“So where does that leave us?” Ezra said.
“Right where we started,” Doctor Leonard said. “With nothing. Look,” the young doctor said, taking a seat in front of his vidscreen. “The body of Kevin Peters is gone, and that case is closed- wasn’t even yours to begin with. But this one, Missus Beverly Jensen, this is your case. Give me some time. Let me run some more tests, try and come up with some new angles to look at this thing from. Something.”
“I still need to talk with the husband,” Ezra said. “And there’s other stuff that bothers me about it as well. I can pretty much guarantee you a couple more days, Forest. After that, Gorton might start bothering me- but he owes me a favor or two. If there’s pressure from the family, that’s another thing. But I’ll do what I can. So break out your beakers and tubes and see what you can come up with, right?”
Doctor Leonard sketched a sharp salute and grinned, but he looked tired; tired, and more than a little distressed.
“See you around, doc,” Ezra said. He pushed through the steel doors of Purgatory and rode the elevator back up to his floor. While he stood there, leaning against the wall and feeling the hum of the car as it rose through the Justice Building, he tried to think of how he wanted to pursue this thing and didn’t come up with anything productive.
Ten
Jim Gorton leaned on the doorway of Ezra’s cubicle/office so hard that he expected the whole thing to just collapse like a tower made out of playing cards. “How about we get some lunch?” Jim said. “I could use some fresh air.”
Ezra waved his hand across the front of his vidscreen, closing it down before his boss could come into the room and see the terrible hand of solitaire laid out there. “I don’t know, Jim,” he said. “I’m pretty busy.”
Gorton pushed himself off the doorway, standing up straight. “What, with this Jensen thing?” he said, crossing his arms over the broad expanse of his chest. He had his jacket off, the seams of his blue dress shirt strained to the max; pretty soon he was going to have to face reality and go up a size. “Some dead socialite in her car down in the sluburbs? Sounds like a home run to me. She went to chase the dragon and the dragon ate her up. Happens every day.”
Ezra shook his head. “Problem is,” he said, “there’s no drugs in her system.”
“Bullshit,” Jim said. “What the hell was some death-note billionaire from Hawethorne Heights doing down in Londell’s on a weekday morning if she wasn’t down there to score? I want to see those reports, Ez.”
“You’ll have ‘em,” Ezra said. “I can tell you now, there’s no mistakes. Doctor Leonard might be young, but he knows what he’s doing.”
“I knew you’d like him,” Jim said. “He’s dead sharp, and no doubt. A lot of the guys don’t like him. You know how it is. Most of the First Classers are real old school, cut their teeth going up against these greaseball Guilders. They think a guy they could pick up with one hand can’t be worth much of a damn.”
“Yeah,” Ezra said. “Leonard wouldn’t be two hundred pounds if he was soaking wet and holding a thirty pound dumbbell in each hand- if he could even pick them up, which I doubt. He’s a good kid, though. He’s not wrong on this- and he wasn’t wrong about Kevin Peters, either. There’s something weird going on here, Jim.”
“Well, let’s talk about it,” Jim said. “Over lunch. C’mon, it’s my treat. Everything starts to look better after a plate of meatball-stuffed raviolis and a loaf of Gepacci’s fresh-made bread.”
Ezra whistled softly. “Gepacci’s?” he said. “I don’t know, Jim. I mean, how would your wife feel if she heard you took me out for a meal by candlelight?”
“Shit,” Jim said. “Artuo Gepacci is one of the biggest cons around. He’s got people thinking he’s running a high class gourmet establishment, charges like he’s one of those three-star shifs from out on the coast. You know why he keeps the lights down low in his dining room? So people won’t notice the rats scurrying along the baseboards. I like that place for two reasons, Ez. One-”
“One,” Ezra said, cutting in on him, “it’s in easy walking distance- which is the only kind of walking you do anymore. And two, he gives you a mountain of food for a discount because you two go way back.”
Jim chuckled. “Well, damn,” he said. “That’s pretty good. It’s almost like you’re a High Guard or somethin. So c’mon. Let’s hit it.”
