Hard Line

by Michael Z. Lewin

  “So you can cry in your beer in peace? No, I wouldn’t do that. Besides, this time I’ve brought the beer.”

  From a brown paper bag Powder took a can of beer. He opened it and sat down on the table next to Fleetwood’s wheelchair.

  With a wild sweeping gesture, she knocked the can flying across the room. It hit the inside of the front door and crashed to the floor where its contents poured out.

  Powder looked in his bag and pulled out the other can of beer. He opened it. “Have you eaten?” he asked.

  Fleetwood said nothing.

  “Because I haven’t. I bought this pizza when I got the beer. You mind if I put it on? There’s plenty for both of us, if you want some too.”

  Fleetwood said nothing.

  Powder went to the electric grill and put the pizza on.

  “I don’t generally eat this frozen stuff,” he explained. “But this doesn’t look bad, as they go.”

  While it cooked. Powder sat again, and sipped his beer.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Fleetwood asked bitterly. “You got no place else to go at night?”

  “I’m pretty busy,” Powder said. “Please don’t become dependent on this attention. It won’t last forever.”

  “That’s something, I guess,” Fleetwood said.

  “You know,” Powder said, “I was walking around a while after work and I got reminded of one of the things I like best about summer.”

  Fleetwood stared at him.

  “In the early evening, when the day has cooled off a little, you walk past a building and you can feel heat on your arm. The sun shines on the stone and it holds the heat for a while. Then you walk past and feel it. I really like that. It reminds me there is warmth in the world, you know? It’s one of the things I like best about summer.”

  Powder got up and took the pizza from the grill. “Doesn’t take long if it’s thawed,” he explained. He cut it in half and served the pieces on the top and bottom of the box it had been packed in.

  “Whole-meal base,” he explained. “Good stuff.”

  He ate silently and drank a little beer. “Hey, I’m not being polite. You spilled your beer. Here, have some of mine.” He put his beer down on the table next to Fleetwood. He finished his pizza.

  Sitting back, he said, “That was good.”

  Fleetwood did not touch her food.

  Powder put his hands behind his head and said, “You know, sometimes I see guys like your friend. Capes, who obviously don’t mind much whether they’re in the police force or not. I mean, fine, nobody likes a partner to take a slug, but in my day, not even just me, but in my day generally, if that happened then the guy would just go out and get six citations where before he would have only gotten three, so that the partner’s slug would be worthwhile. But nowadays, it gets uncomfortable for a guy and he just packs it in. I don’t understand how people can do that and still get up in the morning.

  “I didn’t want him to quit,” Fleetwood said.

  “Course not. But you’re more like a real cop, aren’t you? Still, if that’s the way he’s made, maybe it’s all for the good. It’s a funny old life, ain’t it, Sergeant? You’re the one everybody wants to quit, but you won’t.”

  “You want me to quit too, huh?”

  “Me? Naw. I’m all for having you kill yourself trying.”

  “Pleasant of you to offer such support.”

  Powder looked at his watch.

  “Christ,” he said. “It’s late. I’d love to stop and jaw with you the rest of the evening, but I’ve got things to do. What I came by to tell you was this. Tomorrow night there will be some duty time in the evening from about eight, so you can take the afternoon off if you want to.”

  Fleetwood was suddenly interested. “What’s it about?”

  “I’ll fill you in later. Nothing dramatic. Nothing to jump in front of bullets for, but I don’t have the time to tell you about it now.”

  Fleetwood shrugged.

  Powder stood up. “I’ll leave you alone while there’s still some night left. All right?”

  Powder picked up the can by the door and set it on a window sill. Stepping around the beer on the floor, he made his way out.

  Powder stopped at a bar two blocks from his house. He joined two men from the neighborhood whom he recognized. They talked about displays of temper in sports. Powder defended the younger generation. After his first two beers he began to add bourbon chasers.

