The Devil's Own Rag Doll (33 page)

In truth there was no such choice. I could not simply choose between settling down with Eileen and chasing after Sherrill. What I had been after all along was a sense of myself as a good man, a whole man. Like any man, I guess, I had always understood at the back of my mind that there was such a thing as right and wrong. I had put off the decision to fall to the good side for too long. Now that time and misfortune had taken my youth, the task for me had become perhaps too great. But there was no choice for me; I could not rest anywhere unless I found a way to feel comfortable in my own skin.

“I don't know what's going to happen,” I said quietly.

“Nobody does,” Jenkins said. “There's still time. The trick of living is never to give up.”

I turned my back to Jenkins and looked toward Eileen. She stood atop the porch with her feet close together and her arms crossed over her chest. She looked down coldly on the lot of us. I managed to get my feet up a few of the steps and leaned close to her.

“You should lock your doors,” I said weakly.

“Why should it matter now?”

“It's a new moon tonight,” I said. “Bad luck.”

She did not seem angry exactly, but it was clear that she wanted to close herself off from me. I turned slowly from her, and my feet began to trudge back down the steps.

“Pete,” she said, catching the shoulder of my jacket—Tommy's jacket. She pressed her lips quickly to my scratchy cheek. She whispered into my ear, “He's all I have in this world, Pete.”

“I know it,” I said. I thought—for an instant—that maybe I could make up for the loss of her only son with the remainder of the money Lloyd had given me. The idea shamed me so much that I felt my face go red. I was dirty, I was crooked, I was ugly, sometimes I felt sick in the head. I tried to take another step away from her, but she held fast to the jacket.

She hissed into my ear,
“You're already a good man.”

I stepped down to the walk until I was close to Jenkins and his gang.

“You won't see it,” Eileen called after me.

“You'll have to go on out of here,” I said to Jenkins. “I can't leave her here with all of you.”

Jenkins measured his response. “We're not animals, Mr. Caudill.”

It was true; as I looked over the colored gang standing before me, I could see that they each carried their own share of worry and trouble.

“Fair enough,” I said. “But you're still strangers to me.”

“We'll take our leave, then,” said Jenkins.

They turned and slipped into the cars. After they had gone, I walked slowly to my own car and drove off without looking back at Eileen.

*   *   *

As Johnson and I sat sweating in my car outside the Pigeon Club, the baking sun brought up a stench of stale beer from all the bottles rolling on the floor.

“Think we should just walk in?”

“Don't think about eating now, Johnson,” I said. I had with some regret pulled the young man from the safety of his grandmother's house just as he sat down to an enormous supper.

Johnson grinned. “I bet they have some good eats in there. Good booze, too.” He shot a sidewise glance at me. “If you go for that sort of thing.”

“There's a ham sandwich in the glove box,” I said.

Johnson opened the box, rummaged around, and pulled out the mason jar that I had placed there. He held it up to the light, his face blank and uncomprehending. The dark genitals swirled slowly, inches from his face. When he finally understood what he was holding, Johnson's hand shook a little and he placed the jar gently on the dash.

“Jesus, Detective, is that what you did to Pease?”

“It ain't Pease. I got an early Christmas present. Just put it back in the box.” I felt like I had worked out enough banter for the day. We had been waiting almost an hour for Hardiman to appear. I squinted first at the red brick of the Pigeon Club, warm and orange in the low sun, and then at Hardiman's gleaming Lloyd Cruiser, parked by the valet just a few steps from the door. The place had been a speakeasy in the old days, one of the untouchable speaks reserved for the mayor and his cronies, the auto barons and their robber friends, steel and rail magnates visiting from New York, Chicago, or Pittsburgh. I had been inside it just once, when a patron had stabbed a cigarette girl with a fork after she had slapped him, stabbed her twice in her fat thigh. There was a tremendous ruckus before I managed to settle it by squeezing five dollars from the patron for the girl. By the time I left, the girl was back on the man's lap, pressing a napkin daintily onto her punctures.

Finally Hardiman sauntered out. He pulled out sunglasses against the brightness and snapped his fingers for an attendant. Though I didn't figure Hardiman for a big tipper, the boy jumped up and ran back to the big Cruiser, really just a few steps away. I heard the engine roar to life and then saw the gleaming black auto pull to the stoop before the club. Hardiman got in and pulled the boat out into the street.

