Dying Embers

by Robert E. Bailey

  The door closed and we were alone in the hallway, an administrative section of the jail. “Dude, you are too cool,” said Flaco. I lurched back in the chair as Flaco broke into a dead run. “This is a shame—no shit, man—but the Chingos got to say hello.”

  A foot short of the stairway he let go of the chair. “Ola, motherfucker.”

  I caught the hand rail and swung out of the chair as it bucked down the first step. The chair crashed down the stairs. Flaco backed up and looked up and down the hall. No one. He shrugged and took a sharpened tooth brush with a duct-tape handle out of his shoe.

  “Think about it, Manny,” I said. I extended my left hand palm down. “Think about why my hand is so steady.”

  “Maybe because you are stupid,” he said, curling his lip.

  I stepped out of my one shoe and put it on my left hand. Pulling my shirt over my head, I wrapped it around my left arm and wrist. “Think something else,” I said.

  “I think somebody already kicked your ass, and all that beef don’t scare me.”

  “Yeah? Keep thinking. I’ll be right with you.” I started up the steps.

  “I think you walk real good for a man I got to push around in a wheelchair,” he said. “And I think I already done what I was told.” He backed away several steps and then ran.

  “Good thinking, Flaco.”

  • • •

  The barred gate closed behind me. The gray metal door in front of me slid to the right and revealed Matty Svenson waiting with her arms folded over a denim jacket that mostly covered a black turtleneck sweater. She wore gray slacks and had rolled the sleeves of the jacket up to her forearms.

  “Slumming?”

  “Trying to fit in,” she said. “How am I doing?”

  “Great. Nobody’ll notice you.”

  “So the guys that just left weren’t hitting on me?”

  I walked over to the window. The guard—unseen through a one-way window—pushed a form out the window for me to sign.

  “They offer you a can of Spam and a box of crackers?” I signed the form and it snapped back in the window like a frog’s tongue.

  “Mentioned a pizza and a six pack,” she said.

  “Must be rutting season.” An envelope with my tie and belt came out. They’d issued me yet another check for the sheriff’s check they confiscated.

  We threaded our way through a maze of people with sullen faces seated on the wooden benches to the hallway and out the revolving door into the sun and a sweet breeze. Matty produced a pair of sunglasses and a set of car keys.

  “The blue one,” she said.

  “Four door sedan, black walls, and a spotlight,” I said. “We got ‘em fooled now.”

  “This belongs to a friend of yours.”

  “Yeah, Uncle Sam.”

  “J. William Cameran,” she said. “He’s currently sitting in the fifth floor lock-up at the federal building and sweating out the answers to some very hard questions.”

  I climbed into the shotgun seat. A passing white pick up tooted as it passed and Matty waved.

  “They with you?”

  “They wish,” said Matty. She pulled her door shut and twisted the keys into the ignition.

  “What are we doing in the J. Billster’s ride?”

  “I’m searching it.”

  “Got any cigarettes?”

  “J. William doesn’t allow smoking in his vehicle.” Matty produced an unopened pack of smokes from the pocket of her denim jacket. “Pall Malls all right?” She dropped them onto the seat between us.

  I hammered the silver end of the pack on the dash. “There’s a chalky undertaste to the mousse here,” I said. “I’m up to my armpits in Bureau people. Former agents, informants, and whatever your Mr. El Guitmo was—he wasn’t a stranger.”

  “Paranoia, Art. You read too many paperback novels.”

  “I go to the post office all the time,” I said, and zipped open the cellophane wrapper. “I’m so paranoid I actually look at the posters. A guy who looked like Fidel Castro kind of sticks in your mind.” I peeled open the silver foil corner of the pack and shook out a smoke. “I don’t think he’d have much shelf-life on the street. And ‘El Guitmo?’” I lit up and savored the sweet smoke. “Give me a break.”

  “Spur of the moment,” said Matty. “I thought it was pretty good.”

  “You didn’t need me to quiz him. What were you doing, waiting for him to tidy up?”