“All right, all right,” Ezra said. “Let’s go to lunch, already. But no way we’re going to Gepacci’s. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know.”
-
Even the outside of the metal doors were greasy at Dee-lite Tonite, from years of folks coming out with big Styrofoam boxes and splotchy paper bags of carryout. All of the booths were already full of big guys, truck drivers and factory workers with their bellies pressed against the tables and huge, steaming platters of home fries, eggs, and flapjacks in front of them. They served breakfast all day at Dee-lite Tonite, and there was none finer in all of the Green City. There were a couple of empty stools at the far end of the chrome-edged counter that took up most of the boxcar-shaped interior, and Ezra ushered the commissioner over before they could get filled up as well.
“You know all the high class places,” Jim said. He settled his bulk down on the stool beneath him, letting out an audible sigh; it was a hell of a lot longer walk here than it was to Gepacci’s, which was in the very shadow of the Justice Building.
“Damn straight,” Ezra said. Jim plucked two laminated menus from the metal rack on the counter in front of him, which also held bottles of ketchup, hot sauce, maple syrup, and honey in little plastic bears. He offered a menu over to Ezra, who only waved it away.
Dee-lite Tonite’s owner came out from behind the grill himself when he saw them, grinning from ear to ear and so tall that he had to duck through the swinging kitchen door, so broad that he had to turn himself sideways to make the passage. “Hey there, Boss Ezra!” he said. “Ain’t seen you in a while.”
“John Henry,” Ezra said. He leaned over the counter and offered his hand. John Henry took it and shook it, Ezra’s hand all but disappearing in his. He was a huge man, John Henry was; the biggest damn man Ezra had ever seen- a fact that would go undisputed until almost the end of Ezra’s life, when he would encounter someone who made John Henry look like a shrimp in comparison. “How the hell are ya?”
“Oh fine,” John Henry said, still grinning. John Henry wasn’t actually his given name but it was what everybody called him, ever since when he got back from his time in Niatet with the Army and was working as a mechanic in a garage down in Dream Street; some wiseguy had seen him standing there in his overalls, naked to the waist and gleaming with sweat and holding a sledgehammer in his fists, called him John Henry as a joke, and that was that. The name stuck, and most people didn’t even know what his given name was; the Justice did, and a few other close folks- Ezra was a one, but he called him John Henry anyway. It didn’t bother John Henry none. Hardly anything bothered him, not really- he was a giant of a man, but easy going about most things. “Jus fine. An yourself?”
“Crime never sleeps,” Ezra said. “Or so they say. I don’t know if crime eats or not, either, but I do both. Bring me a full order of biscuits and sausage gravy, full order of home fries, and a side of bacon- and burn that bacon, yeah?”
“Sho,” John Henry said. “An you, sir?”
Jim surveyed the menu for a second, felt Ezra and the proprietor of the greasy little diner both staring at him, and dropped it. “Go ahead and bring me the same thing, friend,” he said. “It might be lunchtime, but I could use a good breakfast. The wife’s got me eating grapefruit and toast with no butter every damn morning.”
John Henry nodded and then ambled back to his short order domain. A young waitress in a chiffon dress and white leggings came in his wake, plunking down two thick white mugs of steaming coffee in front of Jim and Ezra. “Gentlemen,” she said, tipping them a wink of one green eye before moving on to a booth on the far side of the ro
om, packed to capacity with a pair of guys in rubber boots and the bright orange vests of city utility workers. Ezra followed her progress across the room, turned back to Jim, and caught him doing the same thing; the girl had a lot to watch. Jim looked down quickly, his broad face pink.
“I’m gonna step out and have a smoke while John cooks that up for us,” Ezra said. “You wanna come along, or just stay in here and enjoy the scenery?”
Jim’s face was red up to his hairline now- or what was left of his hairline. “Yeah,” he said, and then cleared his throat. “I’ll come along.”
