To Find a Killer

by Charlie Vogel

  “Is it about my wife? Have you found her killer?”

  He blinked then his face relaxed in recognition. “Bob Norris, isn’t it? No, ah, we haven’t found a suspect in that case . . . I’m surprised to find you . . . here. This is . . . about one Humphrey Jackson, known on the streets as Alabama. I was told I would find a Harry Piston living here.”

  His crisp tone irritated the hell out of me. “Yeah, Harry lives here and so do I. I don’t know if he’s home yet. You got me up! What time is it anyway?”

  “Six thirty. Piston left work at the Stop-and-Go an hour ago. Shouldn’t he be home by now?”

  “Wait a minute, Morten. I don’t care if you are a cop. You wake me out of a sound sleep and demand I tell you somebody else’s business?”

  He pushed his face toward me. “My job, Norris, is to make demands.”

  “Okay, asshole, have it your way.” His arrogance was making my street attitude more natural. I’m actually enjoying this. “I didn’t hear him come in, but I’ll check.”

  He stepped forward with “And I’ll come in while you do that.”

  My raised hand stopped him. “Not unless you have a warrant or I invite you. And I’m not inviting!”

  At the end of the hall, the elevator rumbled to a stop. The doors opened and Harry stepped out, his arm wrapped around a grocery bag.

  “Hm, I guess, he’s home now, isn’t he?” I snapped.

  Morten gritted his teeth at my sarcasm. Harry only glanced at him as he walked around us. I took the bag.

  “We have a visitor, Harry. Remember Sergeant Morten?”

  He stared at the man for a long moment. “Been two weeks, but how can you forget a careful man like him.”

  “Mr. Piston, I have some questions and want you to come downtown with me.”

  “You can’t question me here?”

  “No.”

  “Is this about Eileen Norris?”

  “No, it’s another matter.”

  “Hey, Sarge, I’m tired. I worked all night. You can ask your questions here or get a warrant.”

  Morten expelled a long breath, rubbed his neck, then tried a friendlier expression. “Okay. Here. So, Norris, are you going to invite me inside now?”

  “Come right in.” I grabbed Harry’s arm and practically dragged him to the couch. “You sit here, Harry. Get comfortable,” I said pointedly. He glanced at the now-empty table and settled himself. Morten took the armchair across from him.

  “I need coffee. Want some?”

  Harry nodded.

  “Offering any to the asshole?” Morten asked.

  “Why not?” I threw over my shoulder as I headed to the kitchen with the groceries. Trying to be as quiet as possible, I listened to the living room conversation.

  “Mr. Piston, we talked to someone who recognized you coming into this building four days ago, the morning of Wednesday the 19th. An hour prior to your arrival a pimp known as Alabama entered this same building with a street whore named Lori Saint. This witness works across the street at the Laundromat. She did not see you or Alabama come out. Now, do you know Alabama?”

  I held my breath, my heart rate accelerating.

  “I’ve seen him around. I wouldn’t call us exactly friends.”

  “Did you see him in this apartment building?”

  “No. Bob and I just moved here. I go to work, come home, go to bed. Haven’t seen too many people period.”

  “Exactly when did you move in?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “You and Bob Norris . . . together.”

  “Right. He’s the one paying the rent. We been friends for a few years. He wanted a change after . . . well, you know. And he wanted company, so he offered me one of the bedrooms.”

  “Sounds like things are going your way . . . kind of sudden like. Nice place to live. Fancy new car. Did you buy that with the money you took off Alabama . . . after killing him?”

  I erupted from the kitchen yelling “What the hell are you talking about? I bought that car! Me, the rich guy! Put it in his name! Harry didn’t kill anybody! Why don’t you get your pig ass out of here!”

  Morten rose to his feet, coldly assessing my anger. “Norris, what is it about you that rubs me wrong? Even at your wife’s murder scene, you acted like a jerk toward me. Why is that?”

