The Things We Do for Love

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  “Not a chance,” I growled and kept pushing her toward the door.

  One hundred and eighteen pounds of pancake makeup and lip gloss stepped off the stage to block our way. Jesus Christ. I flashed him a little gun butt to set his heart atwitter. He melted out of the way.

  I grabbed his microphone and stopped for an instant. Looking back into the lights, I said, “Jane is not feeling well. Her voice just isn’t up to it. Thank you anyway and good night.” With that I pushed open the back door and steered Jane toward Davey’s car. Maybe I could become a P.R. man. The tricky part is not wrinkling your nose as the shit goes out past your lips.

  I shoveled Jane into the backseat and climbed in up front.

  “How’d it go?” Davey asked, easing his way down the alley.

  “Fine for a while. Jane seemed to be enjoying herself, then she was recognized, and they wanted her to sing. I figured it was time to leave.”

  “What’re we going to do now?” he asked.

  “We’re going to get her back to the hotel, tuck her in and watch her sleep.”

  “You know what I mean,” he said, with an edge to his voice.

  “Yeah, I know. We’re on overtime. If Ballantine wants us to stay on, he’ll have to front some money tomorrow morning. I’ll call him first thing.”

  “It isn’t just the money, Leo. This was supposed to be an in-and-out thing. I can’t take on a long-term job. Christ, what’s going on with her and the band, it could take weeks to sort out. She could even move back here permanently. What’re you gonna do then? Move in and live with her? Leo, I can’t do this any more. I’ve got a wife and kids. I want to go home nights and look at them, not Johnny Carson. I’ll do tomorrow, if she’s getting on a plane out of here, but that’s it. You hear me?”

  “I hear you, Davey. I hear you.” I could also hear Jane’s deep regular breathing from the backseat.

  CHAPTER 22

  Davey pulled the car up to the security garage. I hopped out, inserted the keycard and watched the door rise up silently. Once the car was in, I ducked under the descending door. I opened the back door and hauled Jane out of the car. With my arm around her waist, we limped over to the elevator like a three-legged dog.

  Davey said, “I’m going across the street to get something for my stomach. I don’t process McSludge like I used to.”

  “Maybe the Duncaster’s shop has something?”

  Davey looked at his watch, “Nah, they’re closed by now. Last night I called down this time for a magazine and they were closed.”

  “Okay, but hurry up about it. If she’s going to need nursemaiding, I want you there for backup.”

  “Sure. Just one thing though. If she barfs, I’m not cleaning it up. I’ve cleaned up three kids’ worth of barf the past few years and I’ve had it.”

  “Okay, but there goes your bonus.”

  I put the keycard in the elevator door and retracted it when the doors opened. Inside the car, I pushed the penthouse button and then sagged against the car wall with my well-earned booby prize. I should never have let her drink so much. I thought about just slinging her over my shoulder when we got out, but the possible side effects of that maneuver convinced me otherwise.

  The car accelerated swiftly, then evened off into a smooth, steady climb. As we whooshed to a halt, I got a better grip on the keycard and pulled Jane upright next to me.

  We limped out of the elevator and down the hall. I heard the car descend. Davey’d be up here in a minute. I propped Jane against the wall and inserted the keycard into the door lock. I turned the door handle and stepped inside, flipped on the light and quickly scanned the room. Reaching back for Jane, I grabbed air. I stepped back into the hall and saw her wobbling towards the elevator.

  “Jane, come here,” I snapped at her.

  “No. I want to party.” She looked around at the walls and scrunched up her face in boozy confusion. “How’d we get here? I was going to sing.”

  I took three giant steps towards her and took her by the arm. “Not tonight, you aren’t. It’s beddy-bye time,” I said. The elevator was returning.

  “So, you want to dance?” she cooed and began to shake and wriggle against me.

  “That’s enough,” I said and steered her back toward the room.

  The elevator opened. Over my shoulder, I said “Davey, can you help me with …”

  Not Davey. Hands up. Target first. I hooked an arm across Jane’s chest and slid her behind me. Running. Gun. Gun. I went for mine. Whump. Jesus. I slammed back into Jane. Then again. Again.

