Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  What had happened, then? ... Who was the second man?

  Z wished he knew.

  More settled in his mind, hooking back, Z recrossed Oak at 72nd. Drove down 72nd, then turned right, then right again, finally to pull into his garage off the alley.

  Safe. At last.

  Up the back walk, Z entered his apartment to find what he thought he would -- the furniture "rearranged." Chairs knocked over.

  Z could be violent when in a temper.

  First straightening up the living room, Z went to the bedroom closet to pick up the small "sandwich bag" of white powder.

  Cocaine.

  Heroin.

  Z had no idea what ... and no interest in finding out.

  For now, the safe thing for Z to do was put both his case and the bag of powder in the hiding place under the firebox.

  The satchel put away, the apartment tidied up, finding he was ... exhausted ... Z returned to the bedroom to flop on the bed for what he hoped would be a long, dreamless sleep ......

  * * * * *

  It was the phone ringing that awakened him. Struggling out of bed in the dark, limping into the living room, sagging down on the divan, Z picked up the receiver.

  Said, "Z," in a hoarse whisper.

  Z's voice was weak. Thin. ... Z felt ... sick. It was at times like these that Z wondered if his "temper" was grounded in a physical condition.

  Like epilepsy.

  Epileptics blacked out, too. Maybe, Z was ... sick.

  "So, where ya been?"

  Teddy Newbold.

  Z found himself shaken to be talking to a cop, even a cop who was a friend. Z didn't need more trouble than he had.

  "I say, where ya been? I been calling."

  "Out."

  "Out? Well, I almost give up calling entirely. And would have, if I hadn't been your friend from way back."

  "Yeah."

  "And don't think I don't know about what you did to the captain. Not your best idea, Z-boy. Blastin' the captain on the radio like you did. Although, just between you and me, that's what the bastard deserves."

  Ted couldn't be calling from the station. He'd never risk saying anything bad about Scherer where someone might overhear him.

  "You home?"

  "Callin' from a pay phone. I'm on assignment. Just stopped for a minute on my way, to call. ... Again!"

  "Yeah?" Z was listening for the first time. It must be something serious for Ted to be calling on his own nickel.

  "So I rang you up in the dead of night to give you a piece of advice on the QT. Captain Scherer don't like you."

  Nothing new about that. "Yeah."

  Leaning over, Z snapped on the small table lamp beside the phone, straining to see his watch, found it was only 8:30.

  "Remember the new detective, name of Tabor? Edwin Tabor?"

  Most people named Edwin, were called Ed. Calling the new man "Edwin" was just another indication Ted didn't like him.

  "Short. Fat as a lard bucket. Anyhow, Tabor was hired to work narcotics, which we don't have much of North-of-the-river. Like they got south in nigger town. In addition, this Edwin is a suck-up from way back, brown-nosing the captain like a bitch in heat. That means that if the captain don't like big Bob Zapolska, Tabor don't like big Bob in spades.

  "On the other hand, while Bayliss doesn't exactly like you, he doesn't hate you, either; is at least neutral on the subject of Bob Zapolska.

  "And, by the way, Bayliss don't like this Tabor any more than me. All of which is background for what I'm about to tell you on the hush-hush. Remember, you didn't get this from me."

  "Right."

  "Bayliss was by my office this morning. Kind of a strange thing, right there. And he happened to mention -- trusting to my powers of deduction as a detective -- that he saw Captain Scherer talking, quiet-like, to Tabor.

  "Just catching a word here and there, they were talking about you, the captain saying how much of a shit you were, and Tabor, like the dick-licker he is, agreeing all the way. In spite of the fact that Tabor is new and don't know his ass from a hole in the wall."

  Ted meant hole in the ground.

  "Bayliss got the impression that something was up. That is, that the captain was putting Tabor up to making trouble for you.

  "Not in so many words. The captain don't ever put his ass on the line by saying anything direct. But if you got a brown-noser like Tabor, who is itchin' to do the captain a favor any way he can, then a hint is all it takes to set loose the dogs.

