A Bullet Apiece

A Bullet Apiece

© 2015, John Joseph Ryan

All rights reserved.

Published by Blank Slate Press
An imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group

Pub Date: July 28, 2015

For information, contact
[email protected]

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-943075-01-0 / Price: 15.95

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-943075-02-7 / Price: 9.99

Chief Inspector Bertie Albanese flicked the little gray spider scrambling toward his drink and sent it flying off the desk.

 
“Bad luck, Bertie.”

“Yeah? Why's that?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Old wives' tale, I guess. Keep one spider around the house.”

“Your office count?”

I smiled. “Sure. I'm here enough.”

He called Hi-Lo and dealt the cards. I lit a cigarette in the meantime, and offered him one out of dull habit and easy humor. Bertie doesn't smoke. He's working on being a model policeman, too. Chief inspector. Husband. Father-to-be. If he ever quits drinking, I don't know what we'll have in common. A two of spades and a ten of diamonds came up. I called low.

Bertie was quiet for a time as we played. We know each other too well for such a silence to be comfortable, despite what some people say. I wondered briefly, as I often did, if he still felt he owed me. We'd each taken bullets before, and mine was for him. He joked that he'd make it up some day. I'd say time was running out since we weren't getting any younger. I had a knee that broadcast rain warnings and he had a trick shoulder, but other than that we were fit as Ozark fiddles. Whatever the hell that means.

“So, play it straight, Ed. Got anything of interest?”

I looked through my office windows and sighed before replying. “Nothing that isn't heat related. A delinquent kid suspected of joy riding, sneaking out at night and not coming in till right before dawn. I followed him on foot one night. He ran the whole way,
 
too fast for me to keep up.”

Bertie chuckled. “What about your car?”

“Too late to go back for it. Plus, I didn't figure I'd be able to stay out of sight.”

“So, then what?”

“The next two nights, nothing. Then on the third night, pay-dirt. I borrowed a bicycle—”

“You? On a bike?” He laughed.

“I haven't forgotten. Hurts your nuts though. I hadn't been on one since I was a kid.”

“What, and now your package is an impediment?”

“And how. So, anyway, I borrowed a bike. I waited down the street from the kid's house. He lives in Maplewood, near the city limits. He went out on foot, and I was stumbling around on this five-speed, my camera bouncing around my neck, and even hittin' me in the face at one point. Practically gave me a bloody nose. When he got up to Forest Park, I ditched the bike in some trees and decided I'd be better hoofin' it. He took a trail into the woods right at the Skinker entrance.”

“Don't tell me.”

“I'm tellin'. As soon as he went in, I knew what was up. I thought about the nasty party pics I'd have to take of the kid with some desperate middle-aged man. I didn't have it in me to snap any pictures.”

“What'd you do?”

“I got an eyeful of some guy dropping his pants and the kid going down on his knees and got out of there.”

“You tell the mother?”

“Had to. She was the client, right? I told her he snuck off into the woods and gave her the intersection. The look on her face told me she understood the implication, but she couldn't acknowledge it. The next night she followed him. With a bat.”

“Shit.”

“Yes, sir. She beat the hell out of some fat sap and left him in a coma. She dragged the boy home and then beat him. The neighbors heard the screaming and called the police.”

“Bad scene.”

“Tell me about it. I still haven't gotten paid.”

“You're all heart, Ed.”

“I don't get paid to write romance novels with happy endings. Just think if I had given her photographs, hunh?”

“True.” He called high and beat me. Again.

Bertie stretched out his legs and said it was time for him to take his leave. He had to drop off some paperwork before his afternoon shift, and I made a half-hearted promise to beat him in a chess game soon. As the door to my office opened, the humidity rushed in, even though my office windows face west and the sun was hovering east of the building. My office is a retail storefront in a light industrial court, not too seedy, definitely not ritzy. On slow days, I bide my time watching men in everything from suits to coveralls, women coming off shift work chatting and smoking in groups, and—of all things—children playing outside the experimental preschool across the road. I've never understood whose bright idea it was to wedge a school between medical-technology and paper-clip factories, but I don't mind. The kids' voices remind me of the sea, rising and falling in waves, sometimes rushing at me, other times fading away to nothing. Maybe it's a strange place for a private detective's office, but hey, the rent's cheap.

