“Then you run and tell him—”
“Yo, whore! You don’t get it!” His bad breath spewed in her face as his hand flipped back the coat and settled on the butt of a gun shoved in the front of his jeans.
I had forgotten my own gun! Lori squeezed my arm as I tensed. “We’re supposed to be impressed with that?” She asked. “It probably replaces somethin’ you’ve never used!”
His lips curled in a snarl, as he jerked his head for me to walk in front of him.
“Have you ever thought about seeing a dermatologist or a dentist?” I asked. He stiffened, but his eyes flicked away this time. I loosened Lori’s hold on my arm. “I’m going. You’re not.”
She pressed her lips to my ear as if kissing me. I shivered. “Go along with whatever Fox says. Don’t get yourself killed. I’ll bring Harry.”
The gentle pat to her cheek and my wink only made her roll her eyes. She backed away aiming a cocked finger at Worm. He merely grunted and shoved me on my way. I stumbled. Spinning back in irritation I froze. The gun looked much bigger outside his pants. I lifted my hands in concession, thankful they weren’t shaking. He concealed the gun in a fold of the coat, but I couldn’t figure out why. The few passersby, either in cars or on foot, looked like the types to be carrying guns, too. Worm shadowed me close enough that I could feel an occasional nudge from the gun and smell him to boot. Mind’s probably been replaced by ditch weed marijuana. I decided to follow his every command and not tempt him to use that gun.
Lori had accused me of planning to carefully. But 25 years of lesson planning and weaving my life around Eileen’s to avoid her father as much as possible . . . I was a planner by habit, dammit! Some of Harry’s practice moves ran through my mind, immediately followed by an image of Chuck Norris. I’m simply Bob Norris, for crissakes! The Norris who knows nothing and wants to stay alive long enough to learn . . . something!
My swinging hand brushed the Ferrari keys in my pocket. I almost groaned remembering Lori said she was going for Harry. Yeah, on foot! That could take more minutes than I could afford. And what the hell could Harry do, a one-armed Chuck Norris..Yeah, right! I got Lori and Harry into this with me. It’s time for me get this over with . . . so I can get back to the hunt. The hunt. That sounded right!
Sweat trickled down my face and soaked into my T-shirt the “Nine Nails” sticking to my body. At the corner of 10th and Howard, Worm shoved me one last time, toward a black Lincoln. He hadn’t noticed my sweat.
The Lincoln’s back door opened. I leaned over to enter and peered down a double barrel shotgun. A deep, rasping voice came from the tinted window, shadowed interior, “Have a seat and no funny stuff!”
“I don’t see any humor in this, anyway,” I quipped stepping in and dropping back into a lush seat.
The door slammed shut and the interior darkened even more. I could feel the man with me. His aftershave smelled clean and expensive.
“So you . . . are Picasso?”
“Yeah, that’s what some call me.”
“Tough, eh? From Chicago? Why is it nobody up there knows you?”
“I don’t make many friends.”
“I want some straight answers, punk. I want them now! Who took out Alabama?”
“I did.”
“Quit wasting my time or I’ll pull the damn trigger on the piece I’m aiming at your pecker.”
My insides began to quiver, but my hands rested quietly on my knees. “You don’t want to do that, Mr. Fox . . . or is it just Fox?”
“Fox. Talk, mister!”
I took a deep breath smelling my own nervous sweat and his clean scent. “Well, Fox, I am serious. I did have a part in ‘taking him down.’ In fact that’s a very accurate idiom, ah, term. I hit him on the back of the head with a chair and his gun went off as he fell . . . killing him, taking him out, taking him down, whatever.”
The ensuing silence tortured my nerves. My eyes adjusted to the dimness. The broad-shouldered man filling the opposite corner of the back seat sat still, his eyes narrow, the end of his shotgun big. The barrel lifted from pointing to my crotch to the center of my chest. I couldn’t swallow.
“I’ve been wanting to kill that son-of-a-bitch for two years . . . and he shoots himself . . . on accident?” He chuckled, a guttural, mean attempt at humor. “So, Picasso, what did you do with his money? Wait! Lori took at least her three thousand. But Alabama always carried ten grand. Where’s the rest?”
