by David Archer
“You want to know what that fool is up to? Well I’ll tell you what he’s up to, or most of him anyway. We found the guy’s headless corpse in a damn dumpster. You know anything about that?”
“Okay, he was checking out the Rude Boys, but, come on, he’s been watchin’ those clowns for years. Why would they suddenly turn on him? Dude had the morals of an alley cat, but he was damn smart—I’ll give him that.”
“I hear he used to piss you off.”
“Yeah, he tried my temper all right, but, you know, a good detective has to overlook that kind of stuff and pay attention to what he can get out of a source. And he was a good source. Tell you the truth, I’m sorry to see him go, even if he was a bullshit artist from start to finish. You want me and Frank to check it out?”
“No, I’m gonna put another team on this one. I want a fresh set of eyes on this. Of course, you can consult, but let’s leave it at that.”
“If that’s what you want, Sir, but what about the lead he gave me on the Rude Boys? I think they may have murdered a kid named Ivan Johnson. Used to be with them, but I think they turned on him.”
“Sure, go ahead with that case, but lay off Peter Tosh unless they ask you for help. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good. That’s all, Detective Hilton You are dismissed.”
Chapter 9
At long last, Ernie Campanella caught a break. He was still partnered with the idiot Luther Porch on the graveyard shift, and his prospects for promotion remained exceedingly bleak. On the other hand, Ernie Campanella had fallen in love.
Her name was Evelyn Klein, and, she had fallen for Ernie too. The two of them couldn’t have been more mismatched. Forget the pairing of a Catholic and a Jew—that sort of thing happened all the time. No, these two had differences that far exceeded that minor detail.
Ernie was Ernie: a hard-drinking dirty cop (Yes, he still accepted “gratuities” for the small stuff, like ignoring or sometimes protecting poker games and crapshoots. On the other hand, once he met Evelyn, he stopped shaking down the occasional hooker for services rendered.). And he still carried a streak of bigotry, even if that was starting to modify, thanks to people like Leonard Tompkins and Martha Stewart—the less famous one who worked in the precinct canteen. He liked music, but only jazz and pop. Classical music, he considered a waste of his time. As for art, he could take it or leave it alone, at least the traditional stuff. When it came to “modern” art, he was at a loss to see any appreciable difference between that and a monkey’s finger painting.
Evelyn, for her part, liked to think of herself as a borderline hippie, with the very important difference that she had not taken to drugs or turned her back on the work-a-day world. She played the viola professionally, when she got the chance, and was about to graduate from the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts at the top of her class. That said, her overall political and cultural philosophy was very much in line with those people she liked to imagine herself as one of. She had smelled her share of tear gas in the course of protesting racism in the city, while Ernie, on the other hand, had been known to dispense a bit of it from time to time. Without ever bringing the subject up, he hoped he had not gassed Evelyn in the course of doing his duty as one of Rizzo’s finest.
Physically, she was a petite, very pretty lady with lustrous light brown hair and wire-rim glasses, not for fashion, but for her imperfect eyesight, while Ernie was a big guy—not quite as big as Biggie Hilton, but larger than most of the people he knew. His looks were average, even if his face could get quite expressive. He had 20-20 vision.
As far as their religious differences went, that was an even more negligible factor than it might have been. Ernie was as much a lapsed Catholic as Evelyn was a lapsed Jew. It would be very unwise to hold your breath waiting for either of them to attend a house of worship.
What they did have in common was their intellect, fueled by a constant search for knowledge. Both of them had IQs high enough to let them join Mensa if they cared to, which they did not—Evelyn because she thought it was pretentious and Ernie because, who wanted to hang with a bunch of wimps?
The two of them met at a bar that featured a nationwide trivia contest. Ernie was there more for the booze, but enjoyed the game, while Evelyn was there for the challenge, but did not mind throwing down a few wine spritzers.