  Chapter Twenty

  Powder rose very early. Quietly he made coffee and filled a vacuum flask. He drove to William Weaver’s house, where he parked across the street and waited.

  Weaver opened his garage door at seven-fifteen. He backed his car out, closed and locked the garage door, and then drove off. Powder followed.

  His interest was whether Weaver picked anyone up before he went for his camping trip, but Weaver drove directly to Kentucky Avenue, which ran southwest into Route 67, the road to McCormick’s Creek State Park. Powder followed as far as Valley Mills. Then he turned around and drove to his office.

  Midmorning Agnes gave Powder details of Ricky’s salary, a copy of his last bank statement and current balance, and the information that Ricky had no outstanding loans from commercial sources.

  Around noon. Sergeant Bull came to the Missing Persons office to tell Powder that he had located the missing taxi driver, who had a room in a small boarding house. The man had been in debt and under financial pressure, and he had driven cabs at night as well as holding a day job to ease the situation. Bull would be interviewing him shortly about the case of the partially burned body.

  Powder thanked Bull genuinely for keeping him informed.

  In the middle of the afternoon, Powder tracked down the telephone number of the manager of the McCormick’s Creek State Park’s campsite. He called the man, identified himself, and asked whether, Weaver had arrived.

  “Yes, sir,” the man said. “He checked himself in this morning.”

  “Was he alone?” Powder asked.

  “He was alone when he got here, yes, sir.”

  “And now?”

  “I ain’t saying it’s different now. He’s at the far end of the site, about as far away as he can git, and I can’t say as to whether he’s still alone there or not.”

  “Is he where he is because you’re full, or by choice?”

  “We’re pretty busy, but he picked his spot out when he booked it.”

  “He booked the site in person?”

  “Yes, sir. I recall it clear as the sky is blue. Kinda fussy fella. Wanted a site just so. Right size, right kind of ground, not too close to neighbors, that kind of thing.”

  “When did he book it?” Powder asked.

  “I can look the date up if’n you want me to.”

  “Yes, please.”

  The man took two minutes to find that Weaver had booked the site eleven weeks before, in the beginning of April.

  “You seem to remember him pretty clearly,” Powder said.

  “I do. I don’t do full-time on the campsite here till first of May, but I got other duties around the park. He come and found me where I was, working on one of the bridges on Two Mile Trail. Fella made me leave what I was doing to sign him in, this one particular spot.”

  “Did he say why it had to be that particular place?”

  “He said it was gonna be his wife’s first time camping and—” the man stopped himself. “Hey, that’s funny.”

  “What?”

  “That he ain’t got his wife with him, after all that fuss and bother.”

  “I take it,” Powder said, “that usually people don’t request specific sites.”

  “Oh, sometimes they do. Like, when they been with us before and liked it. But I had the impression with this fella that he’d been doing the rounds before he got here.”

  “What kind of rounds?”

  “Other parks. He said Shakamak when I asked where he’d come from. I was expecting him to say Indy or Muncie. A city or town, you
know?”

  “So it’s a good site he picked?” Powder asked.

  “Funny thing,” the man said. “I wouldn’t have said so. It’s a distance from the, uh, facilities, and it’s a little low and tends to catch water if it rains a lot.”

  “I see,” Powder said.

  “Anything else I can do for you?”

  “I’d be grateful if you’d have a look at him from time to time, see if his wife shows up, that kind of thing.”

  “Sure. Glad to,” the man said.

  Half an hour before closing time. Powder turned from his desk to address Fleetwood about how on a Friday he usually reviewed the week’s work but this time he didn’t feel like doing it because of the strain of having to break in a new section member.

  Only she wasn’t there. Took the afternoon off.

  Powder laughed at himself momentarily.

  When Powder got home, Ricky, fresh out of the shower, came into the hall to meet him. He dripped on the hall carpet.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “You’re home early,” Powder said.

  “Getting ready for the party tonight,” Ricky said. “Do . . . you remember?”

  Powder eyed the towel. “That your costume?”

