Bentley Dadmun - Harry Neal and Cat 09 - Dead Dead Dead, the Little Girl Said

by Bentley Dadmun

  “T. William Chapman? Something happen to him?”

  Gretchen nodded and smiled. “You know, every now and then the good Lord gets off his fat ass and does a good turn. He finally took that thieving bastard and that eel of a wife of his, and both in a single day. I tell you it almost makes a believer out of me.”

  I forced a smile and said, “I heard about Mrs. Chapman, but I didn’t realize T. William had died as well.”

  Gretchen snorted. “He didn’t. My niece Patty just left to go back to work. She’s a legal secretary for old Matthew Bass, who happens to be the Chapman’s lawyer. She says T. Willy got taken to some institution down in Massachusetts the day before Thanksgiving. Seems the bastard is now four or five bricks shy of a load in the cogitating department. Imagine, she packs his sorry ass off to some institution so somebody else can change his diapers for him while she takes it easy. But instead?” Gretchen pressed a finger against her temple and scrunched up the left side of her face. “Instead, she has a massive stroke and croaks. I do hope it takes him a considerable spell to die. I surely do hope deep pain becomes his constant companion.”

  Her smile would scare a pit bull. I stared at her a moment, molded a smile on my face and said, “Score another one for that god of yours.”

  Gretchen pursed her lips and nodded. She looked at Priscilla and said, “So how is the quest to find out about your Grandfather coming along?”

  Priscilla shrugged and ran a hand through her flattop. “It’s come to a screeching halt because it looks like he really did die of a heart attack while running.”

  Again Gretchen nodded, “I coulda told you that, but listen, it gave you something to do, and it kept you off the streets.”

  … . .

  IT MADE MY WOUND THROB, BUT I pushed out three more reps on the sitting bench press machine, stood up, and stretched for maybe the sixth time. Despite the headache I was doing pretty good, with the body heated up and humming along nicely, my muscles pumped and wanting to go for a third round on the machines. But Priscilla came up from doing free weights, grabbed me by the arm and hauled me downstairs. “You don’t want to blow a scab and bleed all over the place,” she said. “I’d have to charge you for the clean up.” She shoved a glass of some high protein drink in my hand and shuffled off to the showers. I chugged it down, giving myself a world class ice cream headache to add to the one I already had.

  Despite the wound and the accompanying pain I felt good. I wanted to spend the rest of the day pushing iron in the Muscle Stop, or in my case, working the machines. Perhaps I could become a full time body builder, spending my days doing the machines and adoring myself in the big mirrors that covered the walls. I could engage in long discussions about carbo loading and protein supplements with the regulars, and make disparaging remarks about the sagging, lumpy people I work with at Hannaford.

  Maybe I’d even develop a strut.

  I studied myself in one of the full length mirrors. After several moments of reflection, any bodybuilding aspirations faded to some deep, ill used part of my brain and I shuffled off to the showers. When I came out of the dressing room, Priscilla was leaning against the opposite wall with Cat draped over her shoulder like some tattered fur piece she bought for a dollar in a thrift shop. When I suggested Gretchen’s she gave me a dark look, handed over Cat, and scolded me for getting my bandage wet.

  … . .

  WE STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK, LOOKED at the deed, looked at each other, than at the lumpy plot of land. Adorned with bottles, cans, and bits of paper that stuck to the dead weeds like tiny flags of triumph, it was probably a prime piece of real estate. I turned my bike around and said. “That’s two down. We’ll have a cup of coffee and find the third.”

  Priscilla didn’t speak until we were sitting in Gretchen’s with mugs of coffee huddled in our hands. “Maybe in the basement of that antique store.”

  The first deed we checked was a house on a riverfront lot on back side of downtown that someone had converted into an antique store. It looked suspiciously like a revamped modular home but had a nice view of the river. “I don’t think that house has a basement,” I said. “But if it did, it wouldn’t be a place to hide bodies, the people running the place would store their inventory there.”

