“Hell, yes, why stop now?”
“Okay, you’re behind on your rent, you have two pairs of pants to your name and a fifty-seven dollar tab here at Lulu’s, your radiator leaks, your tires are shot, and your transmission’s acting up. Kirby, there ain’t nobody that inept—you are one very clever sonofabitch and you are the man for this assignment, just as sure as God made little pink pussies! Gallagher picked you, and Gallagher was an excellent judge of talent!”
“Gallagher picked me? Well, God rest his soul, all Jim Gallagher ever picked was a couple of dozen fights!”
“That was all part of his screening process—ascertaining how you’d respond to certain situations.”
Kirby threw up his hands. “So enough of this bullshit! Just where are you coming from?”
Jefferson reached across the table and clamped Kirby’s shoulder. His eyes glinted in the light from Lulu’s Hickory Barrel Ale sign. He said, “Mister, we need you! This country is sitting on some sort of ticking bomb, and we don’t know how to stop the god damned clock!”
“Jefferson, if you’re talking a spook job, forget it! I’m a six-for-a dollar divorce gumshoe and I don’t know a cloak from a dagger!”
Jefferson spanned the table-top with the flat of a heavy hand. “Damn it, Kirby, you just won’t drop that front, will you?”
Kirby spread his hands, palms up. “Will you say it? Whatever the hell it is, will you say it, for Christ’s sake?”
“All right, here it comes! You used to catch for West End Liquors in the old Northwest Suburban League, am I right?”
“Sort of. What does that have to do with the price of cucumbers?”
“You couldn’t hit breaking stuff but they didn’t run on you.”
“Just one base per pitch. You didn’t drop in to talk about the West End Liquors ball team—we finished seventh in a ten team league.”
Jefferson checked his watch. “I’m running late for an important appointment and I won’t have time to get into this at length, so, tell me, can you make yourself available at say, uhhh-h-h, fifteen hundred dollars a week?”
“At say, uhhh-h-h, fifteen hundred a week you’d be astonished by how available I can make myself!”
“Out of town okay?”
“How far out of town? Australia might present a few drawbacks.”
“Southern end of the state—little town called Grizzly Gulch. You’ve heard of it?”
“Never. What’s in Grizzly Gulch?”
“Undoubtedly the people who arranged Jim Gallagher’s murder.”
Kirby’s jaw tightened. “When do I start?”
Jefferson grinned, nodded, and said, “Good boy, Kirby!” He took a deep breath. “You see, when you’ve been in this business for forty years you develop a sensitivity to impressions, and this one’s a smoker, probably the biggest thing I’ve ever tangled with, I know it, I can feel it, it’s a blockbuster, but, so help me God, I don’t have the slightest idea what it’s all about! Ever get that sensation, Kirby—you’re in a dark room and you can’t find the fucking door?”
“Born with it. My being an old ball player, what good is that?”
“Grizzly Gulch has a baseball club in the Southern Illinois Association.”
“Knock it off! I’m pushing thirty-eight—my wind’s gone, so are my legs!”
“No game action—you’ll be a bullpen catcher. We can’t send operatives into Grizzly Gulch with binoculars and cameras, they’d just arouse curiosity. Our people have to fit, they play roles, just as you’ve been doing for years.” He took a business card from his shirt pocket, handing it to Kirby. “Your pay began this morning. Be at this address tomorrow afternoon and see to it that you arrive shortly prior to closing time—five-thirty.”
“And?”
“Introduce yourself and ask to speak to Dixie Benton. You’ll be briefed by Dixie.”
“Will he arrange transportation? You know about my car.”
“Dixie will handle everything—Dixie’s very efficient, very thorough.” Jefferson got to his feet, nodded curtly, and went out. Kirby watched the door swing shut behind the big man before slouching to the bar and ordering a bottle of Hickory Barrel Ale. He said, “Jim Gallagher’s dead.”
Lulu said, “Yeah, one of the girls at Jolli-Day Travel Services just called—caught in that warehouse fire down at California and Milwaukee, she told me. How did you find out?”
“My client mentioned it—he’s a fireman whose wife’s skating around with a flutist.”
“He hired you to get proof?”
“Yeah.”