  Matty turned north out of the lot and drove in silence with her cheek twitching over a tight jaw and her knuckles white on the wheel. At Michigan Avenue she turned right and said, “I told you I wasn’t listening to the audio.”

  “Right.”

  Matty snapped on the radio and got a pig-and-whistle band, drumming and drilling at After the Morning. “I was in the weeds,” she said. “I had to relieve myself. Your wife was going in and out. The van belonged to the janitor—we ran the plate. I can’t just hang it out the door like the guys.”

  “They hang it out the door? That’s disgusting.”

  Matty turned south onto the Beltline. “You know what I mean. When I got back to the van your window exploded.”

  “Sorry you missed it,” I said, and pulled open the ashtray—it was full of parking change. I flicked my ash into the coins. “He ratted you out.”

  “I can’t tell you anything,” she said.

  “Your ‘El Guitmo’ was under so long he went native?” I shook out a cigarette and offered it.

  “We thought he was dead,” said Matty. She punched in the dash lighter and took the smoke. “Ebola in West Africa. We didn’t ask for the body.”

  I said, “You thought he was reincarnated?”

  “He used someone else’s contact code.”

  “He played you?”

  “He played Cameran,” she said.

  “So now you’re covering for Cameran.”

  “I’m a Special Agent, not a prosecutor. Cameran’s an asshole.” The lighter popped up. “On his best case—the only one that went to jail was his informant. When he retired, he opened Intelligence Research Associates and tried to run it from his desk at the Bureau.” She pulled the lighter out of the dash and lit her smoke. “We had to load his crap in a box and change the door code.”

  “So they are going to cover for him?”

  “Probably,” she exhaled in a cloud, “if he can give us the rest of the crew. We can’t really ask you to continue.”

  “What do I do? Post a want-ad: ‘Art Hardin, All-ey, all-ey in free.’”

  “If you think you can still contribute,” she said, and looked at me, adding a smile with a flutter of eyelashes, “I won’t need to ask you to return your orders.” She turned into my office parking lot and stopped in front of the steps.

  I stepped out and took my cane off the floor in the back seat. “I was looking forward to the check.”

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Keep these?” I said and showed her the red pack of cigarettes.

  She snatched them out of my hand. “Not on your life,” she said.

  • • •

  I found Detective Archer A. Flynt with his backside parked in my wing-back chair. He didn’t stand up when I walked into my office, and I had to step over his feet to get around the desk to my chair.

  “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the knees of his gray wool suit.

  “Okay,” I said, and leaned my cane on the edge of my desk. “Just hang my license back on the wall and get the hell out of here.” I plopped into my chair. “How’s that?”

  “Won’t get it,” he said, raising his eyebrows and wrinkling the forehead under his gray flattop haircut. “I was in the courthouse this morning. I want the names of the people you paid off and how much you paid them.”

  “Nobody and not a dime. Anything else?”

  “Did you ever give money to Detective Gerald Van Huis?”

  “He came over to take a vandalism report.
I gave him a soda.”

  “Five dollars?”

  “No.”

  “Five hundred dollars?”

  “Nope.”

  “Five thousand dollars?”

  I shook my head.

  “You’re lying,” he said and sat back in the chair.

  “You’re insane.”

  Flynt reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, produced an evidence bag containing a book of raffle tickets, and flopped it onto my desk, then stared at me over fists folded in front of his face.

  “They pay you for this?” I said. “You get a paycheck every week?” I laughed.

  “You lied. I can prove it.” He sat straight in his chair. “It’s all I need.”

  “I like you, Flynt. You’ve got style. You’re a fucking idiot, but you got loads of style.”

  “I’ve got your license,” he said and stashed the evidence bag in his pocket.

  “You don’t have my license. You’ve got a piece of paper.”

  “I want your pocket ID.”

  “Can’t have it,” I said.

  “You have to surrender it.”

  “Bring someone from the licensing bureau and I’ll give it to them.”

  “They report to us.”

  “I report to them,” I said.

  “Put it in the envelope I left and I’ll mail it.”

