40 Nickels

by R. Daniel Lester

  I said, “Cool, daddio, whatever floats your boat.”

  He said, “Yopo.”

  I said, “Gesundheit.”

  He said, “No, friendo, it’s what you need and I just so happen to have smuggled some back in a plastic bag up my butthole.”

  Hold the phone, butthole yopo? Yeah, no thanks, I told him. I was beaucoup skeptical until he explained. Yopo, otherwise known as Anadenanthera peregrina was prepared from the seeds of a tall forest tree. Once attained, the seeds were roasted gently and ground into a fine powder which, when mixed with an alkaline substance like leave ash, produced a violent hallucinogenic.

  “It work through the skin?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ll be able to slip him a Mickey Finn or anything.”

  “No problemo.”

  “And that yoyo stuff, it’ll stay on a nickel?”

  “It’s ‘yopo’.”

  “Again, gesundheit. You should take some medicine for that cold of yours.”

  Stan thought about it and nodded. “I can figure something out.”

  “And he’ll hallucinate?”

  He went all wistful and wide-eyed with stripped-to-the-skivvies-in-the-jungle nostalgia. “Yeah. The lucky bastard.”

  After I scooped the nickels from the Brasher mansion, I hightailed it for Stan’s pad. I’d told him not to make any plans for today and he’d listened. He said a batch of yopo was ready to roll and I handed over half the nickels. Half an hour later, it was done and I skedaddled, figuring if Janssen and his toughs were gonna track me down it would likely be at my abode. The depleted roll of nickels was in my pants pocket and the others were in a folded white envelope in my jacket. “You want to keep a level head,” said Stan, as I walked away, “careful not to touch those.”

  So I knew the nickels packed a potent punch and wasn’t too surprised when, after Butch went Splitsville and I cracked the joke about doggies loving cats, Reynold giggled. And stopped. And giggled some more

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, playing along.

  “Butterflies,” he said, swiping at the air above his head.

  “No, Reynold, sorry. Those are bats.”

  His eyes went fear-wide. He panicked. He ducked down. He whipped his head back-and-forth. He tried to knife the bats circling his head. When that didn’t work he ran off down the alley, screaming a high pitched sound I wouldn’t have expected to come out of a no-neck tough guy like Reynold.

  Janssen was on his own trip. He must’ve been hot because he’d already removed his jacket, tie and shirt. He was down to undershirt and pants and sweating profusely.

  “Do you want to see the lights, Janssen?”

  He nodded, slowly.

  “This way.” I led him out of the alley, to Hastings Street. The neon strip acid-bathed his eyeballs.

  “Aaaaaaaaah,” he said, probably seeing neon x 1000.

  Noticing Reynold in the near distance, running along the sidewalk towards the Four Corners, I pointed. Best to keep the two as close to each other as possible for the inevitable clean up. I said, “That way, Copernicus.” And he was okay to be compliant but he preferred to walk in the middle of the road, removing items of clothing as he went. Horns blared. Drivers cursed out of open windows.

  I walked parallel to Janssen, on the sidewalk. With dusk safely in the rearview, the night was ready to play and Hastings Street wanted action. The spring air was crisp. The crowds milled on the sidewalk. Guys and gals. Ladies and gents. A six-car parade of horny teenage hot rod’ers cruised in cherry sleds and ogled any females whose attention they could grab with a horn toot and a corny wolf-whistle. There weren’t many. The teens were acne-faced and testosterone-goofy.

  Everyone stopped and stared at Janssen. He was down to his underwear now. Must’ve been sunny wherever he was. People clapped. They whistled. The teens and their hot rods carved a wide berth around him and kept driving.

  Any other time and I would’ve been apt to stroll, to wander, to soak up the particular brand of magic that Hastings had to offer. Tonight, though, I had a job to do. Busted right hand throbbing something fierce, I stepped into the phone booth and closed the door.

  18

  - Hey, you remember me?

