Hump's First Case

by Ralph Dennis

  “It set up the big lie,” Hump said.

  “Which was?”

  “The night Billie Joe disappeared she didn’t go to a movie by herself. She went off to meet a boy she knew. He’d been in high school with her, a year ahead of her, and he’d come to Atlanta to go to college.”

  “Tech?”

  “Georgia State. The way Rosemary remembers it, the boy moved to Atlanta and got a job and was going to school at night.”

  “And the kidnapping, all that crap, was to cover up the fact that Rosemary hadn’t played the tough mama the way she was supposed to?”

  “Rosemary is scared to death of her husband … whatever his name is.”

  “Charles,” I said.

  “The lie was in the beginning. It was the only explanation she could give her husband. Later, when Billie Joe didn’t come back, she began to believe it. Really believe it.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed at them. “Go on with it. You dropped Rosemary at her hotel around six.”

  It was going on seven by the time Hump found a parking space near Georgia State. It’s one of those inner-city schools. No campus as such and no dorms. There’s an extensive building program underway but downtown property is so valuable in Atlanta that there are no frills. There’s a postage stamp park with some shrubs and flowers and a fountain near the Ad building. The rest of the college is composed of buildings that look like fairly ordinary office space.

  It took some asking before Hump found the Evening College office. Maybe it was early or supper-time. The office was empty except for a young black girl. Not prime, Hump thought, but not a cull either. He leaned on the counter and waited for her to notice him.

  Kind of bowlegged. He watched her walk toward him. Thighs like a mare. And her eyes aware of how closely he watched her. She stopped a step away from the counter. “Can I help you?”

  “I need a transcript.”

  “Your transcript?”

  “No, it’s for a boy wants to work for me. His name’s Carl Culp.” Hump dug out his roll of cash. “I understand there’s a charge for a copy.”

  “Copies are made by the day staff,” the girl said. She lifted a pad from under the counter and poised a pen over it. “If you’ll give me your name and your business address …”

  “Hump Evans.” He watched her mouth fall open. “But, look, this is a rush. I can’t wait long for a copy. I’ve got to make a decision in the next day or two.”

  “The Hump Evans?” A smile, a bird-catching and -eating smile.

  “I’m the only one I know.”

  “Then you know my cousin, Emma Jane Green. She works for the phone company.”

  He did. Emma Jane was the fat girl that Hardman said looked like a busted bale of hay. “Sure. She’s a nice girl.”

  “She speaks highly of you too.” Sly knowledge in her face. Looks like those girls have kissed and told. “Why, she talks about you all the time.”

  “I don’t know what she’d have to talk about.” Sly right back at her.

  “Emma Jane might be exaggerating some.”

  “It’s according to what she said.”

  “I don’t think I could repeat it,” the girl said. “Not until I knew you well enough.”

  “That’s easy,” Hump said. “We can have a drink one night and, after you know me better, we could check it out against the truth.”

  A wide smile. “How would we do that checking?”

  “We’d find a way.”

  Her pen moved over the pad. She tore the top sheet away and pushed it toward him. Her name was there and the office number. Sarah Barker. “I’m through here at ten.”

  “Ten’s a good time. But first I’ve got this problem.”

  “The transcript? I’d like to help you, but they’ve got these definite rules about …”

  “For all I know,” Hump said, “that boy might not have gone to this school at all. He might have made it up.”

  “Maybe I can do that much for you. What’s his name?”

  “Carl Culp.”

  She took a step away before she looked over her shoulder at him. “Now, don’t you go away.”

  Hump grinned and shook his head. Oh, yes. Sparks and dark fire, oh, yes.

  A walk like a dance step when she returned from a room down a hallway. Let him have a good look at it. Bowed legs are pretty because my mama said they were. She winked as she placed a gray folder on the counter and lifted the cover. “He took six courses here.”

  “Just six?” Hump put out a hand and turned the folder toward him. “That’s one lie. He told me more than that.”

  “You’re not supposed to …”

  “A peek won’t hurt.” He gave her his high-voltage grin. “In fact, sometimes a peek is a lot of fun.”

  A breathy whisper: “Well, if you hurry. Doctor Bracy ought to be back any minute.”

  Four Cs, one D and an Incomplete. “His grades suck.”

  “That might be why he’s not in school this term.”

  “Might be.”

  While his finger traced the grades, his eyes were searching the top of the page. He wanted a street address. He found it, an address on Argonne, and repeated it to himself a time or two.

  She was worried. “Doctor Bracy’ll be …”

  He closed the folder and pushed it across the counter toward her. “I think I saved myself a dollar or two. It might be the cost of a drink.”

  “My drink’s scotch.”

  “That makes you my twin,” Hump said. “J&B?”

  “That’s a good one.”

  “And you’re off at ten?”

  “On the dot,” she said.

  Hump backed away. “I’ll call you.”

  “You won’t forget?”

  Hump laughed. “Me forget Emma Jane Green’s cousin?” He waved and backed through the doorway.

  “This Carl Culp, he’s the boy that Billie Joe was supposed to meet that night?” I got the open bottle of cognac from the cabinet. The coffee had cooled enough so that the alcohol wouldn’t steam away. I poured in cognac until the mixture reached the rim of the cup. I pushed the bottle toward Hump.