  “Pete Finney. That’s my attorney. Go see him—and for God’s sake, don’t leave out the raffle tickets.”

  Flynt rocketed to his feet. Looming over my desk, he lifted his side of my desk off the floor. “No Goddam pervert is walking around with a detective’s ID in his pocket,” he said, teeth bared and sinews standing out from his neck.

  “You’re absolutely right,” I said.

  Flynt’s face fell blank and his mouth dropped open. That’s when the plywood came off my window and someone outside yelled, “Hey, Hardin, I got a present for you.”

  22

  A FAT AND FIFTYISH LEPRECHAUN in a lime-green “Monkey Wards’” polyester suit leaned over and stuck his head in the window. What remained of his hair resembled cotton batten glued behind his ears. He said, “Ahh, my name is Billy Clements.”

  I heard the boot impact Billy’s backside. He let out a scream and thrust his hands out like Superman. Detective Flynt released the edge of my desk and caught Billy. The impact backed Flynt up a couple of steps, but he kept his feet. Billy clutched Flynt—one arm over Flynt’s shoulder, the other around his midsection—until he found his feet.

  “Detective Archer A. Flynt, State Attorney General’s Office,” I said and waited for Flynt’s startled eyes to meet mine, “this is Billy Clements, Sales Manager, Prestige Import Automobiles.”

  “I … I don’t work at Prestige Imports anymore,” said Billy as Flynt pushed him away. “Strictly Station Wagons, Inc. on Alpine just before Ann Street.” Billy flicked out a business card like a switchblade. “Drives like a car instead of a truck.”

  Flynt stared at the card and then at me. Billy sheathed his business card. Ken Ayers, decked out in full scooter trash, sat in the window dangling his feet over my credenza. “Oh, shit” was written on his face, but he made a single wave of his hand and said, “Hi.”

  Flynt scowled at me and said, “What?”

  I rocked my chair back. “Poker,” I said. “You want to sit in?”

  Flynt focused narrow eyes on Ken and then me. “They came in the window?”

  “Army buddies,” I said. “Sometimes a little too playful.” I fished a deck of cards out of my top desk drawer and tossed it on my blotter. “Nickel, dime, quarter. Low card in the hole is wild. What do you say? Want to sit in?”

  “I want your pocket ID,” said Flynt.

  “I’m not going to give it to you. You don’t have the authority to ask for it.”

  “We’ll keep it unofficial,” said Flynt. “Maybe you can get it back later.”

  “Leave the license you took off the wall.”

  “I’ll see you in court.”

  “I’ll see you personally hang the license back where you found it. In the meantime, you’re on private property. Good afternoon, Detective.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Flynt. “You should cooperate. Things could work out.”

  Whatever was on my face, I don’t know. Flynt shook his head and left.

  “So go ahead,” said Ken Ayers, sliding off the window sill to step onto the credenza.

  Looking sheepish, Billy backed a step toward the door. “I did it,” he said. “I’m sorry. I broke your windshield. Twice.”

  With a hand on the sill, Ken stepped off the credenza. “I thought you were nuts until I heard that part about the hydraulic leak. Tracy was steady bitching about that leak. It’s the power steering pump. I’ve replaced the line twice. Damn thing still leaks. Howard Butler made good old Billy here buy my old lady’s Jag or go to jail. With that and the money from the bank, she squared up with the dealership.” He batted the dust off his black leather vest with both hands.

  “I want to pay for the damage,” said Billy. He took an envelope from his jacket and stepped just close enough to drop it on the desk with a shaking hand.

  “It’s ah … it’s ah, three hundred dollars,” said Billy. “It’s ah, all I got—my four-oh-one-kay and the market the way it is, you know—Butler wanted cash.”

  I picked up the envelope and dropped it in my drawer with the deck of cards. “The car’s still in the impound,” I said. “I’ll have it towed down to the shop. All you have to cover is my deductible and the tow. I’ll send you a copy of the bill.”

  Ken said, “I’m sure a slick, sophisticated gentleman like Billy here would be glad to let you drive his car while yours is in the shop.”

