Then Doyle moved conspiratorially toward me, and I almost leaned away from him, afraid of what he was going to say next. He whispered, “Rumor has it the guy was whacked by an unhappy husband, know what I mean?”
Well, that was better than a rumor that an unhappy ex-
employee named Nicholas Cooper beaned Kinky on the melon for firing him.
Doyle finished his coffee and took off. I took the espresso machine apart and put it back together for entertainment until our evening relief arrived.
Kate left with a wave and a promise to pry the big secret out of me in the morning. I exited stage right to hunt down Eddy and Coop, who were at Eddy’s kitchen table knee-deep into supper. While they downed leftovers, I chewed on some antacids I found in one of Eddy’s kitchen drawers. My stomach was usually unflappable, but having Coop and murder in the same sentence did a number on my gastric fortitude. I briefed the two of them on my exploits with Minneapolis’ finest and Kate the Inquisitor until it was time for me to go find Rocky.
At seven o’clock, I loaded myself into my pickup. After circling Rocky’s block four times, I spotted the familiar puffy green jacket he lived in year-round. A ratty, wool-lined aviator hat sat cockeyed on his head. He leaned against the side of an abandoned building in the semi-darkness, his mouth moving a mile a minute, chatting with the air around him, or maybe with ghostly spirits I couldn’t see. You never know. Relief buzzed through me, almost like having one too many beers. I pulled to the curb and rolled down the passenger window.
“Hey, Rocky,” I yelled.
Rocky’s eyes focused on my vehicle, but he didn’t recognize it, or me. His lips stopped moving, and he froze.
“Rocky, it’s me, Shay,” I said, praying he wouldn’t take off.
He squinted. Then a grin spread slowly across his wide face, exposing crooked teeth. He rushed over to the open window.
“Shay O’Hanlon.” His entire body vibrated happiness in seeing a familiar face. “You drive a pretty blue Toyota Tundra, Shay O’Hanlon.” He ran his fingers over the smooth paint.
“Thank you, Rocky. Are you hungry?”
Rocky’s grin grew. “Always hungry.”
“Hop in. Popeye’s?”
“Popeye’s. My favorite.” He opened the door and clambered in. “Always wear your seatbelt,” he mumbled, tugging the strap across his round body and clicking it home.
The restaurant was on Lake Street, a busy thoroughfare running through Uptown and the lakes area. We pulled into the parking lot and tramped inside. Rocky ordered spicy fried chicken with rice and beans. Food still wasn’t something my insides were much interested in. I procured myself a Coke and we found a table and sat down.
Rocky said in a very serious voice, “I want to thank you for this most delicious meal, Shay O’Hanlon.”
“You’re welcome, Rocky.”
As he burrowed his way through the beans, I asked, “Did you see Coop this morning?”
Rocky looked at me, his oddly beautiful golden eyes big, his mouth full. “Yes, yes I did see Nick Coop, Shay O’Hanlon.” His attention returned to the plate and he shoveled another scoopful in.
Coop had given me some “talking to Rocky” advice. If he felt safe with me, I could ask him questions and he’d do his best to answer. Conversely, if he felt threatened, he’d answer with a single word. If I was lucky.
And where was my luck going to land me? I sipped from my straw and swallowed, considering my next words. “What did you tell Coop about Stanley Anderson?”
His eyes flicked up to me and then to his plate. “I told Nick Coop that Mr. Stanley was lying on the floor in his office. That big bingo marker Mr. Stanley liked so much was on the floor by his head. Gross.” The fork sped to Rocky’s mouth again.
“Do you know what happened to Mr. Stanley, Rocky?” I asked, adopting his name for the dead man.
“You must chew every bite twenty-six times, Shay O’Hanlon.”
Wow. “Uh huh. What happened to Mr. Stanley?”
The chewing didn’t slow, but some food particles came flying out as he spoke. “Someone bonked him on the noodle and killed him.”
“Do you know who bonked him?”
“Must remember to drink when you eat,” he announced, and took a few healthy slugs of his pop, his throat working as the liquid slid down. Then he said, “Nick Coop didn’t hurt Mr. Stanley.”
“I know he didn’t,” I said softly. “Did someone say he did?”
Jaw muscles bunched as Rocky chowed down. “The police people asked me about him.”