I followed for a block or two. I was not sure that Hardiman would pull over if I set out the flasher and used the siren. If he ran, it would attract too much attention to a questionable stop; besides, my old jalopy might not be able to keep up with the powerful roadster. But after Hardiman's car washed around the corner and turned east, I decided to risk it. I pulled up close to the rear bumper, set the flasher on the dashboard, and cranked the siren briefly. Hardiman pulled over.

I saw the door open a crack and Hardiman's glossy wing tip drop to the pavement. “Go get him, Johnson. I don't want him to see me just yet.”

“Wh-what should I say?”

“Dammit, Johnson, just go!”

Johnson was in his street clothes but had remembered to bring along his badge. He hurried out of the car and stopped Hardiman's arrogant rush. I knew Hardiman wouldn't be able to see me, because the sun was shining right on the back of my head. Since it was Sunday, all the shops lining the street were closed and the street was empty except for a few stray cars. I popped the leather strap that held my revolver in the shoulder rig.

Johnson wasn't doing well. I saw from the postures of the two men that he was getting the short end of it. Hardiman tipped back his head and let out a big laugh; his white teeth flashed. In an instant, Johnson tipped his shoulder, swiveled his hips, and slammed a neat uppercut just under Hardiman's ribs.

I scrambled from the car. “Jesus Christ, Johnson, what are you doing?” Hardiman heaved and gasped, doubled over, trying to get back the breath Johnson's punch had stolen.

“He was getting funny with me.” Johnson stood like a skinny rooster, defiant and angry, unsure of his footing.

“I can handle the rough end,” I said.
Still,
I thought,
that punch was a little something, right on the money.

Hardiman managed a hoarse whisper. “You're through in this town, both of you. Do you know what they do to cops in the slammer?”

“Any idea what they do with fellows who like little girls?” I asked. “And don't think I don't know the rest of it.”

“You've got nothing on me,” said Hardiman, leveling his gaze at me behind his glasses. “Because I haven't done anything.”

I backhanded the sunglasses from Hardiman's pale, leering face, putting some knuckle into it. “You're through talking, Hardiman. I'm through and I know it. That means I can do whatever I want now. I can piss on whoever I want and get away with it, just like you.”

“You can't do anything to—”

I pulled the mason jar from my coat pocket and brought it sharply to the side of Hardiman's head, shattering it and dousing him with formaldehyde. The rubbery genitals bounced down from his shoulders and off his hands as he brought them up. When they hit the pavement, they wiggled a bit and stopped against Hardiman's shoe. He kicked them away.

“What the hell is this?” he sputtered.

“That's Pease's balls, just like you wanted,” I said. “Now where's my money?”

“You can't—I'm not giving you any money, you—”

I backhanded him again, spraying formaldehyde in a glittering halo. “I told you not to talk any more, see?” I looked around and saw that cars were beginning to slow as they passed. “Johnson,” I said, “do you know offhand if formaldehyde is flammable?”

Hardiman's face, already pale, went green, and his eyes seemed to shrink back into his face.

“Should I get some matches from the car?” Johnson made a step.

“That's all right for now, Johnson, I was just thinking. Now you,” I said, pulling my revolver discreetly from the rig and stepping close to Hardiman, “you get in and sit behind the wheel. We're taking a little trip.” I nudged Hardiman toward the black roadster, shouldered him toward the door. “Johnson, you sit up front with Mr. Nothing, here.”

We all got into Hardiman's car, me in back, directly behind the driver's seat. Hardiman started the engine with trembling hands and pulled away from the curb.

“I don't mind shooting you,” I said. “Later I probably will. But I was thinking that it might be nice to find Jasper Lloyd and try to hash out this mess, just the three of us. I don't suppose you'd know where he is?”

Hardiman was looking me over in the rearview mirror. I wasn't sure if he could see my gun, but I know he felt it pressed to the back of his neck.

“Mr. Lloyd takes his rest on Sundays,” he said. “He often takes a cruise along the river in the evening.”

“Get moving, then,” I said. “It's worth something to me to hear how you'll try to smooth it all over with Lloyd.”

