“Yes, sir, may I help you?” the doorman said.
Then he was down on the ground. One good punch. Well, all right, maybe he didn’t need to be kicked in the groin and the ribs all those extra times. But it seemed like the thing to do.
When I kicked in the door to his apartment, Lazar and Kumaree were sitting in his little living room pit, sharing a bottle of wine and laughing like old lovers.
“Well, hey there, kids,” I said.
Lazar stood.
“Not so fast,” I said. I already had my gun out. I saw Kumaree Tong smirking and looking away. Yeah, she didn’t have anything to do with anything.
“You are getting to be more trouble than you’re worth,” Lazar said.
“Can it, maestro,” I said. “Let’s have a chat. Have a seat, why don’t you?”
He did as he was told. I fished around his kitchen, not letting the gun down. A couple of bottles of the stuff he had been drinking himself were sitting out. A few of them were Crow. Thank God. I couldn’t handle too many other shitty kinds of liquor. I stacked the bottles in a paper bag.
“To what do we owe this ridiculous intrusion?” he called out.
“Yeah,” I said, “about that. First of all, what the hell is your name?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it does to me,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because it’s on a list of questions I’ve got.”
Kumaree decided, for whatever reason, that that was the appropriate moment to pipe up. “It’s true. He has a whole list. I’ve read it. It’s cute really.”
I looked at her for a minute. It wasn’t that big of a stretch to assume she had gone through my stuff. She had taken my billfold, after all. Speaking of which…
I held out my hand. She put the little metal marvel into my greedy palm. I stuffed it in my pocket. “Thanks, darling,” I said. “When we get married, I’ll have one monogrammed for you.”
I whirled on my oldest and bestest buddy in the whole wide world. “So, let’s have it.”
“Is this some kind of power trip for you, Jones?” Lazar asked. “You burst into my penthouse and start asking questions, waving a gun—”
“How about it’s payback for drugging me,” I said.
He stared at me like nothing registered in those cold, dead eyes. Only they shimmered with tears, unlike any deadhead I’d ever seen before. He shook his head and opened his arms wide. “What?”
“Sure,” I said, “you never heard of jumbee powder. You never had it shipped from Little Haiti to the docks. Hell, once, just to add insult to injury, you used me as my very own mule. You never insisted that gorilla of a bartender slip it in all my drinks. For that matter, you never steamed off the caps of all of my bottles of Old Crow and slipped it in yourself.”
For that one, I had an illustration. I pulled an empty bottle of Crow out of my pocket and tossed it at my erstwhile benefactor. He ducked, as did the woman. It wasn’t an admission of guilt. I knew that as well as anyone.
“Look, Jones,” he said, gritting his teeth as he spoke, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I looked at Kumaree Tong. Her face was impassive. What the fuck did that mean?
“Tell him,” I said.
“Tell him what?” she asked, her expression absolutely, positively, 100% neutral.
“You bitch,” I said.
Lazar jumped to his feet. I didn’t know he had it in him. “Now is that any way for a gentleman to speak?” he said.
I pushed him back down into his chair. “Games, games, games.” I dropped into a seat. Seemed like the thing to do. I dangled my gun between my legs. I could’ve pulled it on either of them at any moment. I wasn’t really sure how good of a shot I was—fairly good, based on my showing at the warehouse—but I figured at that range, I could’ve popped either or both of them in the head at an instant’s notice with no issue.
I tapped my head to try to clear it physically. It made no sense, I know, and it probably looked crazy to the other two. “Okay, I’m trying to put all these disparate pieces together like Lincoln Logs. You two are in bed together.”
“I hardly think that’s any of your business,” Lazar said.
“He means we’re working together, idiot,” Kumaree sneered.
I looked at her. That was the first time I had seen someone knock Lazar down a peg and have him stay there. They probably were sleeping together. That boiled my nonexistent blood a little, but I had other things on my mind. I had to keep an eye on her, keep her from getting under my skin.
