The Gravedigger’s Blues
by Andrew MacRae

“Gimme your wallet.”

The voice came from behind me. I had stopped for a second at a street corner before crossing the intersection. It was a force of habit that may save my life one of these days – or get me killed. This particular street corner was dark and lonely and a long way from anywhere.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said, gimme your wallet.”

This was not a good time for this to happen. I had a few minutes left before I was to meet Coleman and I was still blocks away. I turned around.

He was in his mid-twenties and typical of those who hide in shadows and prey on the unwary. His face was thin from not enough nutrition and his ruined teeth told me crystal meth was his drug of choice. In his right hand he held a wicked looking knife. A knife aimed at my stomach.

“Buddy, this is really a bad idea,” I said in a level voice, hoping I could finesse my way out it. There are two kinds of street robbers. Smart ones and dumb ones. A smart one would have heard the warning in my words and maybe reconsidered the situation.

“Hey, quit stalling and just hand over what you’ve got.”

I took a quick look around. There weren’t any cars or pedestrians in sight. I gave a little flick to my wrist. Something cold and heavy dropped unseen from my sleeve and into my hand.

“That’s a nice knife you have there,” I said.

“You bet it is and I’ll cut you good if you don’t do what I say.”

“On the other hand,” I continued, raising my hand and pointing a small pistol at his forehead. “I bet I can put a bullet into your tiny brain before you can cut me with that knife. Do you want to see if it’s true?”

My mugger stared at the tiny semi-automatic pistol in my hand. His eyes were wide and reflected the glow of a distant streetlight. I watched his eyes. They would tell me what was going to happen next. The streets around us were quiet. The seconds slipped by. His eyes darted from side to side, calculating his chances. Damn, that meant he was going to try it. I didn’t wait for him to make his move. I lowered my aim and squeezed the trigger. A .25 caliber cartridge doesn’t carry much punch but it makes a nice bang. The dark streets echoed with the sound of my shot.

“Ow! God damn it! You shot my foot!”  My mugger hopped up and down on his good foot while clutching his wounded one with both hands. His knife lay on the ground were he dropped it. I kicked it into the gutter and watched as he lost his balance and fell. I waited as he sat up and began nursing his foot again. There was a glint of shiny metal on the ground. I picked up my spent shell casing and put it into my coat pocket. It was not a good thing to leave behind. Then I leaned down and put the muzzle of my gun to the mugger’s temple. That got his attention and he stopped moaning.

“Now listen,” I said in an even voice. “Get yourself to an emergency room. Your foot’s going to hurt for a week or two but you’ll get over it. Just keep one thing in mind.” I pushed the muzzle harder against his temple.

“What?” he croaked. His eyes were screwed tight shut and his face was pale in the faint light.

“You can tell the police whatever you like but you don’t give them anything even remotely like a description of me. You got that?”

With his eyes sill closed he nodded. “I got it.”

I turned and went on my way. He had already wasted enough of my time.

# # #

I was a few minutes late when I slipped into through the side door of the Hoodoo Lounge. I stood for a moment to let my eyes get used to the dim lighting. The Hoodoo is about as crummy a bar as I’ve ever been in. As dark as it is inside you know the cheap linoleum floor is dirty. There’s a scattering of tall round tables with uncomfortable stools, a few booths and a pool table. So why would anyone go there? Because for some reason the Hoodoo Lounge attracts some of the best blues players on the west coast.

Patrick, the owner, was on stage to my right, sitting at a Rhodes electric keyboard. He had it in Hammond B3 emulation mode and his fat, meaty fingers caressed the keys making it sound like the organs used on so many classic recordings. Think of Procol Harum’s Whiter Shade of Pale and you’ll know what I mean. He wasn’t playing anything in particular, improvising on a slow blues chord progression.

I looked down the length of the room. A half dozen men and one woman sat nursing drinks at the bar. At the far end of the room two men were playing a game of pool while a third watched and kibitzed. The kibitzer was Joey Jones, a little weasel of a man who is good at listening and reporting what he hears to whoever will pay for the information. I spotted Wes Coleman sitting alone in a booth near the pool table and headed in that direction.

