Poisoned Pins (15 page)

“Today's Sunday,” I said as we started for the door. “Why is this place doing a brisk business when it isn't even supposed to be open?”

“The Dew Drop's more of a social club than your ordinary tavern, and the NBA playoffs are on this afternoon. Last year Mulie put in a big screen. It's a male rite of spring to congregate and watch the game over beer and bullshit. There's plenty of both here.”

All the NBA signified to me was the National Book
Award, but it was hard to envision the literati slinging quotes at each other across a net. If they were to do so, sophistry and sherry would be their accouterments of choice. Mystified, I entered the Dew Drop Inn.

The room was dark, and the smoke was as pernicious as the skies of Los Angeles. There were only two sources of light: a swaying rectangular fixture above a pool table and a large television screen on which men in boxer shorts cavorted in pursuit of an elusive ball. Most of the twenty or so men were seated at tables, watching the game, but three or four stood in the shadows beyond the pool table. Oblivious to the ashes dribbling from his cigarette, a man in a cowboy hat was bent over the table, the tip of his cue stick resting on the worn green felt. Competing with the outbursts of laughter, good-natured curses, and inanely bright chatter from the game announcers was the persistent ringing of unseen telephones.

“Ho, Senator!”

I located Arnie at one of the tables. It was not challenging, in that he was waving his arm above his head while pounding on the table with a beer bottle. “I guess we found him,” I said to my companion. I'd garnered enough attention, some of it curious and some of it smirky, to be glad to have him beside me, and unless I'd misjudged him a second time, I was safe from the advances of the rednecks in the room.

“Come join us, Senator!” Arnie yelled, still carrying on as if we were at a pep rally rather than a seedy tavern. “I got something I want to ask you about this trade imbalance with the Pacific Rim.”

Uncomfortably aware of the incongruity of my presence (there was not so much as a female barmaid), I went to his table and said, “Could I speak to you in private?”

Arnie swatted the man in the next chair. “Jesus, McDooley, were you raised in a barn or what? Give the lady your seat before I cram a beer bottle up your lovely snout.”

“In private?” I repeated emphatically.

“Anything you want, Senator, as soon as the game's over. I got some serious interest in the outcome, about a hundred dollars' worth.” He began to wave again, violently enough to rattle the small copse of bottles on the table. “Hey, Ed, whatcha waiting for—an invitation? Come sit with the senator and I'll buy you both a beer. Arnie Riggles is a-rollin' in dough today!”

I raised my eyebrows as my swarthy driver sat down in the hastily vacated chair on the other side of Arnie. “Ed?”

He mimicked my expression. “Senator?”

Arnie slapped his simian forehead, by pure serendipity with the hand not holding the beer bottle. “Wowsy, Senator, I thought you two knew each other, coming in together like you did. This lovable guy here's Ed Whitbred, my boss and my best friend in the whole damn world.” He hiccuped as he leaned over to throw his arm over Ed's shoulder. “In the whole damn world, he is my best friend. I can't tell you the number of times he came down to the can to bail me out, then scolded me all the way home about how I oughta do this detox thing. Ol' Ed Whitbred's meaner than my first wife and uglier than my second, but I love him just the same.”

Arnie rested his face on Ed's shoulder and began to cry. From the lack of interest shown by the other occupants at the table, I deduced that the maudlin display was unremarkable, and, indeed, no one remarked on it.

A man in a dirty apron set down two beer bottles and stomped away. I frowned at the bottle, then at Ed. “You didn't mention that you and Arnie are such dear friends.”

“You didn't ask,” he said. He tried to pry Arnie off his shoulder, but Arnie's grip was stubborn. “I'm not sure he's in the mood for conversation.”

A door at the far end of the bar opened to admit two men, and the sound of ringing telephones intensified. Even with the door closed, I could hear what seemed to be at least a dozen of them. “What's with the telephones?
Are they running some kind of telethon in there? This hardly seems the place for Jerry's kids.”

“A hundred dollars,” Arnie said, lifting his face. “You wanna little action, Senator? You don't have to bet much, and it makes the bisketbell . . . that is to say, the basketball game more exciting. Nickel or dime bet's okay.”

