“Yeah, what kinda trouble you got that anyone don’t?”
“It’s what life expects this day and age,” I said. “Find the job, save the pennies, buy the car, marry the wife, get the house, pay the taxes, raise the kids, lay off the booze, mow the lawn, keep the grass green, paint the picket fence white, fill the casket good and tight.”
The cop gave me a look like I was an old tire he reeled in on his fishing line. “Sounds pretty good to me, bud.”
“You know what sounds pretty good to me?”
“No, but I get the feeling you’re going to tell me.”
I grinned, thinking about my empty wallet. “You buyin’ me a cup of joe so hot and thick it could take the paint off a paintbrush.”
The cop laughed, despite his best intentions. “Now I know you’re nuts,” he said and dug in his pocket, flipping me a nickel. Then he walked away, whistling, swinging that nightstick.
Understand this: the Champagne hangover is a coldhearted killer. As I left the park I had to move my body in different shifts, with different unions, and the foremen weren’t communicating very well on those first few steps. But I made it the few blocks to the diner and was halfway through getting my money’s worth out of the cop’s nickel with a cup of diner coffee that’s sole purpose was not to be savoured but to start my engine like a hit of gasoline, when Greek Benny yelled out I had a phone call. I shuffled down the diner hallway. My everything ached.
It was Shelley on the phone. She said I sounded rough. I said she should see the park bench. But she didn’t get it. What she did get was some scoop on Bartell and asked if I was ready. I didn’t feel ready for much more than a casket next to Jim but said yes anyway. Shelley told me that she’d nosed around and discovered that Bartell’s name was on two properties, one being the house I’d already staked out and the second being a cabin attached to a few swampy acres out east in the middle of Surrey. She gave me the address. I thanked Shelley, made a mental note to send her some flowers, and hung up. Maybe my luck was turning. Sure, the hangover was hammering thousands of little finishing nails into my skull with every heartbeat and I knew nothing more about Jim’s death, but at least I could put the Bartell job to rest.
Next, a short stack of pancakes and a few long mugs of coffee helped set my ship on course. I swore I’d pay Glenda back and she said, “Right, Fitch, okay,” in a way that a guy could take a few ways, most not so good, if he was the sensitive type.
As I ate, I thought back to the night before, how Adora had fallen asleep on my shoulder, both snoring and drooling. I let her get deep and then replaced my shoulder with a balled-up fur coat and snuck out the back of the after-hours club. The Buick was parked in the alley, but Ichabod didn’t notice me when I walked by. He was too busy sleeping in the back seat, proof that even psycho bodyguard clowns with small heads and sharp teeth needed to rest now and then. And that was when I must’ve taken a five-minute time out on the park bench that turned into a three-hour snooze.
I finished my pancakes, thanked Glenda again, and steered the ship home to shower and shave. Mrs. Henry was standing outside the rooming house, under the awning of the vacuum store next door. I barely recognized her without the payphone receiver attached to her right ear. She shooed me away from the entrance.
“Keep movin’, Fitch.”
“But I paid Ms. Crawley the other day.”
“No, you have some guests waiting for you. Four of ’em. And they must not like your furniture very much ’cause they’ve been throwing it around.”
I put two and two together and got four Dead Clowns. “These the kind of uninvited guests that wait for a guy to walk in his apartment and then clock him over the head?”
“Could be. They look the part.”
“How’d they get in?”
“Ms. Crawley was more than happy to oblige, seeing how they were such good friends of yours.”
Good ol’ Ms. Crawley. If she had a set of castanets and been any fuller of venom she could’ve had a career as a rattlesnake impersonator.
So, change of plan. I thanked Mrs. Henry for the pertinent info and hurried back to the diner where I hit up Glenda for another small loan. Then I plugged part of that loan into the diner payphone.