Lulu shrugged. “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
Kirby said, “Alexander Pope.”
Lulu nodded. “Alexander Pope was only four feet six inches tall.”
“That probably explains it—a guy four feet-six can get away with anything.”
“How big is this flutist?”
“He didn’t say. Bigger than Alexander Pope, I’d imagine.”
“You better watch out for them flutists!”
“Was Alexander Pope a flutist?”
“No, but my fourth husband was.”
“How big was your fourth husband?”
“In the dark sometimes it was hard to tell.”
Kirby nodded. In Chicago the conversation usually gets bent in that direction.
Five
Dawn brought another day. That was the trouble with dawns, Kirby thought. His apartment was suffocatingly hot and he tossed and turned until eleven-thirty, sleeping in sweat-soaked patches before throwing in the sponge to dress and spend a somber early afternoon at the bar of Ed Berserkski’s Polski Inn, drinking Hickory Barrel Ale and missing Jim Gallagher. Looking back, Kirby didn’t find it particularly difficult to picture Gallagher as a CIA trouble-shooter. The gregarious Irishman could have been virtually anything he’d wanted to be, and his obvious patriotic streak, linked to intelligence, determination, natural charm, and a ready sense of the ridiculous made the role conceivable enough. There’d been precious little of the ordinary in Gallagher, an orange-haired, wild gray-eyed creature who’d driven a sparkling kelly green Mercedes-Benz convertible and thrown fifty dollar bills around like so many dry leaves. For a man who’d claimed that he wasn’t making money, he’d certainly possessed an abundance of the stuff, and there’d been times when Kirby had wondered about that, but Gallagher’s money had been the least interesting thing about the man. He’d been a bird of Kirby’s feather, a two-fisted, free-swinging, go to hell type who’d fight at the flicker of an eyelid, a man with seemingly insatiable yens for boisterous song, strong drink, and weak women, not necessarily in that order, and he’d lived life to the hilt before dying, trapped like a rat in a warehouse fire. What goes up must come down, but the adage rarely applied to men of Gallagher’s caliber, and Kirby felt strangely cheated, much as he had when he’d seen Jim Piersall drop a routine fly ball.
At four o’clock he climbed into his flap-fendered Ford and drove east to Milwaukee Avenue, then southeast on Milwaukee to California Avenue. The area had been roped off, the roof of the big building had collapsed but its walls remained erect, charred red brick with mortar powdered by the heat of the inferno. Kirby parked and crossed the street to stand with a foot up on a fireplug, staring at Jim Gallagher’s crematorium. Christ, what a mess. He became aware of a woman standing a few feet to the north, a remarkably pretty woman of thirty-five or so, tall, slender, dark-haired, with an impressive bosom, and long, slim, chorus-girl legs. She wore a dark-blue, white-flowered gauzy dress that swirled slightly at her knees in the breeze from the roaring northbound traffic. Kirby watched as she took a white rose from her hair, stepped to the rope-barrier, kissed the rose, and threw it into the warehouse wreckage. Her eyes locked briefly with Kirby’s and Kirby noted that they were unusual eyes, violet in hue, as she turned away to cross the street and get into a maroon BMW parked immediately behind Kirby’s Ford. He watched her drive south and he kicked a smoke-blackened brick chip from the sidewalk int
o the rubble before returning to his car, wishing he hadn’t come. A helluva way to check out, but spectacular, and Kirby had a hunch that Jim Gallagher would have chosen it in preference to the countless run-of-the-mill alternatives.
The day had been blazing hot, the late afternoon still smoldered, and Kirby killed an hour at the Step Up Inn on South Michigan Avenue before emerging to wade northward through heat rivulets and sweating, cursing, rush-hour pedestrians, gearing his pace to the schedule laid down by Hastings Jefferson.