  - Adora’s mysterious caller returns.

  - That’s right. Hope you don’t mind me tracking you down at work.

  - No skin off my nose, bud. But the information ship has left the port. Smooth sailing ahead, all markers cleared.

  - Consider this a little dinghy on its way to you, a one-way trip.

  - I’m all ears.

  - The widow Brasher and her chauffeur recently disappeared.

  - You don’t say.

  - I do say. I’ll also add there’s a Rolls Royce trunk that doesn’t smell very nice anymore, if you get my drift.

  - That so?

  - Unfortunately, yeah. Another thing I know is where the guy that put them in the trunk will be. If you were to send out a patrol car or seven after you hang up you’d get your man.

  - Sounds like a career maker.

  - It is if you don’t mind puttin’ the handcuffs on a former police. See, Butch Montrose is your guy.

  - No shit?

  - No shit.

  - Well, he was no friend of mine. And if we catch him red-handed I don’t suppose anyone else will have a problem with it either.

  - That’s good because I’d also bet good money he’s the reason some of your fellow boys in blue fished a corpse out of the Burrard Inlet last week. That body that got caught up in the trawler’s net and ventilated with a blade so it wouldn’t float.

  - I heard something about that. Butch fell from grace hard, huh?

  - Quick and without a parachute.

  - Don’t suppose you got an address.

  - Don’t suppose I do but it’s in Shaughnessy, a few blocks north of 33rd. Think ‘castle’ and you’ll find it.

  - Ah, the Brasher estate. The plot thickens.

  - That’s the one.

  - I know the place. They hosted a police charity ball a few years ago. Both of ‘em gone now, eh? Damn shame. House was a little cramped for my taste, though. Could’ve used another wing, maybe an airport.

  - Tell me about it. Okay, two more things and I’m outta your hair.

  - Anything for the guy makin’ my life easy street. Might get that promotion after all.

  - You’re gonna want to look up the phone number for the Kingston Psychiatric Hospital because you’ll be telling them soon you threw a net over a guy that jumped the fence at their facility a few years back.

  - I will?

  - I’d bet on it.

  - Yeah, how much?

  - Oh. I was thinkin’ more a gentleman’s bet.

  - I see. That sure.

  - But I do know somethin’ for sure. Your desk is at the downtown station, right?

  - You betcha.

  - Well, your dispatch will be gettin’ some calls pretty quick to come down to the Four Corners. There’s a show going on.

  - A show, eh? What do you mean? Buddy, hello?

  - Hey, it’s me.

  - Hey, Me.

  - Okay I called the restaurant?

  - Special circumstances, Fitch.

  - It’s done.

  - It worked?

  - Like a charm.

  - And our friend with the police was happy to oblige?

  - More than. Gave him the skinny on Butch and where to find him and said there was a show nearby he should check out personally.

  - And Janssen?

  - Currently making quite a scene on Hastings and moving towards the Four Corners, so I’d say minutes from being scooped up.

  - I have to hand it to you. Your plan came off.

  - You sound shocked.

  - Call it pleasantly surprised, with a hint of ‘I knew you could do it’.

  - I can live with that. Hey, that’s—

  - What?

  - The tow rig just dro
ve by. No mistaking it. Only one with my name on it.

  - Ellie’s there?

  - Seems so.

  - Oh no.

  - What?

  - I thought she only wanted it for protection so I didn’t let her know I knew it was gone.

  - What was gone?

  - A .22 I keep in the closet. Well, kept. She snuck in there this morning. That’s why when Ichabod asked me what he should do I said he should go. Told him to keep her safe. And to not shoot anybody.

  - Well, they’re here now.

  - Fitch, that can’t be good.

  - Does she know Janssen had Rolly killed?

  - I wouldn’t put it past her.

  - Would she do anything about it?

  - Like you say about apples, Fitch…they don’t tend to fall too far from the tree, do they?

