Dead Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 5)

by Phillip DePoy

  “Sure.” She lowered her voice. “Paula’s asleep.” Big smile. “I think I wore her out.”

  “Good for you. Can I slip out your window?”

  “What?” Then: “Oh — work.”

  “Thank you.” I nodded my appreciation of her quick grasp of the situation.

  “Let me go in first,” she whispered. “No telling how Paula would react to a strange man in her bedroom. And you’re stranger than most.”

  “Uh-huh.” I followed her.

  The room was black. I could barely see her lean over the still form in the bed.

  “Paula, honey? Flap’s going to sneak out our window, okay, baby?”

  “Hm?” Paula roused herself a little. “Flap?”

  “Hey, sweetheart,” I told her softly.

  “Flap?” She smiled, I think her eyes were still closed. “You sneaking out?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay” — she settled back into the door to dreamland — “don’t let the bastards get you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kane helped me with the window, being the perfect hostess, and I slid out the window and down onto the ground. She peered down at me.

  Then she mouthed, “Good luck.”

  I smiled and slipped into the bushes.

  Once I was around the back of the building next door, I could see, through the tall shrubs, an unfamiliar tan Buick in the back parking lot. There were two guys sitting in it. One was reading a magazine, the other was sipping Krispy Kreme coffee.

  So.

  I made it around to the front, still nestled in shrubbery. The cops were parked right next to my car.

  So I kept to the shadows and shrubs up my little street and made it across Ponce to the bus stop without being seen, as far as I could tell. I guess it was a little bold, sitting there when policemen a block away were looking for me, but I had a way of being invisible. I settled in with the rest of the group at the stop, turned my face away from the street. Then we were all just working stiffs waiting for a bus.

  30. Jazz

  I got lucky: Five minutes later I was on my way down Ponce to Moreland. The ride didn’t take long, but it gave me a second to gather my thoughts.

  Something mammoth was going on in Dally’s head. Something had been happening to her that she hadn’t told me about. And she hadn’t told me because she was afraid. Afraid of me. Which meant she wasn’t in her right mind. Something was altering her perception of reality. Although what that reality would be — in a world where Dally was married and never told me — I wouldn’t know.

  When I was a callow twenty-or-so, Daniel Frank and I talked about how easy it would be to slip acid — LSD — into the Atlanta water supply and thus liberate a million minds. I was wondering if someone had gone that far with Dally. I was thinking that she might actually be in biological danger. Or dire stress, or physical threat. What else could provoke her to so misapprehend me and my ways? So I put off being hurt or angry or whatever other stupid man-thing I could have taken on. Later for those. Not that I completely let go of my suspicions, but Dalliance needed me, needed the things I could do for her. After everything was all over and done with, I could find out what had happened. Work first, then philosophize.

  I was off the bus and down Moreland toward Little Five Points less than fifteen minutes later.

  The vacant lots on the left were high up off the sidewalks, and if you went far enough up onto them, you would be invisible from the street.

  I was up on the hill, far away from the madding crowd, when Danny just appeared, smiling, from behind one of the few oaks left standing on the lot.

  “Are we clever or are we clever?” That was his question for me.

  “We’re pretty hot,” I agreed, “but let’s not congratulate ourselves too much. We need action. Not quite time to be smug yet.”

  “I’m not smug.” He shook his head, came right up beside me. “But I ought to be. Guess what I know?”

  “What?”

  “Jersey Jakes has been working for Ms. Oglethorpe for six months. He’s had one assignment and one only: to keep an eye on her husband.”

  I actually had to sit down in the grass. Danny thought a moment, then sat down beside me. It was like we’d decided to have a picnic.

  “How the hell did you find that out?” I stared at the ground.

  “There’s more,” Danny began explaining. “It’s about a guy named Mug Lewis, who once was dead, but is now in town to take care of some sharks once and for all. You remember him?”

  I looked down at the dying grass on the hillside.

  Dan only watched my face for a second for reaction before he went on. “He had a clever scheme, this Mug did: play dead, let them go away. But he was a haunted man, see? He’s thinking all the time, ‘What if they find out?’ and he can’t live with that. So he comes back from the dead to put them down good. Which is easier for a ghost to do.”

  “Okay, so you know about Mug Lewis,” I said slowly. “I was just thinking that your special gift was information retrieval. Fine. Mug’s stupid anyway — sticks out like a sore thumb. But you’re saying he’s the only ringer? That he’s only a coincidence?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He pounded my arm. “See how you read my mind. You’ve got to discard him from your thinking. He’s a red fish of some sort and he’ll mess up your little trick …”

  “… when and if I ever decide to do it.”

  “We should work together more often. We’ve got a sync. Anyway” — he shrugged — “Dally had Jersey there that night because she was worried.”

  “Not worried.” I shook my head. “For that I would have been the one she’d asked. You mean she was nervous about the husband. That’s the only reason Jersey was there.”

  “Okay, right.”

  “So then when the package got there” — I squinted — “why did she call me? And where was Jakes all this time?”

  “Take a look,” he said quietly, reaching into his breast pocket. “You’re in the letters. I think she was worried about you.”