Joey saw me heading his way and moved to the far side of pool table. Joey got on my bad side a year ago when he thought he could get rough with me after getting caught pulling a scam on a client of mine. Joey found out the hard way that it’s not a good idea to get on my bad side. Not that I actually have a good side. You don’t have to take Joey’s word for it. Ask my last girlfriend. She explained it to me in detail as she packed her bags, finishing with, “Let’s face it, Nyles. You’re just not a very nice person.” I didn’t argue the point. I just opened the door for her and watched her leave. Ex-girlfriend, Joey, that mugger, ask anyone, they’ll all tell you the same thing. I’m not a very nice guy. Which happens to work out well for the business I’m in.

I slid into the booth where Coleman was waiting and he looked up from his beer. “Hey, Nyles. You’re late.”

I resisted the temptation to say I got held up and instead simply said, “Sorry.” I waved at Crystal who was serving behind the bar and pointed at the bottle of beer in front of Wes. “So, what’s up?” I asked.

Wes waited while Crystal brought me my beer. As she was doing that I took another look around the room. There was a guy at the bar who caught my attention when I walked by him. He was tall and slender, in his mid-fifties or so, and wearing a dark suit and tie. His face, at least from the side, was thin and cadaverous. Aside from a short, gray ponytail, he looked like the stereotype of an undertaker. I don’t know what it was about him that caused me to give him a second look. Maybe it was his complete lack off interest in anything going on around him. He just sat and nursed a highball. He paid no attention to the conversations on either side of him, Patrick’s playing, the good-natured swearing of the two men playing pool, or Crystal as she walked by with my beer and a glass. And the way Crystal looks and dresses, ignoring her can take some doing. Well, I figured, to each his own.

As Crystal arrived with my beer I looked in the direction of the pool table and caught Joey Jones staring at me. I locked eyes with him and he quickly looked away, rubbing one finger along the side of the crooked nose that was the result of the last time we met. I guess he was still sore about it.

Crystal set down my beer and the glass. I touched her sleeve and moved my eyes toward the tall stranger at the bar. She followed my gaze and shrugged. I paid for the beer and she went back to the bar. I held the glass up to what light there was and decided the smudges on it wouldn’t kill me and poured my beer.

Wes Coleman took a drink from his own glass and began his explanation. “I was wondering if you could help me with a job. It’s starting to look kind of heavy. I’m thinking this may end up being something more along your line of work.”
Wes and I were in the same business. We’re both licensed private investigators. But, although he’s an ex-cop, Wes likes to handle the simpler, safer stuff, mainly serving papers, divorce and custody cases, and the sort. My clients tend to have problems that are, well, a bit messier.

I was just finished with a case where I had to tell a nice old geezer that not only was one of his employees embezzling from him, but that it was his own son. He didn’t take it well and called me an insensitive bastard and a few other names. He wasn’t going to like my fee, either. My kind of work doesn’t come cheap. “It’s possible,” I told Wes. “Tell me about it.” He did.

A certain Mrs. Haggerty had hired Wes to find out just how much her husband was really worth. Divorce was in the wind and she suspected her husband was squirreling away some money and other assets. “It wasn’t too hard. Mr. Haggerty, that’s Mr. Douglas Haggerty,” explained Wes, “is a manager in the city planning department. It’s a matter of public record how much he makes.”

“And?”

“She’s right. I did a little digging. He’s got an account with a stockbroker up on Washington Boulevard and at least one safe deposit box. He’s also got a post office box at a copy shop near his broker that he visits twice a week. He’s got some kind of deal going that’s bringing in cash.”

“Won’t the stockbroker be reporting his trades to the IRS? How could he hide that from his wife?”

Wes smiled. “Not this broker. I’ve come across John Grassley before. He’s very good at helping his clients ‘lose’ their paperwork.”

“So, what’s the problem? Sounds like you’ve got it covered.”

Wes looked around and then leaned forward. “I think Haggerty is only a minor player in something big,” he said in a lower voice. “I’m worried that things might get rough once I really start to dig.”

I made a face. “Come on Wes. If you want a bodyguard you should call The Swede or Ivan.”

Wes shook his head. “It’s not that simple. If I suddenly have one of those bruisers following me around it would be like announcing to the world that I was onto something. I need someone watching my back without it being obvious.”

He must have seen the doubt in my face. “Look, I can’t guarantee I can make it worth your while, but it’s only for a few days.”

“What happens then?”