The night they met, the two of them had been right on every question that came up, eventually shaking off every other player across the country. Then came the last question: what was the most popular meat in China? “Probably dog,” Ernie thought, but that was not among the choices: chicken, beef, lamb or pork.
Evelyn considered her own preferences. She and most of her classmates seemed to like the chicken dishes best, except maybe for David Chang. She smiled as she remembered his tirade.
“General Tso was probably the most brilliant strategist in the history of organized warfare, and what’s the only thing he’s known for today? Chicken!” Weighing all that in the balance, Evelyn confidently selected chicken. Ernie realized if he were to win this thing outright, he had to put some distance between him and this smart-ass chick. Believing lamb and beef to be improbable, he went with pork, figuring he would rather lose the match than have to share the glory. But then, it turned out to be pork.
“Very well played, congratulations,” Evelyn told the winner as she put out her hand.
“Yeah, not bad for a man, huh?” Ernie responded as he completed the handshake. “You played a good game, though. Can I buy you a drink?”
From there, the friendship blossomed into a serious relationship. As they became fonder of one another, they made the effort to fit in with their respective partner’s world. Thanks to Ernie, Evelyn saw her first two Phils games, while Ernie let himself get dragged through the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Neither one hated the respective ordeals as much as they thought they might, but then they were in love. If one of them (guess) had suggested they go take in a sidewalk vomiting contest, the other would have gladly tagged along.
“Sweetie, I know we already did the art museum thing,” Evelyn told him one evening, but could I ask you to come by tomorrow after work? You’ll get to see your favorite artist in action.”
“Uh, OK, so who’s my favorite artist?”
“Me, you big ninny! One of the exercises we do at the academy is to copy paintings from the museum. They have an arrangement with the academy, so it’s OK. If you do come by, I’ll be doing a Winslow Homer. Just ask one of the guards if you’re not sure where to go.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess I could do that. Will you be there around 10:30? By the time I get off shift, change into my civvies and get there, I probably won’t be around any sooner.”
“Ten-thirty’s fine.”
“And look for Homer…who?
“No, Sweetie, Winslow Homer. He was an important local artist. You saw his stuff last time, remember?”
“I’m sure it’ll all come back to me when I get there.”
Evelyn planned to get there at 8:00, even before the museum opened to the public. This was another accommodation the place made for the art school. She had an important detail to finish up before Ernie came by to watch her paint her masterpiece.
“How are we doing with the Tosh case?” Captain Grimes asked the two detectives he had assigned to the decapitation of Rasta Pete.
“We’ve made a little progress,” Hank Alexander answered. “For one thing, we maybe shouldn’t call it the Tosh case. It’s a made-up name. The ID we found in the guy’s wallet was phony as a three-dollar bill. Victim borrowed the name from some singer.”
“Yeah, I remember hearing about that. But we are talking about Rasta Pete, Hilton’s informant, right?”
“That’s the guy alright,” Alexander agreed.
“We tossed his apartment, but didn’t find much—at least not much to tie him to the killer,” Marcus White added. “But we got a pretty good lead from the morgue. They say they think it was a machete or a big sword—s
omething real sharp. Didn’t take the killer more than a couple of hacks to get the guy’s head off. Also, we think we’re looking for a really strong man.”
“Okay, I’ll make note of that,” Grimes said. “Now how about a motive? Any thoughts?”
“Let’s start with him being a snitch,” Alexander began. “Since he lived in Strawberry Mansion, my first guess would be the Rude Boys, but I recall there was another outfit operating in that area before the Jamaicans ran them out. Maybe Pete’s snitching had something to do with that.”
“Yeah, come to think of it there was—locals, not your Jamaicans. Who am I think—Spencer Bennett, that’s the guy.”
“That’s the guy, but he’s dead and so it his chief enforcer, Tyrone Smith,” White added.
“Thank God for small favors,” Grimes noted.
“Yeah, but I doubt the whole gang got wiped out,” Alexander said. “Who do we know that might of survived?”
