Until he began to hear things at night. Our okasan. Crying. A man’s voice—a loud, obnoxious American voice—yelling and cursing at my mother when she didn’t do what he wanted. And he heard him slap her. Beat her.” Kira had stopped smiling.

  I didn’t know how much English Ichiro understood, but he had stopped whimpering and stared at the floor, as if in a trance.

  “Reynolds had her—took my mother—for close to a year. Almost every night, except those nights when another woman was his prey. And on those nights, Ichiro and our okasan held each other. And waited, in the dark. Afraid. Always afraid. Would he come tonight anyway? Would she be given a night of reprieve? But they were not alone. There was a girl there, Ichiro’s sister. She was older than him by eight years. She, too, heard the slaps, the cries of pain. Fear. She was old enough to know what was happening and she shielded her brother from that knowledge. That their mother was abused, raped. But it was hard to keep up.”

  Downing and I kept our guns rigid in front of us. I felt like a hostile audience slowly thrust into doubt at some avant-garde play. And I was in awe that Kira spoke of herself as if she weren’t there. That the girl in the camp was someone else.

  Kira continued. “Eventually, George Reynolds was replaced by another soldier. This one had returned from a tour of duty in the Pacific. He was so bent on destroying the Japanese, no matter they were Americans, that he did a turn at the internment camp. But he was different. He didn’t have eyes for our mother. The daughter, she was fifteen and beautiful. She learned and spoke English very well when studying in Hong Kong, at a British-run academy, where she lived until she was eight.”

  “Why Hong Kong?” I croaked. My throat was dry. I realized I hadn’t swallowed since Kira began her tale.

  “Mr. Darvis, my father was an esteemed researcher, and his work took him internationally. Just because I’m Japanese doesn’t mean I’m strictly from Japan. But do you really care?” She examined me, her mouth a flat line. I could stamp Ugly American on my forehead later.

  “I apologize,” I said, finding my voice. “Please, continue.”

  “This other man, he came at night and took the daughter instead. But he was gentle. No slaps. No harsh words. And because the mother was spared the violence, and the brother was no longer scared, the daughter let the soldier think that he had seduced her. That she might love him. When the war ended and we Japanese-Americans were set free, with no money, no jobs, no homes, he offe
red to provide a home for the daughter’s family in California. But under one condition. That the daughter be his bride and return with him to a city she had never heard of before—St. Louis.

  “The offer was too good to refuse. The offer could not be refused. And at their separation, the daughter promised her mother’s son that she would send for him. When he was older. When he was a man.” She paused a moment. “And revenge could be served.”

  Kira had resumed all the loveliness and poise of this morning. When I asked, “So, how does Tim Hamill fit into this?” it sounded inane.

  “Like I told you, he trained Ichiro to drive a cab. And he also knew George Reynolds. The Beef fought Hamill’s father in the late forties. He’d knocked him out while they fought in the ring. Gave him a concussion. The concussion led to a coma days later. Hamill’s father became a vegetable. What more do you need to know, Detective?”

  I looked at her and then at Officer Downing. His gun had moved from Kira and her brother to me.

  “What’s this? We’re on the same side here.”

  “Drop your gun.” His face was again pale, and he was sweating profusely. I crouched down slowly with the gun extended out from my body. “Drop it!” he yelled. I let go of it inches from the floor and stood back up. “Now, sit down. Sit! Sit!” He was borderline hysterical. I pulled out a chair and sat down next to Ichiro, who continued to stare at the floor. It was as if he hadn’t registered anything that had been said.

  Kira spoke again. “Won’t you let me finish my story, Officer Downing?”

  I studied her face. The composure. The secret knowledge. Despite the danger of Downing’s gun, I felt moved by her story and her beauty, as though the two together might save this recondite and damned world.