I raised both hands carefully. “I swear I did not take any money. It was shoved into one of his pockets . . . well, after Lori took what she was owed, but . . . how did you know she did that?”
“It’s my business to know my girls, the way they think. And she is gonna be one of mine.”
“Oh, you don’t want her. You’re a man of quality. I know you don’t want her.”
“Is that so? Did you decide to pimp her?”
“Hardly! I-I took her to bed the other night, after Alabama’s . . . Anyway, she had these big sores and smelled like sardines, that sweet-sore—”
The gun moved forward. “Are you giving me more shit?”
At least my uncomfortable laughed sounded authentic. “Why would I lie about a whore? We’re both businessmen. I wouldn’t want my clients contaminated. Neither would you. Right?”
My gaze flicked from the gun to his expression. I couldn’t tell much in the poor lighting. Then the gun drooped and he relaxed.
“Since the apple’s spoiled, what are you going to do with it?”
“She’s got potential. Nice to look at. My pockets are deep. She’ll have medical bills, hospital and all. When she gets well . . . I’ll collect from her . . . then call you.”
The gun disappeared inside the big man’s coat. “Naw. That’s all right. You keep her. You know, while you talked I began to think we’ve met before.”
My butt settled more comfortably into the seat, but I gauged my hand grabbing the door handle and the roll out the door . . . if it became necessary. “Well, Fox, I don’t think so. I’m new to town—”
“Three years ago!” he interrupted, leaning forward, his expression bright, almost friendly. “My son went to East High. You teach art there! Met you at a parent-teacher thing!”
“Ah, you have a son?”
“Sent him off to college in New York. Fucking expensive, but he’s doing great!”
My insides began to fold inward. This was not part of the plan. Thoughts ricocheted around my brain. “Ah, what’s his name?”
“Doesn’t matter. You are that Norris, right?”
“Yeah. I mean, yes, I am.”
“Always liked you. You helped my boy. He talked about you more than any other teacher. I guess that’s why he’s studying that fucking art shit now. And he’s good. Well, his grades are good. You got him started. I want to do you a favor. Name it.”
“Oh, no . . . no, sir, ah, Fox . . . Wait. Yes, maybe you can do me a favor.” Within twenty minutes, I had everything explained from Eileen’s shooting up to Morten harassing us over Alabama’s death. “I’m looking for my wife’s killer because the police aren’t.”
“Lori’s idea to plant Alabama in my alley, huh? Joke’s on me. Guess I’ll owe her one. And you said it was Morten who came about his dead body? That explains where the seven thousand went!”
“He took it?” I yelped in surprise.
“Sure! He’s pulled money off my girls and kept it. Why wouldn’t he steal from the dead?” A dark laugh rumbled from his chest. “But, someday, I’ll get it from him, every last dollar.”
“Why is this money so important?”
“It’s called a kitty. If you are going to be on the streets, Norris, you listen up. Once somebody gets knocked off, a respectable street person, like myself, will take the kitty and pass it on to the widow . . . if he has one, or to a family member. Alabama had a wife and two kids. Now, I gotta take that money out of my own pocket . . . so they don’t suffer. Do you see?”
“Kinda. But you were . . . like riva
ls.”
“Listen and learn, Norris. This was lesson one. We take care of our own. Now, get out of here, ‘cause I gotta talk to some of my people. I’ll be in touch.”
My hand froze on the door handle. Movie images of people shot in the back played across my mind. “So . . . this means you are not going to kill me.”
“We pay our debts on the street, Norris. You helped my son become what he is today. That saved your ass from getting real dead, but . . .” He slapped my knee. “I was after Alabama anyway and Lori ain’t worth much to me, sick or not . . . so I still owe you for my son. Here on out, you stay out of my business and you’ll be okay.”
