Ask the Dice (9 page)

The electrician's tape and the piece came out of my duffel bag. While I wiped down the piece on a pillowcase, no hiding place enticed me until I squinted at the zinc bed. Good enough. So, I rested my back on the shag carpet, wiggled my ass under the bed, and taped the piece to one of the four wood slats supporting the box spring and mattress. That concealment would keep the piece on ice until tomorrow's 747 had whisked me far and away from here. Later the Filipino maid turning the mattress and finding the piece would sell it back to the same shady pawnbroker who also dealt in Nazi memorabilia, and he'd be the one to catch any flak for possessing it.

The bathroom fan snapped off, the door gave way, and out sashayed Bunnie, nude and fecund. We necked like a couple of randy teenagers on the bed, smoked the bud,… and later, after we'd crashed and burned, Bunnie couldn't let it alone. I hoped she'd hush and fall asleep, as I teetered on the drowsy verge of doing myself.

"Dice…?"

"M'm-h'm, baby."

"Why are two shells in your handgun fired? Why does it smell acrid, like it was shot yesterday? Wait—don't answer me yet. There's more. Like you, I'm also mercenary. I love saying that word:
mer-cen-ary
. After I counted up all the loot stuffed inside your wallet, an epiphany rocked me—we can do business together!"

My heartbeats bashed a wrecking ball into my chest. This had turned into a bad trip on the bud. "Oh, but you see baby, I'm an independent contractor, and I only work solo."

"Now you can take on a partner. Or I can take what I know to the cops. The choice is yours."

"I wished you hadn't said that to me."

"Why is that?"

"Because now I've got no choice but to kill you."

She laughed. But I didn't. Then she tried to out-scream the banshee wind blasting our motel crib before I ended her valiant struggle. Afterward I felt a little forlorn.

I
n the pre-dawn's sepia light, I tramped along the highway’s gravel shoulder. I carried my duffel bag slung over a shoulder. The night's torrents had swept south. Scratches lined my face from where Bunnie's tigress fingernails had clawed me as I overpowered her. Tied up and muzzled her. Stood up. Cursed her. Cursed me. Barked my shin on the bed-frame. Wriggled back under the bed. Bumped my head. Untaped the piece. Snaked out again. Dragged to my feet. Fired two—
blat, blat
—more caps.

Ignored my whistling ears. Got dressed. Took a leak. Snaked back under the bed. Re-taped the piece. Took out my banknotes from her wallet. Wiped down all the surfaces. Slipped outside. Cleaned my prints from her car interior. Cursed again. Left the empty motel, no maid service until 2 p.m. Trotted faster, but not quite a jog. Thought maybe my system wasn’t as slick as I thought it was. Later, I barged into the same air terminal bar, downed three gins neat, and made a pledge I'd never return to this godforsaken burg.

M
r. Ogg never learned of my bonus kill. Later we convened at his new digs, the shabby bungalow where he'd moved to hide out in plain view.

"Everything went according to Hoyle?" he asked me.

Like after every job, I grunted to assure him such was the case.

"My associates there liked your work."

"Well, I always aim to please."

Like every time, he ignored my witty pun. "Any hiccups come up?"

My shrug came too fast before my slower deliberate headshake. "None or I'd have reported them," I lied through my teeth, and it pleased me to do so.

"Good man. How many is that for this year?"

I shrugged. "Don't jinx me by keeping a damn scorecard."

"Why? Have you turned superstitious?"

"I never like to spit in the wind."

"Well, since I pay for them, I count them. This one made it thirteen."

"Unlucky thirteen. Are you just breaking my chops?"

"No. Why are you so damn touchy this afternoon?"

"Look, I'm trying to do my job is all."

"Okay then, we've got no problems."

"Marvelous."

Mr. Ogg produced a rubber-banded wad of money and tossed it to the coffee table. "Five gees. Grab it. Wire me if you need more."

"For another job already?"

"Nope, you're going on R&R. This uptight you'll end up in a vegetative state or else in prison, and that's no damn good to me."

"But I don't want or need a vacation."

"I'm your boss. That means what I say goes."

"Okay, boss, you win. Where do I fly?"

"That's more like it. How does
Waikiki
Beach
sound to you?"

"Aloha," I said, already despising taking a long trip without an assignment.

T
he homicide detectives and CSI had processed, then released the crime scene at Gwen's townhouse. I tried turning her doorknob, but it didn't twist this time. The human bulldozer on the porch behind me provided a ready solution.

"Can you ram down her door?" I asked.

"The crashing noise will disturb her neighbors," replied Esquire.

"Then how do we get inside?"

He removed a cloth-wrapped packet from inside his windbreaker. "I can pick the lock."

Hearing that surprised me. "How did you learn that skill?"

"Young Hermes was a sneak thief in a former life, and I figured it might be useful to know in my upholstery racket, so he taught me the finer points."

"I owe Hermes a vote of thanks."

"Don't we all, sweetheart. Don't we all."

"Just do your open sesame, please."

After I shifted aside, Esquire stepped on Gwen's slate porch and crouched over at her door. Standing guard behind him, I heard the steel scratching on steel. He cursed and tinkered at the door lock for a plodding minute. One street down toward the old library a spirited gang of kids—girls and boys—hollered their taunts back and forth. Vehicles, their headlamps bright, droned by on the nearby street between the traffic light changes up on the hill. I didn't spot the red-blue roof bar lights ablaze on any squad cars. More steel scraped over steel.