  I slid down the wall. Jane’s heels jabbed into my shoulders. “Run,” I rasped. I couldn’t breathe. Jane scrambled away. The gun ran toward me. Small. Woman? I reached out to trip her but my arm was numb. Screams. Yelling. I rolled to my left. The door was open.

  I rolled over with a thud. Move, you dumb bastard. Up on my elbows, I dragged myself to the door. More yelling. No shots. Each lurch and I grunted aloud. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Door. I grabbed the knob and pulled up into a sit. Gotta rest. Can’t breathe. Can’t. I took three shallow breaths and reached for my gun, but my arm wouldn’t move. Shoulder shot. Can’t lift it. Gotta get Davey. I called him. Nothing. Off! I turned it off in the fucking bar! Flicking it on, “Davey, Davey, you hear me?” Nothing. Then a groan, long and low. Jesus Christ.

  I guided my arm to the gun, squeezed the fingers around the grip and pulled it out. I sat with it in my lap. Taking as deep a breath as I could stand, I pushed the door open.

  Woman. She had a gun on Jane.

  “Say it!” she shrieked, her entire body shaking, “Say it!”

  Jane was sitting on the sofa, trembling. Her hands were in fists on her lap. “Say what?” she whimpered.

  “My name. Say it!” The woman pointed the gun at Jane’s head.

  “I don’t know it!” Jane screamed.

  The shot went into the sofa next to Jane’s head. Jane flinched. Her arms jerked up and she covered her ears. Her whole body shook.

  “Liar,” the woman yelled back.

  “Hold it,” I croaked. I couldn’t keep my gun up. Way out there at my hand it weighed a ton. My hand shook back and forth. Even at this range I was even money to miss the wall. I cupped my left hand in my right to steady it.

  The woman swiveled toward me, gun raised. We fired. Chips from the door frame speckled my head. She was still standing. Jane was gone. God, had I shot her? We fired again. I twitched as more door fell on me. The shooter was down. Where was Jane? I wobbled forward.

  My gun shook from side to side as tremors raced up and down my left arm. The shooter was lying on her side, clutching the oozing hole in her thigh, crying “No. No. No.” A lament more of frustation then pain, I sensed. The gun was on the floor. I stepped over and kicked it away. Doing that, I saw Jane’s legs tucked up behind the sofa.

  “Jane, are you okay?” I asked, fearing the worst.

  “Ye … Yes,” she hiccupped.

  “Can you stand?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Come around to where I can see you. It’s okay. I’ve got her gun.”

  Jane pulled herself up on the arm of the sofa, brushed her hair out of her face and sat down, heavily. She took slow measured breaths through her nose and never took her eyes off the other woman.

  I took a napkin off the cocktail table and wrapped it around the barrel of the gun and picked it up. It was a Smith and Wesson .38.

  “You,” I said to the woman on the floor, “roll over on your stomach and put your hands behind your back.” She didn’t move.

  “Do you want any treatment for your leg? Because I’m not calling an ambulance until you’ve got these on.” I pulled out my set of handcuffs and rattled them. I wasn’t going to waste another minute on her. Davey needed help now.

  She glared at me, pinched her lips and slowly rolled over onto her stomach. I stepped over her, dropped my gun into my jacket pocket, clicked on the cuffs and patted her down. She wore surgical gloves that were h
eld tight with tape. That done, I grabbed her by the arm, lifted her up and put her in a chair. She was luckier than she deserved. All I’d hit was meat.

  Jane stared at the woman, trying to identify her. The other woman tried to kill her with her eyes. I leaned back against the stereo cabinet, picked up the phone and dialed 911.

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “A shooting. Two people injured, at the Duncaster Hotel. One victim, white male, David Isaacs, in the garage.”

  I looked at the woman.

  “What did you do to him? Shoot him?” Nothing. “Where is he?” Nothing.

  “Second victim, white female, in the penthouse.”

  “And your name, sir?”

  “Leo Haggerty. I’m a private investigator. Tell the police that the penthouse has restricted access. Have them call up when they arrive and I’ll come down and meet them. Tell them the assailant has been subdued and disarmed. Get the ambulance here right away. The man in the garage could be seriously injured.”

