“You,” she said, then softened her tone, “already turned down my good news.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I answered quickly, but I was smiling by that point. You can’t stay mad at a kid. Any kid. “But did you hear my actual news? Your guy won’t be bothering you anymore. And the fact that your reaction was what it was goes a long way to convince me that you had nothing to do with it.”
“What the hell would I have to do with it?”
“He was stabbed.” I slouched down on the sofa. “If I were you, I wouldn’t be flashing Fang around too much for a while.”
“Jesus.” Her voice took a dark turn. “Somebody could think I killed the guy?”
“They could.” I didn’t see any reason to tell her I’d thought it myself.
“So — that case is closed?”
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to look at the body and make absolutely certain it’s the guy.”
“I never saw the guy, Flap …”
“… you look at the clothes, maybe — or the feet, the shoes — you see what you can see. And you need to go right now, if you can. I happen to know the guy you’ve got to see at the county morgue who will let you in. His name is Reese. I think you’ll like him.”
“Where is it?” She sounded a little scared, like she wanted me to take her there, but I had bigger fish to fry.
“Hey.” I finally focused. “What did you call me for?”
“Oh, yeah.” She had the mad voice again. “I saw you chugging up Ponce toward the Clairmont and then I saw you chicken out at the last minute when I told you to talk to that Curtis guy.”
“Somebody already got mad at me about that,” I told her. “In fact, Curtis himself. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him: I wanted a little wine, that’s all. And I deserved it after the day I’d already had up to that point. As it happens, Curtis came into the club, which you would have seen if you’d kept spying, and we had our little meeting there.”
“Oh.” She breathed into the phone. “Well that’s okay then.”
“Go look at a dead body.”
I gave her directions to the place, a sentence to say to Reese to let him know she was coming there at my behest, and I hung up.
My hand was still holding the phone when it rang again.
“Hello.”
“It’s Dan.” His voice was barely audible. “Do I have news. Can you meet me at the Clairmont now? We were wrong.”
“Now?”
There was a bumping noise, a scrape, and then the phone went dead.
41. Dead
Ordinarily after a failed attempt at my trick I don’t like to rush out into the fray. It makes for a tough transition. But when you’ve got a pal on the line and the line goes dead, you generally have to rouse yourself, trick or not. Trick or Treat. Trick or Gnosis.
See, that’s the kind of head you have when you hope to see beyond the pale and instead you stick your head in a pail. You go through linguistic peregrinations like that. You’re a resident of Flip City, in other words. And I was that city’s mayor.
Still, I took charge of my body, made it stand up, made it find my shoes, and I was on the street before I knew what time it was. Seemed late. The moon was high, the night was old, and I felt like I was a little of both myself.
I would usually have walked the long city blocks to the Clairmont from my street, but time seemed of the essence, so I tossed caution to the wind and hopped in the old auto. I was still groggy from being ripped out of my calm state by ugly visions of the young married couple and the jangling of the telephone.
My street dead-ends onto Ponce. The light there was red, but I knew it would take forever to change, and I wasn’t in a mood to sit, so I looked both ways, saw nobody, and turned left onto the empty thoroughfare.
I was barely three blocks down, but nearly halfway to Dan, when I saw the blue lights in my rearview.
I pulled over. The cop car came up right on my bumper. I got out — which was my first mistake. Never get out. I scared the guys: the same guys who had been staking out my pad earlier, the same kids Dan had scared, the ones who had taken me to see Detective Huyne.
“Hey, guys,” I told the driver, waving my hand as I approached. “Miss me?”
The poor schmo was startled. “Jesus! What the hell are you doing? Get back in your car.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Running a damn red light,” the one in the passenger seat told me angrily, ducking his head down so he could see me out the driver-side window. His face was red, almost as if to demonstrate the color of the light I’d violated.
“I see.” I looked around. “Now let’s just think about this thing for a second, shall we. If it happens to be, say, Judge Kincaid in traffic court tomorrow, which I believe it is, you realize he’ll never buy this ticket. I mean, it’s got to be four in the morning. Ponce is deserted. The ‘prevailing conditions’ caveat would seem to apply. I came to a full stop. I looked both ways. I proceeded slowly onto Ponce with no traffic in either direction. And I was driving exactly at the speed limit. Would either of you happen to know what that is on this stretch of Ponce?”
They sat.
“Thirty-five. So I’d say my bank of lawyers would come to some sort of heinous ‘harassment’ lawsuit against you two, maybe even the department, and you poor dinks would be under investigation before noon. Or at the very least in Huyne’s office with him yelling at you, don’t you think?”
I stood.
“So,” I concluded, after I’d given them just barely enough time to consider what I’d said, “if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a friend in need over at the Clairmont. In fact, if you’d like to follow me over there, that might be nice. It’s your friend Danny, to whom you were just speaking earlier. The guy on the curb. You remember him.”
As they could, apparently, think of little to say, I waved goodbye and got back into my car.
I was a block closer to my goal when I saw the blue lights flashing again.
This time, before I could get out, they used the speaker system atop their chariot.
“Remain inside the vehicle! An officer will be with you shortly!”
I sat. Hours passed — in a single thirty seconds.