  "When Bayliss said that to me this morning, I didn't think nothing of it. But, like I said, my detective instincts coming to the fore, this evening it came to me that Bayliss, knowing me and you have been friends forever, was putting a bug in my ear. That's why I've been calling, trying to get you, you being out until now.

  "The whole sum of the message is to watch your back, because something may be up."

  "Thanks, Ted."

  "That's one you owe me, buddy."

  "Yeah."

  "I got to go. I'm on assignment. Nothin' special, though." Ted was never sent out on anything special. "Would you believe, a streaker at the shopping center? About an hour ago -- someone just calling it in. A drunk college kid, if you ask me. Or some kind of fraternity prank -- what you call hazing, the captain said. Long gone by this time. But I got to show up. Ask questions like we was shocked and goin' to do something about it."

  "Thanks again."

  After hanging up, Z felt worse in one way ... better in another. Worse, because this was confirmation that Captain Scherer still had the red ass about Z's denouncement on the radio. Better, because it cleared up a mystery.

  If Ted's "detective skills" had worked a little faster, his tip might even have done some good -- other than help to explain, after the fact, what was going on. Still, a mystery cleared up was one more puzzle Z didn't have to take the time to work over, like a cow chews its cud.

  Figuring in Ted's warning, it had gone down like this. Captain Scherer, knowing full well that Tabor is busting his breeches to please, hints to Tabor that the captain doesn't like Bob Zapolska and wishes something bad to happen to this smart-mouthed private dick. A hint being all it takes with an ass-licker, Tabor, who's the department's drug specialist, puts the arm on a small-time pusher, the dealer supposed to plant drugs in Z's house, to be found later by the cops. Presto! Z is holding, and takes the rap, a plot that gets Z paid back for spilling the beans about Captain Scherer's character.

  All of the aforementioned, equaling the little man breaking into Z's apartment this evening to plant drugs.

  Did that mean Z's house would soon be subject to a police search? ... Not if Tabor was the careful type. Since Z had gotten wise to the scheme, Tabor would tell the captain exactly nothing about what Tabor had done. A situation, like what often happened in politics with the president of the United States. According to what Z had been able to figure out, a president would say he "wished" something illegal to be done. Then the president's men would go out and do it -- without telling the president what they were about. If the illegal action got results, the president "magically" gets what he wished for. Feeling good, he rewards the men who have had the "initiative" to "get things done." But if somebody gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar, then the man gets his hand chopped off and the president gets to say he doesn't know anything about any illegal actions that his men might have performed. Moreover, is shocked someone working for him would commit criminal acts like that.

  That's the way the game was played up and down the line.

  Getting back to Tabor. If all had gone well, after checking with his pusher to find out when and where the drugs had been planted, Tabor would have found some excuse to get a search warrant to toss Z's place.

  Low and behold, being an excellent judge of where to look, Tabor would find the drugs, and Z's ass would be in a sling.

  Except that this wouldn't happen because Tabor would check with his druggie and get a very different story, indeed, of what had gone do
wn.

  The whole thing botched, Tabor would shut up about the attempt to incriminate Z, and everything would go on as before. Until the captain and his lap dog could think up some other way to fix Z's wagon.

  Having figured out the play, Z felt even worse about what he'd done to the little man who'd broken in.

  The man was in a bind to do what he'd done. He didn't have anything against Z, personally. Was just another tool of "law enforcement."

  All told, the things Z had to feel bad about were piling up around him, meaning that Z dreaded to go to sleep more than ever, wondering how this latest event would come back to haunt him!

  Z's phone rang.

  A busy night, Z confident that, this time, it was Susan on the line. Instantly reasoned (Z's "detective skills" as sharp as Ted's,) that because few people had Z's unlisted number: Susan, Ted, and Johnny Dosso. Ted had already called. Johnny -- his problem solved -- wasn't likely to. Leaving Susan.