  He nodded. “The old high school friend.”

  “And this Culp turned out to be a biker?”

  Hump laughed at me. “You said you wanted it from the beginning. You want me to leave out the middle?”

  “Tell it your way,” I said.

  It was cruising time in that part of town when Hump got there. Even in cold weather the young men lounged on the corners. Usually they were near bus stops in case the cops happened by. They could always say they were waiting for the 45 bus. These were the money-trade walkers. The others, the ones with cars, waited until later and leapfrogged their cars along the stretch of road near the lake in Piedmont Park.

  Driving slow, trying to catch one number so he’d know where he was, Hump passed the bus stop at Fifth and Argonne. A blond young man dressed in jeans and a fringed leather jacket leaned on the bus stop post and waved at him. There was enough light so that Hump could see that the kid had stuffed his jock with a T-shirt or a length of garden hose.

  Down another block and he found the house. It had been painted with what must have been government surplus paint. A lead-like battleship gray. In the wind, on the porch, he burned a book of matches reading the name cards on the bank of mailboxes.

  No Carl Culp. He tried the door that led to the downstairs hallway. It was unlocked. There were three apartments on the first floor. He banged on two doors before he found someone at home.

  A young, dark-haired girl kept the chain on and squinted at him. The ammonia-strong scent of a cat-box drifted past her and hit Hump in the face. It brought tears to his eyes. “I’m looking for Carl Culp.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “You know anybody who might …?”

  “The resident manager.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Apartment number one at the foot of the stairs.”

  She closed th
e door. Hump went to the outside door and opened it. He took a few deep breaths and his eyes cleared. When he felt better he returned to the apartment at the foot of the stairs. He didn’t bother to knock. A notepad was thumbtacked to the door. A message was scrawled on it. Back at 9.

  It was time for supper anyway. He got in his Buick and turned around in a driveway and headed for Fifth and Argonne. As he turned left on Fifth his headlight swept across the bus stop there. The young blond boy was leaning on the window of a white Mercedes sedan. Hump couldn’t see the man inside but he thought he got a flash of gray hair.

  “And that young boy was Carl Culp?” I had finished the coffee. I rinsed out the cup and poured some straight cognac in it.

  “Of course not,” Hump said.

  “You’re making a lot of him.”

  “That’s just setting the area for you,” he said.

  “I know the area.”

  “You been cruising there, Jim?”

  “Not as recently as you have,” I said.

  He gave it up and went on with his story.

  He had supper at Brothers Two at Colony Square. It was a longer supper than he’d intended. There was a black girl, an actress who worked in TV commercials, at the bar and he’d asked her to have the meal with him. After all he was working and he had an advance from Rosemary Atkinson. So he’d taken his time over the prime rib and he had talked some candy nonsense to the girl and it had been almost ten before he left. He’d promised to drop by Harrison’s later and look for the girl if he got done with the job by then.

  “You’re insatiable,” I said.

  “Huh?” Hump blinked at me.

  “First the Atkinson woman and then …”

  “I didn’t put a glove on her,” Hump said.

  “Who does it with gloves on?”

  “That’s it. Now I’ve got it. That’s what’s been bothering you. You’re jealous. That Rosemary got to you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “And I knew it the whole time. That’s why I didn’t put a glove on her. I’ve been saving her for you.” He tipped back his cup and big-eyed me over the rim. “And the truth is I felt, the way she acted, that she had the itch for you too.”

  “Game-playing,” I said. “You know that’s shit.”

  “I’ve got the hotel where she’s staying and her room number. I did it all for you, buddy.”

  “Go on with the story.”

  Phil Grant was the resident manager. Bald on top with long stringy hair that touched the collar of his unbuttoned tie shirt. A T-shirt under that with tomato or catsup stains on it. He clutched a paperback edition of Hart Crane’s poetry, a finger inserted in it to mark his place.

  “He moved out a couple of months ago.”

  “He leave a forwarding address?”

  “Not with me. He might have filled out one of those cards at the post office.”

  “Could be.” Hump nodded his thanks and stepped away. He turned back to Grant as he was about to close the door. “Look, maybe you know where he works.”

  “I know where he used to work.”

  “That might help,” Hump said.

  “Out past Brookwood Station. You know where that is?”

  Hump nodded.

  “First gas station on the left past Brookwood.”

  “I know it.”

  “He was pumping gas there the last time I saw him.”

  Making the turn from Argonne onto Fifth Street, Hump saw that the blond stud in denim had been replaced by another one who wore black leather and a white stocking cap.

  It was brief and to the point. The owner, a dumpy man in khakis and a Braves ball cap, said, “I had to fire him. It wasn’t that he didn’t do good work. He was a good worker but he was hanging around with a biker gang. I started missing some gas. It wasn’t much. A few gallons at first. You see, the meter reading and the gas sales key on the register weren’t matching up. That went on too long. So I sat across the street in my car a couple of nights. One night six bikers came up and Carl gassed them and they rode off without paying. That’s twenty-five or thirty gallons right there. And that was that, the way I felt.”