  He held out Xerox copies of letters.

  I stared at them, then took them. They were all short, with no address and no salutation.

  The first one in the stack said:

  You are aware of how much you owe me. I only want what’s mine. Please disabuse Mr. Tucker of his holdings — or I will.

  RONN

  The next was even more fun.

  I saw Mr. Tucker drive you home tonight. I know where he lives now. Time to do what I say. You know I mean it.

  And it was unsigned. The last one was the most fun.

  I’m coming. I’m done with asking. Get the papers right or that’s it. For you and for Mr. Tucker. You know what I mean.

  RONN

  “Spells his name with two n’s.” I handed the copies back to Dan.

  “Are you ready?” He smiled. “His whole name is Ronnard Raay Higgins. Ray’s with two a’s — Higgins is two …”

  “… I know. That’s got to be some kind of a weird name game his parents …”

  “… you’re the one from Stump Jump flatlands down in the gnat belt. You tell me: Do they deliberately name their children like that down there, or do they just not know any better?”

  “Stump Jump?”

  “The problem is,” he went right on, “that Mug killed Jakes before we could find out what Jakes was doing there.”

  “That’s our problem?” I turned his way.

  “Well” — he shifted a little, too — “we really need to know why Jakes was there, if his gig was to keep tabs on the husband and the husband in question was as dead as he was. I mean, I hate to speak ill of the dead,” Danny said softly, “but could Jakes have been working both sides against the middle?”

  “He didn’t seem the type …” I started.

  “… could Jakes have iced the husband to make his gig easy, then shoved it through the door in such a manner as to make Dally call for you — since she was expecting a live vi
sit not a dead fish? And could he have been keeping an eye out so that he could later rat you out, or something?”

  “Then he was just unlucky that Mug showed up?” I continued. “And Mug couldn’t say last night if Jakes was the delivery boy or not.”

  Danny looked over at me and smiled. “This is fun. I mean, I know it’s screwed your life all to hell, but if you look at it a certain way, it’s like riffing, here. Remember how we came up with that cool arrangement of ‘Sentimental Mood’ at the old Downtown Cafe that night?”

  I had to smile, because I remembered exactly what he was talking about. “Yeah. Great arrangement.”

  “That’s what this is like — this talking and wild supposition.”

  “But there are a lot of mistakes in our thinking, here, Danny — lots of holes and wrong guesses. It’s not an arrangement today. It’s a …” But I trailed off because I didn’t know what it was.

  “Don’t you even remember what you always used to say to the crowd,” he interrupted, smiling. “You’d say that if you did it once it’s a mistake — but if you did it twice? It was jazz.”

  31. Twice

  Dan carted me back to his house in East Atlanta and let me pass out on the sofa, with Chet Baker singing to me: “What’ll I do with just a photograph to tell my troubles to?” Chet: fallen angel, lost boy, ghost — just the thing I needed in my head while I was falling asleep.

  It was dark when I opened my eyes. Dan was gone. I couldn’t think what the hell had happened to my living room for a second, then I sat up and remembered where I was. I managed my way into the kitchen, thinking about coffee.

  The moon was painting lilies across the sidewalks outside. The breeze was filled with magnolia. On another night, in another place, I had stood watching moonlight like that, with Dally, talking about what she should plant in her spice garden. “Let’s try tarragon,” I’d told her.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve never gotten it to work before, but maybe that’s because it never got to be with you before.” So she’d planted some, and it was a foot tall in two months.

  But my thoughts were interrupted when the front door of the apartment exploded open and men — I thought two — stabbed into the relative silence of the house.

  I took a step to the refrigerator, and opened the door. The light clued my visitors as to my whereabouts immediately, which was partly what I’d had in mind. I wanted them to come to me.

  “There,” one of them said.

  I was right about the number: Two men moved quickly into the kitchen. I had the refrigerator door in front of me, and the light was in their eyes, so I could see them much better than they could see me.

  “He’s behind the refrigerator door,” one whispered.

  “I know.” The other sounded irritated.

  “I think that’s far enough,” I said, loud enough to startle them.

  They both froze.

  I could see they each had a gun, but the light wasn’t quite strong enough to tell much else. Still, no matter what sort of fire power they were holding, icebox doors are hardly bulletproof.

  “Care to discuss this?” I wanted to know.

  “Look,” one began, “this is going to go hard no matter what, I’m not lying to you.”

  “So just come on over here and take your medicine, okay?” The second was speaking like an impatient parent.

  I grabbed tighter onto the handle of the door. “No. I think I’ll just stand here for a second.”

  The first one moved quickly, and came a little too close for his own good. I closed the door on him. You can be as tough as you want to be, but when a refrigerator door tells you where to go, that’s where you’ll be going.

  The second one didn’t seem to understand what was happening, which was a break for me. While I crushed the first one as hard as I could with the door, I tipped my right toe up like some Fred-Astaire-Meets-Kung-Fu movie and popped the gun out of his hand. He watched it fly across the room like he was watching the sudden flight of a bird.

  I opened the door, then, and thug one fell to the floor. I didn’t know where his gun was, so I took a few steps back. Then I kicked him in the chest hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He rolled out of the way. I closed the fridge door, and the room was suddenly dark.

