Wisdom of the Bones

by Paul Christopher

  ‘Still alive.’ R. T. grinned. ‘Always a good sign.’

  ‘I’ve got a bad one, R. T.’

  ‘Guy in the refrigerator making like Pinocchio?’

  ‘Word gets around.’

  ‘I keep my ears peeled.’

  ‘It’s eyes you keep peeled.’

  ‘What do you do with ears?’

  ‘Keep one of them to the ground.’

  ‘Okay, I keep my ear to the ground. People tell me things.’

  ‘What do they tell you?’

  ‘They tell me the guy was an antique dealer who got cut into about ten pieces and that he had big slabs of skin taken off him. Then he gets stuck in a refrigerator and taken to the dump.’

  ‘What do you get from that?’

  ‘Dump says it’s the mob,’ R. T. answered, taking a slug from his bottle of Jax. ‘Cutting him up, that’s maybe mob too, but the chunks of skin, that’s something crazy.’

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ Ray sighed, sipping his own beer. ‘I’m worried it’s a crazy. According to the doc the guy was skewered with some kind of miniature chisel through the corner of his eye, then cut up with a Samurai sword or something like it.’ He shook his head. ‘Goddamn but I hate crazies!’

  ‘Because they never get solved.’ R. T. nodded. ‘Remember the one we found in University Park?’

  ‘Naked as a jay on her hands and knees like she was about to get goat-humped, except her privates were cut out and laid on her back like a saddle. Everybody had an alibi.’

  ‘We spent six months on that case off and on. Never even came close.’

  ‘Think you’ve got the same thing here?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Ray nodded. ‘Not sure. On the surface it looks like some random crazy but you don’t have to dig too far to find suspects and motives all over the place. Seems like the guy was stealing archive documents and forging them as well as receiving and a bunch of other stuff. Also he’s gay and according to one of his exes he was into some hard action.’

  ‘Don’t like queers,’ said R. T. ‘Don’t understand them.’ He got up and fetched another bottle of Jax from the fridge. Ray sipped his first beer and listened to the rain pitter-patter on the window that looked out into the big backyard. R. T. sat down again. ‘So what do you think of this Kennedy thing?’ he asked.

  ‘What Kennedy thing?’

  ‘Him coming here.’

  ‘Going to screw up traffic royally, that’s all I know.’

  ‘My old man thought he was the worst thing that ever happened to this country. A know-nothing with stars in his eyes and too much money. If he wasn’t already dead, Kennedy visiting Dallas would have killed him.’ R. T. smiled broadly and leaned back in the chair. ‘Mind you, he was a Goldwater Republican. Had a bumper sticker on his Caddy that said “Vote AuH20 in ’64.”’

  ‘Cute,’ said Ray. He took another sip from the long-necked bottle then set it carefully down on the table.

  ‘Something on your mind?’

  ‘I just don’t know if I can finish this,’ Ray answered.

  ‘The beer? No sweat, pal, I got lots in the basement.’

  ‘Not the beer.’

  ‘Hey,’ said R. T. ‘I know that, I was just trying to lighten the mood, you know?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘This murder. I keep on thinking I’m not going to be able to figure it out in time.’

  ‘In time?’ R. T. paused and then shook his head. ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘I’ve got my physical next Friday. I won’t pass and then that’ll be it.’

  ‘You want to solve this in a week?’

  ‘I don’t want to leave a cold case as my last thing on the Job. Hell of a way to hand in my potsie.’

  R. T. shrugged. ‘Then do what you always do. Forget about crazies for now. Concentrate on being a cop. Talk to suspects and witnesses. Talk to yourself. Use that nose of yours. Nine out of ten times when it twitches the way it used to, it was twitching in the right direction.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. There’s something familiar about this, something right on the edge of my brain, but I can’t seem to find the key.’

  R. T. took a long slug from the Jax, finishing it. He put the empty bottle down beside its mate with a bang. ‘You will. You always do.’

  ‘You realise how pissed I am you’re not working this with me?’