Sarah’s Boutique stood on the west side of Michigan Avenue, located on the ground floor of the Leavitt Building, one of the newer structures adorning Chicago’s Magnificent Mile, a gaudy stretch of Michigan Avenue where you can get as expertly mugged as on South Canal Street. Kirby checked the address on the business card Jefferson had given him. No mistake—Sarah’s Boutique was the place, and he had five minutes to spend before going in. One mannequin occupied Sarah’s single display window, a plastic platinum-blonde bit of fluff, cherub-faced, big blue-eyed, spidery-legged, with a thirty-eight inch bust and a twelve-inch waist. Her impossible body was clad in flashy winter garb, a flaming red, gray fox-trimmed ski-suit, and Kirby wondered if the rest of the nation’s fashion stores did things in the manner of Chicago’s, where the Christmas season is ushered in by the World Series, January clothing is exhibited in June, and July bikini beach-wear appears in December. For the life of him, Kirby had never been able to understand the big fucking hurry.
He shrugged, lit a cigarette, and stepped into the coolness of Sarah’s Boutique, stopping just inside the door to be favorably impressed. Sarah’s chairs, scattered in pairs, were of oak, heavy-legged, and cushioned in what appeared to be honest-to-God cordovan brown leather. There was shaggy oak paneling and muted music from invisible speakers—lush strings and throbbing basses—a tango, “Orchids in the Moonlight,” Kirby thought. He saw a pair of rubber trees that towered nearly to the oak-beamed, rippled whipped-cream ceiling. He made his way through the ankle-deep milk-chocolate carpeting to squint at a few price tags and he felt a chill go skittering up his spine—the price of one of Sarah’s dresses would have put Goodyear Double Eagles on his Ford, spare included. There was a hush about the place, a reserved atmosphere, and Kirby entertained not the slightest doubt that Sarah’s Boutique could have properly outfitted the Duchess of Huckingfam if the old bat had strolled in bare-ass naked.
Behind Sarah’s low, efficient-looking service counter there was an original oil painting on black velvet, receded into the paneling and bathed in soft light from an unseen source—the splendid, savage, snarling beauty of a Bengal tigress. At first appraisal, Kirby thought the painting to be just a bit out of step with its surroundings, but Kirby had yet to meet Dixie Benton.
A nattily attired, long-stemmed, fortyish, blonde woman appeared silently at his elbow, smiling and carrying a large key-ring. She said, “Sir, I’m afraid you’re too late—Sarah’s Boutique is closing now.” Her voice was cultured. She studied him with calculating jade-green eyes before placing a light and perfectly manicured, multi-ringed hand on his forearm. “I was just about to duck around the corner for a manhattan at Luigi’s.” She squeezed his arm. “Do you like manhattans?”
Kirby said, “No, and I ain’t particularly wild about Luigi—I’d like to speak to Dixie Benton.”
The blonde bristled perceptibly, a thin, sharp edge creeping into her voice. “Speaking to Dixie Benton won’t alter the business hours of Sarah’s Boutique, sir.”
“I ain’t here to alter the business hours of Sarah’s Boutique, I’m here to speak to Dixie Benton.”
The blonde cranked up a polite frown and stepped to the service counter, picking up a white telephone, punching a single digit, waiting, then speaking briefly in subdued tones. When she returned she gave Kirby a taut token smile and said, “Your name is Kirby?”
“Yes, a peculiarity common in the Kirby family.”
The blonde’s smile had turned to slivered red ice. “My apologies, Mr. Kirby. Dixie Benton’s office will be the second door to your right.” She pointed with a long, red-lacquered fingernail down a narrow hallway at the rear of the establishment, and Kirby nodded his thanks, wondering why he didn’t like her and deciding that it had been her key-ring. Women carrying key-rings spooked Kirby and there was something sinisterly Freudian about that, he was certain.
Before Kirby reached the second door, it had swung open and a woman had stepped into the hallway. She was tall, slender, middle-thirties, with flowing, shoulder-length dark hair and violet eyes, she had a perfectly-chiseled, uptilted nose, full red lips, and tawny skin the texture of fine satin, she possessed a set of legs that would have driven Aphrodite to drink, and for lesser smiles mighty empires had fallen. She wore a dark-blue, white-flowered gauzy dress and white, spike-heeled pumps. She looked him over, head to toe. “Mr. Kirby, it’s a distinct pleasure, I assure you.”
Kirby said, “Likewise. Getting in to see Dixie Benton is like busting into the United States Mint.”
She had a rippling laugh. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no—depends on who you are.”
Kirby took off his hat. He said, “You’re Dixie Benton’s secretary?”
“No, Mr. Kirby, I’m Dixie Benton.”