“Probably most of ‘em had the good sense to get the hell outa there,” White replied. “I do recall their top dealer, though. Remember Ellis Washington? Ain’t seen hide nor hair of that gentleman for a good long time.”
“Let’s hold that thought for another time, unless you somehow imagine Washington is our killer,” Grimes told them. “We should start with people who were actually in the city when this all went down.”
“Sure, I get you,” Alexander assured the boss, “but, you know, just because we don’t have eyes on a guy, don’t mean he isn’t around here somewhere.”
“I must say, Miss Klein, this is far from your best work,” Cynthia Fabietz, Associate Professor of Representational Painting, informed her prize pupil.
“You’re right, I’m afraid,” Evelyn admitted. “Maybe I get nervous because I feel I can’t do justice to such a revered icon of the art world.”
“Would you be happier painting a Leroy Nieman?”
“There’s no need to be sarcastic, Professor Fabietz. I’ll try to make it better, okay?”
“Yes, by all means do,” the teacher said as she moved on to the next student. Still, she felt puzzled. Although Evelyn Klein was tremendously creative in her own right, nobody in the school could come up to her quality when it came to copying the old masters.
Twenty minutes later, Evelyn heard a much more welcome voice.
“Hey, Jewgirl, nice work,” Ernie beamed. Evelyn knew he only meant it as a term of affection, so did not raise much of a stink. When she did suggest he find something a bit more romantic, Ernie said she could call him The Wop, like some of the guys at the station did.
“If we ever get married,” she pointed out, “I do not care to be known as Mrs. The Wop.”
“All right, let me see what I can do. How about Lambchop?”
“Lambchop will suffice.”
“Anyway, I like your painting there.”
“I suppose you think this is nice, being an outsider,” Evelyn sighed, “but I got yelled at for sloppy work by the teacher, a little before you got here.”
“What, you did? Where is the clown? I’ll kick his ass!”
“Her ass, and it’s so well-padded I don’t think she’d even notice. No, really, don’t come to my defense, my gallant knight. She’s just doing her job, and she’s right. I have a hard time copying someone else’s work.”
“Wait a minute, can we run this flick back a few frames? Did I hear you say you’d take my name if we got married? That’s good to know. Seems like a lot of young women these days are refusing to do that.”
“Well, yes and no. For charge account purposes, I will happily be Mrs. Campanella, but I have too much good work I’ve done already and that I’m very proud of, so, as far as the art world is concerned, I will be Evelyn Klein to my dying day.”
“After which your work will really become valuable. So, if I somehow manage to outlive you, I could end up as a rich old coot—not that I wish you an early demise, mind you.”
“Ernie, my love, do you want a chance of doing that somewhere outside the range of slim and none?”
“You’re not thinking of doing yourself in, are you?”
“No, I am not talking about me I’m talking about you. If you want to live a lot longer than you will at this rate, you’ve got to slow down your drinking. Please, don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging you. I just don’t want to be a widow at forty.”
“You know, I have cut back plenty—cleaned up my act in general since I met you. Evelyn Miriam Klein, let me lay it on the line: if I weren’t too poor to support a family, I’d ask you to marry me, here and now. Thing is, between a lowly cop and a starving artist, how could we ever afford to bring children into this world? You do want children, don’t you?”
“Yes, a few, but please do not confuse me for the old woman in the shoe. I understand your point, Sweetie, but you’re very wrong on one score. Evelyn Klein will not be a starving artist, dead or alive.” Evelyn was a bit older than the other students in her class because, prior to her enrollment in PAFA, she had graduated, again with honors, with a degree in electrical engineering from Drexel. Still, it was through her art that she hoped to make her fortune. She had not mentioned her other degree to Ernie for fear he might pressure her to get a good job and do her painting on the side.
“Atta girl! Tell you what. I am going to go all out to get a promotion, even if it means shamelessly polishing the old apple. Soon as I’m doing just a little bit better, I will have a very serious question to ask you.”