  Tired as he was, in as bad a mental shape as he was, Z was smiling as he reached over again to pick up the phone.

  "Z."

  "Harry Grimes."

  How did Harry get Z's unlisted number ...!? A foolish question, Harry considerably more skilled in the detective business than Z would ever be.

  "Everyone under the sun has been telling me you've been pestering them about my whereabouts." Said with a dry chuckle. Over the phone, you would never guess Harry was old enough to have "retired."

  "Yeah."

  "You received your five-hundred-dollar retainer?"

  "Yeah."

  "And might I guess that's why you wished to contact me?" Harry was a well-spoken man. A trait Z envied.

  "Yeah."

  "To inquire about what services you were to provide?"

  "Yeah."

  "None."

  "What?"

  "When first contacting you, I believe I informed you that I wished to gain information about a certain man, located in your bailiwick North of the river."

  "Right."

  "I no longer need to have that information. Or to be more precise, I've had occasion to gain what I sought, by other means."

  Translation. Harry no longer needed Z's services.

  "About the money ...," Z started. Harry wanting his retainer back put Z in a bind. "... it'll take a little time to return it." How long, Z didn't know. He'd have to do some figuring. Could be, he'd spent some of the five hundred and that it would take quite awhile to get it back to Harry.

  "No need."

  "What?"

  "A retainer is just that. It retains. That is, the five hundred was what, in governmental circles, would be called a 'heads up.' What it bought was your reserving a body of time to work for me, should I have need of you. By reserving that time, you have earned the retainer."

  "Even though I didn't do anything?"

  "Exactly."

  Harry had always been more than fair. There were a lot of things to be learned from a man like Harry Grimes.

  "Now, to other business," Harry continued, the five hundred kissed off to Z's advantage. "As you know, I've retired." Harry chuckled to acknowledge what they both understood, that "retirement" had different meanings depending on how you used the word. "On the other hand, Deerstalker is growing. More crime. Overworked police force. Means more work for the private investigator."

  Where Harry was going, Z had no idea.

  "Also, there's about to be a shift in demographics in Kansas City. The city has grown mostly south, as you know. So far south, it's increasingly difficult for the southern suburban dweller to get to work downtown. No light rail transport, like you'd have in New York or in cities on the West Coast. What's projected is explosive grown North-of-the-River, the Northland, the most neglected part of Kansas City."

  "Sure." Z thought he should say something from time to time. Just to let Harry know Z was listening.

  "Now and again, I've hired you to do work for me. And I must say, you're a man who comes through. On the other hand, to be frank about it, there have been only certain jobs where I could use your talents.

  "No criticism of your abilities," Harry added smoothly. "It is just that any individual has limitations.

  "For instance, if a job calls for a certain mingling with intellectuals, attending formal parties to solicit information over cocktails, I would need someone who could speak on practically any subject that might come up. Cocktail talk. Shallow, perhaps, but broad. Requiring at least a surface knowledge of history, society, art, philosophy, and the like. For that kind of job, a liberal college education would be a prerequisite.

  "For another sort of situation, a woman operative would be preferable. If for no other reason, than a woman has access to the ladies room -- where confidences are exchanged."

  "Sure."

  "To get down to it, if Deerstalker is to expand North-of-the-River, the team approach would be preferable."

  There was good reason for the chill that now racked Z up. My God! If Harry put in a branch North-of-the-River, Z's business -- poor at present -- would dry up overnight!

  "What I want you to think about, Mr. Zapolska, is providing the northern team."

  "You ... what?"

  "It wouldn't have to be called Deerstalker North. I have no ego invested in the name. As a matter of fact, since you're established, there is no reason you couldn't call your agency ... anything you like.

  "What I need to know are two things. First, are you interested? Second, can you put together the necessary team?"

  "I'm ... interested." Z had to say that, no matter what. Harry had used a bunch of fancy words, none of them disguising the fact that Z had just been made an offer he couldn't refuse. If Harry was coming north, Z either signed on or went out of business.