Some might think blonde bombshells hustle through my door on a weekly basis, looking for help out of messes good looks and bad luck have gotten them tangled up in. Yeah, right. That only happens in the movies. Most guys in this business would be too busy trying to figure out the buttons on her skirt to do anything like solve a case. Myself included. This work's dull, lonely, and fraught with hazards. If a chance came along to help a woman in distress who wasn't a dumpy housewife chasing her deadbeat husband, or an old woman ducking insurance chiselers, I'd be there with bells on—with plenty of gin back in my apartment. But then I already have that, of course.

I looked at my watch. I scratched something dried and crusty off the face of it: only 11:08
a.m
. Too early for a drink, but not another smoke. Besides, it was only my second of the day. Lately, I'd been skipping the morning cigarette because my heart started hammering double-time. I'm not giving it too much thought, though. No need for a doc, really. I have a good family history. Besides, it's 1960. I'm sure in ten years we'll all get new hearts at the A&P.

I smoked three more cigarettes, and thought about reorganizing my closed-case files again. Occasionally, I call former clients as a courtesy check-in. Really though, I'm fishing for new investigative possibilities. I am not a proud man.

Instead, I turned my focus outside. It was just about time for the preschool's morning pickup. From the vantage point behind my desk, I could see part of the front entrance, and most of the fenced-in yard next to it. Amidst the dingy, concrete-laden industrial buildings, the place was fresh, new. Along either side of the entry, late spring irises stood at attention saluting the sun and greeting everyone who entered. The Bradford Pear trees, leaves plump and full of life, promised to provide respite from the soon-to-come Midwest humidity.

First one sedan showed up, then two wagons, then another sedan, then three wagons in succession. Boom, boom, boom. It's a regular bottleneck four times a day: drop off, pick up; drop off, pick up. I recognized most of the cars by now, including which mother goes with which car and which kid. A few of the moms are hot stuff, and they know it. Today, one car I always watched for hadn't shown yet: a snazzy Cadillac coupe convertible, radio loud enough to fill a concert hall. Late as usual. But a tardy's not what I'd slip her. At last she showed.

First, the sharp and tinny bebop strains slid under the thin glass of my front door, followed by the dim roar of the coupe shifting down. As she pulled up to the school, her brakes eeked out the slightest squeal, and she was out almost before the car rocked to a stop. I caught first, her long left leg as she slid it from the car, then its shapely twin. As she pushed the door further, and stepped out of the car, she stood and stretched her bare, slender arms down to smooth her skirt. A slight breeze caught her brown hair and swished it across her face. She swiped the strands away, revealing full red lips that caused my own lips to curl up in a smile. As usual, she seemed to look over at my window. I always got the feeling that behind her sunglass-hidden eyes, she was scoping for admirers, which didn't include the likes of me. She stood up fully and slammed the car door with force ending in delicacy, like she was checking a violent impulse. She headed toward the pre-school door, hips swaying back and forth like they were propelling themselves against each other, trying to burst free from the taut tweed. At the entrance she shook her head to one side to fluff out her hair and examined the effect in the door's reflective glass. Then, holding onto the door handle, she raised one leg and bent slightly to tighten the strap of her sandals. I pulled out another cigarette.