  Ricky smiled and widened his eyes as if with drama. “I’m going as a private detective.”

  “Oh,” Powder said.

  “If you want me, just whistle,” Ricky mimicked.

  Powder looked sadly at his son. Then he said, “Wait there, will you?”

  He walked out to his car, took Ricky’s bag from his trunk, and brought it in. “Part of your costume,” Powder said, dropping it heavily on the floor. “It was in my trunk. I don’t know how it got there.”

  He left his son in the hall and went out again.

  Uncle Adg Johnson was not looking well. He admitted to indigestion.

  “You should eat better and less,” Powder said. “Get rid of that blubber, feel good.”

  Johnson was not accustomed to being given critical advice. He said as much.

  “Maybe that’s why you’re so fat,” Powder said. “Look. It’s the end of the week. I want to clear this insulation leaflet thing, OK?”

  “We had a robbery in the neighborhood,” Johnson said. “On Tuesday. Did you hear about it?”

  “No,” Powder said.

  Johnson belched uncomfortably, making it seem a commentary on inefficiency in the police force. “Landers. You know them? They were visiting her mother. Since Sunday.”

  “I have checked the leaflet,” Powder said. “It is on the level. Mistake in printing on the telephone number.”

  Uncle Adg looked at Powder dyspeptically. “Bit of a coincidence,” Adg said.

  “But the company did run an ad to get people to distribute the leaflets, and they divided the city into sections. I’ve got the name of the guy who has been distributing them around here. I can probably arrange for him to get a police visit, but maybe you’d rather look into it and see whether he’s just been careless about the way he put the things into the letter boxes. Company’s calling all the leaflets back anyway, to change the phone number.”

  Powder passed a slip of paper with the distributor’s name on it to the fat man.

  Powder arrived at Fleetwood’s at twenty to nine.

  He rang the bell and there was a delay before Fleetwood answered the chime. He rang again.

  Suddenly the door opened and before him Fleetwood stood, balancing precariously on two aluminum crutches. The wheelchair was immediately behind her, but she stood for seconds, challenging Powder to compliment her.

  He didn’t speak. So she said, “You said we were on duty from eight.”

  “I couldn’t get my kid out of the shower.”

  Fleetwood looked at him. “Tie, tiepin, cuff links. Where the hell are we going, Powder? You didn’t tell me it was fancy dress.”

  Despite himself. Powder smiled. “Fancy dress is what it is.”

  “You want me to change?”

  “No. I want you to take a load off your feet.”

  Fleetwood lowered herself into the chair. It rolled several inches and she dropped one of the crutches.

  “Takes practice,” Powder said. “This walking. More difficult than it looks. Do you know, technologists working on robots find the mechanism of two-legged walking one of the most difficult problems to solve.”

  Fleetwood said, “You really don’t want me to change clothes?”

  “No.”

  They went down her path to his car.

  “Forget about that damn chair,” Powder said.

  “You can lift me in and then fold the chair in the back.”

  “Lift you?”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not contagious.”

  “Is there an alternative?”

  She looked at him to see whether he was serious. “We can take my car.”

  “Let’s take your car.”

  Once on the way. Powder started talking suddenly about William G. Weaver, Jr.

  “I’ve been harassing him,” Powder said.

  “How?”

  “The question isn’t how. It’s why.”

  “You’re suspicious of him.”

  “You said that before.”

  “You denied it.”

  “I was wrong,” Powder said. “I am suspicious of him.”

  “Why?”

  “In the end, because he reported her missing and he doesn’t complain when I call him or see him every day.”

  Fleetwood said nothing.

  “Either he is emotionally strangled and the report of her missing is his only concession in an otherwise perfect defense against the loss of her departure. Or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “Suppose he’s murdered his wife.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “Anybody who is married can find reasons for murder. The problems are how, when, and what has he done with the body?”

  Fleetwood shrugged again. “You sure she’s not sitting happily in a bathtub somewhere?”

