Murder One

by William Bernhardt

  “Well, like I said, neither did I. But I hear some nasty stuff from my boys. They didn’t like him, and not just ’cause he was sniffin’ around our kennel. They thought he was up to somethin’.” He paused. “They thought he was dirty.”

  McNaughton? The policeman’s hero? “Do you know why they thought that?”

  “Not offhand.” Again he paused, but this time his voice became more introspective. “He’s not the first cop we’ve had snoopin’ around. Not by a long shot. A lot of the time, though, my boys are able to work out some kind of … accommodation.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  He shrugged. “Common sense. Business sense, that is. People get more done when they work together.”

  “You wanted to work together with the cops who were investigating you?”

  “Some of the cops were willing, let me tell you. And I was happy to have them. Nice to have a man on the inside.”

  “Are you telling me you bought off the investigating detectives?”

  Catrona did not immediately answer.

  A light flickered in Ben’s brain. “Was McNaughton on the take? Is that what this is about?”

  Catrona slowly elevated his massive chest. “You know, I don’t begrudge a man doin’ his job. But whatever else you may think about me, I’m a man of my word. I keep my promises. And I expect others to do the same. When people don’t keep faith with me … well, I just can’t tolerate that. I won’t tolerate that.”

  “Are you suggesting there was something fishy about McNaughton’s investigation?”

  “I read in the paper what they’ve been doin’ to your lady, that pretty little teenager. How they’ve jerked her chain. One day she’s free, the next day she’s not. Some of those self-righteous cops seem so determined to put her away, I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t a reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like maybe they don’t want any real investigatin’ done. Maybe they want her hung and dried and the case closed. Before someone figures out what was really goin’ on.”

  Ben had a hard time grappling with Catrona as a conspiracy theorist. It was like Don Corleone meets The X-Files. “What do you think was really going on?”

  “I don’t know. Wish I did. Like I said, I feel sorry for that woman. Hasslin’ her ’cause she worked in a strip club. It ain’t right.”

  “It doesn’t bother you that she was a stripper?”

  “No. Why should it? Hell, I like strippers. I own some strip joints, you know. Fact, I’m not sure, but I may own the one she used to work in. But you probably knew that already.”

  No, Ben hadn’t. But it was certainly interesting. “Did you know Keri?”

  “I don’t think I ever met her. But she seems like a good, honest, hardworking gal. I can admire that. Most strippers I know are hard workers, supportin’ a family, maybe some kids. And damn good lookin’, of course. Hell, I’d rather bump into a girl stripper than a lady lawyer any day.”

  He picked up the racing form on the table, checking the list for the next race. “Fact is, I wanted to help that girl, after the police started spinnin’ her around. Broke my heart. Thought about sendin’ some of my boys out to assist her, or maybe sendin’ some money. But I knew if I did the press would find out and start suggestin’ that she was somehow tied into organized crime, which was the last thing on earth she needed.”

  “You wanted to help Keri Dalcanton?”

  “Yeah. So what, is that so strange? I like to help people. That’s why God put us here, isn’t it? “

  “I’m not disagreeing. I just didn’t expect to hear those sentiments from you.”

  “What, ’cause I’m the papers’ whipping boy? So what if I like a little gambling, a little action from the ladies? Does that mean I don’t have a heart? Does that mean I don’t want to help other people in need?”

  “I suppose your … organization isn’t exactly renowned for its big heart.”

  “Says who? That’s how the mob got started! It was a secret society formed to protect poor and oppressed Sicilians from the French Angevins in power. Did you know that?”

  “Actually, I did. DeCarlo told me.”

  “Well, that kid’s got some crazy ideas, but he at least understands what a family is supposed to be. He knows we started out helpin’ one another, and he thinks we still should. He’s trying to get us back to that. Let me tell you, he gives more money to charity than you’ve seen in your life.”

  “It’s good publicity.”

  “It’s good, period.” Catrona gazed out the glass window; the next race was starting. “Anyway, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course. Thanks for talking to me.”