Finally Tweedle Whichever stood at my door.
“License and registration.”
“What’s the problem, Officer?” I tried to sound as much like Gomer Pyle as I could.
“Fleeing the scene while under an officer’s scrutiny.”
“Oh for God’s sake.” I jabbed my little auto into first. “That’s not even worth my making fun of. Come on. We’ve got to get to the Clairmont. See you in the parking lot.”
And I took off.
Okay, it wasn’t the best thing in the world to do, but I was in no mood for some sort of Camus/Andy Griffith juxtaposition of absurdism-meets-the-myth-of-Sisyphus. Once I roll a rock up a hill, I’m done with it, whether or not it rolls back down. If it does, I figure that’s where it wants to be and I move on. Plus I usually pause to admire the view from the top of the hill. That was my giddy, four AM motto: Admire the view no matter where your rock rolls.
The boys in blue didn’t see it that way, but I just figured they just hadn’t spent as much idle time reading useless mythology as I had.
They pursued with siren and light. I got to the Clairmont parking lot and pulled in right by the front door. They were close behind. Good, I thought. If someone was messing with Danny, let’s wake everybody up and let them know the cops are here.
I was out of my car before the cops had come to a complete stop, but the passenger-side guy was already out with his pistol drawn and leveled right in my direction.
“Freeze!”
Just like on television.
“Okay,” I said, and immediately went for the door.
I was inside before the kid even knew I was gone, because the car had come to an abrupt stop, bumped him, and sent him tumbling onto the pavement. Then the driver was out and waving his weapon too.
I heard him shout, “Where did he go.”
“I didn’t see,” the other yelled back, scrambling up. “I didn’t see!”
I opened the door and peeked back out. “In here, boys.”
For a second they both looked like stupid Labradors — if that’s not a redundancy — and then they loped toward me the same way.
I slipped back into the lobby. Danny was sitting in a chair. Lucrezia was standing behind him rubbing his head. The concierge was scowling beside them both.
I moved pretty quickly to stand on the other side of Dan so we’d make a nice balanced picture when my friends came barging in.
They hit the lobby, then stopped cold.
“Hi.” Dan smiled warmly at them both.
Lucy looked hard at the rug.
“Officers,” the concierge began, moving their way, “I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re here. This man here — the one sitting, he’s been fussing in some of my rooms. And then his girlfriend hit him. I want you to take them both …”
“Freeze!” It was the passenger-side guy again, still practicing for a bit part in the upcoming Adam-12 movie.
The concierge looked back at me. “Oh, for Christ sake, Tucker, you couldn’t find any real cops?”
My eyes brightened.
“Flap,” Danny said, his voice pitched so only I could hear it, “you need to go look in Room 312.”
“Flap,” Lucy said quickly, “I didn’t know this guy here was a friend of yours. I didn’t mean to conk him. But, damn — he’s lucky I didn’t kill him dead. Look.”
She pointed at his feet.
Dan was wearing black-and-tan, two-toned, 1940s shoes.
42. Two Tone
“Is it me,” I asked Lucy, “or are these things coming back into style?”
“I’ve worn these shoes since the band days,” Dan reminded me, “and you’re just now asking about them?”
“I hate coincidence,” I explained to him, “and the fact is that the man who rushed our girl, here, wore shoes of that ilk — as did the corpse of Ronnard Raay.”
“I hate that kind of coincidence too,” Danny said, getting to his feet.
But before he could comment further, the cops finally got themselves organized.
“Okay,” the driver said, “everybody just freeze.”
“Freeze my ass,” the concierge snarled, “and quit saying that. Put them guns away. I got jumpy customers and they don’t like cops. What the hell are you doing here, anyway? I didn’t call you.”
“They’re following me, I’m afraid,” I told him. “I fought the law, and the law won.”
“See, Mr. Tucker,” the passenger-side guy began explaining to the concierge, “ran a red light, and then fled the scene …”
“… Tucker,” the concierge interrupted, “you got that Huyne mad at you?”
“Not mad, exactly,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because him and his boys have been in and out of here about half a dozen times over the past twenty-four hours, and you’re never here this often. So I got to connect the two.”
Danny leaned my way. “The cops were here because somebody got dead in a room. They think they can put two and two together.”
“Why does everybody get to do that but me?” I looked at Dan. He had no idea what I was talking about.
“Now,” the driver-cop began, his hand shaking and his voice high like Barney Fife’s, “let’s all just … stay right where we are ’til …”
But even if the kid had a thought, he didn’t get a chance to finish it.
Mug Lewis came in the door at precisely that moment, saw police with guns, and did one of the things he did best. In what seemed like a single move, he swung his arm wide, flung his hand into his coat, brought it back with his pistol in it, and backhanded each cop behind the head so hard that they didn’t even make a sound before they hit the floor. It was like ballet.
In one second, the cops were off their feet, out cold on the floor of the Clairmont lobby, and Mug was tucking his weapon neatly back into his coat.
“Hello, Flap,” he said quietly. “Hello, everybody. Nice night.”
Danny gave a curt nod. Lucy looked at me, eyes wide.