  ‘You know how pissed I am you didn’t retire the same time I did? We could be out in the piney woods right this second with a cooler full of those new snap-top cans, catching trout and throwin’ them back like nobody’s business. Why are you still looking for crazies or anyone else this time of your life, Ray? How long you been on the Job, you old fool? Thirty years?’

  ‘Give or take a war or two.’

  ‘No wife, no shit to take. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with so why aren’t we out on a boat on a lake covered in mosquitoes and having a hell of a time?’

  Ray smiled. ‘Because I hate fishing and so do you.’

  ‘Well, that’s true enough,’ agreed R. T., ‘but it’s the idea that’s important. You need a murder with a chopped-up corpse in a Westinghouse like I need another Flo.’

  Ray levered himself up from the table. ‘But you’ve got Flo and I’ve got a murder.’ He leaned down and scratched his leg through the cloth of his trousers, then stood upright again.

  ‘Promise me you’ll quit after this?’ said R. T., standing up beside his friend, reaching out and touching his shoulder. ‘It doesn’t have to be fishing. I just want to have some fun before… you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Bowling,’ suggested R. T. as he accompanied Ray back to the front door. ‘We could bowl every lane in the state. See how far we got. Something to think about.’ The two men went out onto the porch. It had stopped raining and water was dripping from the eaves.

  ‘Kennedy gets his parade,’ said R. T.

  ‘They’ll have that bubble-top thing on in case it starts up again. Wouldn’t do to have the First Lady get her hat spattered. People are going to be disappointed.’ Ray went down two steps. R. T.’s voice stopped him and Ray turned to look up at his friend.

  ‘Whoever killed your man must have known him. You have to get close to poke a man in the eye with a screwdriver or a chisel.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ R. T. scratched the line of his jaw. ‘Relative?’

  ‘Partner?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t think so. Those kinds of things are spur-of-the-moment. I’d buy the chisel in the eye but not the rest of it. Too… purposeful, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Somebody he jerked around with? Business?’

  ‘Maybe. He’ll be close, though. First or second ring.’

  Over the years Ray and R. T. had developed a theory about homicide suspects. They charted it out in rings, like the ‘zones of destruction’ they talked about in Life articles about A-bombs going off. The First Ring was ground zero. Husbands, wives, jealous lovers, sons and sometimes even daughters. Second Ring was close friends, sworn enemies, business associates with a grudge or something to gain. Third Ring was people from the past with an axe to grind or crooks who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Fourth Ring was the random crazy or, on very rare occasions, cases of mistaken identity. Suicides didn’t count but murder for hire did and the unknown killer usually managed to connect back to Ring One or Ring Two. Over the years there had been very few exceptions.

  ‘Then I better start making a list and checking it out. Find out who’s been good and who’s been bad.’

  ‘Be Christmas before you know it,’ said R. T., smiling, his eyes crinkling.

  Ray gave him a wave and then climbed back into the car. R. T. retreated into the mansion. The gates were already open when Ray reached them. He turned back onto Vickery Boulevard and put himself back on the expressway heading south.

  He turned off the expressway at Pacific Avenue and pu
lled over at the first telephone booth he saw. Using his notebook to retrieve the number, he called Valentine and asked him if he’d be kind enough to write out a list of dealers like himself as well as a list of clients Jennings Price might have been involved with.

  ‘A lot of those people are my clients as well, Detective. I wouldn’t want them bothered.’

  ‘They won’t be bothered, Mr Valentine, they’ll be asked a few questions.’

  ‘I’d rather they didn’t know where you got their names.’

  ‘Cooperate with me, Mr Valentine, and I’ll be pleased to cooperate right back.’

  ‘I’ll bring the list over myself.’

  ‘Just leave it with the desk sergeant on the main floor. He’ll see it gets to me.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  ‘You’re a scholar and a gentleman, sir.’

  Ray pulled the cradle of the payphone down and flipped through his notebook to the Jack Ruby notation. He dialled the number – Richardson 7-2362 – and let it ring a dozen times. Finally a thin, male voice answered.

  ‘Carousel Club. Larry Speaking.’

  ‘Larry?’

  ‘Crafard. I work here. Club doesn’t open ’til nine.’