In a moment she was gone, the dark glass sealing her inside. Watching her day after day, I'd started to get ideas.
Maybe she'll stop just looking over and come in. Maybe I'll lock the door and draw the blinds. Maybe she'll sit on top of my desk, hike up her skirt, and tell me how bad she's been. Maybe.
I lit my cigarette and was about to tap the first ash when the front door of the preschool burst open. It was the leggy brunette, followed by one of the teachers. Although the brunette's eyes were invisible behind her glasses, her fear was evident. It radiated off her like heat waves. The teacher, close behind, was talking, her face a blend of apology and worry. Within seconds, the brunette brought the Caddy to life. She backed the car up, tires squealing to a halt, then, glaring over at my window, slammed the car into gear and peeled out of sight.

It took me only a second to make my decision. I yanked my feet off my desk and hurried out the door. The teacher was still standing outside, staring through the dust left by the coupe. I hustled across the street.

“Ed Darvis.” I pointed back at my sign. “Is everything all right?”

The young woman looked at me blankly. She had a ladybug stenciled in paint on one cheek. Then her mouth opened just slightly and she spoke in a soft voice that trembled. “Her, her husband picked up their daughter. I … I thought it was all right.”

“What gives—?” I began, then stopped myself. From the tears welling up on her lids, it looked like the ladybug was in danger of turning impressionistic any second. “So? Are they divorced?” Real soft.

“No, they're not. I don't understand.”

“Has he picked up the girl before?” I hadn't seen any unusual cars today.

“Only once. That was last year.” A certain reality was hitting her. The tears began their assault on the ladybug. “I didn't know. I didn't know!”

I reached out my hand and squeezed her shoulder. As I did, she turned her eyes up to me.

“It's okay. Now, what is it?”

She wiped her face, smearing any hope of retouching the ladybug. “She … she just told me. God, she just told me!”

My PI senses piqued, I gripped her shoulder harder. My soft touch was about to go poof.

“Come on, now,” I said, “tell me. I might be able to help.”

She stared up the road, momentarily composing herself. Without looking at me, she said, “She said her husband died last winter.”

The teacher turned and ran back inside. To call the police, I assumed, and I didn't stand in her way. The cops would reassure her. I would reassure the brunette. That is, if she came back. Since I was some kind of witness, I stuck around for the police—it would give me a way in. Another cigarette later, I watched as the young teacher reemerged, again tearful. She walked around me, looking up the road. I offered her half a smile and a full cigarette. She didn't take either.

I live in District 9, and my office is in District 2. Although I'm in good with a handful of veteran cops, I didn't know either of the two young guys they dispatched. They approached us warily, jaws set, one easing his hat down on the high-and-tight haircut. As they approached, Mr. High-and-Tight spoke up, “Did you make the call to us, ma'am?” The other officer drew closer to me, looking from behind his shades, saying nothing.

“Yes, I did. I'm Marni Reyes. I called you. I work here.” She recited this information with the certainty of a preschooler who had just learned her address and phone number. The dark door of the school opened momentarily. I caught a glimpse of grey hair before it closed.

“Who are you?” Officer High-and-Tight asked, standing by me, just out of arm's reach. One hand rested on his hip, while the other hung near his nightstick. Standard police academy stuff. I was about to get smart and ask why I didn't get a “sir,” but he didn't look the type to understand sarcasm.

“Ed Darvis.” I reached for my wallet. The young cop's nightstick-hand flinched. I smiled at him, slowly took out my wallet, and produced a business card. He looked at it.

“A private dick, huh?” He seemed to enjoy saying that. His partner was sizing me up now, too. Well, good on you, I thought. Welcome to your first encounter with the grey side of the law.

“An investigator, yes,” I said. “My office is right across the street. I was watching before the call was made. This young woman here looked distraught, so I came out to see if I could help.”

“You were peeping?” The second cop said.
Do they train them with police shows nowadays
?

“I was sitting at my desk. If you look over, you'll notice the big window of my office happens to face the school.” I added, “Kind of hard to miss.”

He didn't like that, and I didn't like him. He was wasting time getting tough with me while this teacher wasn't looking any more reassured for having called the police. I still had my wallet in my hand. I handed her two cards. “Please keep one for yourself, Miss Reyes. And if, uh, what is the mother's name?”