Yesterday's News (20 page)

Rendall descended the stairs balancing a tray that made clinking noises with each step. I poured out some B & B for each of us, and we finished dessert before we resumed talking.

I said, “You find any notes on Coyne or the cops in Jane's desk at the
Beacon?
”

“No, nothing. Maybe at her apartment?”

“I checked when I saw Mrs. O'Day. Zero.”

“Too bad.” Liz gestured toward the redevelopment articles. “So, what'd you think?”

I told her.

Frowning, she said, “Granted it was all public information, but wouldn't you have been a little more than rankled at Jane for spreading it so thick?”

“I guess I just don't see it. So Dykestra got bailed out by the taxpayers. It all seems aboveboard, and nothing worse happened to him except maybe the pols won't be so quick to lend a hand next time.”

“What if her next story went a little deeper than public knowledge?”

“How do you mean?”

“What if some of the numbers got a little cooked before Dykestra and Fetch served them up to the pols?”

“You have any proof of that?”

“No, but Jane was sure close to Fetch before Coyne and the porno craze overtook her. It wouldn't surprise me much if she learned some things from Bruce during pillow talk that she could have documented given enough time.”

“Again, you have any proof?”

Rendall sighed. “No. I just can't see the Coyne thing being anybody's reason to kill her. And if it wasn't that, or the redevelopment project, I've got to believe she really did commit suicide. I just don't like that any better than murder, I guess.”

“Maybe I should check Jane's house again.”

“For notes and so on?”

“Yes.”

“I can save you a trip. I have to go there again tomorrow.”

“How come?”

“The funeral. I already picked a dress for the undertaker to … to use. But Jane's aunt's coming in from Kansas, and I promised I'd take her through the place.”

“What time's the funeral?”

“Eleven-thirty. At Almeida's on Exeter Street. You coming?”

I wanted to say no outright, but instead I said, “Who else are you expecting?”

“Not many. I'm assuming at least some of my colleagues won't be too scandalized to attend.”

“Because of the suicide atmosphere, you mean?”

“Yes and no. Suicide's the rationalization they'll use. The fact they just didn't like her much is the real reason they'll stay away.” She drank some more. “Could we maybe talk about something else? I mean, you came here tonight to take my mind off the funeral, remember?”

“Sorry. Any other topic is fine. You first.”

Liz mock-toasted by touching her glass to mine. “I like a man who doesn't drink coffee.”

“Just never cared for the taste of it.”

She swirled her liqueur. “‘Why drink the grindings of beans when nectar flows so freely?'”

“Another quote?”

“Yes, but I can attribute this one. Malcolm Peete, our resident lush.”

“Just because a guy's a lush doesn't mean he's stupid.”

“And just because he isn't stupid doesn't mean he does his job.”

“When you replace Arbuckle, you going to do something about it?”

She inhaled the warm liquid. “Mal tell you to ask me that?”

“No.”

Rendall poured another shot. “Peete thinks he's invulnerable. He's wrong. Arbuckle doesn't know how to manage the big boys, the executive editor and the publisher. It'd take me all of three months in Arbuckle's chair before I undermined all that old war-buddy stuff to the point that Peete would have to drive his drunken ass through the snows of another city. Believe it.”

I did. “At least you could offer him transportation.”

She looked at me quizzically. “Why?”

“He lost his license.”

“Who told you that?”

“He did. Implicitly, anyway.”

“No. No, that's wrong. I'd have heard about it. Besides, he's so tight with the cops he squeaks when he goes by one.”

“Meaning he does drive?”

“Well, he's got a car, and I've seen it in our lot often enough the last few months. So unless he's hired a chauffeur, he's driving himself.”

“What kind of car?”

“Old Volkswagen.” Liz looked at me more shrewdly. “Does that make a difference somehow?”

I finished my drink. “I'll have to let you know. Mind if I use your phone?”

She pointed to a turquoise princess model on an end table. “I'll take these back up and give you some privacy.”

“Thanks.”