As I stepped onto the sidewalk, the Lincoln squealed into a traffic lane and swung around a corner. A huge sigh released my tension. I backtracked to my car, taking long, determined strides. Half a block from the Ferrari, I thumbed the remote to shut down the alarm and unlock the car. It’s alarms squealed instead. Glancing around I saw three people stop to eye me. I punched the remote until everything fell silent and the door opened. I backed out of the parking space and laid some rubber of my own. Fox had his business and I had mine!
At the apartment I found Lori huddled on the sofa, a tissue pressed to her nose. She threw her arms around my neck, that tight little body slamming against mine as she hysterically cried, “Bob! Oh, Bob! You’re back!”
“Of course.” I tried to disentangle those arms, before I embarrassed myself. “You’re crying again. Are you pregnant or something?”
“So . . . so is he dead?”
“No! Why were you so damned worried. Fox is a nice guy. I didn’t get to see much of him, inside his dark car, but we had a really pleasant talk.”
“Pleasant? Fox? Are you kiddin’ me? Fox doesn’t give anyone a break. He put out the word he was gonna kill you!”
“Not anymore. We talked. Now he’s gonna help me find Eileen’s killer.”
“You talked him into that? Bull! You took down Alabama and you took Alabama’s territory and me—”
“He’s not interested in you anymore. He’s not going to bother you for a long time. I told him you have bad case of herpes.”
“God dammit-to-hell-and-gone! What the hell did you do that for? I won’t be able to work the streets again? Did you think of that?”
“So what? Take up another profession, something a . . . ah, you know, a—”
“You are trying to say ‘Something a nice girl would do,’ aren’t you? Listen, stupid! Once a whore, always a whore. Whores work for pimps or get thrown through the county ER doors beat up and near dead. No pimp is going to put an infected whore on the street. So you just put me out of work. Period.”
“Now, you listen to me, Lori!” I was tired of being lectured to like I was the child here. “Someday you will thank me for this. And you are not out of work! You are helping me investigate a murder.”
“How? Sitting in this cramped apartment with all your new shit, watching TV, counting the bricks on the wall across the street—”
“Lori!” I shouted. “Shut up! Where’s Harry?”
“Out looking for you!”
“His Mustang is still in the garage.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You’re getting so street smart, you figure out why.”
I rubbed my face and focused on controlling my temper. Here was a young woman who knew how to push the right buttons. She had done it to Alabama and now she was working me in retaliation for my butting into her business. “Okay, Miss Smart Aleck, he’s out walking the streets. That means he’s talking to people, people he knows, his connections. They aren’t the most trust-worthy types, so . . . he left the car home so it wouldn’t get stolen behind his back.”
“And whose the Smart Aleck?”
“So, I’ll ask your advice. Do I wait here or go looking for him?”
She rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. “The phone man came right after we left. Harry said he’d call me every hour on the hour.”
“Where—”
“Where do you think a phone should be, Mr. Smart-talking-man-who-don’t-know-dick?”
I stared into her eyes for a long moment. Tears welled up again. She signaled with thumb over her shoulder toward the desk that filled the breakfast nook. As I turned back to apologize, she pushed past me and dropped on the couch.
Realizing I was going to be ignored, I examined the combination phone and answering machine Harry had ordered. For not having too much money, the man knew how to select quality. I scanned the instruction book open beside state-of-the-art equipment. Pushing the appropriate button, I listened to the crisp, nondescript greeting Harry had recorded.
“Harry should have been a secretary,” I said. Lori continued to ignore me. She concentrated on the mirror and cosmetics spread on the table at her knees. With practiced strokes, she wiped away the evidence of tears and applied the barest suggestion of color to a face so different from the one I had first seen so few days ago. That face had looked hard, artificial, exaggerated, right down to the thick blonde wig that had disappeared.
I walked to the window to get another perspective of the indirect sunlight washing across her freshness. As my mind created another memory to be transferred to canvas, I stumbled over the decorative floor vase. It crashed over, spilling the dried flowers and country weeds across the wooden floor.
“Harry and I said you bought too much crap for this place!”
“Touches like this make it a home, not just a place.”
“If you can move around and not break something.”