“Only now I’m getting that there’s a lot of stuff she’s not telling you,” I said. “Did you know the Germans are in town?”
He leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. I already knew what that meant. Man, I could read the guy like a book. “This is news to me,” he lied.
Kumaree Tong stood. I rose with her, as did my boomstick. She sashayed away from her chair.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I said.
She didn’t turn around to answer. Man, that derriere just bounced from side to side. “If we’re going to be here for a while, I’m going to fix myself a drink.”
“Get me something, too,” Lazar said.
She kneeled down at Lazar’s sizable liquor cabinet. It was disguised as something else for the benefit of the coppers, a bureau or a nightstand, I guess. I suppose that was where he kept the good stuff. The bottles I had pinched from the kitchen were just for day-to-day use.
“Get away from there,” I said. “Sit back down.”
“Or what?” She still didn’t turn around. Instead, she laughed. It sounded a lot like that one in the warehouse where she threw her neck back like Cleopatra. In Lazar’s apartment, though, she didn’t bother with the theatrics. “You going to kill me, Billy?”
She finally turned around so she could show me that she was covering her lips with her hand. “Oops, did I say something you didn’t know? Just one of a million pieces of information you don’t know.”
“Joke’s on her,” I said, turning my attention for a split second to Lazar. “I already heard that name.”
That nanosecond was plenty of time. The gun was in the liquor cabinet, I assume, if it even was a liquor cabinet and not just a hidey-hole for firearms. My saving grace was that she wasn’t an ideal shot. Not a terrible shot, per se, but not the best shot I’d ever seen.
She stood there with one of those little snubnosed numbers like dames use, smoke still billowing from the barrel. Man, that oughta be a cover on a penny dreadful. I was still standing, though, so I lifted my own boomstick.
I think Lazar shouted, “No!”
It was instinct. Well, not really. That’s a lie. It was a lot of pent-up anger, too. That ginchy dame had to go, from the first moment she started playing me. Unlike her, I didn’t miss. It was like she got thrown back by a big, ugly bouncer. There was a hole in her forehead, and chunks of gunk flew forward out of it.
How does that happen when the bullet is going forward? I don’t know.
She slammed against the wall and slumped down.
“Well, that’s that,” I said.
Lazar didn’t really lose his composure. I guess he did a little. He went to her body, held her double-dead hand. Sweet. Touching. Ugh. Gag me with saccharin.
“She didn’t love you or anything,” I said, plucking some greens from my teeth with a toothpick. “No matter how many times she opened her legs for you.”
He looked up. I think he might’ve been crying. Who knows? “I wasn’t fooled by her. Not for an instant. Were you?”
“Sure you were never fooled,” I said. “What’s with the waterworks, then?”
“Just because I could see through her doesn’t mean I didn’t like what I saw.”
Wow. Talk about pretzel logic.
A low grumble came from his prostrate form. “I think you’d better get out of here, Jones.”
“Not yet,” I said. “I’ve got a
few more questions.”
In a second, he was up on his feet, waving the abandoned snubnose around. Not pointing it at me, just waving it like a bowling pin. Tears really were streaming down his face.
Can our kind cry?
“Questions! Questions! It’s always questions with you. Do you ever get any answers? Your whole idea of detective work is to wave guns in people’s faces. Does it ever get you anywhere?”
“That’s not true,” I said. “Sometimes I bribe them, too.”
“Do you ever try using that thing between your ears?” he said. “You know, maybe Braineater is the best name for you. You’re nothing but a mindless patsy.”
“I still have to know the truth,” I said.
“The truth? Get out!” he yelled, taking a step toward me, “Get the fuck out!” He wasn’t even pointing his piece at me.
Grimly, I stepped back and tipped my lid to him. Don’t know why I did that. Maybe I meant it. Maybe it was just a sarcastic gesture. I stepped out.
He said one last thing in a tone so low I almost wouldn’t have heard it outside his door. He was obviously speaking to me. “Don’t bother going back. You’re not welcome in our community anymore. You’re out.”
