Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

Death in 12 Bars

by Andrew MacRae

The little guy hit first, taking me by surprise. I figured his big partner would be the one to start with the rough stuff and they would wait until we got outside. I had just walked in, carrying the large manila envelope as instructed. The little guy and the big guy got up from their bar stools and walked over as if to say hello.

“Those the photos?” the little guy asked as they approached me, pointing to the envelope.

“Yeah,” I answered. “You got the money?”

“Sure,” said the big guy. “Right here.”

I turned halfway to face him and that’s when the other one sucker punched me with a hard, quick right to my gut while we were standing near the bar’s entrance. Then, while the big guy stood behind me, holding my arms and keeping me upright, the little guy got in a half-dozen strong shots to my stomach, with a couple of strays landing on my rib cage. I took particular note of those stray punches because of the way the large square ring on his left hand dug into my flesh, with my shirt offering little protection.

I know what you are probably wondering. Why didn’t I use some fancy jujutsu moves like a detective on television and get out of the jam I was in. Let’s just say that’s a lot harder to do in real life than on television – especially when the first punch leaves you gasping for air. Besides, sometimes taking a beating is just part of the job for a private investigator.

The whole thing took only a minute or so. I raised my head when the blows stopped. The bartender was watching with a bored look. A couple of guys at the bar looked down into their beers. Karen Carpenter sang sweetly in the background.

The big guy half walked me, half carried me to a nearby booth and put me in it. I rested my head on my arms. I was glad I hadn’t had anything to eat for a few hours.

The little guy leaned over me. His breath smelled of beer and pastrami.

“Listen, errand boy. Consider this a warning for whoever sent you. The next time he tries to put the squeeze on Mr. Tomlison it’s going go a lot harder for both of you. Get it?”

I didn’t answer. He shook my shoulder.

“I said, get it?”

“Got it,” I mumbled.

“Good.” He turned to the big guy.

“Come on, let’s go.” They left.

I sat slumped in the booth for a few minutes. After a while the bartender came over and put a shot glass with amber liquid in it on the table.

“Here,” he said. “On the house. Drink it and then get out of here.”

I downed the drink in one toss. It was cheap whisky and it burned all the way down my throat, but I appreciated the thought.

“Thanks,” I said as I pulled myself out of the booth and leaned for a moment on the seatback.

“Don’t mention it and don’t come back,” he said as he headed back to the bar. “We don’t like trouble in here.”

I resisted telling him I don’t like bars where I get beaten up while listening to Karen Carpenter. Instead I walked on unsteady legs to the door and left.

My car was two blocks down the street and I took my time, stopping to lean against a few streetlights along the way. By the time I got into my car and started the engine I was feeling better. As far as I could tell there wasn’t any lasting damage done but I was going to be aching in the morning. I wanted to go straight home except I had one stop to make before I could do that.

The Twilight Room on the top floor of the Edison Building downtown is about as far removed in style and quality from the bar where the little guy worked me over as Jeckle is from Hyde. Lush plants filled the wood-paneled and marble-floored lobby and I could hear the tinkling of a piano as I walked in.

The pianist finished one song and began another. It was popular song from years back, recorded by The Carpenters. I shook my head. I guess some things never change.

The maître d’ looked at my disheveled suit and self and made a face.

“I’m meeting Mr. deFranco,” I told him before he could speak. “He’s expecting me.”

He raised an eyebrow. He conveyed a lot of meaning with that one eyebrow.

“Indeed? Very well, please come this way.” He led me across the floor of the nightclub, to a table in a small alcove.

DeFranco, the man who hired me for the job was sitting with two attractive young women, one on either side. He motioned for them to leave. They left. Too bad. I slid into the booth.

DeFranco eyed me, surveying what damage was visible. I eyed him back. Dominic deFranco is the youngest son of a powerful political figure in our town. He’s only thirty-two but his size and presence gives him the appearance of being older by a decade. He’s well groomed, rich, intelligent and not someone to cross lightly.

“It got rough?” he asked at length.

“Yeah, it got rough,” I answered. “Tomilson’s boys know how to teach a lesson.”

DeFranco picked up his glass and took a drink. The ice in the glass clinked. Even the ice in this place sounded expensive. He didn’t offer me a drink nor did I expect him to. I was just the hired help.

He looked out across the nightclub floor. “Do you think they believed it?”

I nodded. “Yeah, I think they believed it.”

“That’s good. Then it was worth the effort.” He slipped his hand into his suit coat and brought out an envelope and handed it to me. I felt the weight and thickness and slipped it into my own pocket. I wasn’t going to insult Dom deFranco by counting. At least, not in front of him.

“Glad you think so.” I got up from the booth, wincing as I did. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go home and soak for a while.”

DeFranco eyed me. “I hope you’re not thinking I’ll give you a bonus just because you got a little hurt. You knew there was a good chance of that when you took the job.”

I shook my head. “Not me.” I patted my jacket where the envelope nestled inside. “I’m happy. See you around.”

I turned and walked away. I didn’t expect a response, nor did I receive one. I didn’t know why deFranco wanted Tomlisin to have the photographs in that envelope. I never even looked inside. All I knew was that deFranco wanted Tomlisin to buy into whatever story they told and that my part in the charade had helped convince him of it. I also knew this job had provided me with rent and eating money for the next six months. What are a few bruises compared to that?

Once inside my car again I started it and turned on the stereo. Paul Butterfield’s upside down Hohner harmonica growled through the car’s speakers. I turned up the volume and drove home. I was glad to be done with the little guy and his partner. Or so I thought.