  At the same time, Z didn't think Harry's intent was to run Z out of town. Didn't think Harry saw his expansion as a threat to Z's business.

  Harry was quality. And being quality, would see his proposition as helping rather than hurting. See it as a good opportunity for Z.

  "But I got to be frank with you, Harry. So far, I have barely enough business to keep one man alive. I don't know how ..."

  "Of course," Harry interrupted to agree. "What I'm talking is the future. I'm talking long range. Five years. Ten years, even."

  Z could breathe again. If Z's luck held, Z would be dead by then.

  "If I were you, what I'd do, if you're interested, is look around and try to locate potential operatives. I understand that you have certain contacts already. On police forces here and there. And perhaps more ... unsavory ... but highly useful, intermediaries elsewhere. Something all to the good. I'm merely suggesting that you expand that kind of help."

  "I ...."

  "For instance, if I were to throw a job your way that took the talents of someone I mentioned earlier, could you find a qualified person to work the job? I provide the money. You provide the personnel who, with your help, could go forward. All that I'm asking, Mr. Zapolska, is that you do what I have done."

  "What ...?"

  "If I need work done North-of-the-River where I lack expertise, I hire a local -- named Bob Zapolska."

  "I see that."

  "Well. Think it over. No hurry. If you decide to go this direction, give me a call. You might also let me know who you've got, so I can throw a little business your way, making use of the talents of your part-time operatives. And then, we'll see."

  "Might take awhile."

  "No problem. This is not something that's going to happen immediately, if it ever does. But over the next year or two, if you come up with someone who allows you to diversify, get in touch."

  "Sure."

  "That'll do it then. I hope to hear from you, Mr. Zapolska."

  "Thanks." ..........................

  Z had signed off saying "Thanks" to Harry. But was saying "Sweet Jesus!" to himself! About all any man could say when being forced to flip a coin with "opportunity" on one side, "ruination" on the other!

  * * * * *


  Chapter 19

  It had been easier to reach Professor Calder than Z thought. Besides giving lectures, weren't important people like that always going to meetings? Having student conferences? Maybe it was just luck that -- after another terrible night -- he'd gotten through to the doctor right away. To Z's question about when he could see Calder, the professor -- friendly kind of guy that he was -- said how about noon? Though Doc Calder had then remembered he was supposed to be having lunch with a couple of colleagues, Calder said he'd have time to talk to Z afterward. The plan was for Z to meet the chubby prof at Liberty's Hardware Cafe at twelve-thirty, about the time the others would be leaving, Calder and Z having the chance to talk in private after that.

  Though Z had to have passed the eatery many times, Z had never been to the Hardware Cafe, Calder saying it was located on the square in Liberty.

  Giving himself way too much time but slowed by a traffic back-up caused by yet another new stoplight on the approach to Liberty, Z spotted the narrow "storefront" cafe just as Z's old watch was ticking its way toward 12:30.

  Slowing to find a place to park on the busy street, the sultry combination of August heat and humidity made Z glad he'd worn his short-sleeved blue shirt. He'd also put on his best tie (the pink-and-white-spotted one,) Z dressing up for his meeting with Calder and possibly the psychologist's professor friends.

  A lady backing out, Z was able to slant into a parking space less than a sweltering block away, Z walking back along the sloped cement sidewalk south of the Liberty courthouse, passing lightly dressed people who were shopping on their lunch hour.

  Just beyond an assortment of stores, Z arrived at the Hardware Cafe to find it had actually been an ancient hardware store, now converted into a restaurant. Not much of a surprise there.

  The gold leaf sign in the left window said: "Hardware Cafe and Gift Shop," the window display behind the scratched glass matching the cafe's turn of the century look by showing a high collar, button-hooked, yellowed, silk wedding dress on a headless mannequin.

  Taped inside the right window was a folded out, plastic-coated menu; behind the glass, what looked like antique tractor parts.