A Bullet Apiece (12 page)

Miss Brennan lived on a quiet street in Richmond Heights, an inner-ring suburb. Bertie doused the car lights and parked up the block. He checked his service revolver, then opened the glove box and withdrew his backup .38. He held it out to me.

“Now that's my style,” I said.

“C'mon. Let's head up the alley behind the house.”

“Want to call for backup?”

“We don't want a landing party just yet.”

We cut through a sideyard to the back alley. There was only one street lamp, so we kept to the shadows pretty easily. When we approached Miss Brennan's one-car garage, Bertie risked turning on his flashlight. Shucks, no Jag. Instead, a late-model Ford sedan, most likely Miss Brennan's.

Bertie clicked off the light, and I followed him through the chain link gate to the backyard. Postage-stamp sized, it was neatly ordered with flower beds on both sides. We stayed to the left and softly approached a window facing the back. Both Bertie and I chanced a peek inside. The room, dimly lit, emphasized the outline of one massive man sitting on a wooden chair in the doorway, his back turned—Meeki Osagae. Bertie looked over at me, his eyes betraying his thoughts—‘That is one gargantuan man'. I raised my eyebrows in acknowledgement.

Looking again into the room, we saw a bed next to the door and a night light on the opposite wall. In the bed a small form lay, covered with a blanket. Only the back of the head was visible. If that wasn't Rachel Hanady, then it was time for me to retire.

Bertie gestured for me to follow him up the breezeway to the front of the house. I felt my hand clenching the .38 by reflex. As we neared the front, we stopped to peer into the side window. Although a shade had been pulled down nearly all the way, we could still see into the room. A table lamp lit the wall, providing the sole illumination. In the armchair next to it, Miss Brennan sat smoking. Guess she allowed that in her own house, if not at Hanady's office. We could hear a man talking, but we couldn't see him. The even tone, emitted in a steady tenor, broke, and he began shouting. Shit, I thought, somehow he's seen us. Instinctively, I started to push Bertie into deeper darkness. He pulled away from me, never taking his eyes off the window. When I looked back inside, seeing that Miss Brennan's expression hadn't changed, I blew out a sigh of relief. She took another drag off of her cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray next to her, then folded her arms across her chest. The man came into view and stood over her, pointing a finger that held a burning cigarette. He wore a white button-down shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up, tan arms exposed. Well, well, well. The pitched, high voice should have tipped me off in the first place. Tom Hanady.

Ashes from his cigarette fell onto Miss Brennan's skirt. She didn't flinch. Even though his words were clearer now, what amazed me was that she seemed undaunted by his rant. When more ashes fell, she merely unfolded one arm and brushed them from her skirt. Considering who she was dealing with, I thought she was one ballsy lady.

Before I could continue to admire Miss Brennan, I heard the definitive clicking of heels on the sidewalk. Bertie and I ducked down against the house. We raised our guns, ready to defend ourselve, but the heels clicked up the front steps and then we heard the door open. I raised up and looked back inside. Tom Hanady stood with his finger still pointed at Miss Brennan. She was no longer relaxed. Now she sat on the edge of her chair, both hands on the arms, as if ready to bolt. Both looked at the front door. The unmistakable look of astonishment—and fear—registered on their faces. A muted female voice came into the room, and they both raised their hands into the air. Tom began backing up.

“Bertie!” I whispered harshly.

“Yeah,” he said.

We bolted for the front door

Just as we reached the porch, we heard two snaps from a small-caliber revolver. A woman screamed. I stood to one side of the doorframe and yanked open the screen door. Bertie leveled his gun and burst into the room. I rushed in behind him, the .38 pointed dead ahead.

There stood Jerri Hanady, a gun hanging limply from her hands. In front of her, Miss Brennan, her eyes wide with shock, stood frozen, like Lot's wife on a dress rehearsal, her hands still in the air. Tom Hanady lay on his back. He tried to brace himself up, but fell back, pain overtaking him. He moaned as a dark circle of blood grew from his groin, while another flowered across his chest.

Bertie yelled, “Police! Drop the gun!”

Mrs. Hanady's gun fell to the floor with a thud. Miss Brennan, finding her voice, started screaming.
 
I came around Bertie and grabbed the weapon. Tom Hanady was writhing now, croaking, his lips twisting in agony. I stood back up, but stopped. Across the room, Meeki Osagae filled the hallway door.