I dialed the motel and drew Jones on the third ring. “Crestview.”

“Emil, John Cuddy.”

“I got your goddam message you been so hot to get.”

“What's it say?”

“Guy sounded like a boozer.”

“He's a derelict, Emil.”

“Well, whatever the hell he is, he's gonna be waiting for you.”

“Tonight?”

“Hell, yes, tonight.”

“Where?”

“In the alley behind your favorite establishment.”

“Bun's?”

“That's what he said. You sure you bat from the right side of the plate, Cuddy?”

“He give you a time?”

“I asked him that. He said you were too goddam cheap to give him your watch, so you could just hope he'd still be there when you arrived. Goddam uppity bum.”

“Thanks, Emil. Sorry to inconvenience you.”

“I won't let it turn into a habit.”

He hung up.

Liz leaned her elbows on the balustrade above me, shifting her weight from bent leg to bent leg, rolling her rump in a one-two rhythm. Probably an aerobics exercise.

She said, “Sounds like you're leaving me.”

“Sorry. Thanks for dinner. It was terrific.”

“So are the stars. Over the water you can see them real clear. Count them even.” She accentuated one repetition of the exercise. “Especially good viewing from the wheelhouse.”

Climbing the stairs, I drew even with her as she slid her arms up and around my neck.

I looked into her eyes. “If I were to say, ‘Maybe next time,' I'd be lying.”

She shook her head. “I know.”

T
HE STRIP HAD
one strong point: parking never seemed to be a problem, even at ten-thirty on a Thursday night. Leaving the Prelude near Bun's, I entered the alley just as a cloud passed across the moon, followed by a flash of lightning and the eventual rumble of distant thunder. Liz would be missing her stars. A second flash allowed me to spot Vip, curled around the wheels of a dumpster maybe ten feet from the back door of Gotbaum's bar.

Bending down, I said, “You called me?”

His feet, shod in old combat boots, squirmed and resettled.

I tugged on one of the boots. “Vip, it's John Cuddy. You called me?”

Using an elbow as a fulcrum, he passed a palm over his face. “Awake, officer. I's awake.”

“Vip, it's John Cuddy.”

“Cuddy?”

“Yes. You called me, remember?”

“Right, right. You don't gots to spell it out for me, you know? I'm not a fuckin drunk, like some peoples I could mention.”

“You ready to talk now?”

“You ready to pay now?”

I took a twenty from my pocket and held it close enough for him to see the denomination. “Start talking.”

“Not till I gets the twenty.”

“You said you trusted me because of how I handled those three teenagers, right? I give you the twenty first, and I don't like what I hear, I can just take it back. So why don't we exchange value like gentlemen here, okay?”

Vip grunted. “You wants it short or long?”

“Long would be nice.”

He arranged himself into a sitting position, back against a bag of trash that hadn't quite made it into the dumpster. I found a beer case, stamped it flat, and lowered myself Indian-style.

“Shaping up to be a dry night, that one. Not much action, nobody gots no bottle. Gets me some supper up along the mission off Second, some kind of seafood shit gots more potatoes in it than anything, but what else be new under the sun? One of the boys say Charlie out and about, so I comes down here.”

“Charlie Coyne?”

“'Course Charlie Coyne. Who the fuck you wanting to know about?”

“He's the one.”

“Then hows about you shuts up and listens to what I gots to say about him?”

“Fine.”

Vip seemed mollified. “Charlie, he a piece of work, that one. Gets hisself shit-faced over in the bar. Buys hisself some cheap shit offen the barkeep. Then come out here, pass it 'round to the boys.”

“You talk with him that night?”

“Talk with Charlie? You gots to be shitten me, man. Charlie, he don't start coming out here till he so shit-faced, he lucky he still raise a hand for to drink with.”

“What happened after he started passing the bottle around?”

“They's a fight over it, like they always is. Fuckin bums, they goes up the alley a piece, squabbling over the thing like hens over a new bandy-cock. I lets 'em go, ain't gots no time for fighting over things.”

“Then what?”

