A Bullet Apiece (19 page)

I stayed up till about 3:00
a.m.
with Holland. He wanted to keep talking, replaying the evening's events until they took on the gloss of a polished keepsake. He would tell this story for the rest of his life. I listened as well as I could, occasionally filling him in on what parts of the case I thought he'd want to hear. He grew chattier with the booze, while I found myself sinking down in my seat. Not easy to do in a rattan chair. Eventually, he was out of gas. It happened suddenly with a big yawn. I told him he'd better sleep. Tomorrow might bring a fresh round of questioning, especially when—or if—Kira regained consciousness.

Going back into my apartment, I stepped over the bloodstain like it was a puppy turd I was too tired to deal with. When this was all over, I'd have to spend a long time contemplating whether I wanted that emblem in blood to figure in my death, too. I think I already knew the answer.

I stripped off my clothes down to a tanktop T-shirt and boxers. The bedroom felt pretty cool, a little moist, but cool. I turned off the window fan and lay under a sheet. Looking up at the ceiling, I waited for unconsciousness to take over. The good kind. The kind brought on by booze, not a choking grip.

I woke up to the phone ringing. It might have been ringing for a while by the time I realized what insistent sound was disturbing my sleep. I picked it up and scratched at my balls.

“Ed? It's Bertie.”

I felt relieved and tense at once. “Bertie, what's new?”

“So, I've just heard quite a story. With your name attached to it.”

"I win the sweepstakes?" I swallowed dryly. My heart flopped and fluttered.

“Not quite. Attempted murder after forced entry. Happened on my turf, so I got the report.”

“I'd be the vic. Attempted, that is. I've already been grilled to a nice golden brown by your friends, by the way.” That sounded snide and peremptory. Before I could correct myself, Bertie resumed.

“Well this bright penny detective
has
got some answering to do. Not only that, he's looking at a subpoena for two, maybe three trials. Coming soon to Market Street.”

I restrained myself from cursing. Bertie is so smooth he can guide the conversation from easy banter to gravity, all in the same effortless tone. It works on suspects. Now, he was working it on me.

“All right, Bertie. Who wants to meet me and when?”

“Well, I know I interrupted your beauty rest. It's 10:15 now—you know, some people keep regular hours—how about noon? Start with Dave Fleischman at the Five and you can work your way around the illustrious districts of St. Louis's Finest.”

“I've already had the honor. Last evening. And I have to thank—“

“Well, there's more to come, so look sharp and don't be late.”

“All right. I'll, uh, I'll be ready.” In the pause that followed, I could almost hear the disgusted look forming on his face. I got a sour feeling.

“Ed, that's not all,” he began. “Bad news, depending on how you want to look at it.”

“Let me guess. Kira?”

“She died this morning. Cardiac arrest.”

I looked at my pale, flat feet. “Holland won't take this well.”

“No, maybe not. He was saving you, though, don't forget.”

“I know.” And I saved you, let us remember. “But think of it. He's an artist, not in the life. Such as we call ours.”

“True.”

For a few seconds we didn't speak. I pulled out a cigarette.“So now what?”“Well, Simon and Broad Jimmy are already in custody. Some of my men are interrogating this Ichiro. They'll break him. Not that there's much left to break.”

“What's gonna happen to Jimmy?” I more or less knew the answer.

“He's a cop-killer, Ed. Even with your testimony—which, I'm afraid, doesn't add much as far as the judge is concerned—he's gonna go up the ladder fast. If he feels lucky to be alive, he'll sit in a cell in Gumbo till he rots. Whether he feels that way or not, the State of Missouri might decide to make him a deterrent and give him the gas in Jeff City.”

“Dammit.” I drew on the cigarette. It tasted like a mildewed rag. “Not even his service will be a mitigating factor?”

“I don't care to speculate, Ed. Now, you will be a help against Ichiro and Simon. Problem is, Simon alleges you broke into his house and beat him senseless. If that's true that doesn't help your case out much.” He waited on the line, as though his last statement were a question.

“You know how I operate sometimes, Bertie.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I do. And I'm not—I can't protect you on that one.”

“I know.” And I wouldn't ask. I don't think I'll be able to ask again. “What about The Beef?”

“Let's just stick with the known facts. Broad Jimmy hired you to investigate his killing. That's all I've told anyone about.” I could imagine something distasteful had crawled up his throat. “Simon was his murderer. You helped uncover that. Maybe the end will justify your means.”

“Simon out of the hospital yet?”

“Yeah. He's in a holding cell in District Four. They'll transfer him to our jurisdiction later today.”

“Why don't I feel good about any of this?” It was a rhetorical question.

“Something I'd like to know is what Officer Downing was doing at Broad Jimmy's. What he was
really
doing there.”

I considered what to say. “The Beef pissed him off. He was contemplating a little off-the-clock time with him. Not murder—and I'm confident of that. He got tangled up at the wrong time.”

“Downing was a good beat cop. Young. No violations of protocol. He's got a wife. Everything was in front of him for the asking.”

“Believe me, if there's anything I could have done at that moment—”

“I know that, Ed. Look,” he paused again as though prolonging this conversation could only hurt him. “I'm gonna pass you the name and number of that attorney. He's done a helluva job for some of our guys.”

“You included?”

Bertie waited. “No. I've never needed him.”

That's fair.

“I'm gonna ring off. They're gonna let me walk around outside today. They say it's cooled off. I might even be released in a couple of days. Stay at home or the office. Don't stray from the known numbers, all right?”

“Sure.” I didn't bring up the resumption of our card games, or promise to visit again.

“See you later, Ed.”

I couldn't bring myself to say anything. He hung up before I had a chance. I ran my fingers through my thinning hair.
Sorry, Bertie. Don't cut me out.

I showered and got dressed. I made coffee, again doubling the usual heaping quantity of grounds. I popped some aspirin, too. The combination of strangulation and gin made for a neato headache. My tongue felt like it had spoken its fill, giving voice to the rotten thoughts swirling in my mind.

I pulled into my office in the industrial court around 11:30. The sky was washed of storm clouds and pollution, leaving a beautiful blue with high fans of cirrus. It was cool out, too, just like Bertie had said—maybe in the seventies. I unlocked my office and sat behind the desk. My old chair swayed back on its creaky springs. I put my feet up and lit a smoke. From this vantage point the Bradford Pears outside screened the blue sky, but I could see the street and the preschool. I wondered where Rachel Hanady was and if she'd be back at school anytime soon. What the Feds had discovered, if anything, about the adoption operation in Columbia. How Jerri was doing. I watched the school entrance until my eyes blurred, then rubbed them hard and they cleared.

But no amount of rubbing will clear away the grey in which I live and operate. It covers me. Envelopes me. Keeps me alive—so far, at least. But it can also blind me to the stark black and white, the unadulterated good and evil where they do exist, independent of and resolutely opposing each other. But regardless of my failures of discernment, maybe Kira was right about one thing. I do like justice too much.

John Joseph Ryan's short stories have appeared online in Akashic Books' “Mondays are Murder” series,
Shotgun Honey, Out of the Gutter, Suspense Magazine
, and
MARGIN, Exploring Modern Magical Realism
. A verse noir poem appears in Gutter Books' recent anthology
Noir Riot
. His poetry has appeared in various print magazines, including
River Styx
and
Black Buzzard Review
.

John's collaborative story,
Hothouse by the River
, which introduced private detective Ed Darvis, was produced in a limited letter press edition at the University of Iowa School for the Book. He lives in St. Louis with his wife and two children.