  “No problem. And listen.” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice, as if imparting a great secret. “You know this Keri girl, right? If you can think of some way I can help her, you just let me know.”

  “I’ll … bear that in mind.”

  “Good. And listen. I understand you have to do some investigatin’. You got your client and a trial and all that. So don’t think it means you’re gonna wake up with your feet in concrete or anything, okay?”

  Gee, thanks …

  “But if I ever find out you’ve been doing anything more, like maybe buttin’ into my business or sayin’ things that could damage me or my family—” He put his hands on both of Ben’s shoulders and squeezed. Tightly. “Let me give you a news flash. The mob hasn’t changed that much.”

  24

  TO CALL THIS JOINT a closet would be to give it too much credit, Kirk mused, as he stared across the five-feet expanse at his host, who was soaking his feet in a porcelain pan, clamping a transparent gas mask to his mouth, and inhaling like a vacuum cleaner.

  How did he end up in this dive? THE BODY BEAUTIFUL, the tiny sign on the front door said, although it was so small he missed it the first three times he passed by. It was easy to miss things this late at night, especially once you got away from the glittery bright lights of The Stroll’s main drag. Just as well—most people would want to miss this place, even the dark denizens of The Stroll. This shop was something else again. Something much more … extreme. Part innovating, part revolting.

  “Wanna shot?” the man in the stained T-shirt said, holding out the gas mask.

  Kirk shook his head.

  “Your loss. Does me a world of good.”

  “What is that, opium or something?”

  “Oxygen,” the man said, drawing it deep down into his lungs. “Ozone, actually. Straight from the tank. Nothing better for you.”

  “Can’t you get oxygen just from air?”

  “Not like this, sonny.” He was a big man, burly, with long gangly legs and arms that seemed twice the length they should be. He had long blond hair that he swept straight back over the top of his head. His face was long and haggard, with deep crevices where cheeks should be and eyes set so far back they seemed to be on a different dimensional plane. “The air’s tainted, son. Has been for years. You need a shot of the pure stuff to really get your heart going. Take a few whiffs of this every now and again and you’ll be a better man for it, I guarantee.”

  An interesting proposition, Kirk thought, but the man did not exactly strike him as the picture of health. Fairly cadaverous, actually. “I got the word from the bouncer at the Rainbow Boutique about you. Said you handled the body piercings.”

  The man nodded, still sucking. “Piercings ’R’ Us, that’s what they call my place on The Stroll. I was going to put that on my sign, but I was afraid I might get sued or something.”

  A distinct possibility, Kirk reasoned. “What kind of piercings do you do?”

  “Oh, I’ve done it all, pal. You name it; I’ve been there.”

  “Such as?”

  “I can pierce anything you want pierced. Ears. Nose. Lips. Tongue. Navel. Nipples. I’ve even done a few genitalia jobs, not that I really enjoy them.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell ya a secret, bud. Most people who get their ding-dongs
pierced live to regret it. After the initial rush wears off.”

  Kirk shifted uncomfortably. “That sounds like it might be… uncomfortable.”

  “Aw, hell, son—they’re all uncomfortable. Comfort lovers need not apply.”

  “Which one hurts worst?”

  The blond man pressed a hand against his forehead and rolled his eyes. “Aw, Jesus H. Christ. Not another one.” He shook his head from side to side. “Look, son, if you’re just lookin’ to get yourself hurt, go down to The Stroll and start a fight with a pimp or something. He’ll take care of you but good.”

  “Been there,” Kirk replied. “Done that.”

  “Huh. Wondered about that scar across your forehead.” He put down the gas mask. “Okay, how about going back to that Rainbow tattoo parlor? I understand the old man in the back never washes his needles.”

  “Done that, too,” Kirk said. “Wanna see it?”

  “Thanks, I’d just as soon not.”

  “Good,” Kirk said. “I’d just as soon not show it.”

