Murder by Candlelight (25 page)

Z was getting ... run down ... not by
Transylvania rustics, but because of escalating nightmares.

Though he didn't know how, he knew he needed
to chase off these terrifying dreams.

Torches. Synonymous with candles?

Z, as monster, responsible for someone's
death? A subconscious reference to ....

And yet he was
certain
his
candle-gambit couldn't have killed Howard Kunkle.

Worn out.

Did criminals confess to
crimes they didn't commit because, exhausted by questioning, they
couldn't think straight? Did something as simple as fatigue explain
why the police were frequently plagued by weak-minded people
wanting to own up to someone else's crime?
Anything
to get some
sleep!?

Z wasn't
that
desperate; was
nowhere near dragging his pain-racked body before Captain Scherer
to plead guilty to the death of Howard Kunkle.

Z had Dr. Calder as a last resort, Calder,
Z's ace in the hole.

Ace in the hole -- in stud poker, an
expression for an unbeatable ace, face down in front of a player,
ready to be turned over to win the pot. A gambling expression that
got Z to thinking about the recently murdered man ... Dotson. (So
far, nothing but a name from high school.)

Con man, Ted said. Gambler.

With sleep drifting over him once more, Z's
evaporating mind wondered if Howard Kunkle -- likewise, a
small-time "wagerer" -- would meet Dotson in gambler's heaven. If
birds of a feather flocked together, wouldn't it be true that
players ... at the table ... shuffled .............

Z was awake!

A sound. ... A noise that
shouldn't
be
there. Something other than a squeal from the decaying air
conditioners. Wasn't a squeak or rumble. A ....

Tapping.

As if someone was outside, rapping at Z's
bedroom window.

Quickly, Z was up and just as quickly,
creeping to the sill.

Standing carefully to the side, Z eased back
the yellowed blind to peer past the wood frame, Z hidden in the
room's full dark, starlight silvering a cloudless night. Saw ....
nothing but shadowed bush-shapes and black construction-paper
trees.

Possibly a limb blowing rhythmically against
the glass?

No wind.

No limb.

Too late for neighborhood kids, playing a
prank.

Not a night bird, fluttering against the
pane.

Could Z have begun to dream again
........?

With nothing else to see, Z shuffled back to
bed, but lay there, staring at the blackness, muscles refusing to
relax.

Until he heard ...

Another noise. Pitched higher than the fan
roar of the window boxes, this time, from the dining room. .......
No. A sound at the front door. A scraping ....

And Z was up again, this time sneaking
through the hall. Turning into the front room, the blast of air
conditioning chilled his naked body as he crossed to the door.

Listening, he heard the noise again, cutting
through the chug and rumble of the twin conditioners. Louder.
Definitely outside.

Z had been in the
breaking-and-entering business long enough to know
those
sounds; someone
was working on the lock.

Either a dumb thing to do (the lock of the
deadbolt variety and hard to pick,) or the act of a knowledgeable
and, therefore, dangerous foe. (At the same time, someone unable to
do the job quietly.)

Jamie Stewart?

Z didn't think so. Jamie's talents lay in
other directions.

There in the dark, Z ran through the short
list of who might be trying to get in; came up with no one, unless,
for some unfathomable reason, Captain Scherer had decided to do his
own dirty work for a change.

On the other hand, why Scherer would want to
get into Z's place in the middle of the night, was anybody's
guess.

No matter.
Whoever
it was, Z didn't
like having his house invaded! (When Z broke past a lock, there was
a good reason for it. Generally, entering in the interest of a
wronged client.) The criminal who was trying to get in now was
guilty of trespass, plain and simple.

Stepping back, the dark doing nothing to
confuse Z's mental memory of the living room, Z backtracked to the
cold fireplace. Squatting, slid the firebox to one side on the
pivot he'd made, exposing the space below; reached down to pull his
detective case out of the slanted compartment that held it against
the floor joists.