  Priscilla nodded and said, “Okay we got one more. Haul out that deed and get an address, we’ll go look at it, then come back here for a drink.” We finished our coffee, I retrieved the deed from Cat’s trailer and we trooped out of Gretchen’s. Life is simple when one has purpose. Purpose gives direction and motivation, you don’t have to sit in a park drinking wine or reading magazines in the library with other old men. One just takes action appropriate to the goal. It also helps to be prodded along by someone with a nine pound mouth.

  … . .

  WE HAD THE PARK TO OURSELVES. A tough wind blew a glacial mix of rain and sleet horizontally through the air, irritating the pedestrians and making them scurry about with heads down, gloved hands clutching at collars. Cat was deep in the sling, wrapped in an old piece of down vest, perhaps dreaming of warm stoves and rare meat.

  We sat on a cold bench in the southern corner of the park and looked across the street at the southern block of Main Street stores. They presented a solid front of brick and glass, starting by the alley leading to Gretchen’s, and ending with the street going to the backside of the buildings and The Muscle Stop. They featured a new age bookstore, an office supply store, Kreb’s Hardware, Randall Insurance, The Hometown Bakery, and down the alley, in the back corner, Gretchen’s Kitchen. On the upper floors the windows were lettered with the names of several lawyers, two dentists, a psychologist, and a Mister Tao, Psychic Reader and Futurist.

  Priscilla crammed her hands deeper in the pockets of her sweatjacket and slumped further down on the bench. “God, are we numb or what? We spend days pedaling around just like we knew what the fuck we’re doing and all the time it’s right in front of our eyes. They own the whole building?”

  “According to the deed, they own the basement and the part where Randall Insurance and the bakery are, at any rate it’s not significant, it’s not where the Special Place is.”

  She leaned over, got right in my face and said, “What’s the matter with you? I mean it’s what? Maybe three blocks from the funeral home, a huge old building? Owned by the bad guys? Helloooo!”

  Her breath, smelling of wine, was warm and moist against my cheek. “You’re neglecting to take note of a few salient points,” I said.

  “Harry, I really don’t want to hear some windy bullshit, it’s obvious as hell that that building is a likely spot for T. Willy’s Special Place.”

  I opened my mouth to speak then snapped it shut and nodded toward the road. A big dark green station wagon drifted silently by. I caught a quick glimpse of the back of a man’s head, but only saw enough of the front to see that he had a cigarette hanging from his lips. “That’s the station wagon that carted away T. William,” I said.

  Priscilla jumped the fence and watched as the car glided down the road to be swallowed up by the sleet and gathering dark. She jumped back, plunked down beside me and said, “Couldn’t get a number or anything, but if it’s still around it must be local and we can start looking for it tomorrow. She jabbed an elbow in my ribs. “But right now, we’re gonna check out that building.”

  “Priscilla, my point is that everything is occupied and full of merchandise and people. The Chapman’s undoubtedly leased or rented out the space they own. Think about it, everyday those stores are full of people, from top to bottom, there’s no way the Chapman’s hid bodies in there.”

  She stared at me a moment, stared at the building, then punched my shoulder and said, “Let’s check it out anyway,” and bounded over the fence again, turned, and her face blank, stared at me until I sighed, put one hand on the top rail, and with the other holding the sling and Cat, did a nifty hurdle over the fence and managed to land upright.

  Still got the moves.

  Hands jammed in jacket p
ockets, we strolled past the stores. All the clerks seemed to be young women in baggy cargo pants or low slung jeans that displayed navel and skin. And all seemed crowned with short hair tinted improbable colors. As we passed Kreb’s Hardware an overweight young woman with short brown hair with pink strips running through it, and with a dull silver ring in her left eyebrow, looked at us through the plate glass and waved. I realized that it must be Kreb’s granddaughter. Granddaughters, I’m knee deep in granddaughters, and in another few years it could be great granddaughters. I sighed and willed away grim thoughts of a tottering old man with only vague, flickering memories to get him through the next hour.

  At the end of the block we turned, and deliberately slipping and sliding down the icy blacktop, made our way to the backside of Main Street. It was much darker in back, with the only light coming from a lone street light that glowed dull orange. Three aging, sad looking cars squatted on the crumbling blacktop of the parking lot. Spaced along the dirty brick of the back of The Chapman Building were a series of windowless doors with small signs above them. Kreb’s Hardware featured a big sliding door and a loading dock.