  ‘Is Mr Ruby there?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘Detective Ray Duval of the DPD.’

  ‘You a cop?’

  ‘You can assume that, Mr Craphard.’

  ‘Crafard.’ The voice was thin and weary, with a Yankee flatness to it. Detroit maybe.

  ‘Get Jack Ruby for me.’

  There was a muffled rustle as Crafard put his hand over the phone and called out, ‘Hey, Jack, it’s for you. Some cop.’

  An extension was picked up. ‘Ruby.’ There was a pause and then Ray heard Crafard hang up his receiver.

  ‘Detective Ray Duval.’

  All of a sudden Ruby’s voice took on a hearty tone. ‘Detective. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Answer a few questions.’

  ‘Anything I can do, I’ll do.’

  ‘I’m in a phone booth at South Pearl and Pacific.’

  ‘Well come on down. Shoot the shit, ask your questions. My pleasure, Detective. My pleasure.’

  ‘Ten minutes,’ Ray answered and hung up. The man sounded like he’d been dipped in grease. Like Craphard there was a northern accent, this one rounder, meaner and recognisable. Chicago.

  Ray climbed back into his car and looked at the pack of Salems on the dashboard. He let one hand rub across his chest, wondering what was going on under his fingers. He had a sudden image of the clock ticking inside the Peter Pan crocodile. It was the first movie he’d seen with Lorraine after getting out of the VA hospital after he got back from Korea and it was the last. He could almost see the alarm clock in his own chest, the two bells, like chrome-plated ears about to ring. He switched on the car, put it in gear and headed for the rough end of Commerce Street down towards Dealey Plaza and the warehouse district.

  Ruby’s nightclub turned out to be a half street number on the second floor above a barbecue joint. Ray found a parking spot in front of a hydrant, took his DPD Official Business placard out of the glove compartment and tossed it onto the dash. He climbed out of the Chevy and locked it. The smell of barbecue sauce and cooking beef wafted out of the main-floor restaurant. Once upon a time Ray would have stood there taking in the ambrosia of grilled beef and a thick sweet and spicy sauce but now it was only making his stomach turn. He found the double doors that led to the Carousel, pushed through them and began slowly climbing the long, steep flight of stairs, hanging on to the rail and pausing every few steps to catch his breath. Finally he made it to the top, stopped again so that he wouldn’t arrive for his interrogation puffing like a locomotive pulling a hundred freight cars up a mountain. When he felt a little better he pushed through the red vinyl padded door and stopped to let his eyes adjust.

  The club was a good size with three circular bars with top surfaces big enough to take a stripper dancing on and two dozen more tables reserved for club members. At the far end of the big room there was a good-sized stage with dark red curtains, the curtain colour repeated on the tablecloths. The walls were brown, artificial wood panelling. Knotty pine by the looks of it. The only other decorations were crowns and prancing horses done in cardboard and aluminum foil tacked up on the wall.

  A man half stood at one of the tables. He waved. He was barely five feet, pot-bellied, with slicked-back hair brushed straight back. He had a pile of ledgers with him on the table and an adding machine.

  Ray skirted the circular runway bars and headed for the table.

  ‘Siddown, siddown,’ said Ruby. He slammed the ledger closed while he was talking. A cigar was burning in a tin ashtray. Ruby saw Ray looking at the ashtray and misinterpreted the look. He reached into the inside pocket of his pinstripe jacket and took out a virgin cigar, still in its plastic wrapper.

  ‘Want one?’ said Ruby. He lit the stub of his own with a wooden match. Before Castro, Ray had smoked the occasional Havana delight but this was something of a different sort.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Ray.

  ‘Something to drink?’

  ‘Iced tea might be nice.’

  ‘Vera! Iced tea and a scotch rocks.’

  He didn’t even look over his shoulder to see who he was talking to.

  ‘So what did you want to talk about, Detective…?’

  ‘Duval.’

  ‘Duval, right.’

  ‘People down at the station who know you say you know pretty well everything that’s going on in the way of good times in Dallas.’

  ‘Depends on how you define good times.’