“Hey … Curtis.” I smiled. “How’s business?”
“Just about concluded.” He glanced at the concierge, who was trying his best to look like he hadn’t seen anything. “I apologize for the mess. Shall I clean up?”
“Might be best,” the concierge said plainly, eyes on the floor, “if you just went on upstairs and packed. I’d like it a whole lot if I didn’t know where you was in about five minutes — when these boys come to.”
“I see.” Mug tilted his head philosophically. “I have overstayed my welcome.”
“To coin a phrase,” Danny said finally, staring right into Mug’s eyes.
Danny Frank had a way of looking at a man that let the man know he was being looked at good. Danny could come away from such a gaze knowing the man’s shoe size and what he’d had for dinner … last Thursday. I never saw him turn that power on a woman. Maybe he did, but it seemed more likely that he considered himself a better gentleman than that.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” Mug’s eyes were welded to Dan’s.
“This is my friend Daniel Frank,” I said to Mug quickly. “Plays a serious tenor.”
“Ah.” Mug’s demeanor brightened, but his eyes remained locked with Danny’s. “An artist. I see. This explains it.”
“Flap?” Lucy interjected, shrill and tired.
“Yes?” I tried not to look at her.
“I have got to talk to you!”
“Can you hang on just a minute? I want to make sure …”
But — as so much about the previous days had presaged — I was not to finish my sentence. Things, it seemed, were to be left dangling — all over town. Because one of the cops rolled over, drew his gun, and shot Mug Lewis in the heart.
43. Heart
Lucy screamed, just like the young people in the scary movies these days. It was so good, in fact, that instead of thinking, Oh, my God, Mug's been hit, I was thinking, Gee, Lucy should look into getting voice-over work. Which told me more about my state of mind, or perception of reality, than I really wanted to know.
Luckily, Dan moved. He kicked the gun out of the cop’s hand, sapped the cop in the head again, and had Mug in his arms before Mug even crumpled.
“Jesus,” Mug managed.
Dan flung back Mug’s jacket and ripped the shirt before he realized that all he was doing was ruining part of Mug’s ensemble. Very little lifesaving was actually required, as Dan had torn Mug’s clothing only to reveal a heavy bulletproof garment underneath.
Danny looked over at me. “Vest.”
“I just got the wind knocked out of me,” Mug gasped. “I’ll be okay. Jesus, that kid scared me, though.”
“You don’t like to see a bullet coming your way, no matter what,” I agreed.
Lucy was still in the shock envelope.
I put my hand on her arm.
She looked at me. Her eyes were troubled. “Flap. The guy that rushed me — it’s not your friend, here.”
“I could have told you that.” I was still holding her arm. “But why were you upstairs with him at all?”
“Can I sit down?” She took the stained, overstuffed chair. “Damn.” She looked up at me. “I was on my way out when I saw this chump in the parking lot and I caught a glimpse of his shoes. I couldn’t see his face. I followed him. So when he started skulking around this messy room upstairs like he was going to steal something, I thought for sure he was a bad guy. I conked him on the head. I was about to call you when the concierge, here — Buster — came steaming up at me like it’s the crime of the century to bean a skunk.”
“But now that you have gotten a good look at Danny, you realize he is not your man.”
“Correct.” She looked over at him. “Sorry.”
“A logical mistake,” he sa
id, still holding Mug.
“Could we please all get the hell out of here?” Buster was livid. “I got unconscious, pissed-off, rookie cops messing up my floor, and when they get back up, they’re surely going to blame somebody — and it will not be me, because I will be on the floor too, a victim of the same scum that whacked them.”
And Buster, quite ceremoniously, laid himself down on the floor.
Danny cracked up.
Mug looked down. “Would you like me to tap you in the skull to make it official? No extra charge.”
“Shut up,” Buster said, eyes closed, from his ridiculous position.
“Here’s what I say,” I announced. “Curtis? You take off. Buster, you lie low. The rest of you, come with me.” I looked at Lucy. “I always wanted to say that in a real life situation — you see it so often in the movies.”
“You do?” She got to her feet.
“‘Some of you go that way; the rest of you come with me.’ I think it’s in a lot of jungle movies.”
“They don’t really make that many jungle movies these days, Flap.” She seemed amused at my lack of cinema-currence.
“I lament the passing of the art film,” I explained as I headed for the stairs, “the days of Truffaut and Bergman …”
“… Godard,” Danny picked up, “and Fellini.”
“Shut up,” she intoned, “and shut up.”
She and Danny followed me upstairs while the Narcolepsy Trio stayed put on the lobby floor behind us. Mug had already vanished.
“It’s this way.” Dan brushed past me.
We made it to 312. The door was ajar. There was yellow police tape across the entrance. Danny poked the door and it swung a foot or so.
Inside was what real-live investigators call a crime scene: “Doesn’t look like a struggle of any sort took place, Dano.” That kind of thing.
“This was Ronnard Raay’s room.”
“Hold the phone.” I let my eyes roam over the chaos. “You mean that Ronn, Jersey, and … Curtis all stayed here at the Clairmont? You’d think a high roller like Higgins would check in at the Ritz.”
Dead Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 5) Page 17