***

Two nights later I was suffering from an acute case of cabin fever.

I was caught up with my paperwork, including my quarterly tax estimate – yes, even private detectives have paperwork and taxes – and I had practiced my bass until my fingers were sore.

I decided to escape my apartment and give my legs a stretch. I walked down to University Avenue and took in a movie at the Center Theatre, an old movie palace that’s been restored to some semblance of its former glory.

I was in luck. Gun Crazy was showing. It’s a noir from the early 1950s, written in a sparse and tough style by Dalton Trumbo a year before the blacklist crippled his career. It stars a totally square John Dall and a wickedly curvaceous Peggy Cummins as a pair of trigger-happy kids in love and on the run.

Eighty-six minutes later the final shots echoed through the theater and the movie ended. I left as the Mighty Wurlitzer rose majestically from the orchestra pit with the organist playing the theme from the movie.

I picked a random direction and walked down University Avenue. It was a warm Friday night and the sidewalks were filled with people. I didn’t have any particular destination. I was enjoying being a stranger in a sea of strangers.

As I passed the sixth gourmet coffee shop in only half as many blocks I heard a familiar voice singing and heard chords being pounded out on an equally familiar guitar. They were coming from the next store down, Michael’s Gelato.

Like many of the shops on University Avenue, it’s an open storefront with a heavy gate that’s brought down each night when they close, usually not until midnight or later. I leaned against the side of the shop entrance and took in the view.

Pete from the Street is a mangy ex-con who scratches out a meager living playing the guitar and singing for tips.

I don’t know what crime he did time for, or how long he was in the pen. He’s never offered that information and I’ve never asked. Still, it’s easy enough to guess. Whenever he hits someone up for cash he always goes on about how he’s going to be able to pay it back once he gets a chunk of cash from someone he calls The Weedman. He says The Weedman owes him for the time he spent in prison. Apparently Pete went to the stir while his partner skated clear. With a nickname like The Weedman it isn’t hard to figure out what game he and Pete were playing. I just hoped Pete was smart enough not to try to get money from his former partner, whoever he was. In my experience, people who put the touch on drug dealers usually end up having the hurt put on them.

Pete caught my eye and managed to squeeze “Hey, Nyles, stick around!” between the lines of a song. I wondered how much he was going to try to touch me for. Not that I ever give any money to him. Giving money to Pete is just the same as putting it straight into the cash register of the nearest bar. But the night was young, cars and people passed by in an unending stream and Pete was singing Hello, In There. I’m not exactly a fan of gelato shops but I like John Prine so I bought a cup of house coffee, found a chair and stayed.

To my surprise, Pete did not hit me up for cash. “Hey, Nyles,” he said as he dropped into a chair across from me when he took a break a few minutes later.

I looked at him. I hadn’t seen Pete in a few months and he looked different. His face didn’t have the hang-dog look of an wino wondering how long until his next drink. He looked like he had gained a few pounds as well. Not that Pete would grace the pages of a fashion or healthy living magazine. His dark hair was long and graying and tied back in a loose ponytail. His teeth showed a lack of dental care and his face sported the same three-day growth of beard he always had. His clothes were off the rack of the local Salvation Army and none too clean. If I had to guess, I would say Pete was in his early fifties, but given his life over the past decade or two he could easily be ten years younger.

“You’re looking pretty good,” I told him.

“I’m feeling good. It’s been three months and six days since my last drink.”

My eyebrows went up. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“Yeah, well I owe it to two things – and one of them is what I want to ask you about.”

Pete had my curiosity. “What’s up?” I asked as lifted my coffee cup to my mouth.

“I’ve got a gig Tuesday night next week at the Hoodoo Lounge. I was wondering if you’d back me on bass.” I almost choked on my coffee.

“Patrick gave you a gig?”

“Yep.”

I eyed Pete, wondering if he was making this up. It was well over a year since the last time Patrick offered Pete a chance to play a couple of sets at my favorite dive. Pete put fliers up all over town and rehearsed a few times with the Hoodoo house band. Pete had won himself some loyal fans and when the big night came the Hoodoo was packed with customers - but Pete never showed up. A case of nerves drove him to a dive across town where he drank himself stupid. Patrick swore he’d never make that mistake again.

Pete gave me a sheepish grin. “Patrick bet me I couldn’t go three months without a drink. If I made it he’d let me have another gig. Guess he didn’t think I could do it.”

Pete looked down at his hands. His fingers were intertwined tightly. “To tell the truth, I didn’t think I could do it either.”

He looked at me. “How about it, Nyles? Jerry won’t do it. He’s still pissed off about last time.”

Jerry’s the house bassist at the HooDoo. I wasn’t surprised he turned Pete down. Jerry’s serious about his music. His nights are spent on stage at the Hoodoo while his days are spent teaching and in recording sessions. He also doesn’t like being stood up. I thought about it.

As a rule, I don’t do favors for people. I would add that I don’t do favors for friends either but that’s kind of a moot point for me. Let’s just say I don’t make or keep friends easily. But Pete had such a puppy dog goofy innocence that it was hard to say no. Besides, there was one particular song I’d been itching to play at the Hoodoo.

“I figure three sets of about forty minutes each,” Pete said, watching me think. “Of course we’d do One Drink Short,” putting into words what I was thinking.