Opening the valise, Z delicately fingered
the shadowed "tools" inside, the assortment of fireworks: fountain,
sparklers, firecrackers, punk. Felt the closed-up straight razor.
Nylon cord. Lock picks. Lighter fluid. Penlight. And, of course,
his sap -- the only item effective in this situation.

Slipping the blackjack out of the elastic
band that held it, closing the case, returning the satchel to its
hiding place, Z slid back the firebox.

Sap in hand, he eased himself to the side of
the front door where he positioned himself in front of the left
conditioner, shivering in its icy blast, waiting.

Now that he was ready, he was impatient for
the person out there to find the right combination of tumblers.
More eager than irritated. Interested, rather than anxious. A
curiosity tinged with ... respect. It took moxie to attempt a
modern deadbolt. Even, Z ....

Click.

The sound of the lock being worked.

Raising the sap, standing to the side so
he'd be behind the door when it came open ....

Gentle pressure now applied to the door, its
hinges squeaking just a little as the door came in. There was a
pause ...then, a dark shape entering.

Someone ... squat. ... Expensive cologne.
........

And a thunk! behind the ear. Z then dragging
a surprisingly heavy body into the room so Z could get the outside
door closed and locked.

Secure again (as that kind of lock could
make him,) Z was ready to switch on the light to see what "prize"
he'd plucked from the cracker jack box.

Rolling the body on its sleeping back, Z
stepped to the wall switch.

Snapped it on.

Turned to see ....

Johnny Dosso! Black suit. Blue silk tie.

Confused, Z's only thought was that this was
the first time in all these years that John Dosso had "visited" Z's
house. .......

A quick burst of questions clogged Z's mind,
all resolving into the generalized query: what was Johnny doing,
breaking into Z's apartment?

Attempting to get inside as quietly as
possible, was the obvious -- though far from satisfying --
answer.

Crossing to shut down the
rumbling window conditioners, returning to sit down bare-butted on
the sofa, Z had a silence-inspired thought. John
hadn't
been trying to
blind side him. Why? Because the tapping at Z's bedroom window had
been John Dosso, trying to awaken Z. John had only come through the
front door when he'd failed to rouse Z in the bedroom. Didn't want
to pound on the door and wake the neighbors.

Z felt better. He didn't have so many
friends he could afford to have one sneaking up on him. Though
straining his knee, managed to get John propped up on the
divan.

While waiting for John to revive, Z returned
to the bedroom for a robe and slippers, coming back to open the
front door and look out. No particular reason; just checking Johnny
Dosso's trail.

Looking toward the back, he didn't see
John's stretch Lincoln in the alley.

Stepping out, the night air clammy beneath
his robe, he cold-footed it up the walk -- John's car not out
front, either.

Someone had dropped John off. Or John had
come by cab.

Strange behavior for a man of Johnny Dosso's
style.

All of it -- window tapping, lock picking,
traveling by cars unknown -- damn strange behavior! Soon to be
explained, Z returning to his apartment to find John waking up,
moving around, groaning.

The first clear sign John was conscious came
a minute later when John opened his eyes; felt at the side of his
head with one hand.

"Welcome back," Z said, quietly.

"Where ...?"

"Inside."

"I ... couldn't wake you up. At ...."

"I know. At the window."

"Sorry, Z."

"Sure."

Old friends didn't need a lot of words to
understand each other.

Z backed off to sit in the old chair across
the narrow room. "Trouble?"

"You got it."

"Want a drink?"

"Straight bourbon."

"Ah ...."

"That's right." For the first time, Johnny
cracked a ghostly smile. "Your sainted Mama. Didn't like for you to
drink." John shook his head. Regretted it. "What you hit me
with?"

"Sap."

"Didn't have to hit so hard."

"If I'd known you were a dangerous mobster,
I'd have shot you."

"Yeah," John said, trying out another
grin.

"Got Diet Coke. And water."

"You want to rot my gut? ... OK. Water."

Z got a glass, cracked some ice from the
small fridge's tray, ran the tap, and brought John the glass.