Taffy answered right away. I explained not only had clowns stolen the last of my folding money but they’d broken into my apartment where my bank book was located. He didn’t think it was a very good excuse but gave me points for originality. Inspired, I laid it on thick and told him I cleared my schedule and had the whole day to get the skinny on Bartell. He chuckled and wondered if it was a busy schedule and I said the press had been very understanding what with all the interview requests and the magazine photo shoots and he chuckled some more and that helped to grease the squeaky wheel. Even though he fought the idea of another advance at first, he wanted me to get the job wrapped up so he had to relent. We both knew he would and that he resisted so long was an obvious testament to his mule-like stubborn streak.
“So we can meet up today?” I asked.
“Sure, Fitch. I’m heading out in about an hour to investigate that, uh, Mr. Silver situation,” he said, Taffy-speak for “I’m going to the track and don’t want the wife to know.”
I had a half-hour to kill, give or take, and went to my local for a little hair of the dog with what remained from Glenda’s loan. I was just settling myself onto a stool when I felt someone sit down right beside me. Out the corner of my eye, I saw him look me over. Nothing sinister, but more than a passing glance. A size up. The bartender, a rough-and-tumble old timer with a Navy tattoo on his forearm, came over and asked him what he’d have.
He nodded at me. “Whatever this guy’s having and don’t let him see the bill.”
I didn’t stand on ceremony and ordered us two shots and two beers and then said, “To what do I owe the honour?”
The stranger kept staring straight ahead. “Figured a man that was looking for me at the marina might appreciate a drink in exchange for the reason he was doing the looking.”
This time it was me that did the sizing up. William Witham was mid-fifties and built solid. Slicked back hair and a pair of specs. He wasn’t too short, too tall, too imposing, or too handsome, yet he was a little of all those things. Seemed every bit the gentleman but also equally aware of the value of a good right hook.
“So you were on the boat,” I said.
“Actually, friend, it’s called a ‘schooner.’ And no, I happened to be in the marina office when you called. The clerk tipped me off that you were asking about The Saucy Lass.”
“You’re good. Want a job?”
“What’s the salary?”
“Let’s just say it’s more of a volunteer position.”
He smiled. “Interesting proposal, but I’ll have to turn that down, Mr.…”
“Carnegie Fitch,” I said. “But most people just call me Fitch.”
“Bill,” he said, holding out his hand. We shook. He had a hell of a grip. I bet the knots he tied stayed knotted.
I shrugged. “That’s okay, Bill, not to worry.” I raised my shot. He did the same. We drank. The hair of the dog nearly choked me but I kept it down. When that was done, I played the only card in my deck and said I heard his name from Adora Carmichael, the owner and operator of Carmichael’s Circus of Cacophony.
“Ah,” he said. “So this is about Jeremiah. Well, Jim.”
I nodded and took a sip of my beer.
Bill did the same. “I heard through the grapevine he was back in town and wondered why. He never did have much of a nostalgic streak. How is he, anyway?”
“Dead,” I said, just like that, no sugar coating.
Bill’s face fell. He picked it up and dusted it off. “You don’t look like a cop, Fitch.”
“Because I’m not.”
“Private?”
“That’s right.”
“Got a business card?”
“Only if you need an accountant. I�
��m new to the shamus racket.”
“Ah, I see. But you knew Jim?”
“We weren’t best friends or anything but yeah, I knew him.”
Bill took another sip of beer, slower this time. Seemed to be considering whether to say more. Mind made up, he said, “So why would Adora Carmichael, whom I’ve never even met, by the way, be talking about me?”
I gave him the lowdown on the situation without going into detail about who got Jim soused the night he died. That one still stung. And the story didn’t take that long. I realized I didn’t know that much either. I finished up with what the bearded lady had told me about Roosevelt and the Dead Clowns.
Bill nodded like it all made sense. “If the clowning hadn’t fit Jim to a tee, if he hadn’t looked like he found his calling, I would’ve said something. You could tell they weren’t a good bunch of people.”
“You’re preaching to the converted. I met them yesterday.”
“And their leader back then, Roosevelt Carmichael, you could see he was as nasty as the rest of them. I only met the man once, about twenty-five years ago, and that was enough. Smooth one, though. He could talk a cat out of a tree with a pack of dogs yapping at his feet.”