Damn. There was no way I was going to turn this down. I’m not exactly the best bass player around. I’m strictly an amateur. But I like to play and that classic song from the early 60s, One Drink Short (of A Twelve Bar Blues) is a lot of fun for a bass player like me. It’s got a descending line at the last line of each chorus. That last line, actually the words of the title, are usually sung with only the bass accompanying. No guitar. No drum. No keyboard. Nothing but Pete’s voice and a thumping bass. My bass.

“Alright, you’ve got me.” I put my coffee cup down. “I’d better be heading home. I’ve got some practicing to do.” I rubbed the tip of my thumb against the pads of my first and second fingers. A little sore now, they were going to be a lot more sore by Tuesday night.

“That’s great,” Pete said with a crooked smile. “Patrick said we can practice at the HooDoo on Monday and Tuesday morning. I figure if we start by ten we should be finished by one or so.” He got up. It was time for him to earn some more money. “I’ll leave a list of the songs I’m planning on doing with Patrick.”

I got up too. “See you Monday morning at the Hoodoo.” I waited while he put his guitar strap over his head and gave the tuners a tweak. He was already launched into a Jim Croce song by the time I dropped a five in his open guitar case and left.

As I headed home I remembered that Pete said there were two reasons for his recent sobriety. The gig at the Hoodoo Lounge was one. I went home wondering what the other was. As I did One Drink Short played in my mind and I walked home on cracked and darkened streets while the echo of my footsteps kept time.

But the word is out all over town,
Guess I’m the last to hear the news,
That’s why I’m sitting alone in a bar,
One drink short of a twelve bar blues.

***

The next few days went by quickly. I picked up the list of songs from Patrick and began working out bass lines for them. Nothing fancy, as most of the songs were simple twelve bar blues, just solid backing bass with a few turnarounds at the end of each verse.

We went through three sets of songs in our practice sessions on Monday and Tuesday morning, sixteen in all including Sweet Little Angel, Walkin’ Blues and Early in the Morning. I put a lot of time into One Drink Short and it paid off. Patrick caught my eye from where he sat at the Rhodes keyboard as we finished practicing on Tuesday morning with that song and nodded, letting me know I nailed it just right. I felt as high as a kite even though I hadn’t had a drink.

Pete was in great form during our practice session. He had none of the nervous jitters that betrayed him the time before. His guitar work was on the money and his voice sounded better than I’d ever heard it. The others noticed it as well.

Johnny the drummer slapped Pete on the back, saying, “See you tonight,” as he left the stage.

Patrick got up from the electric piano and walked over to where Pete was putting away his guitar. I was on the other side of the small stage, wiping down the neck of my bass, preparing it for its own case. As a result I was only marginally aware of their conversation.

I saw Patrick stretch out his hand and shake Pete’s and say something that made them both laugh. A moment later Pete pulled a piece of paper out of his guitar case and showed it Patrick. Patrick listened to what Pete said, pulled back in surprise and then the two men shook hands all over again. I bent down to put my bass into its case and by the time I closed and fastened it and stood up again Pete was heading out the side door.

Patrick walked over to me wearing a big smile and carrying Pete’s guitar case. He placed it against the back wall of the stage then turned to face me.

“Nyles, you’ll never believe it.” I raised my eyes in question. Patrick explained that Pete showed him a photograph of a young woman holding a baby. “Guess who they were?” demanded Patrick of me.

I shook my head. “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Pete’s daughter and her baby. Pete’s a grandfather!” Patrick saw the look in my face.

“Pete hasn’t seen or heard from his daughter in years, not since he, well you know, not since he went to prison. Apparently she lives out on the east coast. Pete wrote to her a couple of months back and she wrote back and included that picture.”

Patrick waited as I digested that bit of news. This must be the second reason for his recent sobriety.

“And here’s the kicker. She’s invited Pete to go for a visit. He’s flying out there tomorrow.”

My eyes narrowed. “That takes some cash. Pete’s not expecting to make that much on tips at tonight’s show, is he?”

“No,” replied Patrick, “He’s going to see some old buddy of his right now. He says the guy agreed to front Pete the money when he talked to him yesterday.”

The hair on the back of my neck rose. “He didn’t happen to say what this guy’s name was, did he?” I tried to keep my voice neutral. I don’t think it worked for the smile faded from his face as Patrick answered.

“It’s that guy he calls The Weedman.” He swallowed. “You don’t think there’s anything wrong, do you?” I shook my head slowly.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I hope not.”

I put my case against the back wall of the stage next to Pete’s. I had six hours to kill before I needed to be back at the Hoodoo Lounge for the show and I had a pretty good idea how I was going to spend it. As I left I didn’t feel so great anymore.

***

I spent the next two hours cruising all the parts of town where I figured someone named The Weedman was likely to do business. I drove down Central Avenue, crossed over on D Street and headed over to Second. I saw lots that sort of activity along those rundown, beaten streets, but no sign of Pete. Figuring I was wasting my time I hooked a right back onto Central and headed downtown to a building I knew way too well.

I asked for Lieutenant Castro at the front desk of police headquarters. After a few minutes he came out, looking annoyed. Lt. Castro and I aren’t exactly friends, acquaintances or drinking buddies. But he was a good cop and that’s what I needed. He walked up to me and as usual skipped any pleasantries.

“Okay, Kenyon, what’s up?”

“Do you know a dealer called The Weedman?” I waited while Castro thought it over. I figured if anyone would know who The Weedman was, he’d be the one. Castro’s on the homicide beat now but he spent quite a few years in vice before that. At last he shook his head.

“Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?

