Cheap as Beasts

by Jon Wilson

  Part of the beauty of the long hike is it keeps most of the daytrippers somewhere else. The families with kids usually end up at the bay just south. But after only about a quarter of an hour, a young couple did stroll by. Not anywhere near me, they were barefoot and letting the waves tickle their toes, hand in hand and happy as drunken larks. I watched them a while, wondering certain inconsequential things such as had he asked her to marry him and why and had she said yes and why not? I also sized the fellow up as I am wont to do, deciding that even though he was a good ten years my junior, I could probably take him without working up a lather. A headshrinker once told me I judged pretty much every man I laid eyes on in those terms, mostly on account of my insecure ego’s need to overcompensate. To that I say, Tsk.

  Watching those two walk by, asking myself those questions which I’d never know the answers to, I began to consider, not for the first time, why I didn’t just find a gal and marry. I could, of course. I like women fine and can talk to them better than most guys who enjoy their company in ways I can hardly contemplate. And, as I discovered once with a whore down in New Orleans, I can execute certain mechanics of male-female interactions when I set my mind to the task.

  Of course, what kept me single was the fact that I knew I would never love my wife the way a woman I’d want to marry would deserve to be loved. Oh, I could love her and probably would even more once we started having little ones, but I’ve been in love once and know what it felt like. I’ll never feel that for any woman.

  But the fact is marriage would solve so many problems, also not a conclusion originating on the beach that day. Tying myself to a gal, bringing a passel of kids into the world together and devoting myself to taking care of them all would spare me the annoying distractions life kept tempting me with. Sure it was selfish, but once I was married…

  And right there is when I answered a question that had been nagging me since the start of the whole O’Malley mess.

  I arose, brushing the sand from my sitter, and stalked back to my car. Reaching the city, I found a telephone and placed a call to the home of Jasper Reed. A very punctilious gentleman explained that Mr. Reed was indisposed. I expressed a desire to stop by for a visit and was further informed that Mr. Reed was not seeing anyone. I said, well here I come, ready or not.

  Where I came to was a tall, somber battleship gray Victorian at the end of one of those cul de sacs that twist into certain blocks up atop the hill in Pacific Heights. It was skirted by a trim and austere yard, with a small drive running down the left side of the building to disappear into the back. I found the Zephyr a berth at the mouth of the cul de sac and strolled casually toward the house, wondering if my warning had served its purpose and whether or not someone was watching out for me. No one appeared. On further reflection, I decided that would have made it all too easy anyhow, so I climbed up onto the porch and cranked the buzzer.

  The door opened almost instantly, which encouraged me, revealing a middle-aged butler in a worn uniform, and behind his shoulder, Wayne Holmsby, whose livery had been swapped in favor of a cheap brown suit that doubtless had been quite snappy back before the repeal of Volstead. The butler, looking rather appalled to find me there, asked, “Yes?”

  Before I could answer, Holmsby put a fat hand on the man’s shoulder, told him, “I’ll handle this, Jackson,” and stepped out onto the porch pulling the door behind him.

  Having seen the chauffeur excited, I had already stepped one foot back off the porch. I brought the other down as well. That served two purposes. First, it put about two yards of buffer between us, which his short arms would never have stretched if he got it into his head to start slapping things, and second, since the porch was elevated about eight inches, it allowed him to angle his gaze down at me, supplying him an extra boost of confidence I knew could only bolster my cause.

  “You got some nerve.”

  “Have I? You wanted a word with me day before yesterday, and I acquiesced even though we’d never been introduced. Now I want a word with you.”

  I’ve always speculated that you can tell exactly how someone feels about surprises by what they do with their eyes. For instance, a person getting a surprise birthday party tends to open their eyes wide. A person getting a surprise visit from the BIR tends to narrow their lids to slits, possibly in hopes of shielding themselves from the pain. So, even though what Holmsby said was, “With me?” in a gruff tone designed to indicate what a ridiculous suggestion I’d offered, his eyes widened, and I knew I was in like Flynn.

