“Great, but . . . Harry, I really need to talk to you. Can I meet you somewhere . . . right now, if you have time?”
“Well, there’s the Burger Place at 108th and Dodge. Guess that’s not far from your house.”
I thought about my muscles, now relaxed from the judge’s therapy. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
That second glass went down even smoother than the first. I knew for sure I would be able to make 108th and Dodge without pain. Probably run back, too. Maybe run a circle around the entire city. My renewed strength lasted until my face almost met the sidewalk a block from the burger joint.
I carefully rolled onto my back, took deep breaths, and wiped the sweat from my eyes with the bottom of my “Dead” T-shirt. High above me, the clouds slowly spun clockwise. Then the lemonade geysered from my mouth and flowed over my chin and neck. Eyes pinched closed, I awaited death.
A voice echoed from the distance. “Bob? What the hell’s the matter with you?”
One of my uncoordinated hands again wiped my face with the T-shirt. I managed to cautiously turn on my side, eyes open. One cough and I felt able to speak, sounding brighter than I felt. “Harry! What brings you here?”
His arm snaked under my arm pit and pulled me upright. Damn, he’s strong. Wouldn’t want to piss him off. Shakily, I stood on my own two feet. He looked me up and down, his nose wrinkling.
“I was driving by when I saw you stumbled. Couldn’t tell if you were tired or drunk . . . until I got here. Better keep walking or your legs are going to cramp.”
“Sure. Yeah. I remember now. I was on my way to meet you. Jogging. Guess I’m not in good enough shape. I probably should have warmed up. Yeah. Warmed up.”
He shook his head, his hand clutching my T-shirt to keep me steady and moving. “What you needed was wheels. Why the hell did you decide to jog all that way?”
“Well, after I got done barfing the first time this morning, I looked in the mirror. Here was this beer gut. Didn’t matter if I died doing six miles or even two miles, but I had to get rid of this flab.”
“Man, you are not in your twenties! At your age you expected to pound out six miles without working up to it? Get in the car. I’ll drive you home and get a bowl of soup down you. You haven’t eaten, have you?”
“Neighbor gave me some fruit juice,” I tried to sound funny. Didn’t seem to work.
Harry merely shoved me into the passenger seat of his 1979 Honda. I started to close my eyes but they scraped open when he attempted to slam the door shut, again and again. Finally, he grabbed a length of clothes line from the back seat, kneed the door closed, and wrapped the line around the open-windowed door frame and the center pillar. It was rather interesting how he managed to tie it off with that one hand and his teeth. At least the driver’s door stayed shut after he climbed in. A series of whining noises came from the engine as he attempted to start it.
“Problems?” I tried to sound conversational since funny hadn’t worked.
He didn’t bother looking at me. “The fly wheel has notches in the teeth. Sooner or later it’ll catch.”
“Glad you don’t have to rush me to the hospital. Why don’t you get a better car? This rust bucket has about had it!”
That made him look at me, but his eyes didn’t seem especially friendly. “‘Cause I ain’t got the money. At the end of the month, I have just enough for rent and food.”
“Rent, huh. Where do you live?”
The engine roared to life. “Missouri View apartments. It’s in the luxury district, down by the tracks on 7th and Jackson.”
“It’s a nice place?”
Harry’s stomach pressed against the steering wheel to hold it steady as he engaged the floor gear shift. We moved into the flow of traffic. His belly held the wheel as he shifted up again. A deep horn sounded. I turned my head and saw “Peterbilt” spread across the rear window. Harry concentrated on what was in front of him, ignoring the truck’s huge chrome grill that had to fill his rearview mirror. I pressed down in my seat.
“Nice place?” He mimicked me. “It’s a one room with a fold-out bed and plenty of cockroaches to keep me company. ‘Course, the bugs ain’t as bad as the rats. I killed two of those by my refrigerator just last week.”
I felt a little motion sick as the Honda sped up and slowed down with the traffic. Harry whipped around a corner on two wheels, leaving behind the truck’s blaring horn.