“Ernest, my darling, please don’t imagine you have to drop everything to make an honest woman out of me. I can see us as a couple, down the road, somewhere, but there’s no rush. I’ve got some things to take care of myself.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as none of your business. Yes, Sweetie, I love you to pieces, but I am a very private person. I hope you can respect that.”
“Doesn’t that kind of rule out making love?
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, as I am sure you will find out in the very near future.”
“I like the way you put things.”
“Okay, let’s leave it at that. You better get lost. La Signora Fabietz is giving me the old maloke’.”
“Captain Grimes, could I have a word with you,” asked Betty Johnston, his oldest secretary.
“Certainly, let’s step into my office. Go ahead and shut the door. I take it this is to be in private.”
“Well, for now anyway. I heard something, very upsetting. I have been wrestling with my conscience for a few days now, and I’m sorry for not coming forward sooner. It’s just so hard.”
“It’s all right, Betty, I won’t jump down your throat, but, I would like to know this deep, dark secret. Is it personal or business?”
“I guess you’d say it’s job-related, but with a very personal side. All right, here it is. I hear things from time to time, even though I try to tune out the gossip. I’m afraid this is a little more than gossip, though. Apparently one of the girls went to a party Frank Mueller threw a little while back, and…well…it seems Detective Hilton threatened to cut the head off of that guy who got his head cut off…with a machete. God, I feel horrible about this, but I know I shouldn’t overlook a murder.”
“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Johnston, you did the right thing. I would like to think there is some explanation for all this, but you have definitely given us something to think about.”
The owner of the weapon that had tasted so much blood at just one banquet decided it was time to make his move. At 2:30 on a moonless night, he dropped it into the dumpster that served the Lombard Mews Community—a development whose residents included a formidable Jamaican-American named Lawrence Hilton. Later that morning, a call to the tip line.
Chapter 10
“I couldn’t be happier,” Sadie Mueller gushed when she heard that her sister was going to a bed-and-breakfast, for the weekend with her serious boyfriend, Sean Higgins. “Tell you the truth, I had been harboring a suspicion that Arlene was st
ill a virgin, but I guess not. She seems very casual about the whole thing.”
“Strange times we live in,” Frank said, “when a woman comes under suspicion if she is a virgin.”
“Well, whether she is or not, I’m glad she’s finally getting serious about a fellow. There is one thing, though…”
“And that one thing is?”
“I remember something you told me the night after our double date with them—that you think Sean is a murderer. I shrugged it off at the time, but now that Arlene is going away with the guy, I’m starting to wonder.”
“Look, I didn’t mean a murderer like Jack the Ripper. My guess is that he does work for the government, but not as an accountant. I’m thinking he does the kind of work that requires a cover story. Hey, I’m not saying he’s a bad guy. On some level, we need people like that. I just don’t like being lied to is all.”
“Frank, Honey, please promise me this: if this guy does marry Arlene, please don’t badger him to spill the beans. Like you said, we need people like that to clean up the dirty laundry we don’t like to think about.”
“I suppose so,” Frank sighed.
For Frank’s possible new brother-in-law, the news had been good. The next secure conversation Sean Higgins was able to have with his contact in Coral Gables, he heard that the notorious assassin Enrique Valdivielso was dead. For Frank’s police partner, the news suddenly turned sour after a promising start.
“You see, you’re only digging yourself in deeper,” Biggie explained to Delroy MacGregor. “We know Ivan Johnson’s dead, and we know you were behind the killing. We got witnesses.”
“Bullshit!” Delroy snarled. “You ain’t got shit, mon.”
“You want to stick with your story, go right ahead. Tell you the truth, I really hate the idea of cutting you a deal. I’d much rather see you get the needle, not only for Johnson but for Peter Tosh, a/k/a Rasta Pete.”
“Now you talkin’ crazy! Pete was mah friend. I know he was a slippery son of a bitch, but he was a big help to us. Fucker wasn’t even really Jamaican. Rasta Pete my foot.”