  19

  I ran. As fast as I could. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians so I hopped off the curb and hit the street. Expecting gunfire any second made each second stretch over an eternity.

  Water eroded rocks.

  An ice age formed, melted, formed again.

  By the time I’d snaked through the traffic jam of cars, the blaring horns, the people shouting various iterations of “What the bleep is going on up there?” Ellie had already stepped from cab of the tow truck, a few cars back from the Four Corners intersection. She strode forward, intent, right hand stuffed in her pocket.

  “Ellie, no,” I half-shouted. With cops on the way I didn’t want to draw any attention to her. She didn’t stop. I weaved and danced through traffic. I huffed and puffed up the slight rise to Main Street. I got struck by a car door opening, some square in a station wagon trying to get a better look at the issue. My broken hand screamed. I fought the scream down. I reached Ellie right as she stepped through the crosswalk. My good hand on her shoulder, I gasped out a “Don’t, please.”

  She turned, flushed, eyes afire. She was anger. She was revenge. She was packing the .22 in her leather jacket. I put my good hand to her wrist.

  “No,” I said. She tried to get her hand out of her pocket. I wouldn’t let it.

  “He deserves to die,” she said, pointing to Janssen, who was stark naked and dancing in the middle of the intersection, waving his underwear around above his head.

  “For that outfit, yes.”

  “Aren’t you ever serious?”

  “Not if I can help it. How’d you know?”

  “I’m young, not stupid, Fitch. Why else would my mom be so interested in him? And I did a little digging around on my own. That mansion belongs to the Brasher family. A subsidiary of the Brasher family, Fell Brothers, Inc., purchased my father’s tow truck business after his death.”

  “Thanks for telling me. I had to face off against a Knight of the Realm to get that far.”

  “It’s called investigative work, Fitch, you should try it some time.”

  “Ouch.”

  The scene was getting crazier. A bus tried to get through the intersection but couldn’t get around Janssen, who kept dancing and making unpredictable movements, and other cars tried to pass the bus, from each and every direction. Janssen was the hallucinating eye of a storm. An impatient driver tried to get around the bus and clipped Janssen on the hip. He ended up on the guy’s hood.

  Ellie repeated her thoughts on the matter.

  “Yes,” I said, “but it’s not our place.”

  “What’s that you always say: like mother, like daughter?”

  “That’s Adora’s story and she’s gotta live with the end. She doesn’t want it to be yours. And neither do I.”

  Ellie stared at me. I stared back. I felt her grip on the pistol relax and I relaxed my grip on her wrist. Quid pro quo. When she pulled her hand out, no gun. I breathed again, not realizing I’d stopped. I reached into her pocket, palmed the tiny pistol and nodded for Ichabod, who’d followed behind me. He looked crestfallen by the lack of violence. I didn’t know whose side he was really on and then realized once a Dead Clown always a Dead Clown. He may have been loyal to Adora and her daughter, but his true mistress was chaos.

  Not today, clown. Not today.

  Ichabod discreetly palmed the gun and walked away, moments before a swarm of cops rushed into the intersection. They secured the scene, stared down at Janssen writhing in agony/bliss on the ground and called for an ambulance, which arrived soon after.

  As they loaded Janssen into the back of the ambulance, his fog cleared slightly and he spotted me watching from the edge of the crowd.

  “That man there,” he said. “I know him. Bring him to me.”

  The cops looked my way.

  I looked around for the poor sap the nut on the stretcher was talking about.

  A cop, a tall, rangy fellow, approached me. “You know this guy?” he asked.

  “Nah,” I said.

  “Well, he thinks he knows you. Do you mind coming over? Maybe he says somethin’ that helps us figure out what the hell is going on.”

  “Sure,” I said, trying to keep it short. I was pretty sure this cop was Adora’s contact, who I’d just spoken to on the phone, and I really didn’t want to get recognized.