The giant wore the same grin as the night he sapped me. His hideous scars were muted in the low light. Under one of his bulging arms, he held Rachel Hanady, unconscious and slack in his grip. In his other hand, he trained a black .45, right at Rachel's lolling head. Her eyelids fluttered, then closed again.

“Mrs. Hanady,” began Bertie. “Step to one side.” She didn't budge. With his gun steadily trained on Meekie, Bertie said, “Ed. . . .”

Never taking my eyes from Meeki, or lowering my own gun, I pulled Jerri Hanady back with one hand and coaxed her down onto a love seat. Her numb expression did not change. Miss Brennan, still wild-eyed and trembling, collapsed into the armchair beside her. She clutched at a glass on the table next to her and sipped, looking up at Bertie and me, as though for permission. She spilled some of the drink on her shirtfront, but didn't bother to wipe it off as she put the glass to her lips. Tom Hanady had fallen unconscious. His shallow, rasping breaths barely blew out of his gaping mouth.

I glanced side-long at Bertie. His face was hard. I knew he was assessing the situation, performing mental triage, even as he stared straight ahead. Everyone, it seemed, was waiting to see what would happen next. Which gunman would make the first move. Everyone, that is,who wasn't unconscious and bleeding or catatonic.

Finally, Bertie spoke, his tone dull, quiet. “Your boss here is going to die if we don't get an ambulance.”

Meeki's grin deepened. “What's that to me?”

“No boss. No job. No pay.”

“That don't matter now. You see, I got the girl.” Meeki bounced Rachel's limp, little body beneath his arm.

“Yes, you do. But why don't you give Rachel to her mother. Then we can talk.”

Meeki let out a resonant laugh. “I don't think so. She's coming with me.”

“Where to?”

“Bar-r-r-r-r-anquilla!” Meeki said, with a firm trill.

“What good is she to you there?” Bertie asked. He shuffled forward slightly, passing off the move as a shift in posture.

“She may be a calf now, but she'll be of age one day. Plus, I got me a new boss.” Meeki grinned widely.
 
He was just full of grins. Anger swelling inside of me, I pointed my gun at his head. Just one bullet. That's all I needed. “Tom Hanady,” he spat, shifting Rachel's weight on his hip, “Tom Hanady? Man, he's small potatoes. He started somethin', but now we got investors.”

“What do you mean?” I cut in. Meeki looked at me, looked into my gun.

“Man, we got guys with elephant guns. Hell. . . ,” He started cackling, “we got guys with elephant dicks.”

“What do you mean?” I asked again. “Mob guys? Local thugs? Or just plain jerk-offs?”

He ventured another laugh. “I tol' you, dick-tective—investors. They got such a plan. You know how much it cost to adopt? We got all the locals tied up. Money come in through them. Money come in through the girls, spreadin' for green tissue. Money come in for drinks, rooms, live entertainment. They got a whole industry goin' down there! Tom Hanady? He was just,”—and in a mock upper-class tone—“the c
ah
talyst.”

“You know you're not going to leave,” Bertie said.

“Ha. I know how you want to play this,” Meeki said. “But it ain't gonna work your way. I'm taking the girl and we're going out the back door.”

Jerri Hanady stood up. She walked by me, zombie-like, nudging my gun hand. “Mrs. Hanady. Jerri. Don't,” I commanded. She kept moving forward, her arms out in front of her as though she were caressing the air.

“Stop there if you want her to stay alive,” Meeki said, his grin gone. Jerri Hanady fell to her knees, feet away from Meeki. No sooner had she doubled over and started sobbing, than Bertie's revolver flashed. A shrill ring pierced my left ear. Meeki's gun hand jerked away from Rachel Hanady, and blood spurted from his upper arm. Rachel slipped out of his other arm onto the floor. Then Meeki used his good arm to raise his gun hand back up at Bertie. Just as he pulled the trigger, I snapped off a shot and hit the side of Meeki's neck. Blood spurted sideways. Bertie buckled and fell to the floor next to me. Without thinking, and before Meeki could squeeze the trigger again, I advanced on him fast, firing continually at point blank range. Spatters of blood erupted from his chest, dousing my gun hand. One bullet hit his mouth, crushing his awful teeth. As I fired the last bullet, his idiot eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped into the hallway.