I poked my hat back around the corner. “You can’t do that to me. You don’t have the numbers.”
“Try me,” he said. “Go ahead. Go back to Hallowed Grounds. See how that works out for you.”
“You’re not the bigwig you think you are,” I said. “You’re not even one of us anymore, living here in your gilded penthouse.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” he said. “Still don’t after all this time. Why waste your time going back? Nobody’s got your six. You’ve made too many enemies, no friends.”
The cops were already pooling in the lobby like blood. I had to go out a window. I tried to avoid breaking my neck as best as possible, but it didn’t really work out. More importantly, I didn’t bust the few clean bottles of alcohol I had ganked from Lazar—or whatever his name is.
I’m on my own now.
November 23, 1934
I didn’t go inside. Didn’t even know if I could trust Homer anymore. Lazar’s point had been made abundantly clear. I was an outsider. I never fit in, never even tried to. He was well respected, well liked. More importantly, he kept that particular watering hole full. Nobody was going to jeopardize that for a half-witted dick like me.
I had to toss pebbles at the office window. I had left the stupid head on guard duty, but I guess he was asleep. Finally, I managed to strike the idiot with a rock.
“Ow!” He looked down and saw me giving the “keep quiet” signal. He stared at me quizzically.
I motioned for him to jump down. He shrugged, or did what I had come to interpret as a shrug over the few weeks of our acquaintanceship. Finally I made a little hippity-hop like a rabbit, and he seemed to get it. He closed his eyes and probably would’ve crossed himself if he had arms or were a papist. He seemed to be mouthing sweet nothings to God. As Kumaree had told me, our kind tended to be irreligious. Maybe the old faiths came flashing back in moments of tension. Or maybe, again, old habits are hard to break.
I understood why he was faux-praying. If I didn’t catch him perfectly, he would splatter his brains all over the pavement, and that was the only way to kill one of our kind. Bye bye, brainy. I held out my arms. Rocking back and forth on his neckstump, he nudged himself over the edge.
Thank God I caught him. Or Whoever. We’ve been over all that. I stuffed him under my overcoat and took off. That didn’t stop it from seeming like I was having a conversation with my armpit as I went.
“What’s going on, Jones?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“Stop.” He said it in a way as to brook no opposition. I stopped. “Take me out.”
“Alcibé, we’re in the middle of the street,” I said.
“I don’t care,” he said. “We’re going on the lam. I haven’t done anything to anybody. If you want me to go, take me out, look me in the eye, and explain it to me.”
I sighed. I took him out and held him aloft. He gave me one of those looks, like my third-grade teacher Mrs. Argento gave me the time I hid a frog in her percolator.
Holy shit. I just remembered that whole incident, top to bottom. No white migrainey flash. I think that was a genuine memory. The jumbee powder must finally be wearing off.
Anyway, back to earlier. He gave me that look, you know.
“All right,” I said. “I killed Kumaree Tong.”
“Why?”
“She tried to kill me first.”
“Okay,” he said, “why not just tell everyone what happened? You’re pretty well liked. Afraid no one will believe you?”
“Well,” I said, “it’s not just that. After I did it, Lazar banished me. I’ve got to take that seriously, unfortunately.”
He hardened his lips. An old bum was staring at us.
“Something I can help you with?” I growled.
The bum held up his hands and pushed his shopping cart on out of the way.
“Am I involved in this banishment?” he asked.
I had to admit it was a germane question.
“No,” I said. “Do you want me to take you back?”
“No.”
For some reason, I thought he would take longer to answer. He had probably already figured it all out in his head. He always was the smarter one. I guess that’s what happens when you’re nothing but a brain in a skinsack.
He sighed, one of those long, protracted, forced, drawn-out sighs where you blow between your teeth like a jackoff. “Well, what’ve we got?”
“Got my hat and my coat,” I said.
“And?”
“And my gun.”