Outside, a gentle breeze was blowing through the streets and it was cool in the shadows of the uptown high rises. Ezra lit a Chesterfield and leaned back against the silver metal side of the diner, enjoying the smell of the smoke mingled with the heavenly scent of greasy breakfast foods wafting from Dee-lite Tonite. For a little while he just watched the world go by: cars humming along the busy street; sidewalks packed with eager young folks happy to have their cargo shorts and sun dresses out of the closet for another season; blameless blue sky peeking through all the tall buildings crowding overhead. Beside him, Jim fidgeted around- hands in his pockets for a second, then back again, hands clasped, then on his thick hips.
“So,” Jim said, when he couldn’t take the silence anymore. “This Jensen thing. What’s up with it, Ezra?”
Ezra shook his head. “Not sure, Jim,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s something to do with the husband. The same witness who saw a dealer come up to Beverly Jensen’s car also saw another man, white with pale hair, inside the car with her sometime after. Leon Jensen is out of town- or he didn’t come to the door when I dropped by. Until I can talk to him, I don’t know what my next move is.”
“We’ll find him,” Jim said. “I gotta ask, though- how reliable is this witness of yours?”
“Whaddya mean?”
Jim shrugged. “Well,” he said. “If the Jensen woman doesn’t have any drugs in her system, it stands to reason that she didn’t have any interactions with a dealer. Maybe the first guy who came up to her car was just a Streeter who tried to get a few creds from her, wiped the windshield or something. Maybe your witness saw a black guy in rough threads and automatically assumed drug dealer.”
Ezra thought on that for a while. He considered the possibility of telling Jim about Jabjoth’s theory on the second man, that he was some sort of half-assed god from the forsaken sands on the other side of the sea, and immediately dismissed the idea; if Jim was this skeptical about a drug dealer, there’s no way he’d want to hear about Wal Ah’rukar. And maybe he even had a point. There was no evidence to support a drug dealer. Maybe Ezra was going about this entire investigation from a bad angle.
“Montoya says his word is good,” Ezra said.
“Montoya?” Jim said. “Mon- oh, Donnie Montoya? Well, if he says the witness is impeccable, how could I doubt it? Montoya’s been a Strider since I was still in high school. Pissed his captain off and got scooted down the hill to Londell’s, and there he’ll stay until he slinks off into retirement or gets gutted like a fish by some crankhead.”
“Hey,” Ezra said.
Jim waved his hand. “Yeah, I know. He saved your life, back when you were still greener than your Strider’s uniform. Kicked a knife right out of some Streeter’s hand, so hard it stuck in the side of a building, right? Look, Ezra- out in the real world of Guard work, everything is evidence and statements and corroboration. ‘His word is good,’ is some pulp fiction crap. There’s no underworld code- only the Law. You know that.”
“Drugs is the only think that makes sense about this woman being down on that street,” Ezra said.
“But they’re not there,” Jim said. “So we’ll find the husband and bring him in, find out what the hell his story is. Like you said, that’s your next move. Only thing that makes sense. I figure once we get a writ to dismantle the Jensens’ paperwork and personal lives, we’ll find out that Mister Jensen had some sort of financial trouble, the weight of the world on his shoulders…and stands to inherit a great big fortune from his wife’s death.”
“Probably,” Ezra said. “Unless Beverly Jensen has a bunch of grown children who stand to inherit her wealth. The woman was in her seventies, Jim. She could have sons and daughters as old as our fathers, for the Carpenter’s sake.”
“Well, there’s something else for you to track down,” Jim said. “Whole world of possible motives out there, anytime anyone dies. Your job is narrow that shit down, right? Find what makes sense, what doesn’t. Drugs doesn’t make sense. Survey says, gotta be something else. Now let’s go eat.”