  Suddenly, Powder turned on her. “Of course I’m not sure. I’m just being friendly. Speaking my mind on a subject of mutual interest before we get to the party.”

  “Party? What party?”

  “Just keep driving, will you?”

  “What are we going to. Powder?”

  “It’s along here,” Powder said, as they turned onto Lockerbie Street. “I’m not sure exactly where, but there should be a TR-Seven parked out front somewhere.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  The house was a two-story wooden building with a steep, off-center roof, narrow arched windows, and a portico doorway as ornate as the actual facade material of the house was plain. It was genuine old.

  Music was audible from the street but not disturbingly loud and colored splashes of flashing light made it clear that the place was a center of festivity.

  Fleetwood wheeled herself to the door in silence. As Powder helped her up the two front steps she said sharply to him, “What the hell kind of police business am I supposed to be conducting here?”

  “Just keep your ears open and mix,” he said.

  “You’re a pervert,” she said. “You just wanted a date but didn’t have the guts to ask for it.”

  They were greeted by a rooster. “Hello there!” it said. Then studied them. “You, uh, got the right place?”

  “Sure do, man,” Powder said. “Where’s the drink?”

  “Great. Great! Down the hall and on the left.”

  “Cock-a-doodle-do,” Powder said. He pushed Fleetwood down the hall. On the left, in a small alcove, they saw a profusion of bottles and glasses on a table. As they arrived at it, a man in blue clothes and blue face paint appeared at the other end. He was accompanied by a bunny girl with blue hand-prints on her chest.

  “It’s a goddamned costume party,” Fleetwood said.

  “I told you it was fancy dress. What do you want to drink? Orange juice? Don’t forget you’re driving.”

  “
Just what the hell kind of costume am I supposed to be in?”

  “You’ve come as a cripple,” he said.

  The blue man and the bunny looked up at them for the first tune. Then left.

  “Oh, thanks a lot. Powder. Thanks a bundle. That’s really terrifically tasteful. Hundred percent perceptiveness.”

  “If you’d known ahead what would you have done? Dressed as a Sherman tank?”

  “You claimed this was work,” Fleetwood said fiercely.

  “You’re getting time off in lieu. That makes it work, so any problem squaring it becomes mine and not yours.”

  “Brief me, Powder. Tell me what I am supposed to do? Protect the diamonds on the hostess’s kneecaps? Or was it something with the host you had in mind for me?”

  He pointed a finger at her. “What I have in mind is for you to keep your eyes and ears open. Meet people.”

  “Who? Who are you expecting to be here? William Weaver?”

  “Check out a guy in a private eye suit for one,” Powder said. “Talk to the people who talk to him. Dance. Socialize.”

  “Scotch and soda,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I want a drink. Scotch and soda.”

  Powder poured some cola in a glass and then topped it up from the soda siphon. He gave her the glass and said, “Get your own ice, if you want it.”

  He left her.

  In the kitchen, near a replica Ben Franklin stove. Powder found a partially unwrapped mummy with small ears talking to a pair of pirates. He walked up to her and interrupted the conversation. “Hi, Rebecca. Great party. Thanks for inviting me and my friend.”

  Rebecca Coffey looked at Powder blankly, but one of the pirates said, “Hey, it’s Ricky’s dad, the cop.”

  “Oh yeah,” Rebecca said, still looking blank but now more pleased. Powder suspected that her personal party had begun quite a while before.

  “Where is the big fella?”the same pirate asked. Powder recognized him as Dwayne Grove, the phone-company accounts and records man in the group that had been in his house. Powder was sure Rebecca was being asked about Ricky, not her husband.

  “How you doing, Dwayne old man?” Powder said heartily. He pounded Grove on the back so hard that his earrings rattled. “Who’s your friend?”

  Grove introduced Raphael McGregor, who broke his silence to take Powder by the lapels and say, “What a suit! What a nostalgia trip! And it looks like it was made for you!”