  Memories of the Chicago peace march down State Street flashed across my mind. I shivered, recalling the cops with their tear gas and night sticks. “You goddamn cops are all alike. Beat down innocent people and call it your job. I was in a peace demonstration in the ‘60’s. Peace! Ha! Your brother cops burned us with tear gas and broke our faces with night sticks. And peaceful citizens are supposed to trust pigs like you? Trust you to do your job? That’s a laugh! Your job is to find Eileen’s murderer, and you haven’t done a damn thing, have you?”

  “Back off, Norris. We’re investigating. You get clear on this: that homicide is not the only one in this city. I am here investigating another one. You want to stick your nose in, then you answer some questions, too. Why are you living here?”

  “Couldn’t deal with an empty house. I needed a change for a while . . . just like Harry said. Now, you tell me if my living here has one goddamn thing to do with your homicide investigation!”

  “Alabama and his whore lived across the hall from you! How’s that for close enough? Did you know him?”

  “We were never introduced.” That’s the truth, anyway!

  “How many days ago did you and your friend move in?”

  “Four!”

  “And that’s the day in question. How’s that for another coincidence, Norris? Did you hear anything suspicious in the building?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a gunshot, Mr. Peace Demonstrator. Alabama was shot to death. He was seen coming into the building, but not leaving. Maybe he was killed here.”

  “And you think Harry shot him?”

  “Piston came home, then the pimp ended up dead.”

  “Do you have proof Harry killed our supposed neighbor?”

  “No, not . . . yet. So, we’ll move on. Either of you know Alabama’s girl, this Lori Saint . . . or the whore’s whereabouts? I have a warrant for her arrest.”

  “Morten, your little visit has been a waste of time, yours and ours. I don’t know any whores. Do you, Harry?”

  Harry twitched a rueful smile. “I’ve known one or two. And I seen this Lori in the Stop-and-Go, but not in the past few days. You trying to arrest anybody and everybody for killing her pimp?”

  The sergeant shook his head slowly and started toward the door. “The warrant was issued before Alabama died . . . by her parole officer. If she comes to that door across the way, tell her to give him a call.” He turned to look each of us in the eye. “I’ll be watching you two. If you hear anything or have anything interesting to tell me about Alabama, call the station.”

  We waited for the elevator noise to fade before either of us moved. Harry stood, stretched, then dropped into the chair Morten had abandoned. He nonchalantly picked up the TV remote, thumbed the volume up, and shifted his attention to me.

  “What now?”

  I lifted the cushion and palmed the Beretta. “I don’t know. He said he would be watching us. You’re the street-smart one here. Does that mean he’s on to us?”

  “Naw, he’s just snooping and an asshole.”

  “That’s real news! Who’s the witness that works in that laundramat? I’ve never seen anybody over there.”

  “Bet it was Candi.”

  “Who?”

  “One of Fox’s girls. She doesn’t work in the Laundromat. She works in front of it. You think she’s going to tell the cops that? Anyway, I remember seeing her when I came home that morning.”

  A headache crawled around inside my skull. For three days Harry and Lori had been filling my head with information about the habits of the area’s whores, gangsters, petty criminals, and the newer gang elements. I felt like I had been studying for some kind of final
exam. “I’m trying to fit in here and I piss off a cop . . . who is investigating what I don’t want him to and goddamn ignoring what he should be doing!”

  Harry grinned at me. “But you’re doing his work for him, right?”

  My head throbbed. I envisioned an apartment out by Lake Crazy Horse with straight-laced, safe Maggie living across the hall from me, and the ghost of a sleazy pimp. Shoving the gun back under the couch seat, I rubbed my stomach. “Who gives a damn if he’s watching us! You want to take a drive for breakfast?”

  “Don’t think so. I grabbed fast food on my way from the store. Oh, yeah . . . I noticed your new car in the garage. Not exactly a pickup truck!”

  “Lori thought a sporty car looked more like something a pimp would drive.”

  “You think it will bury my Mustang?”

  “I think I’m not interested in dragging. I’m interested in breakfast. Morten can watch me eat. See you when you wake up.”

  “Yeah. Later,” the disappointed Harry mumbled, scooting down in his seat to stare at the TV.