“Good skill for both a bootlegger and a circus owner.”
“And Jim was no saint, believe me. He had a knack for falling in with like-minded folk. That’s how we met after all. I’d always thought more about building a schooner than what to do with it afterwards. Jim showed up at the marina one day and gave me an idea or two. We built false bottoms into the cargo hold and made a few good runs down the coast to San Francisco. Rye and Scotch whisky, mostly. We were lucky: never got caught. Not by the law or the mob. The law worried me less. And to stay out of the mob’s way you had to stay small. Problem with that was so did the money, even though the risk was the same.”
“Sounds like a time.”
“Oh, it was. Funny thing though. Here it was supposed to solve all these ills of society but prohibition pumped more money into the coffers of criminal organizations than anything ever had. It was a different world when it ended in the U.S. in 1933. The mob had years to grow and learn and get rich.”
“Fat city,” I said.
“Exactly. In fact, I heard a little bit about that circus once. Might interest you.”
I took another sip of beer. It went down about as well as the whisky shot. If I had gills they’d have been green. “I’m all ears,” I said.
“Well, by 1933 Roosevelt Carmichael must’ve been sitting pretty. Sure, prohibition was over, but he’d had, what, ten years of solid bootlegging under his belt? Even with all the expenses to stay afloat and stay alive that’s a pretty penny. So, what does an operator like Carmichael do? Go straight? Sit on the nest egg and keep it warm? Nope. Play it, turn it into more. The circus became a travelling, underworld bank for those that needed loans but didn’t want to stand in line and fill out forms. Sky-high interest and those clowns weren’t just around to crack jokes and squirt water in your face.”
Sure, it made sense. Banks made the real money. That’s where the action was. Of course, legitimate banks didn’t typically send scary clowns to knock on your door if you didn’t pay back the vig. I mulled it over. The Dead Clowns as muscle for an underworld bank. Looked right. Smelled right. Felt right.
“And there’s more,” continued Bill. “Way I heard it, Jim did a double-cross and robbed the safe. Took off with a bunch of clown money and disappeared, right up until he got caught on another beef and went to jail. Money’s never been recovered, far as I know. But this is all hearsay. I never saw Jim after he left town the first time. I left, too, but not Vancouver. The life. Wasn’t cut out for it. I had a few dollars stashed away so I hit the seas. I was young. Sailed to the Caribbean. Sailed back. I wasn’t so young anymore. Met a lady and for some reason she agreed to marry me. Got kids now. A girl and a boy.”
He cracked open his wallet like a clam and showed me a few pictures. The girl was a dancer. Ballet. Pink tights and a frilly skirt. Those pink shoes they wore to stand on their toes. Blonde hair in long ringlets. Cute as a button. The little one, a boy, was a good-looking kid with curl in his hair and a spark in his eyes brighter than the sun. Bill had done okay for himself. Better than Jim. Bill sensed the discrepancy and closed his wallet, looking older.
“I wish he’d contacted me when he hit town,” he said. “I don’t have much but he could have had some. Until he got back on his feet.”
“Any idea why he came back?” I asked. “Homesick?”
Bill shook his head. “Doubt it. As I said, Jim may not have had a nostalgic breath in his body, but he sure was a single-minded son-of-a-bitch. Knowing him, it was probably because there was some business to take care of.”
“Like a bag of cash and a score to settle?”
“Could be. You figure the score was with those clowns?”
“Looks that way. They got their panties in a bunch about a pile of missing dough they think of as theirs.”
Bill didn’t say much after that. Probably trying to figure out how much he wanted to know and what he’d do once he found out. After a good long while, he turned to me. “Promise me you’ll get them if they deserve to be got, okay?”
I nodded. I didn’t know how I’d accomplish this, but nodding seemed like the right thing to do all the same.