  “I don’t know why I always get the pain freaks. Jesus, doesn’t anybody want a piercing just to look good anymore?”

  “If I wanted to look good,” Kirk grunted, “I’d go to Dillard’s and buy a suit.”

  “Fine, fine. So what do you want?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  He sighed. “I can see this is going to be a challenge. Let me get my stuff.” He turned slightly and opened a desk drawer. “Got my scalpel, my stiletto, my sterilizer, maybe an ice pack—oh wait, no. You like pain.”

  Kirk gave him a faint smile.

  The blond man withdrew a syringe from the drawer. “Damn. Almost forgot my injection.”

  Kirk raised an eyebrow. “More ozone?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Human growth hormone.” While Kirk watched, the man lifted his shirt and injected himself in the stomach.

  Kirk winced. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

  “Not enough to turn you on.” He held out the syringe. “Wanna hit?”

  “No thanks.”

  “S’good for what ails ya.”

  “I thought that was just for midgets and stuff.”

  “That’s what the doctors say. What do they know? Builds strong bones; keeps you together. Staves off the body rot that wears us all down.”

  “And this is according to…?”

  “It’s a well-known fact. Human growth hormone and vitamin cocktails. Like mother’s milk. Take them every day and you’ll never get old.”

  “So you say,” Kirk said. “Forgive me for pointing this out, but—you got old.”

  The man winked. “Only on the outside. Can’t do a thing about the flesh. But inside, I’m as young as ever.”

  Kirk remained unconvinced. If he was as young as ever, why was he in this dingy room, sitting in a broken chair, soaking his feet?

  “I’ve got some B-12 here, if you want to give that a try.”

  “Thanks, I already ate. Could we possibly get back to the piercing?”

  “Right, right.” He waved toward the small table beside him. “I’ve got everything ready. Just give me five more minutes to soak my feet.”

  Kirk cast his eyes downward toward the porcelain pan. The water had a faint yellowish tint. His feet must’ve been in there for a good long time, because they were all shriveled and raisiny.

  “Mind if I ask what that is?” Kirk asked.

  “Course not. Urine.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My urine, to be specific. Very healthy.”

  Kirk stared at him. “You’re soaking in your own piss?”

  “One of the most natural substances in the world. Why would God give it to us if it wasn’t good for you?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “You know, Gandhi used to drink his.”

  Kirk felt his stomach twinge, and it wasn’t because of his tattoo. “Look, I didn’t come here for health recommendations. Could we please get on with the piercing?”

  “Fine. Here it comes, fast and painful. Just the way you like it.”

  “Good.”

  “Unless … maybe you’d like to try something really different.”

  “Like … what?”

  “Well, you know, body piercing is really yesterday’s fad. So commonplace it’s trendy. Passé, some would say. Like tattooing, ten years ago.”

  “So what’s hot now?”

  “Mutilation.”

  Kirk knew this would probably be a good time to get up and leave, but for some reason, he didn’t.

  “Why settle for a mere needle when you can mess your body up with a knife?”

  “Like … how?”

  “Depends on what you’re after. Trying to impress a girl? Already got her name tattooed on your chest? “

  “Not exactly.”

  “And that didn’t impress her. So how about this? What if I carve her name on your back?”

  “Carve? With a knife?”

  “Well, I don’t think my fingernail would do the trick.”

  “Wouldn’t that, like, bleed?”

  “At first. Sure, there’ll be a horrible mess of blood and pus. Scabs and all that. But if I do it right—and I always do it right, money-back guarantee—a few months down the line, you’ll get scar tissue. A big scar in the shape of the name of the woman you love. Now won’t that be special?”

  Kirk fingered his chin, considering. “Maybe.”

  “Doesn’t have to be a word. I can do shapes, pictures. As long as it’s not too complicated.”

  Kirk frowned. “What else have you got?”

  “Oh, hell, you can do almost anything with a knife. You’ve heard that expression where they say someone speaks with a forked tongue?”