"We're beginning to look conspicuous," I told Esquire. "Can you make it go any faster?"

"Quiet. I need my ears to hear the right clicks being made."

I bit my tongue as he fiddled away until the distinctive snick of the opened lock brought his triumphant lip smack.

"We're in, sweetheart."

"Thank goodness."

I followed him, slipping into Gwen's foyer, and then we pelted up her stairway. Her bedroom lay on the rear side. The coppery aroma had dissipated with her stiff removed from the brass bed and premises. Somebody had pulled up the bright orange spread over the sheets, and the pillows in their matching pillowcases were tossed against the brass headboard.

"How long had Gwen used these digs?" asked Esquire.

"Two, three years after she left home. Her parents got busted and are doing their bits at
Leavenworth
."

"That's a mule's kick in the head."

"Save your pity. Mr. Ogg treats the sisters like a pair of entitled princesses as long as they stick to his ground rules."

"His ground rules?"

My smile was grim. "Mr. Ogg is very old school. His idea of joy is hoarding wealth and laying low, while their idea is spending it and raising hell, so conflicts are sure to crop up. Gwen would've lived in a mansion if he'd paid for it. He figured a townhouse would do since all she did was crash here between her dope raves. I'm sure the maid came in and picked up after her."

"Did we risk doing a B&E to just shake out her dope stash?"

"Look for any names she left written down, and I can add to my list of suspects."

"Then this is wasting our time. The cops have already combed up here." Esquire turned for the door. "Did you see if the steps lead to a subterranean floor?"

I shepherded us down the two flights of stairs. The furnace room we came into had a concrete floor, natural gas furnace, and hot water heater. Unpainted drywall covered the 2x4 studs. The stacks of pasteboard boxes were taped shut at the top. "XMAS DECORATIONS" labeled the boxes. We spilled out their contents over the floor, and all we found were broken Christmas bulbs and tangled strings of electric lights. My gaze went up to the joists supporting the ground level's subflooring, and nothing looked out of place up there.

"Screwdriver," said Esquire.

"What?" I asked.

"Use it to take off the light switch plates."

"Why?"

"Young Hermes used to hide his precious stash there until I kicked his ass sideways, and he quit peddling dope."

"Try using a dime."

"The screw heads are too small."

"I didn't bring a screwdriver. One in my hands is a destructive force. That's why I can't be a trimmer at your shop. You don't carry enough commercial insurance to cover the damages I'd inflict."

"Don't give me that lame excuse. Everybody I've ever hired is trainable."

I grinned a little. "Old dogs and new tricks."

"I won't give up on you. My point is Hermes kept a client list hidden with his dope. It sounds as if your party girl always needed extra money, so the chances are good she also dealt and kept a client list. Tracking all that in your head is almost impossible if you're always getting stoned. A pissed off or cheated client could've broken in and shot her dead."

"Life is worth the price of dirt in the dope circles," I said.

Esquire had fitted on a set of brass dusters. The nicked up round edges and discoloration suggested their age as circa World War II when our GIs had favored brass dusters for the hand-to-hand combat to pummel their foes into submission. Today's pawnshops sold the brass dusters under the table since the local governments had outlawed their use and possession.

He clenched a fist and hurled it to bludgeon a crumbly hole in the drywall three inches below the light switch plate. He jabbed in a probing finger and let out a frustrated growl. "No dope and no list." He repeated his punch out at the other light switch plates with the same negative results.

"Where else do we search?" he asked.

There was no furniture, mirrors, or bookcases for her to use as a cache hole. Then I saw a new-looking business card had been Scotch-taped to the side of the gas furnace, and I leaned in closer to make out the fine print:
Boyce Randall, Service Technician
.

"Randall just serviced her furnace," I said, jacking a thumb over my shoulder to indicate the business card.

"Strike him from your list," said Esquire.

"That leaves me with Rita Ogg and Uncle Watson."

Esquire tugged off the brass dusters, spat on their rounded edges, and rubbed off the drywall gunk on his other hand. "There never was a lot of doubt in your mind who framed you for Gwen's murder, was there?"

"I held on to a sliver of doubt because I didn't want to accept it's my boss. We've laid a lot of track together."

"Sorry to ruin your night, sweetheart. I better get on back to Hermes."

“Call him.”

“I’ll be home soon enough.”

I trotted Esquire back to the auto upholstery shop and let him off. He suggested I stay at a motel. Mr. Ogg had stationed his dark suits on my block, licking their chops for me to blunder into their ambush. But after I left Esquire I nixed the motel idea. Mr. Ogg had sent out the word to the scores of his spies on the streets, and all it took was one to spot me, and the spy to whip out his cell phone. I had a different idea in mind. Camping out in the coupé wasn't new. Jaunting out of the city for a few days to fulfill Mr. Ogg's contracts often found me on stakeouts where the rear seat became a bed for catching naps.

I wasn't sold on where it was safe to park. A cul-de-sac or a pipe stem in a quiet neighborhood tempted me, but then a wary homeowner might question seeing a strange coupé parked at the curb. Or a moonlit jogger chugging by might spot a black man snoozing in the rear seat and use a cell phone to alert a beat patrol to check it out. A better place was the old switchyard lying deserted as
Death Valley
.