I closed my eyes and inhaled, willing my heart not to leap out of my chest. I blinked, then said, “You know he didn’t have anything to do with that, right?”
Rocky hunched over his plate and shoveled another forkload in. “No way did Nick Coop hurt Mr. Stanley. Nick Coop could never ever hurt anything.”
“Rocky,” I said very softly. “Look at me.”
He slowly slid his gaze to mine. I said, “I know Coop didn’t hurt Mr. Stanley. But do you have any idea who might have done this bad thing to Mr. Stanley?”
Rocky’s cheek twitched. “Lots of people were mad at Mr. Stanley, Shay O’Hanlon.” The beans finished, his attention moved on to the rice. He ate one thing at a time, making sure not to mix the different foods on his plate.
I sighed. This was worse than talking to a toddler. “Who was mad at Mr. Stanley?”
Without moving his head he said, “coopmsritabuzzrileyms—,” and trailed off into unintelligible garble as he finished his twenty-sixth chew and swallowed.
“What?”
He repeated his words without taking a breath.
Coop’s name was at the beginning, and a couple of the other names sounded vaguely familiar. Coop had lots of crazy tales about the Bingo Barge regulars, and I figured Rocky’s list had to encompass a few of those bingo nuts.
I pulled a pen out of my pocket and wrote Coop on a napkin. I showed it to Rocky, and he nodded enthusiastically.
“Will you tell me the names one more time?” My pen hovered over the napkin.
He gave me a disgusted look but begrudgingly said, “coopmsritabuzzrileymslavonneandsomebig—,” ending in more gibberish. Then he said very clearly, “Buzz Riley’s a very bad man, Shay O’Hanlon.”
I hid a grin and quickly scrawled Rita, Buzz Riley, and Lavonne while Rocky slurped the last of the contents in his cup. Coop had told me some run-ins he’d had with Mr. Riley, and he indeed sounded like a first-class ass. What did “some big” mean? A big man? A big woman? A big bingo ball? “Hey, Rocky, what did you mean when you say ‘and some big’?”
“I am full now, Shay O’Hanlon. Thank you.”
It seemed my Q&A session had come to a close.
Rocky chattered as I drove him home. The names he gave me ran over and over through my head. At his boarding house, he opened the door to get out of the truck, turned to me, and reached for my hand. “Shay O’Hanlon, you are not going to let anything bad happen to my friend Nick Coop.” His beseeching golden eyes just about broke my heart.
“I’m going to try very hard to make sure nothing bad happens to Coop.”
“Thank you, Shay O’Hanlon. Thank you.” He pumped my hand, and was about to slam the door when he turned back to me. “Be sure to rotate your tires every six thousand miles, Shay O’Hanlon.” Rocky gently shut the door and disappeared into his building, leaving me to repeat “coopmsritabuzzrileymslavonneandsomebig” like a mantra all the way home.
_____
I trudged along the rough stone sidewalk to Eddy’s back door and let myself in. I felt drained from the strange emotions of the day. After rousing Eddy from her CSI-induced stupor in front of the TV, she led me out to the garage. Once inside the dim garage, she flipped a switch to illuminate it with a single bare bulb.
“So how do you get up there?” I asked Eddy.
“The ladder, child.” Eddy pointed to an old ladder resting against the garage wall. The wooden deathtrap was decorated with varying hue
s of smeared and dripped paint—remnants of Eddy’s attempts at replicating interior decorating projects she had seen on the DIY network. I had been on that sorry excuse for a ladder helping with a couple of those so-called projects. I’d sworn never to step foot on the rickety contraption again.
Eddy laughed at my terror-stricken expression. “I’m pullin’ your funny bone. You push that there button under the ledge.” She pointed at a shelf of crusty oil cans. I stuck my hand beneath the blackened, grimy plank, and at one corner, felt the nub of a button. I bent over and peered under the shelf. Sure enough, an old-fashioned doorbell was installed on the bottom.
Eddy said, “Push it.”
I pushed. A square of light appeared above us, and one of those retractable, rescue-type ladders slid down to within a couple feet of the garage floor. The opening in the ceiling glowed like a window to the heavens.
Coop’s head popped upside-down through the opening.