I shrugged my shoulders. “I’m playing with Pete from the Street down at the Hoodoo tonight. Pete went off to put the touch on this guy for a good bunch of cash. Says this Weedman character owes him for the time he spent in prison. I’m just a little worried, that’s all.”

Lt. Castro looked at me. “Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, Kenyon, you surprise me.” He shook his head. “Imagine, Nyles Kenyon actually worrying about someone else without a fee involved.” He saw me stiffen. “Oh, relax, Kenyon. I’m just kidding. Tell you what, I’ll pass the word to the boys on vice to keep an eye out for your buddy Pete.” He looked at my face. “And I’ll check and see if any of them has heard of The Weedman. Satisfied?” I nodded.

“Great. See you around, Kenyon.” Castro turned on his heel and left. I turned and walked in the other direction, out the front door and back onto the street.

***

The look on Patrick’s face told me the answer to the question I was afraid to ask when got to the Hoodoo Lounge that evening, half an hour before we were supposed to begin playing. Johnny was behind his trap set checking and rechecking the sound of the drums. Patrick was pacing in front of the stage.

He saw me and shook his head and mouthed the words, “Just like last year.” I looked out past the stage. Just like last year there was a good-sized crowd already waiting for the show.

I left the stage and went to the bar, catching Crystal’s eye as I did. She finished with her customer and came over. I ordered and paid for a beer, waited until she found a bottle, wiped the neck, popped the cap and gave it to me with a glass. I poured it slowly, waiting until the foam settled, then poured some more. Eventually I couldn’t delay any more. I turned from the bar and wove my way through the customers to the front of the stage. Patrick’s two meaty hands were clenched and there was a dark look in his eye.

“If I ever see that no good, piece of…” Patrick looked past my shoulder toward the front door. I turned, ready to greet the prodigal Pete but instead of Pete I saw Lt. Castro with a uniformed officer behind him. Castro headed toward us and my heart sank in my chest.

“Well, Kenyon,” Castro said as he reached us. “Looks like you had reason to worry about your buddy.” Even though I was prepared to hear the news I still had trouble believing it.

“Where?” I asked.

“He was found next to a garbage dumpster in a back parking lot up on Washington Blvd just under an hour ago.” Washington Blvd is in the high rent part of town. It was the last place I would have expected Pete to be.

“What was he doing up there?”

“I was sort of hoping you might be able to tell me that.” Castro turned to Patrick and then Johnny. “Let’s go outside. I got a few questions for the three of you.”

***

Lt. Castro kept us in the parking lot for over an hour. We told our stories, then retold them, then told them again. Long after it was obvious there wasn’t anything to go on he kept at it. He finished with us at last and Castro let Patrick and Johnny go back inside the Hoodoo where only a few people remained of the crowd who had come to hear Pete play. Me, he kept back.

“Listen, Kenyon,” he said, dropping his cigarette to the ground where it joined a small pile of others, while lighting yet another. “I’ll be straight with you. We’ll go ahead and comb the businesses near where his body was found and try to find a witness or at least someone who heard the shots. We’ll run ballistic tests on the bullets that killed him and see if they match others we have on file. We’ll try like hell to find a dealer named The Weedman, but--” He stopped talking to take a long drag and then slowly exhale. “You know as well as I do that the murder of one ex-con isn’t going to get any priority, not with the budget cuts and layoffs we’ve been going through.”

I looked past him and through the grimy window of the Hoodoo Lounge. I could see the stage. It was empty except for Patrick’s keyboard and Johnny’s drum set. But in my mind I could see Pete up on stage, playing that old Taylor of his, leaning into the microphone and singing up a storm. Then I blinked and Pete was gone. Pete was gone and not coming back. I turned my attention to the here and now.

“So, you’re telling me if Pete’s killer’s going to be caught, I’ve got to do it?”

Castro shrugged. “I’m saying you’re welcome to try if you want. But,” he poked a finger into my chest. “Get this straight. None of your ideas of rough justice, understand? If you do find something, you bring it to me. We play this by the book. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“I hope so, Kenyon. For your sake.” With that he turned on his heel, signaled to the uniformed cop he was done and stalked off across the parking lot.

I went back inside the Hoodoo. I made my way to the stage where I retrieved my bass, still in its case. Patrick saw me and came over.

“Nyles, you taking off?” I nodded. Patrick put his hand on my arm. “I was thinking maybe we’d have a jam session, you know, for Pete.” I shook my head.

“Not for me, Patrick. I’m going home.” I turned to leave but Patrick tightened his grip. He looked worried.

“Nyles,” he began, stopped and then began again. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I’ll do that.”

Patrick let go of my arm and I left without looking back. I don’t remember the drive home. I don’t remember parking or going into my apartment. What I remember is finding myself sitting on my sofa. My apartment was dark with just one small lamp casting stark shadows on the walls. On the low table in front of me was a bottle of good Scotch I was saving for a special occasion. There was a glass, too. I picked up the glass and turned it in my fingers. It was one of a set of four Edinburgh cut glass highballs that my Great Aunt Ruth left me in a will years and years ago. They are probably the only things I own that connect me to the family I used to have. That carefully cut glass and that bottle came in handy as the night slowly crawled by.

***

I woke the next morning to a buzzing in my brain and another coming from somewhere on the floor under the sofa on where I had slept fitfully through the night. I fished around and found my cell phone just as caller gave up. The caller ID told me it was Lt. Castro and that it was the second time in fifteen minutes he had called. The phone was also smart enough to tell me I had a voicemail message waiting.