  I put the phone down and looked our guest over carefully. Slim and wiry. I’d felt the muscle when I picked her up. She was wearing a black warm-up suit and running shoes. Her mop of curly black hair was askew. I walked over and lifted off the wig.

  Her real hair was a streaked blond tangle, her face more triangular than Jane’s. The chin was sharper, the nose narrower, the eyes merely brown. I looked from one to the other. What bound them so intimately, so perversely to each other?

  “Do you know her, Jane?”

  “I’m not sure. She looks vaguely familiar.” Jane leaned forward and scrutinized the face. “No. Nobody I know. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “That’s just like you, you bitch. You don’t see anybody you can’t use. We’re just invisible to you.”

  “Oh, fuck you. Who the hell are you?” Things were heating up. I walked over to the stereo and picked up the gun I’d left there. Tables turn and revenge is a very unmerry-go-round.

  “Think about it.”

  Jane tilted her head, shut one eye, tried on different memories, discarded them, looked puzzled, then astonished.

  “Heather? Heather Heywood?”

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “God, she’s just one of Axel’s old girlfriends.”

  “I knew you’d remember it like that ‘Just one of Axel’s old girlfriends’,” she sneered.

  “Christ, Heather, that’s all you were.”

  “That’s not true,” she yelled, trying to come off the sofa. “Axel loved me. We were happy. Until you came along. You had to ruin everything.”

  “Oh, give me a break, Heather. You think I ruined everything. Axel was hot for me, not the other way around.”

  “I don’t believe that. I saw the way you looked at him. You couldn’t leave well enough alone. You have to have every man you see. There’s never enough for you.”

  “Remember it any way you want. Yeah, I looked at Axel. He was cute, sure, and I loved his playing. But he came after me. He said your jealousy was making him crazy. He left you, you stupid bitch. I didn’t take anything from you. If you want him, you can have him. He sure doesn’t want me anymore. But you’d better harden your heart because the only person Axel loves is Axel.”

  “No, he loves me. I know it. You’re just jealous, since you can’t have him. You ruined everything.”

  “Heather, you’re a fool. A pathetic fool. You may actually deserve Axel. You can do the harmony while he sings his praises.”

  “That’s what you couldn’t stand, wasn’t it, Jane? Knowing that it was Axel’s talent, not yours, that made the band so popular. Yeah, I’d stand by him. That’s where I belonged, not you. I’m as good a singer as you are. It wasn’t fair, your getting Axel and everything he’s created. I deserved to be up there on the stage with him.”

  Jane shook her head. “Heather, you sing fine and I don’t know why you never caught on with anyone, but don’t blame that on me. Owl Records was talking to me long before I met Axel. I was looking for a band, they weren’t looking for a singer.”

  “Liar. It was Axel they wanted, not you. I heard all about it. He deserved to be a star and you can’t stand that, can you? Well, I wasn’t going to let you do that. Not that. You had to be stopped.”

  “What were you going to do? Kill me and then take my place? Win Axel back that way? Good luck.” Jane shook her head in amazement. “We don’t live on the same planet, Heather. Probably never have. I don’t even think I hate you; I can barely comprehend you.”

  Sirens filled the silent night air. D.C.’s finest were here. “Jane, I’m going downstairs to bring the police up. If she tries to do anything, kick her in the other leg.”

  “Whatever. Let’s get this over with.”

  The phone rang. I picked it up and listened, then said, “Yeah, I’ll be right down, officer. I’ll be carrying a revolver in my right hand. It’ll be over my head and I’ll have it by the barrel. It’s the assailant’s weapon and I don’t think it’s wise to leave it up here.”

  I took the elevator down, with Heather’s gun high over my head. The doors slid back and two officers were right there, crouched, guns drawn, real tense.

  “Don’t move,” the white one said. His black partner stepped toward me and took the revolver out of my hand.

  “I have another one in a shoulder holster, right side,” I said. He flipped back my coat and eased that one out too.

  “You have a permit for that?” he asked. I tried to read their name tags. The black one was Crawford, the white one Michnik.