I stepped over the prostrate Jerri Hanady, still rocking back and forth, still wailing, and still oblivious to her daughter lying cock-angled against the wall. The room filled with thick, acrid gunsmoke, and the sickening smell of blood. I kicked Meeki, even though I knew he was dead.
 
Then I knelt down and felt Rachel Hanady's neck. She had a weak pulse. Bertie. I hurried over to him—ignoring Miss Brennan who was about to go in full-throttle hysterics. “Shut up!” I yelled as I knelt down next to Bertie. He looked up at me, pleading. He pressed his hands against his mid-section. God. Gut shot.

“Bertie? Bertie!” My voice seemed layered in vacuum cleaner noise, which actually was Miss Brennan, her screams battling past the ringing in my ears. I yelled at her again. “For God's sake, shut up and call for help!”

Bertie's glazed and questioning eyes found mine. I whipped off my coat and pushed it against his hand covering his abdomen.

“Bertie. Hang on. You're gonna be all right.” I looked around wildly to see Miss Brennan. When she saw the look on my face, she jumped for a phone. “Hurry, dammit!” I screamed as I looked back down at Bertie. “Hang on, buddy. Hang on.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jerri Hanady finally crawl out of her stupor and pull her daughter gently from the wall and clutch her to her breast. Sobbing, she rocked Rachel back and forth. Miss Brennan hung up the phone and knelt next to Tom Hanady. She cradled his head on her lap and began rubbing her hand over his forehead and cooing to him. He looked as good as dead.

What a scene we must have presented as the police stormed into the room, followed by the ambulance attendants, once they were cleared to enter. Three people bent over ones they loved in the settled gunsmoke and the pooling blood. A lone giant crumpled and shattered at the end of the room.

The whole neighborhood was drawn to the spectacle of lurid yellow crime-scene tape and parti-colored lights flashing off the windows of parked cars and housefronts around Miss Brennan's bungalow. So many fire and police vehicles crammed the narrow street, that I flashed briefly to our ridiculous grouping in the airplane earlier. This time wasn't so funny. Nearly half the former occupants of Miss Brennan's bungalow needed medical attention.

We were all parceled out in separate rides. Tom Hanady and Meeki Osagae had a date with the Medical Examiner. Miss Brennan was taken to the police station. Rachel Hanady and Bertie were loaded into separate ambulances. Mrs. Hanady and I hooked a ride with officers Hamilton and Enshaw. It took ten precious minutes to shift around the emergency vehicles and locate a few dumbstruck homeowners to move their goddamn cars out of the way so Bertie and Rachel could get priority. Then you had the onlookers to keep pushing back. At one point a little girl in a bathrobe, steered around by her father, stared at me through the window of the police cruiser, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, absorbing my image with a child's guilelessness. For reasons I can't explain, it took everything for me not to cover my face. By the time we all reached St. Mary's hospital, Miss Brennan was most likely under intense interrogation. Rachel and Bertie had been whisked into the ER. Mrs. Hanady and I were relegated to the ER Waiting Room. Officers Hamilton and Enshaw stood grimly on either side of us, looking tired, already jaded, despite their youth. Detective Marconi went to get some coffees.

Fortunately, Rachel Hanady had only been drugged, the doctor—a woman of fine, handsome features—advised Jerri Hanady. “We won't know with what, until the drug tests come back,” the doctor said. “Once she's stabilized on an I.V. drip, she'll be taken to the Children's Ward. You can see her now, if you like.”

Officers Hamilton and Enshaw, exasperated in the delay getting her to the station, started walking Mrs. Hanady a bit roughly toward her daughter's room. Detective Marconi stopped them. “Give her some time. She's not going anywhere.” Marconi handed me a cup of coffee and motioned for me to take a seat. He sat down beside me. He was a pal and took my statement right there in the waiting room.

“Forensics will see if the bullets from Meeki's gun match the round that killed Officer Frederick.” Marconi's manner told me it was likely a foregone conclusion. And, at this point, as long as I cooperated, the Frederick murder was an open-and-shut case before the people of the state of Missouri, and I would be cleared. I was probably off the hook.

After Marconi finished with me, he gave Hamilton and Enshaw the go-ahead to retrieve Jerri Hanady and take her to the station.

As they brought her out into the waiting room, both with a hand on her elbows, I got up and stopped in front of them. “Jerri, I'll come in to see you. Tomorrow morning, okay?” She nodded at me, her face blanched, but now fully aware of what was going on. I thought it was nice that someone, maybe a nurse, had the decency to wipe away her black, caked mascara.