I sat up and shook the cobwebs from my mind. Then I retrieved the message and listened to Lt. Castro telling me he wanted to see me down at police headquarters that morning, that he had news about Pete’s murder. The smug tone in his voice gave me a clue as to why he wanted to see me. My guess was they either caught or at least knew whoever it was that killed Pete. I wondered if it was the mysterious Weedman, whoever he was. I called Castro’s office and left a message with the desk, letting him know I’d be at Dino’s Café in an hour. If Castro wanted to act smug he could do so at the time and place of my choosing, not his.

I looked at the time display on the cell phone after hanging up. It was 9:20 in the morning. The sun was trying to get into my apartment through the drapes on the window. A few rays made it through and pierced the gloom of my apartment and struck the half-empty bottle on the table next to the sofa. The remaining scotch glowed golden in the sudden beam of light and I thought about pouring myself a glass and after that maybe another glass and then another glass of forgetfulness and keep on pouring them through the morning. But instead I got to my feet, stumbled to the bathroom and took a long, hot shower, doing my best to wash the previous night away.

An hour later I was sitting at the counter at Dino’s. Debbie kept my cup filled with coffee while I waited for my scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. Someone came in and sat on the stool next to me. I didn’t bother to look. From the stale smell of cigarettes I could guess who it was.

Lt. Castro waved at Debbie and pointed to my coffee. She came over, put a second heavy white mug on the counter and expertly poured coffee right up to the rim without spilling over. Castro waited until she was done, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph and laid it face down on the counter between us.

I looked down at it, wondering whose face would be on the other side, wondering what Pete’s killer would look like.

“Go ahead,” said Castro. “See if you recognize this guy.” I turned the photograph over so that it lay face up.

I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t the clean-cut young man who stared out from the photograph. He was grinning and his eyes matched the confidence in his grin. He looked about thirty years old, was dressed well and his hair was neatly styled. I turned to Castro. He was watching my reaction to the photo.

“Not exactly what I expected The Weedman to look like.”

“That’s because he’s not The Weedman,” replied Castro with the look of someone playing a practical joke. “You really don’t recognize him?”

I took another, longer look at the young man in the photo. There was something familiar about him, something about the eyes, maybe the jaw. Then it hit me. “It’s Pete, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. It was taken a few months before he was arrested and went to prison. His criminal case record arrived early this morning. That picture was in it.”

I shook my head. “That sure doesn’t look like my idea of a drug dealer. He looks like a yuppie.”

“That’s because he was.” I stopped looking at the photograph of Pete as he once was and looked at Castro. He was enjoying this.

“Your buddy Pete from the Street was known as Mr. Peter Gresham back then. He had an MBA from Wharton and was a rising star in the merger and acquisitions business. He didn’t do time for drugs. He did time for insider stock trading.”

I looked back at the picture and shook my head.

“Then who is The Weedman?”

“Our guess is that he’s someone in the financial field, probably a stockbroker. Pete never named his partner in the deal. He served his full sentence because of that, fifteen years worth.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that we’re back at square one. Instead of looking for a drug dealer we could be looking for pretty much anyone who might have been a stockbroker almost twenty years ago.”

“That’s right.” Castro finished his coffee, got up from the stool and slapped a couple of dollar bills on the counter. He picked up Pete’s photograph and put it back into his jacket pocket. “Just thought you’d like to know what you’re up against if you’re still thinking of cracking this yourself.”

Any other time his gibes might have gotten a rise out of me but just then an idea shimmered slightly in my mind. Castro saw the look on my face. “You got something, Kenyon?”

I shook my head, just a little. I didn’t want to dislodge the tenuous notion flickering in the back of my brain. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, keep in mind what I said last night. You come to me if you find anything. Got it?”

I nodded with a bare movement of my head. He stared at me, then realized he wasn’t going to get anything more and left, muttering under his breath. My breakfast had arrived while we were talking and I turned to it while Debbie refilled my coffee. Maybe, just maybe I did have something.

***

Two hours later found me in the parking lot of a prosperous office park up on Washington Blvd. Somewhere behind it was where Pete’s body was found. Yellow police tape probably still marked the location. I wasn’t interested in going to see if it did. My focus was on the street level office across the parking lot from me, the one with “John Grassly & Associates – Stockbrokers” stenciled in tasteful times roman font on the window.

John Grassly was a name I’d heard of a few times over the past couple of years. He was a shady stockbroker who was adept at helping his clients hide money of dubious source from the prying eyes of spouses, partners and the IRS. Pete’s unknown partner in insider trading was thought to be a stockbroker. Pete referred to the guy as The Weedman. Here was a crooked broker with the last name of Grassly. Nothing on its own to take to Lt. Castro and nothing Castro could take to a judge for a search warrant, but for me it was worth checking out. I got out of my car and headed toward Grassly’s offices.

On finishing my breakfast I had gone home and changed my clothes. Now I was wearing my good suit, a flashy wristwatch and polished dress shoes. It wasn’t all for show. Nestled in the sleeve of my coat was a small lethal piece of John Browning designed hardware for which I had a concealed carry permit. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

John Grassly & Associates consisted of a reception area and a second office to one side whose door was closed. A bell jingled overhead as the door opened and again as it closed. There was no one at the front desk but muffled voices came from the inner office and a minute later the door opened and an attractive, middle-aged blond came out. She smoothed her skirt as she crossed the room in a couple of quick high-heeled steps. She looked up at me as she sat in the swivel chair behind the desk.