  * * *

  Cabinet doors slammed in the kitchen. I found Lori leaning against the counter, pulling the pot from the coffee maker. A football jersey hung to mid-thigh. Her mussed hair and sleepy expression gave her back her teen years. That would make a nice image on canvas.

  “Your coffee’s ready. Want some?”

  “Forgot about it.” I took the mug from her. “What time did you get in?”

  “Early. Around two.”

  “We woke you, huh?”

  “All cops are assholes. You got that part right.”

  “Harry said Morten was fishing. First about him then about you. Did you hear the warrant part . . . from your parole officer?”

  “I think that’s why I didn’t show my face, hayseed!”

  “Of course,” I mumbled, duly chastised.

  We sipped our coffee. I tried not to look at her shapely legs as she leaned back against the counter and crossed her feet at the ankle.

  “Did you do any business last night?”

  “Johns? I ain’t got a street to work on. Remember? I sat in an all night diner. But . . .” she smiled triumphantly before continuing, “Fox showed after midnight.”

  “Perfect! What did he say?”

  “That he wants to kill you.” She ignored my coughing as I swallowed wrong. “By now everyone on the streets knows you as ‘Picasso.’ Harry and I made you out as an educated bad ass from Chicago, like you said. We also put out the word that you killed Alabama. That’s why Fox is pissed, of course.”

  “Good . . . I guess. This is all moving so fast. Hope nothing goes wrong. So, how soon is he coming after me?”

  She shrugged. “Said he has to figure out a really bad pay back for dumping your trash on his turf. He’s pretty hot, so I’d say soon. Are you ready?”

  “Harry took me down by the river yesterday. I shot off about a 100 rounds. And we did a little work out. Like that martial arts crap, but just enough for me to dodge and roll. Harry’s really good at it. You wouldn’t expect it of him with just one, ah, I mean, all these years after Nam.”

  “You like him, don’t you.”

  “He was there when Eileen . . . and now he’s here. And it’s not just the money. He’s knows what needs doing.”

  “I didn’t tell Fox where you live, but his girls will. I wouldn’t do any walking around the area, even if you can dodge and roll real good.”

  I laughed, she didn’t.

  “Bob, this isn’t playtime. This is real. You sure you want to go through with this?”

  “Yes, Lori. I started this scenario and I’ll finish it. I’ve gone too far. I feel like-like Eileen’s depending on me.”

  For the first time since I met her, her eyes glistened with rising tears. She turned to set her cup in the sink.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Just leave me alone,” she whispered.

  When she didn’t move or even look up, I got the message and returned to the living room. Harry slept in the chair, the TV hummed an unnoticed noise in front of him. He hadn’t been in the kitchen, so he hadn’t taken his morning pills waiting in two brown plastic bottles on the counter.

  For some reason Lori had assumed the job of reminding him every morning and every night. She announced she only did it to keep him from flipping out around her. He accused her of taking up nursing to harass men, since she’d given up whoring. His “Nancy Nurse” name-calling made us all smile.

  Because Lori had slipped back to her bedroom, it would be my turn this time. I read the labels carefully before taking one capsule from each bottle. For a moment I stared at the VA Hospital markings on the bottles. How simple for them to shove a few pills at men like Harry and forget further responsibility for their condition. And if fascist politicians had only paid attention to peace demonstrations like mine, they wouldn’t have committed the crime of sending whole boys into war to become men with twisted minds and bodies. Men like Harry who needed VA Hospitals. Men who needed dignity . . . not pills.

  I set the glass of water on the table and bent over the sleeping man. First, I nudged him and softly called his name. When he merely shifted restlessly and rolled his head, I grabbed his shoulder and shook him harder.

  A grinding roar through clenched teeth startled me. His arm locked around my neck. My breath whooshed out as Harry pinned me against his chest.

  “Harry!” I gurgled. “It’s Bob! Bob! Let . . . go!”