  I took advantage of that blackness to duck farther back, find the broom I’d noticed by the stove, and poke thug two in the solar plexus. When he doubled over, I just pushed hard on the back of his neck, and he ended up on the floor too.

  The whole thing was over in under a minute.

  I saw thug one’s gun, and kicked it away toward the living room. Then I turned on the kitchen light. The glare was brutal after the darkness.

  The first guy looked up then, squinting, and moaned, holding his chest.

  “Damn, Chuckie, look,” he said. “This ain’t even Danny.”

  “I thought his voice sounded funny.” Chuckie managed a glance my way, and then repeated a carnal insult I’d heard once or twice before.

  “You were looking for Daniel?” I stared down at them.

  Chuckie grimaced.

  “He’s not in right now.” I watched them carefully. “Could I take a message?”

  Not-Chuckie shook his head. “No. We were supposed to rough him up, though. Would you mind doing that for us when he comes home? I figure you could handle it.” He groaned again, to prove his point.

  I wasn’t completely myself, rest-and strength-wise, or I would have smiled a little at that, and maybe helped the guy to his feet. But as it was, I was on the cautious side of paranoid. That’s what sleeplessness can do for you.

  “How about if I just tell him off?” I held my ground.

  Chuckie was starting to get up. “Not good enough.”

  I watched him move. “You wouldn’t want to tell me what this is about, would you?”

  “He’s been asking questions,” Chuckie said, holding on to the countertop to steady his rise. “When you ask questions around big money, big money gets nervous. Right?”

  “I guess,” I told him. “I haven’t been around that much cash in a while.”

  Chuckie got his bearings and finally got a good look at me in the light. “Well.” He shook his head again. “You’re definitely not Danny.”

  “Nope.”

  “So.” He smiled. “Tell him it was Chuckie that came by.” He stared down and his cohort. “And Rimshot.”

  “Chuckie and Rimshot.” I shook my head. “Very colorful. I’ll tell him. He knows you two?”

  “Oh, sure,” Rimshot managed. He was finally getting his voice back. “We asked for this gig. We like Danny.”

  Chuck explained. “We thought he would take it better from somebody he knew.”

  “I see.” I balanced myself. “You’re not upset with me?”

  They looked at each other.

  “What for?” Rimshot answered. “You’re not Dan. Case of mistaken identity. Big deal. Fact is, you saved us a little work, here.”

  “Plus,” Chuckie went on, “I hate beating up the wrong guy.”

  “We’ve done it before,” Rimshot confided. “It was a mess.”

  “Well” — I still didn’t relax — “I suppose you don’t feel much like telling me any more about all this.”

  They checked with each other again.

  Then Rimshot shook his head. “Not really.”

  The air around us all was tight and coiled.

  “Okay, then.” I tried to shrug it all off. “If there’s nothing more, I guess this is good night. I have miles to go before I sleep.”

  “Robert Frost,” Chuckie noted.

  I showed them to the door, without mentioning my appreciation for Chuck’s erudition, and bid them a good night like they’d just been over for dinner.

  32. River of Night

  Sometimes the night is like a river. Sometimes it runs, and you jump in, and you’re pulled along, whether you want to be or not.

  That night was black and cloudy. I was determ
ined to find out, before the sun was up, what had happened to Dally and me — despite the importance of all the other things I wanted to know. She was on the other side of the river, and that hadn’t happened often. So all I wanted to know at that moment was what had happened: I was ready to swim over.

  Just a quick check out the door before I left told me that Rimshot and Chuckie were not apparent. Still, I was cautious — for example: A rim shot is where you take a drumstick and pound it really hard on the head and the rim of the snare at the same time. Makes a crack like a gun. I figured it had something to do with the guy’s nickname. And when you’re in a Tom Waits/Charles Bukowski part of town, you never underestimate a Chuckie — so, caution was on my mind.

  I couldn’t say that I enjoyed waiting on the dark bus corner just up the block from Dan’s place. Too many shadows, too many strangers in slow-moving cars.

  By the time the bus got there, I was ready to sit in a semicrowded bus and watch the streets roll toward Midtown. It gave me time to think.

  Dally was scared, that’s what I came up with. She’d really been taken out of her usual panache by the resurrection of a husband she thought she’d buried — or at least kept hidden. That’s the only thing that made sense. She hadn’t told me about it all because there was something about it she wanted to forget herself. And, knowing I’m not one to pry, she would never imagine the subject would come up. But she also knew that I was on her side no matter what.

  So let’s suppose, I was thinking as the bus lurched to a stop, that she figures I have secretly done something about the threatening notes from her surprise husband. She figures I’m protective, I’m mad — I get jealous. I don’t tell her about it, I just go off half-cocked and do something about it. Especially after my most recent confrontation with the guy when Hal nearly had to introduce us to the Queen Mother of all bats. I have been known to jump to such conclusions.

  A jump to conclusions and a leap of faith are often the same thing to me.

  Still, even if all that were in her head, she would still discuss something like this with me — under ordinary circumstances. Something else besides her own doubts had thrown off her Tao.