“Yes, sir, may I help you?” I resisted telling her that in her hurry she had missed one of the middle buttons on her blouse.

“Yes, I’d like to see Mr. Grassly.”

“Have you an appointment?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and take a chance he might have a minute to spare. I’m looking for a broker and he was recommended by a friend.”

I made a point of shooting back my sleeve and checking the time on my flashy watch. “I’m afraid I don’t really have time to wait. If he’s busy I could come back another time.” I made as if to turn and leave.

“No, wait,” said the blond quickly. “I’ll check and see. It’s possible he has a few minutes to spare.” She picked up the telephone receiver, pressed a button and a moment later spoke quietly, listened and then hung up. She looked up at me with a cheery smile.

“Mr. Grassly has a few minutes right now. Please follow me.” She got up and retraced her steps of only a minute before. She tapped on the door and then opened it for me. I stepped in and heard the door close behind me.

John Grassly sat behind an expensive desk with his back to a large window that overlooked the street in front. Like the reception area his office was tastefully furnished. A leather sofa was against one wall and a nice rug covered most of the stock industrial carpet. A large family portrait hung on the wall above the sofa. The Grassly family I supposed, as it pictured him with an attractive brunette and two teenage children, a boy and a girl. Other photographs featured Grassly standing next to a vintage sports car and on the deck of a sailboat. On the opposite wall hung the requisite diplomas and certificates.

Grassly didn’t get up and made no offer to shake hands but instead gave the appearance of a man busy making money for important clients. I took a seat in the chair across the desk from him took a moment to study him.

John Grassly was a big man, with broad shoulders and a wide, handsome face. He was probably pushing fifty but took care of himself; with only a trace of the extra pounds middle age usually confers upon us. A tennis trophy on his desk gave testimony to an active yet comfortable life. Looking closer at him, I noticed a tightness in the skin around his eyes and I suspected he had treated himself to some plastic work.

“Mr. Kenyon?” he asked. “How may I be of service to you?”

I delivered my cover story, how after years of investing in safe mutual funds via my company’s retirement program I was ready to try a little direct investment in the stock market. “Nothing extravagant, you understand?” I told him and named a figure I thought might interest him. It did and he gave a broad smile full of well cared for teeth.

“Certainly, Mr. Kenyon. I’m confident we can accommodate you.” We talked a bit more before he got around to asking just who it was that had recommended him. I was waiting for that and looked at my watch and acted surprised at the time.

“I’m sorry,” I said as I got to my feet and headed toward the door. “I had no idea of the time. Can I come back tomorrow afternoon?” As I expected, he had no objection.

I opened the door and then turned back to him. “Oh, that’s right. You asked who recommended you. I have to admit I fibbed a bit to your secretary.”

Grassly looked puzzled. I walked back into the room until I was just across the desk from him and leaned over it to bring myself even closer.

“I really don’t know the fellow who gave me your name. He was singing for change at a gelato place on University Avenue one night a couple of weeks ago. I ended up talking to him. He was surprisingly knowledgeable about the market for a street musician. He said his name was Pete. Pete from the Street.”

I watched Grassly’s tanned face grow pale and beads of sweat appear on his temples.

I went on. “Anyway, he gave me your name and told me you’re the best in the business. So when I was driving past a little while ago and saw your name on the window I figured I’d stop in. Lucky for me I ran into that guy, eh?”

I kept my eyes on his until he was forced to agree. “Yeah, really lucky.”

“Well, got to run. See you tomorrow!”

With that pleasant goodbye I left his office. I waved to the blond out front, compared her to the brunette in the family portrait and decided they came up about even and left without looking back.

The Weedman was mine.

***

I walked back to my car, climbed in and made a call. It wasn’t to Lt. Castro. He could wait.

The voice that answered reminded me of beer, pastrami and a slug in the gut. I identified myself with the phony name I used on him before. He wasn’t impressed.

“So, what the hell do you want?”

“I got a tip for your boss.”

“Spit it out.”

“The guy who gave me those photos? He wants me to try again. He’s got some more. Mr. Tomlison’s not going to like these much either.”

“You asking us to work you over again?”

I put some desperation into my voice. “No, no, you got me wrong. I don’t want any part of it and I told him so.”

“Smart move. So why you calling us?”

“Cause I figure if I do Mr. Tomilson and you a favor you’ll remember it, that’s all.”

“What’s the favor you can do for us?”

“I can tell give you the guy’s name and where to find him.” There was long pause at his end of the line. I heard muffled voices and then he came back.

“Okay. Shoot, who is it?”

I gave him the name and address and added, “He’s expecting me to show up in a few minutes.” The little guy hung up without further word.

I started my car and left the parking lot only to go into the parking lot of a strip mall across the street where there was a coffee shop. I went inside, ordered a cup and picked a table and chair near the front window. From it I could see the window and door of John Grassly & Associates.

I was almost finished with my first cup of coffee when I saw a car with two familiar faces pull in across the street. The little guy and his big partner parked and went into Grassly’s office. A few seconds later the blond secretary hurried out, clutching her purse and looking over her shoulder. She got into a car and drove off in a hurry. Not long after that someone pulled the curtains shut in Grassly’s private office.

I bought a refill for my coffee and made myself comfortable at the table. Eventually I took out my cell phone and called Lt. Castro. He answered on the second ring. “I got your guy.” His response sounded like a cub reporter.

“Who? Where?” I told him and then told him my plan. He complained, swore at me, thought it over and agreed. I gave him the name of the coffee shop, drank my coffee and waited for the cavalry.