“Would you mind taking me to your place, instead of mine? If you stop somewhere, I can buy that can of soup.”
The Honda slowed. “Why would you want to go to my home? Like I just said, it’s a dump and dirty. I don’t clean much.”
“I don’t want to stay at my house. I’m selling everything I own. Period. I want to move into an apartment.”
Harry guided the car into a parking lot and pulled into an empty space. He turned to stare at me. I saw wariness and sympathy in his expression. “That’s why you wanted to meet with me?” He shook his head. “Listen, Bob. I don’t know what you’re thinking so soon after . . . but you don’t want to move into my pad or one like it! I pay one hundred and fifty bucks a month for a view of the tracks with rats, fleas, and cockroaches as roomies. You’d find it kinda crowded.”
I studied a Ford dealership sign at the end of the block. The vague thoughts I hadn’t been able to pin down about Harry and his way of life settled into place. I straightened in the seat. “Not necessarily your apartment, then. I’ll find one close to you.”
“Bob! You ain’t listening!” He began speaking like I was a simpleton or too drunk to hear. “The apartments on my end of town are all the same. You don’t want to live in the slums. Look west. You can afford those new places going up all over. You’ll be happier.”
“Drive to that corner and turn right.”
“But this street doesn’t lead anywhere!”
“Turn into that car lot. I want to find a vehicle.”
The frowning Harry did as directed then followed me as I roamed from new cars to used cars and back. He even held the glass door for me so I could enter the showroom in search of a salesman.
A tall, slick-dressed man blocked my path. He assessed me, a false smile pasted in place. “May I help you?”
I glanced down at my vomit-stained shirt and worn jeans. Over my shoulder, I saw Harry had returned to his Honda. He leaned against the fender, his expression still dark. I hooked my thumbs in my front pockets mimicking Harry’s stance, only I didn’t frown at the salesman. I challenged him. “I want to buy a car.”
“And what type of car do you wish?”
“Something that runs, without floor vents like that Honda out there.”
“Ah, what do you mean?”
“Well, every time we hit a bump, the vents get bigger and the view of the road broader. Pretty soon, I’ll be able to stop by dragging my feet. I don’t want that.”
His patience came to an end. His tone changed from nice to annoyed. “We have a few out back that will probably suit you. What can you pay?”
I leaned my head forward, looking down at my fingers drumming on my hips. Narrowing my eyes, I looked up with “I want something like that.” My thumb pointed into the showroom.
“Right. That’s a Mustang. This year’s model. It’s probably out of your price range.”
“I’ll pay cash.”
He snickered, yellow cigarette stains showing on his teeth. “I’m sure you will. I’m busy, mister. Look around all you want. If you see anything in that back lot you want, write down the number on the windshield and come back here. I’ll see what can be worked out.”
I walked around him and eyed the sticker in the Mustang’s rear window. With exaggerated care, I pulled my checkbook from my rear pocket, entered the list price, scribbled my signature, and handed him the check, along with my driver’s license. My eyebrow arched as the salesman looked from the check to the photo on the license to my face. I smiled wickedly with a tight “Call the bank . . . now!”
&n
bsp; After he disappeared into a cubicle office at the back, I pointedly ignored my appearance and slid behind the wheel of the sports car. I examined the panel gauges and n niceties then squirmed in the seat. Yeah, this will work.
The salesman reappeared with a genuine grin on his lips, a stunned glaze to his eyes. His mouth moved but nothing came out.
“Everything all right?” I couldn’t help the smugness.
“Y-yes. Fine, just fine. I’m . . . I’m terribly sorry, sir. I obviously made a big mistake. First impressions and all that . . . Ah, I mean, you just take your time. Look at any car you wish. Of course, I’ll be right at your side to answer any questions.”
“How much of a trade will you give me on my friend’s Honda?”
“It’s . . . oh, probably worth a couple hundred.”
“Give me two thousand for it and you can keep the sticker price check for the Mustang.”