  “Sure,” said Billy, his face draining as he reached into his pants pocket. He jingled loose a small ring with two keys and set them on the desk. “There’s a spare set in a magnetic box in the bumper.”

  “Great,” I said. “Which one is it?”

  They both looked at me, incredulous, and said in unison, “The white Jaguar.”

  “Cool,” I said, and felt a smile bump up against the nose brace.

  “I just need a ride,” said Billy.

  Ken put his hand to his forehead, closed his eyes, and said, “I’m starting to get a picture of you wagging your wrinkled weenie at my wife.”

  Billy fled.

  Ken laughed and shook his head as Billy tore open the door, banged a shoulder on the door jam, and spun into the hall. “You were square with my wife,” said Ken. He leaned on my desk. “Now we’re even. I ought to kick your ass just for GP’s, but it looks like somebody took care of that.”

  “You read the newspaper?”

  “Nah, I got shit to do. Just tell me where I can find the dude and I’ll go shake his hand.”

  “In the fridge, down at the county morgue.”

  Ken stood straight. “Oh,” he said. He sat in the wingback chair. “Your old lady whack him out?” He crossed his ankles and stretched out his legs. “Trade you even up—sight unseen.”

  “State secret,” I said. I opened the file drawer in my desk, scooped the folders to the front, and nested my telephone in the back of the drawer. “Maybe we can do some business.”

  Ken clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. “Hardin, you’re a trip,” he said.

  I pushed the drawer shut. “Tell me about the Chingos.”

  “Punks,” he said. He laughed. “Tracy’s still pissed. I wouldn’t drop by for dinner anytime soon.”

  “And the Chingos?”

  “Grifters mostly. How’s this come out to be business for me?”

  “Think of yourself as a consultant.”

  Ken folded his arms—a practiced move that made his biceps bulge—his drooping moustache making a comic frown of a serious face. “What’s it pay?”

  “What it’s worth,” I said. “So far the Chingos are punks and grifters. I can get that from the newspaper.”

  “Guy named ‘L
oo-wheess’ is the president.” Ken tilted his head to the right, “I don’t know his last name. Street name is ‘Poco Loco’ because he is a crazy weasel-ass little fuck. Likes to say the Chingos are Mexican Mafia, but I think that’s bullshit.”

  “Why?”

  “Chingos are too fat. Mexican Mafia is hungry. They’d eat through these guys like mice in the cupboard; leave ‘em laying in the gutter in their skivvies.”

  “How did they get fat?”

  Grifters—like I said—con games, everything from ‘I found a wallet in the street’ to telemarketing charity scams. They run crooked dice and card games, whores, and protection in the Mexican stores down on Grandville. If you’re a wetback you see the Chingos for green cards, driver’s licenses, and social security cards. They even got legit businesses. A couple of tanning parlors to launder money, some palm reading joints, and Luis owns the Rabbit on Wealthy Street.”

  “The college hangout?”

  “Was. Now it’s a titty bar. How am I doing?”

  “Couple yards,” I said.

  Marg knocked and leaned around the doorframe wearing a blouse best described as a mauve silk T-shirt. “Hate to interrupt all this male bonding,” she said, “but I have an appointment with the cable company. If you’re leaving through the window I’ll lock the door.”

  “This is hardly worth my time,” said Ken. “You can lock the door after me.”

  I sorted two fresh Franklins from the envelope Billy Clements had surrendered and pushed them across the desk.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Ken, “I’m paying myself.”

  “I can have Marg cut you a check.”

  Ken snatched the bills. “I do my business cash,” he said.

  He walked out.

  Marg shut off the light in the front office. I heard her lock the door. Just as well—without my monitor I couldn’t see who walked in. Ken was at the window pushing the plywood back in place and bitching.

  “Hardin, I could have traded murder one down to drunk and disorderly with that,” he said.

  I leaned back in my chair and folded my hands in my lap. “Still can,” I told him. “It ain’t like the prosecutor has been my best bud lately.”

  Ken moved the wood aside and bent down to look me in the face. “So what the hell are you doing?”