***

As cavalry goes it wasn’t too impressive. Lt. Castro and someone he identified as Sgt. Ziff showed up about forty-five minutes later. Ziff carried a backpack, the kind school kids and technology geeks carry. As they joined me at my table by the window Tomilson’s boys came out of Grassley’s office, got in their car and drove away. Lt. Castro stared at them as their car passed the window, and then he turned to me.

“That looked like a couple of hoods who work for Sam Tomlison.”

“Really?” I looked up at the ceiling. I could feel Castro’s eyes on me, wondering if there was any point in asking more questions. Evidently he decided there wasn’t.

“Okay Ziff, suit him up.” Sgt. Ziff opened the backpack and brought out some electronic gizmos. I recognized one as a grain-of-wheat microphone. They’re tiny, literally the size of a grain of wheat. This one had a slender wire that traced back to a flat pack the size of a pack of cigarettes. Ziff motioned me to stand up and after I did he clipped the pack to the back of my belt. I pulled up my shirttails and took the little microphone from Ziff and ran it and the thin wire around my waist and up the front of my shirt. When I was done the microphone was nestled in a buttonhole in my shirt a few inches below my neck and invisible to the unknowing eye. I tucked my shirt back in.

“Go outside and we’ll test the reception,” said Castro, slipping on a small earpiece that was connected to a larger unit still inside the backpack. I left the coffee shop, talking to myself as I did. I walked along the sidewalk fronting the building for a hundred yards or so chattering about nothing in particular and then walked back. Castro waved from inside to indicate it was working and I came back in. The first thing Castro did when I got to the table was to reach out his hand, palm up.

“Okay, Kenyon, we’ll be ready just as soon as you give me your piece.” I hesitated.

“Come on. You know I’m not going to let you go in there with it.”

I gave in and gave my right wrist a little twist. My little Colt semi-automatic pistol dropped into my hand. I handed it to Castro. He examined it to make certain the safety was on and dropped it into his coat pocket. With that we were good to go.

***

The bell over the door jangled as I slipped through the front door of Grassley’s offices and I took a moment to reach up and unhook it. Then I walked to the closed door of his office and tried the handle. It turned and I eased it open.

The curtains were still drawn and the room was dark. I found a light switch and flipped it on.

The place was a wreck. All the artwork, photos, certificates and diplomas had been yanked from the walls and smashed. Grassley was lying on the sofa.

I crossed over to him, stepping on shards of glass as I did. He was unconscious but breathing. He face was a bloody mess. His nose was well broken and there were multiple cuts, not deep, but vicious on both cheeks and his forehead. They were starting to coagulate but blood still oozed from them.

I looked down at the floor next to the sofa and saw a large piece of broken glass with blood on it. A good plastic surgeon might be able to repair most of the damage but no one would ever call Grassley handsome again. His shirt was torn in places as well and I didn’t have to look to know of the cuts and bruises on his chest. That square ring of the little guy could do some real damage.

I left Grassley on the sofa and went to his desk and began searching. I found what I was looking for in the third drawer down on the right hand side. They were under a few sheets of loose paper; a Glock semi-automatic pistol and a letter-sized envelope. I put the gun on the desk and picked up the envelope and looked inside. It was filled with fifty-dollar bills, twenty of them. I put the envelope into my coat pocket and shortly after put the gun back into the drawer.

I went out into the outer office to a water cooler. As I did I spoke quietly into the mic, letting Castro know what was up. I filled a cone shaped paper cup and returned to where Grassley lay on the sofa. I tossed the water in his face. He stirred and moaned. I went back for a second cup of water and this time also picked up a roll of paper towels I saw on a shelf near the water cooler. Through the window I saw Lt. Castro and Sgt. Ziff heading my way across the parking lot. This time I closed the door as I went back into Grassley’s office.

The second cup of cold water in the face woke Grassley up. He started to sit up, moaned again and put his hand to his face. He felt the slick wetness of blood mixed with the water I tossed on him. I handed him a few sheets of paper towel. He hissed with pain as he touched the open cuts. He brought the towel back down and starred at the blood on it, then looked up at me. He had trouble focusing for a moment and then recognized me. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“Don’t mention it.” I replied casually. “Looks like someone doesn’t like you.” He looked at me again, puzzled by my nonchalant tone. He put the paper towel to his face again.

“It was some kind of mistake,” he said in a dull, wrecked voice. “It was some kind of horrible mistake. They kept asking me about photographs. Asking me where they were and how I’d gotten them. I told them, over and over I didn’t know what they were talking about but they wouldn’t listen to me.” He touched his face again, tentatively, trying to explore the damage. “Jeeze, what’d they do to me?”

“Looks to me like they wanted to teach you a lesson.” He looked at me again. My casual tone bothered him and his eyes narrowed.

“Did you send those guys?”

I shrugged. “Would it matter if I did?” He stared at me. “Look, Grassley. I don’t really care what their beef is with you. What I want is the money you were supposed to give to Pete.” His eyes widened and he tried to bluff.

“What money? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, right.” I pulled a chair up close to the sofa and sat down. “I mean the money you were supposed to give to Pete yesterday, remember? Come on Grassley, he told me all about it the night before last. You promised him one thousand dollars. Only you shot him instead and left his body out by the dumpster in back.” My knowledge of what happened, including the amount of money shook him.

Grassley’s eyes worked back and forth as he thought. I didn’t want him thinking too hard so I increased the pressure.