  We walked the road, turned by the entrance to the alley and looked back. I leaned down and muttered in Priscilla’s ear, “What say we go into Gretchen’s for a drink?” She gave me a scathing look, moved close to the wall and walked along it. “Just what do you hope to accomplish?” I said.

  “I don’t know. It just seems that this should be the place. How old is this building?”

  I reached out and dragged my fingers along the rough brick. “At the library I’ve seen pictures from the late eighteen hundreds of Main Street and the park, and this building was in a few of them, so it’s well over a hundred.”

  She stopped and looked up at me. Her eyes gleamed with blatant excitement. “I want to check out the basements.”

  “Priscilla, the stores are wired. We open a door and Betty Worthen will be bringing us our wine in jail. Besides, all we’d find is inventories for the respective stores, furnaces, and other utilities.”

  Priscilla paced the wall like an anxious cougar. I arranged my rain jacket over Cat, leaned against the wet brick and kept my mouth shut. Finally she threw up her hands and said, “Shit. Let’s go to Gretchen’s.”

  … . .

  PRISCILLA WAS BY FAR THE YOUNGEST person in the restaurant, and as we walked along the creaking floor, old heads turned and gazed at the rather exotic creature in their midst. I felt an illogical pride at being with her, and realized that despite being shot, the last few days had been better than good because of her.

  Although it was supper time, we managed to snag the last booth. I slid in the back seat and put Cat next to the napkin holder. Priscilla slid in next to me. When I gave her a surprised look she said, “I want to watch all the white heads bobbing up and down, reminds me of supper time at County.”

  Gretchen shuffled up to the booth, put down a liter bottle of red wine, two mugs, and a bowl of unshelled peanuts. She put a piece of cooked beef under Cat’s nose, looked at the two of us sitting together and said, “So when you two gonna announce your engagement?”

  “About the time you learn how to cook,” Priscilla said. “Listen, you’ve been here since the Boer War, how long have the Chapman’s owned this building?”

  Gretchen raised her microscopic eyebrows, rubbed her chin and said, “First off they don’t, or rather didn’t, own the whole building, just pieces of it. They owned and leased out the space where the bakery and Randell’s Insurance is, and they also owned the basement. Me and Don Krebs, and the people who run that bookstore own our spaces. Some people from Mass own and rent out the second floor.”

  “The Chapman’s got the whole basement?” Priscilla asked.

  “Yep, except for the utility closets. A few years back, me and Krebs and the bakery woman went hat in hand to them and asked to rent some of that space. I mean, there’s enough down there to play a hot game of football in and they didn’t seem to use it for much of anything, yet they told us they couldn’t do it. We went again a couple of years ago and got the same answer, and whenever we need the furnace worked on, or the waterheater checked, or whatever, the utility people gotta go to the Chapman’s and get the keys. I gotta cram all my stock in the back room next to the toilets, and Don Krebs has gotta rent several spaces out at Henderson’s U Store It. Bastards. Just ask me how glad I am they’re through with life as we know it.”

  “You’re saying the whole basement is empty?” Priscilla said.

  “It sure is. There’s enough space down there to raise corn for the whole county in.”

  I poured more wine into my mug. It threatened to spill over, so I bent down and slurped. With my lips an inch from the mug I said, “Well, now that the Chapman’s are out of life’s game, maybe you can get some of the basement.”

  “Let’s hope. Except then I’m gonna have to walk around to the back, climb down the stairs, get whatever I need, and walk it back up here. And it’s gonna be raining or snowing or some damn thing every damn time I need something. Well, I gotta get back to work. You folks want anything else?”

  We shook our heads. Gretchen turned, and despite the fact that Clara Kosko was waitressing, walked down the line of booths, stopping at each one to chat with the occupants, most of whom were older than she was.

  Priscilla and I spent several minutes drinking wine, eating peanuts, and staring into space. Priscilla was harassing Cat with a straw, and I was staring into space and absently sipping wine, thinking of nothing in particular, when Priscilla nudged me and said, “That door with no sign over it must be the basement door.”