  “Yes, I do, Officer Crawford. It’s in my wallet with my license. Inside pocket, left side.” Michnik reached in and took it out. I winced.

  He saw the three holes in my shirt and asked, “Kevlar?” I nodded.

  “What size slugs?”

  “Thirty-eight specials.”

  “Ooh, you’re going to be a hurtin’ puppy in the morning.”

  “I already am.”

  Crawford flipped open the wallet and read “Leo Haggerty, private eye. You phoned in the call, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  Before I could answer, a paramedic came in through the doors and walked over to the officers. “We found the guy in the garage …”

  “How is he?” I interrupted.

  “He’ll be okay. Took a good whack on the head. We’re going to take him over to G.W. for X rays, and they’ll probably keep him overnight for observation. He put the car in the garage and then walked over to the exit. Someone jumped him and tagged him one. After that it’s lights out. He couldn’t ID anyone. Your backup is sending an officer down with us to get a statement. The second ambulance is on its way over.” The medic turned toward me. “He wants to know if Haggerty’s okay. Are you Haggerty?”

  “Yeah. Tell him I’m fine. The target’s fine. I’ll be down to see him as soon as this is over.”

  Another officer came toward us. He was carrying a large black box. The crime scene specialist. “Andy. Carl,” he said, nodding to the other two.

  “Evening, Don. Anyone else coming?” Michnik asked.

  “Your favorite, Carl. Lieutenant Sheets.”

  “Oh Christ, let’s go up and get our work done before the Peacock gets here. After that he’ll be checking our haircuts and shoeshines and we’ll never get anything accomplished.”

  “The press here yet?” Don asked.

  “No, but if there’s a shooting, you can bet the maggots’ll be here. It’s a natural law. You’ve got death, you’ve got maggots.”

  “Let’s go then. If Sheets sees a microphone, we’ll wind up doing a miniseries up there. It’s too late for that nonsense.”

  The three officers and the medic stepped into the car with me. As we ascended, Crawford said in an even tone “You, civilian, haven’t heard a thing, right?”

  “Absolutely. Let’s get this done. No muss, no fuss.”

  Walking down the hall, I thought about calling Nicky Ballantine, but onl
y briefly. It was going to be crowded enough in there, with these three officers, the paramedic and the watch commander. I was sure Ballantine and the Peacock would clash, and he could get the bad news from me after they were gone.

  The three officers entered the room and split up. Crawford and the medic went over to Heather Heywood. Crawford read her her rights while the medic cleaned the wound. Michnik escorted Jane into the bedroom so he could question her alone. Don, whose last name turned out to be McKay, set up his bag on the conference table and went to work.

  First he dusted, then tagged and bagged the keycard Heather had used, her wig, her gun and my gun. He dusted the door for prints, then went out to do the elevator. I sat and waited my turn. McKay came back and spent ten minutes digging three slugs out of the wall, two of Heather’s and one of mine.

  Crawford let him photograph Heather’s leg before the medic dressed it. Then he came over to me. “Your turn,” he said. “Lift your arms away from your body.”

  I tried. “I can’t. Can I just open my jacket?”

  “Sure.”

  I pulled the coat away and for the first time looked at the three holes in my shirt. One was high and left, in the shoulder, the second under my right nipple and the third was two inches left of my belly button. Nearly bought it, Haggerty, and for what? Don’t answer now, you’d be fooling yourself.

  McKay took a picture, then asked me to take off the coat and shirt. The shirt he kept. “Okay, Let’s get a look at the vest. I want to leave the slugs in it.”

  He took a picture of that, then undid the vest so I could shrug it off. The bruising hadn’t come to the surface yet. Pretty soon I’d be purple, yellow and blue, a flag for the Republic of Contusia.

  Crawford came up and asked me for the keys to my cuffs so he could replace them with his own. “Don,” he said, “you’ll want these gloves she’s wearing.”

  “In a sec. I want to swab this guy’s hands.” He looked at me, “You shot her, right?”

  “Right.”

  He did his paraffin test and then went over to Heather. Just then, the phone rang. Crawford answered it, nodded, mumbled “Yeah” a couple of times and hung up.