“Hey you two,” he said, then disappeared.
Eddy eyed at me. “What are you waiting for? Come on.” She strode over and clambered up the ladder. She never ceased to do way more than I ever could expect. I shut my mouth, which was hanging open, and climbed up behind her.
As my head came through the trap door, I whispered, “Holy. Shit.” Below me lay a musty, filthy double-car garage. The space above was completely different.
A couple of ancient lamps chased most of the shadows away. The room was only about ten feet by twelve with a pitched roof. Rough planks were laid for flooring, and were partially covered with a remnant of outdated orange shag. A neatly made up but ancient twin bed perched in a corner, along with a crib that looked as though it had seen more than its share of tantrums.
For a moment, I wondered if I’d crawled into Doc Brown’s DeLorean and traveled back to the Seventies. A little kitchen setup in one corner had a mini two-burner electric stove, a single basin sink with separate faucets for hot and cold, and a dorm-type refrigerator that was almost futuristic compared to the rest of the kitchen appliances. A modern twelve-inch TV on a two-tier cart sat above a VCR/DVD combo unit. A small camping-style toilet was stashed back under the sloped rafters. From the looks of it, stowaways must only use the emergency john when it was impossible to sneak into Eddy’s apartment.
The entrance from the garage floor was situated near the mini-kitchen. After I hauled myself through the opening, Coop pulled up the ladder and pushed a button that closed the trap door by activating a jerry-rigged electrical pulley. I eyed the contraption, wondering if we could escape if the electricity died or a fire broke out.
Eddy slid into a chair at a battered card table and Coop sat next to her. “Watch your head, child,” Eddy warned as I started toward the table and nearly knocked myself for a loop on a rafter in the sloped roof.
“What on earth is this … this room, doing here?” I was still having a hard time believing I was above the garage.
Eddy patted my hand. “It was built a long time ago. It’s my own private Underground Railroad, a safe place for those in need. It’s been used mostly by women and their children running from abusive boyfriends, husbands, that kind of thing. The Mad Knitters helped restore it a few years back.” Eddy gazed around the room and sighed. “Maybe it was more than a few years. We fixed it up so it’d be almost soundproof from below, lightproof, too. It’s got an electric heater, and somewhat decent ventilation, although it can get pretty close up here during the summer.”
The Mad Knitters met on a semi-weekly basis at the Rabbit Hole, supposedly to make progress on their knitting skills, but they usually ended up around Eddy’s kitchen table playing pinochle or poker instead. The previous summer, Eddy bestowed honorary membership upon Coop. He gamely tried but still struggled with coordinating the knitting needles and not poking his eye out. He told me more than once that he heaved a big sigh of relief when they set down the yarn and picked up the cards.
“I guess you could call all of us modern-day Harriet Tubmans. We protect anyone who fears for their safety for whatever reason.” Eddy sighed again. “Too many reasons to be fearful nowadays.”
I was dying to hear more about this secret room and the people who had passed through it, but I suppressed my urge to badger. Later, when we had time, Eddy had some explaining to do.
Coop eagerly leaned toward me. “What’d you find out from Rocky?”
I launched into the story, ending with the names Rocky had given me. “Msritabuzzrileymslavonneandsomebig.”
Coop burst out laughing. “Nice.”
“So who are they?” Eddy asked.
“He means Rita Lazar, Buzz Riley, and Lavonne Smith.” Coop said. “They’re all bingo players. I don’t know who he means with ‘and some big’ though. A big huge man? We have a few that would fit that description.”
I said, “Any of the people Rocky listed a possible deadly dauber wielder?”
Coop thought about that for a moment. “Rita? Man, I just can’t see it, but she does have a temper from hell. Buzz Riley is just an asshole. I can see him taking a whack. Lavonne … well, she’s just plain crazy. I don’t think she’s lethal, though.”
“Is there any chance we can get an eyeful of these bingo players?” Eddy suggested. “Maybe they’re on that video the detectives told Shay about.”
“I don’t know,” Coop said. “The system’s digital. If they left the hard drive, we’d probably be able to see the video.”
I asked. “Wouldn’t we be able to see the video of who killed Kinky, then?”