  “In private.”

  “What could we have to talk about in private?”

  I shrugged, feeling rather smug but acting nonchalant. “Let’s go somewhere and find out.”

  He expanded his chest, pushing back his shoulders and elevating his chin. “You think you can take me?”

  Having glanced casually off at the lawn, I swung my gaze back around and gave him a quick survey from toes to top. “I know I can take you. I also suspect you could make me earn it. But I said I wanted a word, that’s all. In private. You ever tried Pete’s Place, down on Broadway? I’ll buy you a drink.”

  He returned my look, doubled, seemed to linger on my shoulders and hands, then smirked down at me. “I got a private place in back.”

  “Swell.”

  He looked a moment longer, then repeated “Swell,” not in any way trying to mock me, but like it really might be swell, once he figured out where to stash my corpse.

  We went around the side of house to a gate that let us into a garden about five feet wide, and most of that taken up by a concrete pathway. We followed it the length of the house, beyond a small, wild backyard to the old carriage house on the alley. It was a one story structure converted to a single car garage and a quaint little cottage painted some years earlier in sky blue with white trim. Flowerbeds filled with Martha Washingtons adorned either side of the door we entered through.

  The room was medium-sized and dark. The only light came from our right as we entered, through an archway that opened onto a kitchenette. The wall facing us had a single closed door which I later surmised led to the bedroom and toilet, and the wall on our left had a door that must have accessed the garage. The main central room had no windows except a small one beside the front door, but it was clearly set up as a parlor, with a comfy old sofa and a large easy chair facing off with each other but also turned to allow any occupants access to a battered Crosley standing against the wall.

  I had stopped just a pace or so through the door, but Holmsby went a few steps further, removing his jacket and laying it neatly over the back on the easy chair. He faced me with another grin twisting his homely mug.

  “Now. Tell me about how you think you can take me.”

  Stepping around him toward the center of the room, I admired the place, glancing appreciatively into the tiny kitchen and noting the comfortable furniture. “This is swell.” I dug into my breast pocket. “Mind if I smoke?”

  He shook his head, dismissing me rather than granting permission. Then, while I supplied myself with a Camel, he went to the sideboard and retrieved a fat brown cigar from a silk-lined wooden box. He came back toward me, snarling as he bit the end off the torpedo and spat it into a cuspidor next to the easy chair. I was lighting my own smoke by that time, but just as I made a move to offer fire across to him, he used his own lighter.

  It required some heavy tugging to get that brown beast glowing. The old guy popped his lips open and shut, spewing ragged clouds of sweet-smelling smoke, while I stood watching him with my pale little Camel dangling from my own mouth, trying not to laugh. Once he had a sufficient burn, he pocketed his lighter, hooked his thumbs into the eyes at the bottom of his vest, pulled back his head, and grinned at me. Clenched between his teeth, the cigar jutted up at a proud angle. His eyes sparkled. His face glowed like he was three inches taller than me rather than four inches shorter. Freud would have lapped it up.

  Since applauding struck me as cheap, I rewarded that performance by making
a show of clearing my throat and lowering my chin, gazing timidly up at him from beneath a lowered brow.

  “So talk,” he said.

  “Actually, my throat’s a little dry. You got a beverage?”

  That threw him off his game and he lowered his brow too. He squinted at me as if suspecting an angle. “What’s your name again?”

  “I’m Declan Colette. You’re Wayne Holmsby, Sergeant—”

  He cut me off with a flick of his round head. “That’s right. And where were you? I don’t recollect you saying.”

  “I didn’t. Other than admitting to being a fellow enlisted man.”

  He used his hand to roll the cigar over and over between his lips. Judging by his eyes, I figured he had nearly discarded the notion I was pushing an angle, but he remained confused regarding my actual intent. “You’re a cop now.”

  “You insult me. You know I’m not. I’m a shamus. Not the. A private eye working on the Wyman murder.”