“But, Mr. Norris, that Honda isn’t worth—”
“Good-bye! There’s another dealer down the street I want to talk to.”
“Wait! Thousand, you said?”
After a half hour of paperwork, I enjoyed Harry’s dexterous third count of the hundred dollar bills in his lap.
“Glad I had the title in glove compartment. Who’d ever thought . . .” His words trailed off.
The red light turned green and I stepped down on the Mustang’s gas pedal, savoring the three seconds of squealing tires before we shot forward. Slowing as we caught up with heavier traffic, I glanced over at Harry’s puzzled expression.
“What? Isn’t it all there? I saw you counting—”
“An old junker,” he interrupted. “How did you get him to pay this much for a junker and in cash?”
“Just a little dickering with a dickhead. Now, are you going to look for an apartment for me?”
“How can I do that without a car? You made me sell mine.” He chuckled then laughed outright.
I slammed my hand on the stirring wheel. “I guess you’ll have to take this one. I thought this was a stick, but it’s an automatic. I hate automatics. I want something I can really shift and move with.”
Harry grunted. “I know you ain’t drunk anymore, so you gotta be nuts, Bob. I can’t pay you back. How the hell would I even license this thing? And insurance. They demand insurance. Do you have any idea what the insurance would be? At least two months of my salary.” He threw himself back in the seat and glared at me. “And, where I live, the goddamn car would be ripped off in twenty-four hours . . . tops.”
“Make you a deal. As soon as we . . . find me . . . a place with a bed, I’ll help locate a garage for the car, something with a strong lock. So, where do we start looking?”
Harry chewed his lower lips a minute. “You’re serious. You are goddamn serious.” He blew out a breath and straightened up. “But I don’t play games. You’re going in the wrong direction. You need to turn west.”
My fingers opened and closed on the steering wheel. “Okay, Harry, no games. Let me be honest with you. I want an apartment in the middle of the lowest scum in town.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t miss his sarcasm.
“After all this time, you know better, Harry. I’ve got to live in the area where . . .” My knuckles turned white on the wheel. “. . . where I can start looking for the son-of-a-bitch who killed Eileen.” I heard him suck in breath. “I want to begin now, today.”
When I looked at him this time, Harry wore a solemn, hard expression. In my gut, I knew he was seeing me as one determined bastard and that felt good. I relaxed my grip on the wheel.
“You ain’t gonna like living where I do, but there’s a place a couple blocks away. Heard the rent is about three fifty a month and it’s a whole lot cleaner. No rats. Might have a roach or two, though, since they go with the area.” He twitched a smile. “But, they got security locks on the front door and a garage below ground. First, though, since we’re downtown, let’s stop at Jake’s Diner. They serve the kinda soup I said you need.”
“So, you’re not going to try to talk me out of stalking this guy?”
“Why? You want me to?”
“Whoever else I’ve talked to about it has tried.”
“I learned a long time ago, never step in front of a man willing to give up everything to get someplace. In Vietnam that woulda gotten me killed. Young as I was, I learned to recognize the look.”
“This isn’t Vietnam.”
“But things don’t change much when it gets down to survival. This is just a different time, different place. Charley is still out there.”
“You, ah, aren’t going to have those . . . flash-backs, are you, Harry?”
“Naw. Not as long as I take my pills and keep away from booze.” I gulped and flicked a glance at him. He wasn’t smiling. He had stated fact. “Pull into that lot. We’re at Jake’s.”
The shiny new car looked conspicuous in the vacant lot next to the weathered brick building. According to the faded and peeling words painted high on the wall, the structure had once been a business selling supplies to travelers in covered wagons. The “Dodge Street Outfitters” had long ago deteriorated to a dive serving food to customers with very little money and less dignity. Harry glanced back at the Mustang before stepping over the filthy drunk lying motionless on the diner’s stoop.
We took seats at a battered, antique oak table near the entrance where we could still see the car through the streaked dirt of the bay window. I picked up the plastic-covered menu.
“What do you suggest?”
“You still feel like upchucking?”