  ‘Clubs, women, booze.’

  ‘No secret. This is Chicago down south. You got a dozen clubs in three blocks from the Celebrity to the Texas Lounge. You got any booze you want, any broad you want, any time you want.’

  ‘No trouble from Vice?’

  ‘No trouble from the cops, period, and you know it as well as I do. No reason for trouble. Stripping’s not against the law, neither’s selling booze.’

  ‘It’s against the law if you’re selling the booze off premises and it’s against the law if you and your club are just pimping and the strippers are nothing but hookers with good moves.’

  ‘Hey. No one’s complained so far. You keep it clean, you keep your head down, you comp the right people, everybody’s happy.’ Ruby offered up a wide, fat-lipped smile. ‘These are modern times, Detective; this is the way the world works now. These days Al Capone would be mayor of Chicago and Frank Nitti would probably be governor.’

  ‘You make it sound like you knew them.’

  ‘I knew everybody in Chi, Detective. I still do. Just like I know everyone in Big D.’

  ‘Boys?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Happen to know anything about what goes on that side of the tracks?’

  ‘Not my thing.’

  ‘But you know about it.’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Give me a such as, Jack.’

  ‘Parties.’

  ‘What kind of parties?’

  ‘There’s a few bars, one or two clubs, but usually it’s parties. Big ones.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Places change a lot.’

  ‘What kind of places?’

  ‘Why you so interested?’

  ‘Murder. Some aspects of it lead me to think gays might be involved.’

  Ruby nodded and Ray was sure he noted a look of relief on the man’s face. The iced tea arrived, complete with a sprig of mint on top. ‘To cooperation,’ said Jack and clinked glasses with Ray.

  ‘Cooperation.’

  Ray caught a glimpse of a thin man in a windbreaker walking towards the doors leading to the stairs. ‘Larry?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘On the phone he sounded like he came from up north.’

  ‘Michigan, I think,’ Ruby said.

  ‘You’re Chicago, right?’

 
; ‘Right.’ Ruby took a long swallow of his drink. Ray caught a whiff of the scotch. He tasted his own. Tea and lemon and too much sugar. ‘You interested in what I know about the gay scene or you interested in me for some reason?’

  ‘Just interested in what you can tell me.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Parties.’

  ‘That’s right. Say one of them is a real estate agent. He’s got a big house somewhere he’s trying to sell. He invites all his friends to a party in the house. Supposed to be he’s trying to attract buyers but it’s really an orgy. You know?’

  ‘There money in it for anyone?’

  Ruby smiled. It turned his lips thin as a snake’s. ‘Person who sells the booze and the food.’

  ‘You do any of that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Once in a while.’

  ‘Ever meet a guy named Jennings Price?’

  ‘Not that I can remember.’

  ‘Valentine?’

  ‘No.’ Too quick with the answer. He knew he could go and dig around in that for a while and Ruby might squirm. He decided to save it for later. ‘I thought you said this was about a murder.’

  ‘It is. Guy we found chopped up in a fridge at the dump.’

  ‘Chopped up?’

  ‘Butchered, then put back together with electrical wire.’

  ‘Sounds like a lot of trouble. Two in the head is quicker.’

  ‘In your neck of the woods.’

  ‘In any neck of the woods.’ Ruby smiled again and returned his burning cigar to the ashtray. ‘You’re trying to piss me off, aren’t you?’

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘See how I acted. See if you could get me to say something I shouldn’t say.’

  ‘You saw right through me, Jack.’ Ray lifted himself up from the table.

  ‘Talked to a lot of cops in my time. Likeable, most of them.’

  ‘I’m not the likeable sort. Been a cop too long.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  Ray gave him a little wave. ‘Thanks for the help.’

  ‘Nothing to it.’

  As Ray headed back for the stairs he heard the crank and clatter of the adding machine start up again, but when he pushed open the door and took a look back across the club, Ruby was staring right at him. He went out the doors and down the steep stairs to the street, wondering all the way down why Ruby had been relieved when Ray mentioned a murdered homosexual and why Larry had been so eager to leave the Carousel Club in such a rush.