  My twisting and thumping overturned the table. Still he held me. The menacing roar rumbled from his chest, but the sound began to fade as my sight darkened. The pressure around my neck eased, the roaring turned to groans, and I slid to the floor at Harry’s feet. Gulping in air, I realized Lori stood behind the chair, her palms massaging Harry’s temples, her voice whispering soothing nonsense words in his ear. His whole body relaxed. He tried to open his eyes, but they rolled as if he was dizzy and trying to stop the spinning inside his head.

  “Th-thanks,” I managed as I stood up. “There’s his goddamn pills.”

  By the time she got him to swallow them, Harry was leaning forward and rubbing his own head, still not able to communicate. It was then I noticed Lori’s red and swollen eyes.

  “Why were you crying?”

  “You son-of-a-bitch! Do you really think you can kill Fox? You can’t even protect yourself from-from a friend!”

  “Kill Fox? I wasn’t thinking of killing him. I was thinking of scaring him, maybe shooting him in the leg . . . if I had to.”

  “You stupid bastard! He wants to . . . kill . . . you.” She enunciated like I was a simpleton. “Scare him? You don’t kill him first . . . you will be as dead as . . . as your wife. Is that what you want? What you really want?”

  God! Was it? “No,” I whispered, then shouted “No! I never thought of it that way.”

  “How can I make you understand? You’re out of time. No more of this target practice or talking bullshit. You either quit now . . . or you kill him!”

  Tears welled up again. She swiped at them.

  “You were crying over me?”

  A sigh escaped from Harry. Lori sat on the arm of his chair, one hand rubbing his back, the other tugging at the hem of her jersey.

  “Did I, ah, miss something?”

  “Yeah, your goddamn pills,” I said.

  “I didn’t hurt anything, did I?”

  “You tried. You just about did Fox’s work for him.”

  “Fox? What?”

  “Lori here seems to think Fox means to come after me.”

  “Man, I did miss something. That’s what we want, isn’t it?”

  “I told him Fox means to kill him.”

  “So? That’s why I’m here.”

  Lori and I exchanged glances. “Okay, Harry, but for a little added insurance, I’m running to Electronic City for a few things. Get some sleep. Lori, put on those jeans of yours, because you are coming with me.”

  Chapter 7

  A block
from Electronic City, I eased the Ferrari into a parking space. Lori got out and stepped to the sidewalk. I fumbled with the car manual, trying to avoid looking at her petite figure clad in the loose print sun dress, instead of the jeans I had dictated. Her light touch of make-up over that creamy complexion . . . the image began to mentally transfer to the bare canvas propped on the easel in my room. I scowled at the manual’s section marked “Car Alarm.”

  “Hey, Bob! You coming or not?”

  My door slammed a little harder than I intended. “Hold your pants on . . .” Wrong, stupid! “I mean, just a minute.” My thumb pressed buttons on the remote, while I listened to her nervous pacing. Through the tinted window I saw the red light blinking. With a triumphant smile I finally joined her. “With any new piece of equipment, Lori, there is a learning curve—”

  She grabbed my arm. “There’s Worm!”

  I looked down, but found my fly zipped. “What are you talking about?”

  “There, down the street I told you about him. He watches out front, while someone else breaks in. If cops come by, he signals.”

  I tried to nonchalantly glance where she indicated. “You think he’s on a job now?”

  “Here he comes. Act natural!”

  How the hell was someone suppose to act natural around a criminal? I took her arm and pretended to be looking for an address. Two steps later a slender boy blocked our path. He looked like many belligerent teens I had known over the years, only harder, more vicious. His ankle-length trench coat was obviously too heavy for summer and reeked of sweat.

  I didn’t look away from his stare. “Is this kid looking for trouble?” I asked Lori.

  “Don’t ask me. Ask him.”

  “I thought I just did.”

  He jabbed me in the chest with one finger, “Are you Picasso?”

  I blinked then remembered. “Yes, I am. Why do you ask?”

  “We been on the lookout for you . . . for Fox. He’s down the street . . . doin’ business, if you know what I mean.”

  When I glanced at Lori, she shrugged, not taking her eyes off the pimple-faced kid. “Well, we got business, Worm.”

  “You know, bitch, Fox don’t like waitin’.”