“That was pretty dumb of you, killing Pete like that. You see, Pete was a decent guy. He only wanted what he had coming to him for taking the fall for both of you. Fifteen years is a lot of time and all he wanted to make up for it was a measly grand.”

Grassley still didn’t answer. I kept pushing. “What? You thought he was going to blackmail you? Keep coming back for more? Is that why you killed him?”

“No. I mean,” Grassley began. “I really was going to pay him. I had the money all ready and in my desk. I didn’t plan to kill him, really, I didn’t.”

I leaned back and gave him my most wolfish grin. “Well, that’s just too bad, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” he asked with a croak.

“I mean, now you pay me the money you were supposed to pay Pete. That’s what I mean.” Grassley slumped. “Only, you see, I’m not decent like Pete. Ask anyone who knows me, they’ll all tell you I’m a real bastard.” I sat forward and let my voice harden. “The rules have changed, Grassley. I’m going to keep coming back.”

That got his interest. “Let’s start easy, say a grand each month? Yes, sir, I can see we’re going to be very good friends.” I paused, then I jabbed my finger into his leg, just above the knee, just enough to hurt. “Now, get me that money.”

I watched Grassley’s mind at work. He thought of the thousand dollars in the envelope in the drawer and then I could see him thinking of the gun next to it. I saw him look around the office, take in the damage the little guy and his big partner had caused. I knew exactly what was going through his mind. If he could get to his gun he could shoot and kill me, call the police and claim self-defense, using his wounds and the condition of the office as evidence. He let his shoulders slump.

“Alright, you win. I’ll get the money right now.” He got up. I made as if to get up too.

“No, don’t bother.” He motioned to me to stay in the chair and I leaned back as if relaxed and off-guard. “It’s right here in my desk.”

He walked on unsteady feet over to his desk and opened the bottom right hand drawer, keeping his eyes on me as he did. He reached down and then quickly brought up his pistol and aimed it at me. I sat upright as if shocked.

“What’s the big idea?” I demanded.

“Like you said, the rules have changed.” Grassley’s hand wavered a little. That beating he took had taken a real toll on him. I needed to keep him talking.

“That’s the same gun you killed Pete with, isn’t it?” I demanded.

Grassley looked down at it. It was clear he was starting to fade. “Yeah, it is.” Then he recovered himself. He pointed the gun square at my chest and gave a little chuckle. “And now you’re going to get it, too.” He pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened, of course. He looked down at the gun with bewilderment. He worked the slide. Nothing came out of the chamber and nothing went in. He ejected the magazine, stared at it and then at me. I opened my hand and showed him a handful of bullets.

“Looking for these?”

It was too much for Grassley. He fell back into his desk chair. He slumped over and the gun dropped to the floor. He put his hands to his ruined face and sobs racked his chest. John Grassly’s comfortable life was over and he knew it.

The office door opened and Lt. Castro and Sgt. Ziff came in.
“Good enough for a warrant?” I asked from where I sat. Castro crossed over to Grassley and examined him.

“Call for an ambulance,” he told Ziff who went out into the reception area to make the call. Castro straightened and turned to me.

“Yeah, it’s good enough.” He surveyed the damage in the room some more and then called to Ziff. The sergeant came to the door, indicating he was on hold.

“After you get through get an arrest warrant issued for assault for those two guys of Tomilson’s we saw leaving.” He turned to where I was sitting. “I’ve been wanting to get those two thugs for quite a while. If we’re lucky Grassly will agree to testify against them in exchange something less than murder one.”

I shrugged my shoulders and got up. Murder one, two or three, I really didn’t care. I put the handful of bullets on the desk and put my hand out to Castro.

“My gun, if you don’t mind,” I prompted.

“Oh, yeah, guess I forgot. He reached into his pocket and handed it over. I took a moment to fit it into its holder in my coat sleeve then turned and headed for the door. I heard the desk drawer open behind me and knew what was coming next.

“Kenyon!” I stopped and turned back. “Aren’t you forgetting something, too?” I didn’t answer. He held out his hand. “Let’s have the envelope with the thousand bucks, if you don’t mind.” I feigned ignorance.

“What envelope, Lieutenant?” He stared at me for several long seconds and then shook his head.

“You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you? Just when I think you are capable of doing something for someone without something in it for you, you prove me wrong. All right, you bastard, I guess you’ve earned your blood money. Go give Ziff the wireless mic back and get out of here. Just be ready to make a statement when I call you.”

I made a mock salute and left.

***

It took me several days to track down Pete’s daughter on the east coast. By then she had already been informed of her father’s death but not of the circumstances. I think she appreciated that his killer had been caught.

There was a long silence on the other end of the telephone line when I told her of the thousand dollars and asked her for her address. Finally she answered. “No, please don’t send it. We don’t need it and I’d rather not accept it.” I tried to get her to change her mind but in the end she won. She did have an idea of how it should be used, though.

Two weeks later the Hoodoo Lounge closed on a Tuesday night for a private party. It was both a memorial and a celebration of Pete’s life, paid for with that thousand dollars, though only Patrick knew where it came from. The place was packed and music rocked the house all through the night. Toward the end of the evening I joined the band on stage to play bass for one last song. Although it was Patrick doing the singing, as the song ended in my head I could hear Pete’s whisky voice. Just his voice and my bass. The way it was supposed to be.

And the bartender calls closing time
Friends and strangers leave on the news
Leaving me as they always do
One drink short of a twelve bar blues.