“I’ll be fine as long as I don’t smell grease or cigar smoke. Never had a tolerance for either.”
“Then order the chicken noodle soup.”
“What are you having?”
“Chili.”
“That sounds good.”
“Not for you. The chili here would eat right through your gut and you’d be shitting blood for a week. Like the jogging, you gotta build up to it. So, you haven’t answered me.”
We stared at one another for a long moment. “About what?”
“How do you want me to pay you back . . . for the Mustang.”
“So you are taking it.”
He ignored my comment. “With overtime I only make seven hundred bucks a month. My ex-wife gets most of it.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“Friends don’t have to know everything, do they? She dumped me several years ago. Said she got tired of hearing me scream in the night. I have ten years to go on child support for my last kid. So . . . how do you want me to pay you back? You see, I’m no dummy. Nothing is a free ride. Not family, not friendship . . . and not that Mustang.”
For the first time since looking at him over Eileen’s body, I studied Harry’s face. The shrapnel had left deep valleys and craters. Age lines flowed around the marks as if looking for room to wrinkle his appearance. The man behind that face would make an interesting portrait. I coughed to clear the fullness that rose in my throat. “Okay. Nothing is free, but . . . don’t worry about it just now. Let me think it over.”
* * *
Rushing past the line waiting to be seated, I checked my watch again. Damn it! Maggie probably thought I would not show and went home. The lobby inside Merrill’s had filled to capacity.
“Excuse me,” I muttered to a man who needed to skip a meal or two. Instead of shifting to allow me room, he turned, blocking my path. Our collision did not phase him. I, however, bounced back to where I had a head-to-toe view of him. His voice spoke a foot over my 5-10 frame as if he were addressing a child, “Now, you ain’t cutting in front of me, sonny. I’ve been waiting an hour for a table.”
I slowly tilted my head back, squared my shoulders, and glared into his piggish eyes. “I have reservations . . . and I’m late. You . . . will . . . excuse me.”
“Don’t think so. That lady up front ain’t called no one in fifteen minutes, so you just go back outside and wait your turn.”
I hadn’t spent twenty-plus years with wealthy relatives for nothing. My finger beckoned him to bend closer. I lowered my voice. “Sir, I don’t want anyone to hear, but I’m the reason no one has been seated for the past fifteen minutes.”
“What?” He demanded in a disbelieving whisper.
“I’m the owner’s son. I’m supposed to be up front seating guests, one special guest in particular.” Finger beckoned. He leaned closer. “If I don’t get up there, it will be another goddamn hour before you get to feed your fat face!”
With an indignant gasp, he jerked away, just enough for me to squeeze between him and a pretty blonde. He yelled “I don’t like your attitude, mister, so you better find me a good table and fast!”
“So sue me!” I called back as I edged toward the “Wait to be Seated” sign.
With an armful of menus, a woman in a tasteful evening dress stood behind the barricade. She flashed a breathy smile, the reservation podium’s light catching on her too-white teeth. Before she could speak, I asked “Table for Maggie Holmes?”
She blinked at her duties being anticipated, but quickly scanned the list of names. “Yes, Mrs. Holmes has been seated.”
My gaze swept the large dining area crammed with tables, customers, and serving people. At the far wall sat the short, slender, middle-aged woman I recognized. Her eyes caught mine and she waved me forward. Something about her looked different. I remembered she always looked perfectly groomed, stylishly dressed, suiting her corporate role as a power secretary. Hair style. That’s it. Her dark hair curled tightly about her head as if recently permed and too hurriedly styled.
I slid into the seat across from her, noting the cocktail and table setting obviously waiting for me. “I’m really sorry I’m late. I found an apartment this afternoon and the paperwork was slow.”
“Quite all right, Mr. Norris. Seems everything’s slow, including service here. I didn’t get seated until twenty minutes ago. I went ahead and ordered, including your drink. Scotch and water. Correct?”
Air bubbled in my recovering stomach. “Good memory. Yes, thank you.”
To Find a Killer Page 3