10
The Hastings Park Raceway was out east, near the Pacific National Exhibition. I arrived by crowded bus but had every intention of leaving in a nice, comfortable sled. Taffy was at his usual spot, in the bleachers, with a stack of betting forms, a racing newspaper, a pair of little binoculars and that crazed money-hungry look on his face. He grunted hello at me as I sat down beside him and took in the scene. A race was about to start.
“What horse you got in this one?” I asked.
“‘Nevermind,’” said Taffy.
“What?”
“I said, ‘Nevermind.’”
“Fine. No need to get sore. Just askin’.”
“I’m not sore, that’s the horse.”
“Where?”
“No, the name.”
“You didn’t tell me the name.”
Taffy’s forehead vein bulged, blood pressure rising. “I did, ‘Nevermind.’”
“Don’t tell me, fine.”
Taffy groaned.
I grinned.
He clued in. “Goddamit, Fitch, it’s my day off. The doctor’s already on my ass about my blood pressure and you’re not helpin’.”
Then the bell rang and the horses took off, only to run around in a circle, same as the last time I was at the track. Though Nevermind must’ve misunderstood the rules of engagement because the horse trotted around the oval slow and steady, like it thought the finish line was a glue factory. I commended Taffy on his stellar choice. Taffy grumbled a response and went back to scouring through his racing newspaper. At that point I must’ve dozed off for a bit, working through the remainder of the Champagne hangover, because when I woke up another race was set to begin, only Taffy hadn’t picked his horse yet.
“About that,” I said.
“Yeah…?” said Taffy. Always so suspicious.
“Well, maybe I should get my advance first.”
“Advance on an advance. Because ‘some clowns’ lifted your cash.”
“Something like that.”
“Tell you what: you say I can’t pick em’ so you give it a shot. You being so worldly and knowledgeable. The horse places, I give you the money. But hurry, the window closes in two minutes.”
I knew I had a better shot at becoming King of England but what choice did I have? I grabbed the racing form and quickly scanned the horses set to race. And there, like a message from the heavens, was the answer, it had to be. “This one,” I said, pointing.
“That one, hmm.” Taffy screwed up his face, peered at the form. “Cabin Fever? Fifteen-to-one on that thing.”
“I’m telling you, I g
ot a feeling. Better get going.”
Taffy rushed off to the betting window, returning just as the starter gun fired. The gates flew open and the horses bolted. The race was on.
“Come on, ‘Cabin Fever,’” Taffy shouted.
And wouldn’t you know it but Cabin Fever got out in front of the pack quick and the gap only widened as the race went on. Like the other horses were running in quicksand. Taffy started celebrating early and by the time his horse crossed the finish line you’d have thought he won a million dollars instead of fifteen-to-one on a five dollar bet. He practically danced down to the cashier to collect his winnings and when he returned he handed me a small roll of cash.
“Thanks, Taffy.”
“Just nail that Rightly character, okay? I want to clear that one off the books.”
I stood and gave him a salute. He half-saluted me back.
“Can you give me a lift?” I asked.
“Nah, I’m not leaving yet. I put a few bills on the next race.”
I gave him thumbs up. “Great idea, Pook. It’s your day. Live it to the fullest.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’. The wife thinks I’m working, so why not, right?”
“Exactly. Bye, Pook.”
“See ya, Fitch.”
In the parking lot, I threw Taffy’s car keys in the air. They glittered in the sun.
Taffy’s new car handled like a dream. I figured it was my duty to kick the tires and see what the sled could do. I peeled out of the Hastings Park Raceway and didn’t let a green light pass by without laying some rubber. And the police officer that pulled me over was a nice guy, for a cop. Didn’t even blink when I said my name was Taffy Pook but I’d forgot my license at home. He nodded like all cops do, in that measured, suspicious manner like I was trying to get one over on him. And I was, but for whatever reason he decided not to call my bluff. A beautiful human being. The other beautiful thing about him was his penmanship. It showed real flair. I considered framing the speeding ticket as a souvenir, but instead tucked it away in the glove compartment as a little surprise for ol’ Pook.
Dead Clown Blues Page 6