Coop met my eyes. “If Kinky was killed after the bingo session was over, it wouldn’t show. The system stops recording when the safe is locked for the night. Unless—the safe hadn’t been locked yet.” Coop sat up straighter. “Hey, maybe there’s a chance the killer is on it.”
Eddy shook her head. “Uh uh. If they had the killer on tape, there’d be an APB out on him and all the questioning those two detectives did would have been time wasted. They’d have come right out and said they were looking for Nicholas Cooper, Bingo Boss Brutalizer. If you watched more Law & Order, you’d know that.”
We sat in silence for a couple of moments. I pondered how much faith we could place in the accuracy of primetime cop shows. Then I said, “I think we need to check out Kinky’s office, look in his files. Maybe we can find out who he wasn’t getting along with.”
“Child, I do like the way you think. We can find us some rigged bingo cards or something!” Eddy’s grin held lots of wattage.
“Hey, listen, you two burglar wannabes,” Coop said, a frown slicing his forehead. “Bad idea. Don’t you think the cops are still all over the barge?”
Eddy snorted. “You got a lot to learn about the police, Nicholas. They been there and did their crime scene stuff, and they’re long gone.” She rubbed her hands together like a kid about to dive into a birthday cake. “When are we gonna do the job?”
No way in hell was I traipsing out on a barge on the Mississippi River tonight. I said, “With Coop hiding out up here, time’s not as critical as it would be if he were wandering the streets. Tomorrow night. I don’t think it would be wise to go skipping in there during the daylight.”
Coop said, “How are we going to get in? Don’t you think the cops will have it locked up?”
Eddy rolled her eyes. “Boy, where is your head? Why did you go back to that barge this morning?”
Coop shrugged. “I went to talk to Kinky again and try to convince him to give me one more chance.”
“And?” Eddy stared at Coop expectantly.
Comprehension flooded Coop’s narrow face, and his cheeks flushed. “To give him back the keys.”
Eddy sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Bingo.”
I shook my head. “Coop, I love you, but sometimes you’re a big dope.”
I rolled out of bed after drifting in and out of sleep most of the night, a familiar honey-laden voice haunting my dreams, teasing me, taunting me to tell the truth. Awake and out of bed, I imagined that vo
ice whispering things that weren’t related to interrogating, arresting, and booking me. I tried to shake off the lingering thoughts of a certain Minneapolis detective as I automatically pulled the covers up and fluffed the pillows—thanks to years of listening to Eddy harp, “Child, you need start the day out on the right foot, and the best way to do that is to make your bed like a civilized person.”
After a quick shower, I stuffed myself into a worn-at-the-knee pair of Levi’s and a Rabbit Hole t-shirt. I shook out a sweatshirt and tugged it over my head as I walked out of my bedroom.
I fancied my interior décor spartan, but Eddy called it just plain cheap. A seldom-used TV and a ratty couch took up most of the living room. My other furniture consisted of my mother’s antique roll-top desk and an old wooden, swivel-type office chair. I settled into the chair, its familiar creaking as comforting as it was irritating. I picked up a bill from our advertising guru Amy Connolly and whipped out a check. Amy was one person I didn’t mind coughing up the dough for. When we’d hooked up with her a couple years ago, our customer count went through the roof, and our return business remained rock solid.
Done with that task, I briefly allowed myself to fall into the memory of my mom working at this very desk, trying to pay bills with money we didn’t have while I happily Crayola’d secondhand coloring books on the floor next to her, never for a moment feeling like we didn’t have enough. The strength of her love hadn’t faded with time and could still wind around me like a warm blanket. With a deep sigh, I funneled those bittersweet thoughts neatly back into the recesses from which they’d drifted and trotted downstairs, past Eddy’s French doors, through a short hall, and into the Rabbit Hole.
A few customers quietly conversed at the tables, and Jim Brickman’s piano playing gently swirled from speakers mounted to the walls. Sinking into one of the cushioned chairs in the corner, I closed my eyes and rubbed my face, trying hard to convince myself that yesterday’s events had been a strangely lucid and horribly vivid nightmare.
Kate stood behind the counter, her spiked fuchsia hair bobbing behind the espresso machine as she finished off a drink. She caught my eye, smiled, and moments later appeared by my side with a newspaper and a steaming hazelnut latte.
Bingo Barge Murder Page 3