Hardiman said nothing. He drove slowly through the downtown area along Jefferson with both hands on the wheel, glancing now and again in the side mirror. Each time he stopped at an intersection, I leaned forward and pressed the nose of my revolver to the side of his neck. To our right, past the tall buildings of the downtown area and then the cool streets of the swanky side of town, we caught glimpses of the Detroit River rolling along. It felt like we were heading against the current, heading upstream to spawn.

“If Lloyd isn't on the boat, Hardiman, this'll be your last stop. Like you say, I'm through. If you're yanking my dick here, I'll just figure the game is up and I'll put a slug in you. Nobody knows anything about Johnson. He can just slip out and get clean of it. The thing is, I'm tired. Dog-tired. If the Old Man's there, we'll hash things out real nice. Otherwise, you'll get it good, wherever we happen to be.”

“He'll be there,” said Hardiman. “Sunday is his day of rest and leisure, so to say.”

“I wouldn't figure the Old Man to be up this late,” said Johnson.

“Maybe he doesn't sleep well,” I said.

“He doesn't sleep at all,” said Hardiman.

As we approached the foot of the Belle Isle Bridge, all the foot traffic, cars, and buses snarled things up, so the going got slow. I noted that Hardiman scanned the crowd in the uneven light, hoping for a cop or a familiar face. As we made the turn onto the bridge, I leaned forward and kept close. I whispered to Hardiman, “I hope it doesn't cost too much to mop up your place out on the lake. Messy business it was.”

Though the Belle Isle Yacht Club was not far from the bridge, it took Hardiman some time to navigate to the guardhouse at the end of the drive. Enormous crowds spilled onto both sides of the bridge, streaming homeward, hoping for a seat on the last of the streetcars and buses. Hardiman hugged the wheel as he drove through the largely colored crowd, his eyes wide. Nearby and in the distance, firecrackers popped loudly, pushing waves of pedestrians against the panels of the creeping car. I kept low in the backseat and watched the jostling crowds, noticing, too, the small clots of white picnickers huddling along.

Maybe,
I thought,
I'm coming down with something. It can't be this hot, not even July yet. And the sun already down.

The guard at the gate seemed to recognize Hardiman's car and lifted the flimsy wooden barrier to let us pass. Most of the boats were smaller pleasure craft and a few larger fishing boats. Towering above them, at the end of its specially built pier, Lloyd's yacht swayed slowly and pulled at the creaking pilings. Hardiman pulled the Cruiser into a spot marked
RESERVED
and cut the engine. He put his hands in his lap and hung his head.

“Give Johnson the keys,” I said.

Hardiman did not move, so Johnson pulled the keys and slipped them in his pocket.

“If he isn't here,” I said, “I'm going to have Johnson drop off a little package down to the newspaper office, so everybody can get a clear picture of you after you're gone.”

“He's here,” said Hardiman. “And you don't need to act like you have anything on me. I know how things are as far as the newspapers are concerned.”

I held the revolver in the pocket of my jacket. I got out. I opened Hardiman's door and pulled him out by the collar of his jacket. Johnson moved to get out, too.

“Keep still, Johnson.”

“I should come, too, Pete. You can see that's reasonable.”

“Listen, Johnson, I don't need lip from you, too. I get the feeling our boy is lying to me, and I don't want you to be involved in what I do to him if he is. You sit here, and if there's a ruckus, you plug whoever comes down off of that boat, if it ain't me. You plug 'em or you get the hell out. I'll leave it up to you. You follow me?”

“I follow you.” Johnson turned away and looked at the yacht, which was lit from within, like many of the other boats, and quiet.

“C'mon, Hardiman, let's get it over with.” My mouth wanted something substantial, some good Scotch or rye whiskey, something to clean out the cotton. “It's been a long couple days.”

I kept Hardiman in front as we walked onto the docks. We passed through a wrought-iron gate that led to Lloyd's private pier and stopped at an ornate stepstool leading onto the deck. As Hardiman's foot touched the stool, the inboard motors rumbled to life and sputtered in the water. I rushed up and tossed Hardiman onto the deck, then jumped up after him. I cranked my head toward the captain's chair up top but saw nothing. I pulled the pistol from my pocket, pressed against the cabin wall, and trained my eye to the fore end of the yacht.