  I nodded and said, “Probably. Gretchen said there were utility closets were down there, and the electricians, heating people, and whoever, would have to have convenient access.”

  “Finish your wine, I wanna go back outside.”

  … . .

  HANDS JAMMED IN POCKETS, SHOULDERS HUNCHED, we huddled against the freezing drizzle. Thrust in deep shadow by the lone light, the back entrances to the stores were black outlines drawn on brick. “All the back doors with signs over them lead into the stores,” I said. “But the one in the middle, the one with no sign over it probably goes down to the basement, and since the Chapman’s owned it, nobody would have access to it except when work was needed on the utility systems. The question is, what the hell were they doing with all that space?”

  Priscilla turned and looked at me. She smiled thinly and said, “Duh.”

  We walked to the suspect door. It was wide, windowless, and secured with a large padlock and a key operated deadbolt. At chest level, imbedded in the steel doorjamb was an alarm keyway. I rapped the door with a knuckle. “Steel,” I said. “It would take a satchel charge to open this thing.”

  Priscilla stabbed my arm with a fingernail and said, “I don’t want to hear that that key ring you nabbed from the funeral home is back at the boat.” I closed my eyes and sighed. After a moment I said, “In the pocket of Cat’s trailer.”

  “We’ll get the bikes and take them to The Muscle Stop, by the time we get through poking around Gretchen’s might be closed.”

  Back to Gretchen’s. Supper was in full swing. One couple, ancient, withered, and trembling, were dressed as if they were dining at Pier Seven. They’re here every evening, ordering from a menu that they know as well as they know each other. They eat slowly and smile at each other a lot.

  We fetched the bikes from the back wall, waved to Gretchen, and marched back into the night. Heads lowered and turned away from the sleet that came hissing out of the night, we walked the bikes to The Muscle Stop. Except for two glowing outside lights it was dark. I looked at Priscilla and said, “Surely people work out at night.”

  She jabbed a key in the lock, cranked it around, and pushed open the door. “Having a senior moment? Remember what I told you? From Turkey till the new year it’s only open until five.”

  Senior moment?

  The smell of hard sweat and pizza hung in the
dank, still air, and I could almost hear the grunts and cries of extreme exertion. The wood floor creaked loudly as we walked down the hall and leaned the bikes against the counter. When I bent to get Cat out of the trailer, Priscilla dug a hand into my shoulder and said, “Harry, for once, just this once, leave the goddamn cat in the trailer. She’ll be fine. Give her some Meow Mix. She can eat and sleep, and even crap on the floor if she wants to, it won’t be an unique experience for her.”

  I thought about it and finally nodded. I got on one knee, carefully wrapped Cat in the quilt, gave her one last pat, stood and said, “I’d better zip up the door, she might get restless and… ”

  “Harry! Where’s she going to go? Come on, let’s get to it.”

  As Priscilla locked up, I checked for the third time that I had the key ring, and as we walked through the driving sleet I dwelled on various aspects of breaking and entering.

  I seem to be breaking a lot of laws lately.

  We entered Kreb’s Hardware and wandered the aisles, selecting tools for our journey into the wonderful world of unauthorized entry. I bought two flashlights, extra batteries, and two pairs of white cotton gloves. Shyly, Priscilla took the gloves from my hand and replaced them with gloves dyed a rich purple. As Kreb’s granddaughter was adding it up, Priscilla tossed two plastic bags on the counter. Each bag contained a stiff, white mask like surgeons wear, except these were bigger and thicker, with exhaust valves over the mouth and two heavy rubber head bands. They cost eight dollars and ninety nine cents each. I gave her a look. She stared up at me and said, “It might be dusty and I’m seriously allergic to some types of dust.”

  I pointed to a display on the counter that featured dust masks for eighty nine cents apiece. She rolled her eyes and said, “Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”

  While we were in Kreb’s the sleet had turned to freezing rain. Pedestrian traffic was nonexistent and the few cars drove with caution along the glistening asphalt. It would have been a nice night for sitting in Gretchen’s, drinking wine, soaking up heat from that big woodstove, and occupying myself with nothing of importance. Instead I’d be prowling around in someone else’s basement, undoubtedly get arrested, and spend my declining years on a chain gang.