  Sweat poured down Janssen’s face. The jungle powder I dosed him with had sent him straight into meltdown, a star going supernova. He looked rough, face locked in a grimace, like the pain from riding that car’s hood was beginning to cut through the drug haze. He beckoned for me to lean in. I did. And he surprised me. His head was in the game. He had cards. He played cagey poker. He whispered words that chilled me to the bone. When he’d finished, I did my best to play it cool and stood up, shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head. Showbiz.

  Janssen winked and grinned at me, at the world, as the paramedics finished loading him into the ambulance. When they slammed the doors shut, the cop pulled me aside, notebook at the ready. He asked me what Janssen said. I spun a tall tale and told him it was some nonsense about how he’d been to the jungle and brought back some “yoyo” or “yopo.” The cop noted it down but was clearly disappointed. He escorted me back to the crowd, where Ellie waited. He thanked me and said we could return to our car. I turned to leave.

  “Hold on a minute, fella,” he said. He looked at the intersection, then back at me. “I noticed your hand. Looks swollen, maybe a few broken bones. You want me to have the medics take a look?”

  “No thanks, officer. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “It’s no trouble.”

  “Thanks but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Okay, then, have it your way. Only tryin’ to help out a good citizen. You are one, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “I love the confidence. Still, I can’t help but think maybe that car clipped you, too. Maybe your neck deep in this somehow. Maybe know more than you’re sayin’.”

  I held up my wreck of a hand. “What this? Unrelated.” The cop. didn’t look so sure. He sized me up for the umpteenth time. I said, “I slammed it in my car door just now.”

  “Yourself?”

  “Yup, myself. I’m an idiot.”

  The cop looked to Ellie.

  “He really is,” she said, totally selling it.

  20

  As I waited for the doc to cast my hand, the emergency room nurse, a saint if I ever met one, loaded a needle with painkiller like an airplane full of jet fuel and queued me up for take-off. At least the excruciating throbbing had subsided and my hand was only swollen if you thought a human hand shouldn’t look bloated and puffy like a baseball mitt.

  “Look on the bright side,” I said to Adora, who’d met me at the hospital after Ichabod and Ellie dropped me off. Then Ichabod drove Ellie home and Adora stayed. “Put me in the outfield, nothing’ll get by me.”

  “I was thinking more of getting the Circus of Cacophony sideshow back together. You could be the star attraction: ‘Come one, come all. Behold the man with the mutant hand!’”

  “That could w
ork. Less running.”

  “Yes, there’s that.”

  “Wipe that smirk off your face.”

  Adora played it cool, as always. “What smirk?”

  “Right, sure.”

  “I’m not doing anything.”

  “No, you’re not. It’s almost worse. Say it. Get it over with.”

  “What?”

  “That maybe this investigation biz ain’t for me. Two cases, two hospital trips.”

  “What, really? I wasn’t keeping track.”

  “Okay, uh huh.”

  “I’ve said what I have to say on that subject. At least this time you’re not accusing me of murder.”

  “The night’s young,” I said, putting my head on her shoulder. She let me keep it there. “But I can’t shake it.”

  “Shake what?”

  “The feeling that Janssen was out there, lurking. Waiting for me for two years. Somehow, I set the whole twisted thing into motion.”

  She raised an eyebrow at me. “And who’s got the God complex?”

  “Oh, it’s all a big coincidence?”

  Adora conceded me that point. “Okay, maybe a bit of both. So, Janssen was removing the teeth of boozers and vagrants and replacing them with dentures while simultaneously drugging and brainwashing them to cure them of their vices?”

  “He’d probably say ‘custom drug cocktails that counteracted the patients’ alcohol addictions so they can lead productive lives” but yeah. Though he had a special treatment for certain individuals, ones he could use, or that could serve him. Turned them into willing zombies from what I could see. And add to that list at least one wealthy ‘benefactor’, Hugo Brasher. Who knows, there may have been others. Lots of funerals out there. Or you simply create one. Janssen seemed to use a scattershot approach. Throw enough darts at the wall something will stick.”