  “For who?”

  “Does it matter?” I asked that on the level but could see immediately it wouldn’t fly. “Fine. I was hired by her cousin, Morgan O’Malley.”

  “The fairy?”

  “Is that an accusation? You hinted the other day that Mrs. O’Malley’s mechanic might be a fruit, but other folks tell me he chases skirt.”

  Holmsby looked away for the first time, glancing quickly toward the door then more languidly over at something near the sofa. “What do I know? I ain’t never seen them acting queer.”

  “No, but I hear your boss helped Morgan out of a scrape back before the war.”

  That brought his eyes swinging back around to glare at me. “You leave the colonel out of this.”

  “No can do, Sarge.” I made a show of not backing down, though I tried to let him see I wasn’t happy about it. “In fact—”

  “In fact, nothing.” His big round body, already straining against the confines of that suit, seemed to swell up even more. “It looks like we’re gonna have trouble.”

  I made a face. “Oh, don’t get your dander up.” Gesturing around, I told him, “The best we could do in here is break some furniture. You know, you haven’t asked me to sit down.”

  “So sit.” He growled that in a way most guides to etiquette would probably disdain, but I strolled over toward the sofa as if I’d been invited to do so by Emily Post herself. Holmsby asked my back, “You like beer?”

  “Boy, do I.” I settled myself on the sofa as he went through the arch into the kitchenette. I heard the sounds of an icebox being opened, beer bottles being uncapped, glasses tinkling. I reclined with an arm along the back of the sofa and my right ankle hoisted over my left knee. “This is a swell place. Sure beats the digs the O’Malleys put that monkey boy in over at the castle.”

  He came back bearing two bottles, two glasses, and a scowl. No tray, which I supposed meant he really didn’t read Emily Post. “You know, you’re a joker. Only you ain’t funny. ‘Cept your face.”

  I grinned around my Camel. “From now on, I’ll leave the comedy to you.”

  He poured for both of us, emptying about half of each bottle into its own glass. The way he angled the glasses and measured the heads bespoke a certain level of expertise, as did his mottled crimson nose. Handing me one glass, he took the other and settled in the easy chair. He maintained his unfriendly expression, eyeing me like he anticipated some complaint about the beer.

  I wet my lips, enjoyed the caress of the foam on my upper lip, then swallowed a very healthy sample. I sat back and recrossed my legs with the beer in my hand. “How long you been here?”

  That actually seemed to befuddle him. “Here? You mean in this place?”

  “Sure. Here.” I gestured vaguely around. “Working for the colonel.”

  He showed me another smirk. “See there? That’s two different answers. I been working for the colonel for about twenty years. I been living here about nine, ‘cept for the time overseas. I used to drive a truck for a—for a beverage supplier that worked for the colonel and his partner. This was years ago, before you was in long pants.”

  I loved that answer for all the obvious reasons, but figured I should keep him talking having got him started. So I asked quickly, “You were born and raised here in San Francisco?”

  “Near enough. Santa Rosa.” He shook his head. “Don’t play-act like you care about where I grew up.”

  I endeavored to keep my expression open and honest. “I thought I was being amiably inquisitive.”

  “So we’re friends now.” The set of his lips let me know exactly how appealing that was. “No. We ain’t. And you ain’t gonna trick me into spilling nothing about the colonel. No matter how slick you think you are.”

  “Yes,” I told him, wetting my lips, “I can see you are far too astute.”

  He seemed befuddled again, brazenly so. “I don’t know what that is. What is a stoot?”

  I didn’t find that funny at all and waved him off. “Never mind. I take it back.”

  All of which he found hilarious. He laughed so hard he nearly choked on his cigar smoke.

  I eyed him suspiciously. “What did I say?”

  He coughed and shook his head. “You’re too easy. I may not be astute, but I’m no rube either. Save your flattery for the females. What are you doing?”