Vip looked around melodramatically, a confidant in a silent movie. “Biggish dude kind of crawl over to Charlie. Never laid eyes on him before, and I been in this here alley mosta two years now. I figures maybe he gonna rip old Charlie off, buy his own bottle. Dude gets close onto Charlie, starts going through the pockets, you know? Not like a queer, more searching for something. Anyway, musta struck a sweet spot, 'cause old Charlie, he come 'round, shouting and cussing. Had us a moon that night, we surely did, and I sees the blade coming out and down, then they's rolling 'round, spitting and tussling, but that Charlie, he too drunk and shit, he too skinny anyway for to take the big man. I hears a noise I hears before, and I knows he's gone.”

“What noise?”

Vip worked his mouth. “Noise a blade make going through the lung. You hears it onest, you never forgets it later.”

“Then what happened?”

“Big dude gets hisself up, don't really look 'round or nothing, just takes hisself off down the alley here, hopping on one leg and dragging the tuther. I sees this knife sticking out the side of it. Don't seem right.”

“What didn't seem right?”

“The knife. You ever sees a man stuck like that?”

“Slashed or stuck in the guts, yeah. Not in the leg.”

“Well then, you gots some to learn, you does. Man stuck like that big one, he gonna pull that sucker out afore he does no jogging, get me?”

“I get you.”

Vip shook his head. “No, don't seem right.”

Another bolt of lightning, a clap of thunder on its tail this time. “You said the moon was up that night. You get a look at the big guy's face?”

“Some. Like I says afore, never did see him 'round.”

“Can you describe him?”

“White man, gots a watch cap pulled down over his ears.”

I thought about my scrape with the Buick. “Watch cap?”

“Yeah. Fuckin cold in these alleys of a night, you don't gots something on your head. Shit, man, here she come.”

I felt a few raindrops, too. Vip started what promised to be a two-minute program of getting to his feet.

I said, “You tell the cops all this?”

“Yeah, yeah. I tells the same things, they writes 'em down, grins on their fuckin faces, like they don't gots to believe a word I say.”

“They take you to the station, show you mug shots?”

“You gotta be shitting me, man. They's the cops, they's seen it all afore. Bum gots knife, bum wants bottle, bum kills bum. End of story.”

The drizzle gave way to real rain as Vip finally made it to his feet and took a few hesitant steps.

“Shit, man. Gives me my twenty, huh? I don't wanna catch no 'monia outta this here.”

I gave him the twenty. He squirreled it inside his coat and past three or four layers, making faces until he reached deep enough to feel secure. He set off down the alley, lurching like a newborn colt.

I said, “Vip, you call me again, alright? Let me know you're okay?”

He started what might have been a wave, but began to sing instead.

T
HE STORM WOKE
me twice during the night, but Friday dawned cloudless, the rain living on only through isolated pools and wet grass. I had an Egg McMuffin and three containers of orange juice at the Golden Arches, then drove to police headquarters. I had to wait only five minutes before the desk sergeant sent me up to see Hagan.

Reading a duty roster, Hagan wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and knit tie, the hair on his forearms sandy and thick. “What is it this time, Cuddy?”

“I had a talk with your star witness last night.”

“What witness?”

“The derelict who saw Charlie Coyne get stabbed.”

“Great. Appreciate the follow-up. Anything else?”

“He says the killer stood up and hopped away on a bad leg.”

“Your leg has a tendency to go bad, you get a knife jammed into it.”

“Or if you have some preexisting injury.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it seems just a little odd that a guy with a knife in his leg is going to run away on it without taking the knife out first.”

“So?”

“So I'm thinking, what if the knife in the leg is a mask for a limp the killer had before he went after Charlie.”

Hagan leaned back into the chair, blowing out a breath. “Your bum see Coyne's killer walking okay before the fight?”

“No. Never saw him before and never saw him walk. Said the killer crawled over to Charlie.”

“Doesn't fly. Too complicated. Besides, Coyne was known to carry a knife, and the responding unit didn't find one at the scene.”