John drank a little, then set the tumbler
down on the new, Walmart coffee table.

"Nice place you got here," John said as a
little joke, waving feebly at the junky room.

Sitting back in the moldy chair, Z
waited.

"Mostly," John began, thinking as he
explained, "it's that I feel so fucking dumb."

Z waited.

"That night? The night you came over?"

Z nodded.

"You said something was funny about the
wine?"

"Yeah."

"Right on, my man. I got me a lab guy I did
a favor for a long time ago. A favor for a favor, isn't that the
way it goes in the movies?"

Z nodded.

"Anyway, I got him to test the wine on the
QT. Had enough shit in it to kill a horse. Heart attack. Looks
genuine."

In the aftershock of that
revelation (though Z had thought it possible,) all Z could think of
was a hacked-off horse head in a man's bed. The movies
made
more reality than
they reflected.

"Dumb. Just so damn dumb." John sighed,
looked ... old. He'd always looked older than he was, more so,
since he'd made a "lifestyle" out of booze and broads. "And another
thing," he said, glancing over at Z, then quickly away. "All that
crap about wanting to retire? That's bullshit. Bullshit!" he
repeated. "It was him that forced me out."

"Him?"

"The guy who doped the wine."

"Who."

"Dago dandy, name of Marco Minghetti."

"Guy who replaced you?"

"Yeah. How'd
you
know."

"Think you mentioned his name."

Recalling that, John raised a black
eyebrow.

"I knew something wasn't
right. You just get an instinct for things like that. Or you don't
get an instinct, and you never know what hit you." John shook his
head. Carefully. "I got to confess something up front, which I
wouldn't to no other man. While I'm always playing it big, I'm not
that high in the organization. Gambling. Whores. That don't make
money like they used to. These days, it's drugs, where the bread
is. And I wouldn't do that kind of work. Me, I never took drugs in
my whole life. It isn't healthy." All Johnny did was drink himself
blind and smoke his considerable weight in Havanas every year. One
man's drugs was another man's relaxation. Still, Z knew what Johnny
meant. There were drugs, and there were
drugs
.

"Not that there's no money in my end of the
business," John continued. "There is. And I made my share. It's
just not the kind of coin that lifts a man up the family ladder,
you know what I mean?"

Z did.

"But, not being ... what
was it that punchy fighter kept sayin' in the movie, the old black
and white? Oh, yeah. 'I could'a been a contender.' Kept saying that
over and over. 'You was my brother and should have looked out for
me,' he said. Well, that's what I never was, a contender." John
took a wet breath. "The good thing about that was, not being slated
to advance kept me from having to put up with wops like Marco,
runnin' up my ass. So, anyway, since I wouldn't be much missed, I
took the chance. Actually, I was given the
opportunity
to retire. Minghetti was
moving up. I was in the way." He shrugged. "I'd made a pile. I
thought, shit, why not? Got no future inside, except making the
pile higher. Even living the good life, you can only spend so much.
Had me a retirement banquet, just like the fuckin' CEO of a fuckin'
bank. Minghetti himself, gave the talk." Johnny would have spit. If
there'd been a place to do it. "I figured, if I got through the
testimonial without some tommy gun totin' broad popping up from a
cake, I was home free. But what I didn't calculate, was my
wife."

"Your wife!?" Z was
shocked. Though he didn't
really
know John's young-looking wife, he'd never have
figured her for anything but the discarded helpmate.

"Not that way. Not the way you think. It's
that this bastard took a shine to her, old as she is. Now you know,
Z, that the wife and me haven't seen the same bed for maybe ten
years. My fault, mostly. But a man's got to be a man, don't he?" Z
didn't want to nod, but figured honesty required it of him. "What I
figure is that I was right about being able to step down. Where I
went wrong is that the bastard thinks that, with me put down for
the count, he can waltz into Angelica's bed. He doesn't know
Angelica. She'd cut off his greasy balls!"

Wishful thinking, was what Z thought.