As the officers escorted Mrs. Hanady to a waiting car, I paced the floor and sipped the black coffee absently. There'd still been no news about Bertie. Detective Marconi and I watched the business of the ER comings and goings—a howling boy holding his arm, led in by his distraught mother; two nurses hustling through the swinging doors as a ‘Code Blue' sounded over the intercom; an irate man with a large belly poking out from under a way-too-small t-shirt leaning over the admitting nurse's desk, giving her a hard time. I felt Marconi's eyes on me.

“All right, Ed. Let's hit it. I'll give you a ride,” he said.

I was about to launch another joke about taking rides from police officers, but not knowing Bertie's status, I didn't have it in me. Instead I said, “I'll take the bus. I want to wait for Bertie's prognosis.”

“You think I don't wanna know, too?” he asked. His hard manner caught me off-guard. He turned to interrupt my line of sight with the nurse's station. “We've got two precincts worth of worried cops. We'll get news when we get it. C'mon with me.”

I didn't know if this was shift's-end crabbiness, or a prelude to further questioning, or what. Something in his manner told me not to disagree.
 
“All right. Let me just drop my card at the nurse's station.”

“Fine. Don't try to pick her up.”

I nodded and made a brief visit to the seated nurse. After extending her my card, she handed me a paper towel to wipe the blood from my hands. As I walked back to Marconi, his agitation manifested again. He began chewing a thumb nail and tapping his foot. When he saw me, her wheeled around to leave. I followed him out through the sliding glass doors.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah. It's just fuckin' hospitals.” He didn't elaborate, and I didn't press. Sometimes the wise detective keeps his questions to himself.

When we got into his unmarked car, he said,
 
“Where to?” It took me a minute to gather my thoughts and remember just where the hell my car was.

“My office.”

It seemed like a month since I'd seen my bed. Truth was, only about eight hours had elapsed between waking up from my dead nap earlier in the evening and stepping back into my apartment now. The time on my wall clock was 3:30. That was
a.m
. The past two days seemed to be compressed into one long sleepless, bloody episode. But I knew if I didn't eat before I crashed, I'd be through. So, I cracked three eggs into a hot skillet and made white toast. As the eggs cooked, I decided to try my luck on another orange. It was so sweet that I gobbled up the other two on the counter while I flipped eggs and buttered toast. I ate standing up. I knew I wouldn't make it to my bed if I sat down. Afterward, I lit a cigarette, and this time didn't have to pretend to enjoy it. For dessert, I grabbed my tallest glass from the cabinet, plunged in some ice, and topped it off with the rest of the scotch I had bought, when? Last night? The night before? It would sort itself out later.

I carried my scotch into my room. I didn't bother to turn on the light. Out of habit, I found my bedside table in the dark. I set the glass down, kicked off my shoes, and unbuttoned the top of my shirt. I stopped and took one more slug of my drink. And that was it. I was gone.

I woke up with a start to full daylight. As I sat up, shirt and pants still on, I rubbed my face. A final nightmare image of Meeki's scarred cheeks and laughing teeth filled my vision until they exploded in blood spray and bone fragments. I slapped my face and felt something like consciousness. My alarm clock showed 8:30. I stood up and headed into the kitchen.
 
God, I needed coffee.

While it brewed, I called St. Mary's. Bertie Albanese was still critical, but stable. They'd taken him to surgery to repair his intestines. The single bullet had cut through on his right side, missing other neatly-packed vital organs. Barring any serious infection, his early prognosis looked good. I leaned my head back and flicked my eyes heavenward.

My next call was to the District 9 station. When I identified myself, the desk sergeant sounded like an old buddy. Kill a cop-killer and you get all the love. He told me that Jerri Hanady had been released on bond, and that Miss Brennan was still being held. That meant she wasn't talking. Had to hand it to her. Even though her boss no longer had a care in the world, she was still protecting him. Or maybe just herself.

Next, I planned my call to Jerri Hanady. It wouldn't be easy to talk with a client who just killed her husband. Maybe I'd better do it from the office. I showered, shaved, and changed my clothes. I felt like a new man, born again, somehow from the detritus of death.