  “Know which biker gang it was?”

  “Atlanta Outlanders,” the dumpy man said.

  “I didn’t know what else to do,” Hump said. “So I did the Hardman fallback.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It could be a new dance step but it ain’t. It means when you need to know something you call a friendly cop.”

  “Hardman fallback? I like that.”

  “I thought you would,” Hump said. “It’s like having a mountain named after you.”

  Art Maloney called back in ten minutes. “I was right about it. Bill Dexter in Intelligence has been keeping tabs on them. All the biker gangs. There was a big convention, or whatever they call it, here in town a few months back. Gangs from all over. There was a bit of trouble. Not as much as they expected but enough so that the Department decided to put a man on them part time.”

  “He know the Outlanders?”

  “It’s one of the new ones. A splinter off another gang. Dexter was at home and he doesn’t have his notes with him. In fact, he sounded like he’d had a few drinks. Couldn’t seem to remember much. Just enough. You know Greenwood, that circle that runs between Monroe and Charles Allen?”

  Hump said he did.

  “About halfway down the circle, on the left, there’s an old white frame house. It’s got a chain-link fence around the front yard. Usually there’s a bike or two in the yard. That’s where the Outlanders live. Or did.”

  “Thanks, Art.”

  “Where’s Hardman?”

  “At home sucking his thumb.”

  “You told him that?”

  “It was the truth.” Hump drew the cognac bottle toward him and tipped it and poured a big shot in his coffee cup. “I didn’t explain it. I didn’t say it was over some married woman you’d just met.”

  “Nice of you,” I said.

  “I thought so too. I couldn’t think of any reason why Art ought to know your business.”

  Even in the cold wind, the wind whipping down the street, the front yard smelled like a grease pit at a service station. Three “hogs” with the high chrome handlebars were parked in the right half of the rutted and almost grassless front yard.

  The windows were covered. Some light leaked from the sides. From the steps, Hump could hear hard rock played at some window-shaking and eardrum-breaking level. The porch creaked under his weight. He stopped. He needed some time to come up with a scam, some way of explaining why he’d dropped by. He’d tried two or three and discarded them when time ran out. He heard a chain rattle off to his right, at the far end of the porch.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Hump Evans.”

  “What you want?” Clump of heavy boots as the man moved from the darkness.

  “I’m visiting,” Hump said.

  “No way,” the man said. “This place is posted.”

  The man moved into the spill of light. He was big, six-two or so, and dressed all in leather. Black leather jacket and pants. He was white and his red hair was elaborately frizzled and curled. The chain rattled. The man carried about a five-foot length of chain. It was doubled over, the ends gripped in the man’s right hand. “Move on, boy.”

  “I need to see somebody.”

  “You’re seeing somebody,” the red-haired man said.

  “Carl Culp.”

  “He ain’t here. Try lighting a candle for him.”

  “You saying he’s dead?”

  “I didn’t say that.” The chain rattled. “Now get your ass off my porch.”

  “Not right away. First I want to find out where Carl …”

  Hump saw the man shove his left leg forward and plant it. The chain whipped back. Hump spoiled it by stepping in close. His right shoulder hit the man and threw him off balance. His left hand fumbled, caught the man’s right elbow, and slipped down until he gripped the wrist. He put
all the pressure on the wrist that he could. The man was strong. He didn’t release the chain.

  It was a standoff. The red-haired man tried a kick with his heavy boots. Hump felt the shift in weight and slipped the kick. When the foot drew back, Hump stepped on it and ground it down. The man yelled. “Shorty. Shorty.”

  The front door opened. Light flooded the part of the porch where Hump was. He turned his head and looked.

  A short, blocky man with black hair stood there. He wore jeans and a blue T-shirt. In one hand he held a .45 automatic. “What’s this shit?”

  “This spade is looking for Culp.”

  The short man curled his thumb upward and pulled back the hammer of the .45. “Step away or I’ll put a hole in you.”

  Hump shoved the red-haired man away and turned. He looked into the eye of the .45. “This hassle ain’t necessary. All I want to know is how I can get in touch with Carl Culp.”

  The red-haired man behind him hit him across the back of the neck with the length of chain. He didn’t go out but he fell to his knees. While he was on all fours the short man pushed away from the doorway and kicked him in the chest.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I touched the back of his neck. Hump winced and pushed my hand away. There were lumpy welts and the skin wasn’t broken. “How does it feel?”

  “It’s going to be a sore mother tomorrow,” he said.

  “Maybe we can hold the swelling down.” I got a plastic bag from the cabinet under the sink and filled it with ice cubes. I pressed it against the back of Hump’s neck and held it there until he reached back and caught it. “How’s your chest?”

  “I don’t think anything is broken. I’ve been counting ribs the last hour or so and I don’t seem to have any extra ones.”

  I sat down across the table from him. “So you were under the gun?”

  “And on the floor,” Hump said.

  He felt himself being dragged into the house. In the front room, the living room, there was the smell of hashish. The burnt-wood-chip smell. The one with the .45, Shorty, stepped away from Hump and said, “Watch him, Curly.”