  He posed that last question because I had settled my glass on the table and arisen. I removed my jacket. “I’d rather break furniture. On your feet so I can knock you down.”

  He got his coughs wrangled and squashed his laughter down into a smug grin. “I like you. Sit down. Want another beer?”

  “No,” I told him, settling once more on his sofa. I tried to still look flushed, though I admit I was feeling pretty smug myself. “I want to know why Reed took those letters from Ramona Wyman’s room.”

  His grin deflated like a balloon. “Letters?”

  “And her journal. Letters and a journal. You may remember he dropped them out the window, and the two of you carted them off in your car.”

  “You had a dream?” Trying to act unconcerned, his eyes flicked down at my hands again. “Where’re you from?”

  “Iowa.”

  “No kidding?” He didn’t let it sound like a question. “And where were you stationed?”

  I considered. “England.”

  “We come through there. Who were you with?”

  I angled my head, admitting, “I’d rather not say,” which scored me the suspicious squint I’d hoped for. “You won’t like it.”

  “Ah, hell,” he said, trying to get ahead of his disappointment, I suppose.

  “I was M.P.”

  He crowed around the soggy nub of his cigar. “Jack-heeled thug! I should’ve knowed!” He popped the cigar from between his lips like a cork to offer me some more of his hacking laughter. “I wonder if you ever cracked one of my boys.”

  “Only if they got out of line.”

  “They did,” he said, fondly, “but not too much, or I’d’ve cracked them myself.” He suddenly pinned me with his eyes. “Listen, you hungry?”

  I shrugged, not so much because I was or wasn’t hungry, but because it was an intriguing question.

  “I was gonna toss a T-bone on the grill. I can make it two. You like steak? Beryl might have a New York up in the kitchen.”

  Beryl, who I assumed handled the cooking up at the big house, did have a New York, but I ended up with the T-bone, medium-rare, on account of Holmsby thought it looked better and insisted. We also had a salad, prepared by me, following very precise instructions. I also set the small table in the cottage’s kitchen while Holmsby attended the grill outside the window. He threw some asparagus down next to the steaks just before they came up off the flame, making for a nicely-rounded meal.

  It was a strange turn of events, considering, and though I felt it at the time, I also felt that it was a welcome sort of strange, the sort of strange that’s tinged with familiarity. I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly, but something about that
grizzled old pug put me at ease. I exhaled, and it felt like it was the first time I’d really done so all week.

  Part of it might have been that I wasn’t expected to talk or think much, just do what I was told and let him worry about it. Not that he seemed worried. He spent most of the time regaling me with increasingly unlikely war stories, most set in the months leading up to D-Day, usually involving ridiculously inept MP martinets and Holmsby’s “boys” as he called them, who, to hear him tell it, clung to him like chicks to a mother hen. Not that I blamed them. Stationed at the sink, shredding lettuce, trying not to laugh as he stood over the grill poking the steaks, I remembered perfectly how rotten, scary and, most of all, lonely it had been.

  After dinner, we carried our beers back into the parlor, and I settled on the sofa again while he sank comfortably into his armchair. I’d taken him up on his offer of a cigar, and was tugging at it reflectively when he said, “Tell me about them letters.”

  I puckered and sucked and puckered and sucked, then sent a miniature steam train flume of smoke into the air. I didn’t look it him, responding in as nonchalant a manner as I could manage, “The ones I dreamt?”

  He pulled his own smoke from between his lips and rolled it slowly between his thumb and first two fingers. He studied it like it was some new pleasant fabric caressing his skin. “Things have been bad for the colonel since…” His voice tapered off.

  “The war?”

  He clamped the cigar back between his teeth and shot his gaze up toward me. “Whatever you think you know, it ain’t true.”

  “That covers a lot. I think I know plenty, some of it doubtless untrue.” I watched him warily, keeping my tone light but ready for him to turn. “I don’t mean to implicate you or him in Ramona Wyman’s murder. But I need those letters. The journal, too. But I think mainly the letters.”