“Yes—uhh-h-h-h, well, you see, Hastings Jefferson didn’t specify.”
“Hastings Jefferson rarely does. I saw you at the scene of the fire earlier, but of course we couldn’t talk there.”
“No. You recognized me?”
“Yes, from candid photographs—I followed you there, picked you up at your apartment shortly before noon.”
“What the hell for?”
“This is an important meeting, Mr. Kirby—if you’d forgotten, I’d have reminded you—just a precautionary measure, you understand.” Kirby nodded, and she said, “You’ll forgive me if I seem to stand in awe—Jim Gallagher ran exhaustive checks on you. You know that, needless to remark.”
“I know it now.”
“But not before?”
“Not until Jefferson told me.”
Dixie Benton threw back her head and laughed her rippling laugh. It was a pleasant sound after Lulu’s wild white leghorn cackles. She said, “Really, Mr. Kirby, you had no idea at all?” She winked at him. He liked her wink. It was one of the better winks he’d seen. She said, “Oh, well, it hardly matters, does it?” Her voice was melodious, the kind that can tiptoe into a man’s dreams and cause him to twitch in his sleep. She clutched him tightly by the wrist, turning him toward her office door, her fingernails digging into him slightly. She said, “Won’t you come in, please?”
He followed her into the office. Dixie Benton’s walk was a willowy, graceful thing and her white-flowered dress was transparent. Kirby had noticed both at the corners of Milwaukee and California.
Six
When Kirby was ensconced in an overstuffed wingback chair, Dixie Benton flowed to the door, locked it, and lifted her desk telephone. She said, “Marianne, set the alarms and get the hell out of here, this matter will require time…brusque?…not to me…quite warm, I think…possibly…oh, certainly, I’ll make every effort…” She laughed and hung up. Her desk was a huge half-moon affair, and her high-backed leather chair would have dwarfed a bull gorilla. Behind the chair was a large black leather couch above which was hung another painting of a tigress, this one leaping, eyes slitted, fangs bared, claws extended. Obviously Dixie Benton had a thing for tigresses. Kirby studied the fingernail imprints in his wrist and watched her settle into her chair. She opened an ivory-inlaid box, offered Kirby a cigarette and tucked one into a corner of her mouth. She held lights for them from a gold-plated desk-lighter, then leaned back, inhaling deeply, letting smoke trickle from her slightly flared nostrils in the manner of those who appreciate tobacco. She was a sensualist, that was certain. She cleared her throat and said, “All right, first things first—from now on you’re ‘Kirby’ and I’m ‘Dixie,’ okay?”
“Suits me.”
She sat, saying no
thing, watching him for the better part of a minute. Then she said, “Jim Gallagher was mighty high on you.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“You can’t? Your file is choked with superlatives!” She shifted her gaze to the ash on her cigarette, and without looking up she said, “Tell me, Kirby, just what do you do, other than go around pretending to be what you aren’t?”
Kirby said, “You people seem to be laboring under a whole mess of false impressions.”
“Huh-uh, Kirby, not at all! Jim Gallagher knew what you are, or, more accurately, he knew what you aren’t! You aren’t a moth-eaten second-rate private detective, far from it! Jim could see through people, he could spot an impostor every damned time, yet he admitted that you nearly took him in. Now that must have taken some doing!”
“Even Gallagher made mistakes.”
“Just one—in this business, one is all you’re likely to get. Somehow, they managed to lure him into that damned warehouse.”
“You’re talking about the Russians.”
“I’m talking about the KGB, the most ruthless arm of the most repressive, corrupt and merciless form of government ever to curse this planet!” Kirby sucked on his cigarette and the silence grew thick before Dixie said, “No comment on that, Kirby? Well, wear your village idiot disguise if you prefer. Did Jim go into this matter with you?”
“Not a word.”
“Jefferson?”
“Barely.”
Dixie shook her head. “I’d like to be able to spell it out for you, but we’re pretty much in the dark. However, we do know that Gallagher had turned something and that it was big! He’d come too close for comfort and they had to get him out of their way! Perhaps his death will spur our incompetents at Langley to action, but, oh, God, at what a cost to the Agency and to this country!”
Kirby's Last Circus Page 3