-
One of the best perks of being a High Guard First Class was the freedom that came with the title. After lunch (a lunch that neither man found much to talk about during), Ezra decided he’d just swing by his house and see if the locksmith had shown up yet to fix his door. The man had said anywhere between three and seven and so Ezra had planned on taking off in the early afternoon anyway, but there was just no telling with those guys. He remembered a time when he was still at home, maybe eleven or twelve, and his folks ordered a brand new washer and dryer. Ezra remembered how proud they’d been, his parents. This was the first time ever that they would have brand new appliances in the house. Their fridge, always threatening to kick the bucket and kept alive by the sheer force of his father’s will, had come with the house; their washer was from a salvage shop; cloths were hung out in the back yard to dry, be it soft green spring or the middle of the Long Winter. Well, the big box store where his parents ordered the washer and dryer promised installation on delivery. The delivery guy had called the day before he was to come out to the homeplace and said he’d be there sometime between eleven and four. Ezra’s dad said fine. The next morning, early, he got up and made breakfast for himself and his son, then grabbed some poles and his old wicker basket and took Ezra fishing out on Deadbuck Creek. Ezra’s mother was still in bed; she hadn’t been feeling well the night before, vaguely complaining of a headache and feeling sort of weak, and Ezra had to wonder now if maybe his mother hadn’t already started getting sick with the cancer that would steal her away from him, even then. The delivery guy showed up at around nine in the morning, while Ezra was fighting a catfish in the muddy shallows of the creek with his father and his mother was lying in the bed with the door shut, the curtains drawn, and a wet washcloth over her forehead. The delivery guy knocked, no one answered, so he dumped the washer and dryer right there in the yard and went on his merry way. Oh, had Ezra’s dad been pissed! The two of them installed the new appliances themselves, a hot and sweaty afternoon to be sure, and the Beckitt clan never did any business with that chain of stores again.
Ezra didn’t go back to the Justice Building for his car. He decided to hop the tram instead, feeling that sense of freedom. As a High Guard he was technically at the beck and call of the city twenty-four hours a day- but for now the day was open. Here in uptown Hatis the sky above was a perfect blue, the afternoon was heating up, and summer was in. “Summertime, and the livin is easy,” Ezra sang under his breath, grabbing a molded plastic seat near the doors of the tram car and watching the city ease by. A girl giggled softly, and Ezra looked up at her. They shared a brief moment of eye contact, his electric blue and hers a store bought shade of lavender, all of the possibilities there to be considered, and then she looked away with a slight blush blooming along her cheekbones. She was a cute little thing, in her layers of multi-colored skintops, one pale shoulder bared (and showing no bra strap), and her silver leggings. Sort of reminds me of that girl, Ezra thought. The one with the little used bookshop. Robin teased me about her- called her my little girlfriend. What was her name?
Ezra thought on it a little bit, shuffling through his mental file cabinets of names, faces, and places, happy to have some sort of distraction from the confusion of whatever had happened to Missus Beverly Jensen. He came up with the name of the bookshop first- Shattered Spines. The bookshop was down the str
eet from the fortune teller Loveless had tortured, murdered…and partially eaten. Sarandra Trueleaf was the fortune teller’s name- such a neo-hippie holistic healing kind of name, how could he forget it…especially after the horrible way the young lady had died? But what about the owner of the bookshop, the cute little pixie so like this one across the tram from him now? What was her name?
Does it matter? Ezra thought. He investigated this and found that it did; for whatever reason, it did matter. So he kept on digging at it. Sometimes he couldn’t get to sleep at night because he was trying to think of a name; he’d lie there on his back, staring off into the dark, circling around the name of some movie star from when he was a kid or the name of a character in a book, and he’d never get to sleep until he had it; and he’d get close, so damn close, he’d be thinking “It was like Erin, or maybe Eric?” over and over until finally, somehow, some mechanism in his mind would turn over and cough out the name and then he could drift off to sleep.
The tram sailed away from uptown and shadows fell over his face as it dropped between the high rise office buildings, making its way into the neighborhoods bordering Dream Street. Ezra remembered the girl’s sharp little face, her cotton candy hair hanging around that face and buzzed in the back, that delicate neck…but no names would come. Instead, he kept thinking the line he’d been singing when he hopped on the tram: summertime, and the livin is easy. Why? It was driving him nuts. That one single line, that incessant repeating melody-
And there it was. Melody. Melody Carmikel.
Bet she’s heard of Jabjoth’s weeping man, Ezra thought. Sure, she loves weird old shit like that. She could tell me about Wal Ah’rukar. But what does that have to do with anything? You need to track down Leon Jensen and see what the hell his deal is, find out about the rest of the family, the finances…you’ve got better things to do than worry about some folk tale from the other side of the world. It’s bullshit.
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