The side of my foot worked well enough to push the pottery shards and crumbling foliage against the baseboard and out of my line of travel. When I finally got back to studying Lori, she had leaned back staring off into space, her hands unconsciously rubbing up and down her thighs.
“Have you ever had herpes, Lori?”
“You told Fox I did.”
“Only so he’d leave you alone. But, I know diseases like that . . . How do you keep from getting them?”
“I make . . . made my johns wear rubbers. I still got gonorrhea last year. Treated it right away and I’ve been clean since.”
“Then you see a doctor regularly.”
“Not since that penicillin prescription.”
“Won’t do. Since you’re my employee now, it’s my responsibility to see you get a complete physical. I told Fox I had to take you to the doctor, so this will look good. I’ll get an appointment with my doctor tomorrow.”
“The clinic has always been good enough.”
“Not anymore. Now you’ll see Dr. Burroughs. My wife and I have seen her for years.”
“Her? A woman doctor?”
“Are you prejudiced? She has a very good reputation—”
“I can’t believe you see a woman doctor, not unless she’s good looking.”
I thought a moment. “I suppose she is, but that has nothing—”
The phone’s ring saved me from digging the hole Lori expected. Dr. Burroughs is damn good looking and I’m not her only male patient. I glanced at my watch to stop my thoughts. “Hello, Harry. Where the hell are you?”
“So you finally showed up . . . alive! I been dragging my tired ass all over looking for you, or your dead body.”
“Appreciate it. I’m fine. Fox is letting me live. Actually he’s doing better than that. Where are you at? I can pick you up.”
“Stay put. I’m going to drop on this here bus bench and get some sleep. Between the phone company, a chauffeur named Charles, and that damn Lori . . . I didn’t get more than twenty minutes of sleep today.”
“Charles? Harry! Did you say Charles? When did you see him?”
“He came to the door after the phone man left. He said something about your father-in-law. I put the message on the refrigerator with those fancy candy magnets you bought. It says the old man wants to see you as soon as possible.”
Chapter 8
Against the far wall, the repulsive bastard sat in a high backed ch
air behind a large oval table. A pure white cloth starkly contrasted the red china place settings, two of them. Amato’s offered the city’s finest dining experience. And here, lowly Bob Norris had been invited into Amato’s private dining room. Of course, I was to feel honored and aware that what Henry was about to say was immensely important.
The ever proper Charles escorted me across the elegant room. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “Thanks, Chucky.” The man didn’t deserve my annoyance. He pointed to the seat and table setting to the right of my father-in-law. I took the chair to the left.
Henry stared at me for a moment. “You are excused, Charles.” A sip of water. “Well, hello . . . Robert. I am glad you came on such short notice . . . and that you chose to wear the DaVinci I had tailored for you last year.”
“My polyester’s at the cleaners. Since finding the message on my frig yesterday, I had plenty of time to shave and brush my teeth . . . repeatedly.”
“Everything is a big joke to you, isn’t it? Please have the courtesy to sit here where there is a plate.”
“I prefer here. The waitress can give me a clean one . . . if I stay. Why did you . . . summons me, Henry?”
He draped a folded, dark red napkin across his lap as the stoic young waitress poured his wine. One flick of his finger and she arranged china and utensils for me. No one spoke as the plates of salad were set down and aromatic Italian oil drizzled over the crisp lettuce. I merely stared at mine. Henry crunched away on his, slowly as if savoring the abrasive sound and the flavors.
Pushing indolently back in my chair, I was about to repeat my question when Charles re-entered. He set a large envelope on the table to Henry’s right. His hesitation caught my attention and I looked up into eyes so like Eileen’s. Damn! I had never noticed. Even his mouth and lips smiled in the same self-contained arrogance as Eileen, as if he knew something and dared me to find out what. The smile disappeared. He straightened in a military stance.
“Sir, the messenger arrived.”
“Thank you, Charles. Tell him I will not need his services for the rest of the day.”
Trying to ignore my impulsive thoughts, I began to pick at my salad. First the green pepper had to go, then the sour, yellowish peppers. I looked up just as Henry ate his.
To Find a Killer Page 8