“How many bullets?”
I checked. The chamber was full, and I had two loose rounds in my inside pocket. “Only eight.”
He did another one of those blowy-draggy sighs. “Okay, what about booze?”
“About four bottles,” I said.
“It’s a start.”
“Hey, Alcibé,” I said.
“What?”
“There’s something I’ve always wanted to do.”
“No,” he said firmly.
“I’ve got to do it,” I said.
“No,” he repeated.
I held him up in the air. “To be or not to be…”
“That’s not even the right scene,” he said.
“That is the question.”
Hat Scratch Fever was far enough outside of Lazar’s usual circles that I thought I might be able to get a little sympathy. Maybe a cup of warm bourbon. Breathers frequented the joint now and then—not damn near as frequently as our kind, but still, once in a while was better than nonce in an ever—and wherever breathers were, there was the chance Lazar wasn’t pulling strings. Or at least that folks might be willing to go against him.
Mighty Dull was polishing dice in the foyer. He breathed on them. Fetid, false, cool breath. He looked up. His eyes were cold, but whose eyes aren’t cold in our little circle? His face was pinched. Maybe he was calculating. Maybe he had already calculated.
“Aw, hell no,” Mighty said upon seeing me. “You’d best just turn about face and march your hiney out of here.”
“Hineys,” Alcibé said.
“You ain’t got one, head,” Mighty said, “and I wouldn’t care if you did. Why don’t you make like a whore and blow?”
“Who are you talking to?” I asked. “Are you talking to me or to him?”
Mighty got up. That was the end of it. “Damn, cracker, I thought I told you to go.”
“Well, you didn’t say that specifically,” the head chimed in.
“Why don’t we discuss it?” I asked.
Out came one of those switchblades like the dancing street gangs on the west side use. “You boys need to take a walk.”
Hmm. Was it worth getting in a scrap over? Who even knew if I woul
d win? And if I did, it was all over the chance that I might get to stay. Even then, a roughed-up pimp was probably not going to be conducive to making our stay in his “reputable” establishment all that nice. I tried reasoning with him. “Listen, Mighty, you haven’t even heard us out. You don’t need to go sticking a knife in my ear just because I came to jaw a little bit.”
The blade disappeared. Then it flicked back out again. In, out. In, out. In. Out. Then it was up and leveled at my face. “I don’t know you,” he said. “I don’t want to know you. I’ve been told I don’t want to get to know you. You dig?”
“Hey, I dig,” I said. “I’m down.”
Maybe I was laying it on a little too thick. Whatever was coming out of it, a few of the off-duty—or whatever you call it—hookers had found their way to the lobby to watch the fireworks. Nice that he took them out every once in a while and let them stretch their legs. Or their mates’ legs.
“Give them a chance, Mighty,” one of the more—I guess to be charitable—senior hookers said. “Maybe they got something to offer.”
Mighty Dull blew an invisible fly off his schnoz. “Bitch, they ain’t got shit.”
“Watch it, Mighty,” the prosty said with a hard edge in her sultry, cigarette-laden voice. “Call me the b-word again. I’ll make you regret it.”
“Man, shut up! What all you hookers doing out here anyway? Get back to the closet. If you got nothing to do, I’ll give you something to do.”
They heartily ignored his advice. I shrugged. Alcibé would’ve probably shrugged too if he’d had shoulders. Mighty’s knife hand wavered. Then finally he flicked the shiv closed and pocketed it.
“Shit,” Mighty said finally. “Aight, come grab a seat.”
I popped a squat in one of the plush, purple-velvet lined chairs that formed a sort of a décor for the cathouse foyer. I tried to put Alcibé on the back of one of the chairs at about eye level, but the damn head kept falling back and I had to run and grab him before he rolled out the door or down the hall. Finally I just plunked him down in my lap, which he didn’t like none too much. Well, I didn’t like it none too much, either, but a damn head doesn’t get much say. That’s the end of that matter.
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