I took a nickel from my purse and put it on the table. “I'll bet you this that you can't sit up and answer a few simple questions, Arnie. If you can, it's all yours.”

One of the men cleared his throat. “It's kinda traditional in gambling circles that a nickel means five dollars, a dime means ten. Considering the state he's in, maybe it don't matter.”

“Do you mind?” I glared until he looked away, then shook Arnie's arm. “I am not interested in absorbing the local traditions. If it takes five dollars, then so be it!” I took out a bill and slammed it on the table, feeling quite as bold as a poker player in a Wild West saloon. “Do we have a bet or don't we?”

Arnie wiped his nose on Ed's shoulder and managed to sit up. “Yeah, no one ever accused Arnold Riggles of shying away from a bet, no matter what. It seems to me, though, that a senator ought to be willing to go higher than a measly five bucks. What's the defense budget these days? How about Medicare and Medicaid payments? You raised your salaries last year—” He suddenly slumped forward, his head bouncing off the table several times before coming to rest.

“I am not a senator,” I said to Ed, who understandably seemed perplexed. “Whoever said it was impossible to underrate human intelligence must have been thinking of Arnie. The smoke and the stench and those telephones are too much for me. Could you please take me back to my car?”

“Sure, and then I'd better come back and drive Arnie home. He's surpassed his limit for the evening.”

I politely nodded at the occupants of the table and pushed back my chair, but before I could stand up, the front door opened and the room swarmed with men.
Men in coats and ties, holding up identification badges. Men in blue police uniforms. Men in khaki police uniforms. More men in overalls and caps. Young men, old men, enough men to take to the football field. For the most part, men with guns. And they were saying, not in unison but in a great babble of confusion ranging from tenor to bass, from strident to coldly authoritarian: “This is a raid!” “Everybody stay put!” “Put your hands on the tables where we can see ‘em!” “Stay away from the door!” “You there—put down that cue stick!” “Up against the wall, bubba!”

I sank back into the chair as more of them stampeded through the door at the end of the bar. From within the back room came spurts of official phrases that referred to illegal possession of gaming equipment, violations of federal statutes concerning interstate racketeering, operation of an establishment that operated gambling devices, and more.

“What's going on?” I asked Ed in a strangled whisper.

Before he could answer, a uniformed officer loomed over us. “Hands on the table, all of you! Keep your mouths shut! This is a raid, not a damn tea party!”

I looked up with a cool expression meant to chide him only a bit for his presumptive error. “There's been a mistake, Officer. I merely came by to have a word with someone. I know nothing whatsoever of any illegal activity, and I've never made a bet in my life. I think it would be for the best if I slipped away quietly.”

“That your money?” He pointed at the five-dollar bill.

“No, it most certainly is not. It belongs to the comatose gentleman beside me. Now, if you don't mind—”

The comatose gentleman rolled his head to one side. “Damn straight it's mine. The senator here and I have a little bet, and in a minute I'm going to—” His head went back down, flattening his nose. He began to snore.

“Politician, huh?” The policeman gave me an icy smile as he recited the Miranda warning to me.

During the caravan-style ride to the local jail, handcuffed and squished between two odoriferous patrons in the backseat of the police car, I learned that the Dew Drop Inn had been under surveillance for over a year. My arrival had not been a factor in the decision to raid the establishment. I'd chosen a particularly inopportune day to visit, a day when gamblers surfaced like worms after a shower and law enforcement agents could count on copious quantities of money and betting slips to be within the establishment.

It was educational, I suppose, but not the stuff of which warm memories were made. I was subjected to fingerprinting, being photographed (I demanded to be allowed access to a mirror first, but they were less than cooperative), and ultimately placed in a barren cell and informed that they'd get to me sooner or later.