  “Ye-ss …”

  “Well, I can give you a real one. Won’t that look stud?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Imagine how she’ll feel when you start frenching her with that thing. Problem is, your tongue does tend to lose some of its sensation after the cutting.”

  “I don’t want that. I want to be able to feel everything.”

  “Doesn’t have to be your tongue. I can split earlobes, lips. I even had one girl who wanted me to do her nose.”

  “Would that hurt?”

  “It always comes back to the same thing for you, doesn’t it?” He glanced down at his hand and, applying a sharp fingernail, pricked his own finger. Blood spurted out.

  Kirk jumped out of his seat. “What are you doing?”

  “Bloodletting. Good for you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “This from the kid who goes around trying to get himself tortured. Look, pal, people have been bloodletting for centuries. It’s healthy. Makes the body work a little. Freshens up the supply. You’ll feel good afterward. I know I do.”

  Yes, Kirk thought, but you’re soaking in your own urine.

  “Look,” the man said, “I’ve seen guys like you before. Want to mutilate themselves, cause themselves pain. This may not be in my best interests, but I’ll give you a tip. You’re making a mistake.”

  “Izzat so?”

  “Yeah, it is. You think that if you punish yourself long enough, you’ll be able to get past your guilt. Right?”

  Kirk looked at him sideways but didn’t answer.

  “Thought so. Thing is—it won’t work It won’t work because the only way to root out that guilt is to go after its source.”

  “Source?”

  “Sure. I don’t know what it is that’s making you miserable. Your boss, your landlord, your car, your girl—”

  “Why do you keep talking about a girl? I don’t have a girl!”

  “Uh-huh. Whatever. The point is—if you want to eliminate that guilt, you have to root out whatever is causing it. Nothing else will do. You can turn yourself into mincemeat, but it won’t help.”

  “Who are you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

  The blond man laughed. “No, I’m just a guy dripping blood from his ringer who sees fre
aks like you every day. And I know what I’m talking about. You won’t be cured until you confront the problem head on.”

  Kirk fell quiet. “I … can’t do that.”

  “You mean you don’t want to do that.”

  “I—I guess—” He hesitated. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  “I can’t say whether it would be right, not knowing what the hell we’re talking about. But it’s the only thing that will make you whole again.”

  Could he be right? Kirk wondered. He stared out the one small window on the north wall, seeing little but his own reflection. Is that what he should do? Was it even possible?

  He turned back around, but the blond man’s body seemed to be shimmering, fading. He was having a hard time focusing. He mumbled a few words, stumbled to his feet, and ran toward the door.

  The night air was bracing, stark cold, but it didn’t clear his head. He was so confused, so lost and angry and … messed up.

  One thing the freak had said rang true, though. Maybe it was time to confront the source. Someone had to pay. Someone had to be punished before he would ever feel whole again.

  And maybe, just maybe, that someone wasn’t supposed to be him.

  25

  “ARE WE ANY CLOSER TO figuring out what the hell is going on?”

  Christina was standing on the conference table, orchestrating the pretrial chaos all around her. She paced agitatedly from one end of the table to the other; a strand of hair was looped tightly around her finger. Normally, Ben thought, when you talk about someone pulling out their hair, it was just an expression. In the present case, Ben was afraid that if this kept up much longer, he wouldn’t be the only lawyer in the firm with a bald spot.

  “Do you people understand that we’re going to trial? As in, tomorrow morning? On a capital charge?”

  Jones and Loving did not appear impressed. “Yeah,” Jones said. “And we’ve been here before. And we’re never ready the night before trial. And we never will be. No one ever is. I think it’s inherent in the nature of trials.”

  “Still,” Loving grunted, “this is worse than usual. What’s the deal?”

  Jones took the bait. “It’s because we used to have an aggressive, hyperefficient legal assistant, and now we’ve got a second lawyer. So we’re getting about half as much work done.” He turned toward Ben. “Boss, now that she’s a lawyer, can we hire a new Christina?”