I arrived in the industrial court at about 9:30. It was bright out, but the sunshine didn't seem so punishing. The kids were playing in the fenced yard next to the preschool. I watched them for a full minute before going inside my office. When this was all over, I would pay a personal visit to Marni Reyes, too.

Inside my office, I just stood there, staring with unfocused eyes at my desk. For the life of me, I couldn't remember why I had decided to go there. The phone. Right. Ella, the Hanady's cook, answered after six rings. She spoke in a hushed tone.

“Miss Ella,” I said, “this is Ed Darvis.”

Before I could ask to speak to Mrs. Hanady, Ella said, “She sleepin', Mr. Dahvis.”

“That's good. Don't wake her on my account. I'll be in my office all afternoon. She can reach me later.”

“I'll be sure to tell her you called.”

I hung up, leaned back in my chair, and put my feet up on my desk to wait—and think. Again, my thoughts turned to Meeki. He'd mentioned investors in Colombia. I pictured fat, rich, bald Americans getting heavy on young field workers. Were the girls just used for sex? No, they were impregnated, too. Baby-making machines. I snorted as I wondered if they were seeded according to some sick design. I wondered how many other adoptions had gone through besides Rachel's. I shook off more questions. All this was just too much to take in. And, with weird relief, I figured it was a federal issue now. Extradition. Grand Juries. I would have to testify in Jerri Hanady's trial. That I knew. She wasn't gas chamber material, but if she was lucky, she'd get manslaughter and ten years. Maybe a partially suspended sentence. And, of course, there was her daughter to consider. For a brief time inside Miss Brennan's bungalow, I wondered if Meeki had molested her. I didn't have the luxury of contemplating her health in such a tense scene, but now thoughts of the giant petting her, or doing worse, filled my head. I shook my head to banish my thoughts about the little girl.
This is a hell of a way to make a living for a couple day's work
. Then it hit me.
If
I even got fucking paid.

I stood up and looked outside as some of the leaves on the Bradford Pears rocked back and forth in the breeze. Tomorrow I'd try to get in to see Bertie. That bullet he took could have been for me. We were even now. A bullet for each other. A bullet apiece. But then, I was just counting for the hell of it, because friends never owe.

In a couple of hours the afternoon pickup would begin across the street. Maybe I'd cut across after that and find Marni Reyes. Maybe I'd just leave her the hell alone.

In the meantime, I decided to ignore everything else I should be doing. I owed it to myself. I lit a cigarette, sat down, and propped my feet back up on the desk. As the pear trees swayed, the image of Meeki Osagae's dead face seemed to materialize amid their black boughs. I shuddered to shake the vision.

*
  
*
  
*

I woke up with a start, my shirtfront soaking wet.

Stiff, I pulled myself up and stretched as I walked over to the counter and put some coffee on to brew. Then I lit another cigarette. Then I stubbed it out.

I picked up a crushed butt off the linoleum.

I sorted through some bills on my desktop.

I put my feet back up on the desk thought about my life.

Tired of everything—my routine, the shitty hands I kept getting dealt, my job, my life, myself, I picked up the phone. The business with Broad Jimmy—and my being an accomplice in hiding a murder—still had to be dealt with. Maybe he'd want to decline my services at this point. That would be AOK. Hell, at this point, I wanted him to.

I called my answering service. I had two messages. I could tell by the eager tone in the messenger's voice—that brief note that masked the ever-funny ‘yuck, yuck, yuck' I imagined she'd shared with her fellow messengers—that she'd been looking forward to this call.

“The first is from a man named Jimmy.”

“Yeah.”

“He said—um—do you want me to quote, or just paraphrase?”

“Is it quotable?”

She snickered. “Well, yes . . . and no. There's some language. . . .”

“I can take it, if you can, honey.”

“Here goes, then. But don't say I didn't warn you.” At this she laughed. “He said, ‘Darvis, you dick-smoking PI, where the hell are you?'” I heard giggles in the background. Her sidekicks most likely listening in. “‘Pull your pud out of your light socket, comb your hair back down, and get your flabby ass down to my place. Pronto'.
 
Then he spelled out the word
 
‘pronto'. Shall I spell it out for you, too?” Without waiting, she started, “P-R-O—.”

“I think I got it. Anything more?”

“No.” She sounded disappointed by my lack of reaction. She added, “Isn't that enough?!” Her full-throated laugh, followed by some harsh shushing, set me on edge. “But I do think he may have tried to pick me up. He sounded a little bit in his cups.”