Earlier in the afternoon, after the unpleasantries with Peter, Caron and Inez, and the anonymous caller, I'd assumed things couldn't get much worse. Sitting on a metal bench, acutely aware of the darkness and aroma of urine in the air, idly reading obscene graffiti, facing the possibility that I might be doing the same twelve hours in the future, I had to admit I'd been wrong. And what had I accomplished? I'd met Ed Whitbred, but I had no reason to think he had any involvement in Jean Hall's death or Debbie Anne Wray's disappearance. He was not my man-in-the-moon prowler, unless he'd happened upon an incredibly effective remedy for baldness.

I wasn't at all sure what the appropriate behavior was for my situation. I would be allowed to make a phone call before they interrogated me, but they'd implied it might be some time before my name rose to the top of the list. I had neither a metal cup with which to bang on the bars nor a bent spoon with which to tunnel out. I didn't know any spirituals.

I was considering using my one telephone call to order a pizza when the cell door opened and Jorgeson
came in. “Good evening, Ms. Malloy,” he said as if we were meeting under the portico of the Book Depot. Had he been wearing a hat, I was certain he would have touched its brim ever so urbanely. “I understand you're in a jam.”

“It's actually a cell. How did you know I'd been left here to rot for hours and hours?”

“According to the arresting officer and the desk sergeant, you've been in here for less than half an hour—although I'm sure it felt longer. Time doesn't fly in the Farberville City Jail, or so I've been told.”

“What else have you been told?”

He seemed to have a decent idea of the events that had led to my incarceration, and related them in a carefully noncommittal tone, then said, “One of the officers at the scene recognized your name and called Lieutenant Rosen, thinking he'd want to hear about it. He called me.”

I'd been irritated earlier, but now I was beginning to get angry. “Why didn't he come down here himself?”

Jorgeson's bulldog face turned red and his ears quivered—a response I'd seen on previous occasions when he was deeply uncomfortable. Looking at something on the wall above my head, he said, “Ah, the lieutenant said something about being busy, being tied up. Once he heard Arnie Riggles had been picked up in the raid, he said he figured you were up to your old—that you were interfering—I mean, involved in an investigation. He said he'd call the desk and tell ‘em to release you to my custody until the arraignment.”

“The arraignment, Jorgeson? Are you implying that Lieutenant Peter Rosen has no plans to have a quiet word with the head of the operation and make it clear that I am totally innocent of anything more wicked than a tiny lapse in judgment? That I will be brought to court to face a fine or further time in this charming room? Is that what you're implying?”

“I don't think he'll let it go that far, Ms. Malloy. The call caught him in a bad mood, and he was kind of sputtery when he heard about your friend with the motorcycle.
I'm sure he'll do something to help in the morning.”

“What did you mean when you said he was busy?” I continued relentlessly, my face quite as red as his and my ears tingling, if not quivering. “Just precisely what was he doing when he received the call?”

Jorgeson closed his eyes for a moment, and his gulps were audible. “I think maybe he had company. Let's go back to the desk and arrange your release. You'll be home in no time, sitting on your sofa with a nice hot cup of tea, and all this will seem like a bad dream.”

“Company?” I said, although I did leap to my feet and follow him down the corridor.

“I believe he mentioned something about Lieutenant Pipkin. It's none of my business, Ms. Malloy; I'm just following orders.”

“That was an inadequate defense at Nuremberg, Jorgeson. Who's this Lieutenant Pipkin? Is he on the CID squad?”

He stopped so abruptly that I narrowly avoided a collision, and he pulled me aside as another of my coconspirators from the Dew Drop Inn was escorted to a cell. “Like I said, it's none of my business what Lieutenant Rosen does when he's off duty. We sometimes have a beer or go to the college baseball games, but for the most part we go our separate ways. My wife and I were watching a video and I'd like to get home so we can finish it before midnight. If you're curious about Lieutenant Pipkin, call her yourself. She's on the campus security force.”

Despite the unruliness of my thoughts, I remained impressively impassive as Jorgeson did the necessary paperwork to gain my release, drove me to the Airport Arms, and waved as he pulled onto the highway. Ed Whitbred's motorcycle was not there, and I felt a little guilty as I realized he wouldn't have been in the Dew Drop den of iniquity had he not escorted me there. Arnie deserved everything that happened to him, and a
good deal more, but Ed had been minding his own business—until I'd shown up.