“I’m expecting a report from a forensic accountant in a few days. If it confirms my suspicions I’m heading to the DA’s office.” He watched my face as I considered it.

I took my time. As a rule, I don’t do favors. Not for other PIs, not for anyone. Like the lady said, I’m not a very nice person. But if Wes Coleman was right about the situation, then he had reason to be worried and I didn’t want to see him get into trouble. While I may not be very nice, Wes really is a nice guy. That’s not just my opinion. The lady who told me that is an expert on things like this. Yeah, that’s right, my ex-girlfriend thinks Wes’s a really nice guy. So nice, in fact, she married him six months after she left me. That was two years ago.

“Alright,” I said at last. “How do you want to play it? When do I start?”

Wes looked around the room again. “I’m planning on going over to city hall tomorrow morning and request some documents about a big project that was approved recently. I’ve put off doing that because once I do it will tip off whoever is behind Haggerty – if there is anyone. Remember, I’ve got nothing definite, just a hunch.” He finished his beer. “I’m okay until then. I’ve been careful not to tip my hand.”

I resisted making a comment about over confidence. Wes was a professional and knew the risks. “So, we start tomorrow? What time?”

“Come by the house around 8:30. The public counter at the city planning department won’t be open until nine.” He paused and looked at me. “Ginger won’t be there. I asked her to stay with a friend for a few days, just in case.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine. She told me to say hi for her and ask how you are.”

“Tell her hi back and that I’m the same as ever.”

“I will.” There was an awkward pause then Wes slid out of the booth and left. As I watched him leave I also watched the guy with the ponytail at the bar. He didn’t move a muscle as Wes walked by. I decided to have another beer and waved to Crystal.

Patrick called to me from the stage as she brought it over. “Hey, Nyles, you want to fill in for a bit? Jerry’s late again.” A drummer and guitarist had joined him on stage while Wes and I were talking. What the heck, I thought. I didn’t have anything else to do. I got up from the booth and carried my beer to the stage.

Jerry is the house bassist and his electric bass guitar was already there and plugged into the sound system. It’s a good one, a high end Ibenez with a deep purple-black finish. I picked it up, slipped the strap over my head and took a moment to tweak the tuning. “Okay,” I told Patrick.

Patrick nodded to the drummer who began a basic beat, and then he played an opening riff on the keyboard, now in electric piano mode. The guitarist and I listened for a couple of bars, found the key and began following his lead.  The nice thing about playing bass when there’s a drummer with you is that you can play as simple or as complicated as you want. Since the drummer was carrying the beat all I had to do was follow Patrick’s lead.

I’m no wizard on the bass, but I can keep up if I don’t get too fancy and I find it relaxing. I have a twenty-five year old blond Westone back in my apartment and I often stay up late at night listening to classic blues recordings through headphones and playing along. Experienced bass players will tell you it’s just a matter of finding the groove, that certain combination of notes and pauses that fits a song. Once I settle into a song’s groove I can coast along and let my mind drift.

Jerry showed up after we played a few songs. He waved to me to keep going for one more song as Patrick began the old classic, The Gravedigger’s Blues, growling out the words to the song in his plaintive, whisky tinged voice. The lyrics reminded me of the guy at the bar, the one with the ponytail and who looked like an undertaker. I looked for him but he was gone. I wondered when he had left and then I wondered why it mattered to me.

“You say your brother's a gravedigger and he's digging six feet deep.
Yeah, you say your brother's a gravedigger and he's outside digging six feet deep.
You say if I don't stay in line
I'll soon be going for that last big sleep.”

# # #

Wes and Ginger Coleman lived in a modest ranch house in a nice part of town on what should have been a safe and peaceful cul-de-sac. But as I arrived in the morning I saw the flashing lights of three police cars and an ambulance that would  forever destroy for that neighborhood any illusion of peace and safety.  I parked my car near the corner and walked toward their house. The driver and attendant leaned against their ambulance. One was smoking and the other was talking on a cell phone. That told me there wasn’t going to be any life-saving rush to a nearby hospital. They were waiting to take someone on a slow ride to the city morgue and I didn’t harbor any delusions over who it was. The air was strangely quiet. The usual sounds of a neighborhood starting a working day were missing. All I heard was the plaintive cooing of a mourning dove in a nearby tree and the occasional squawk of a police radio.

A short muscular man broke away from a group of people standing together in front of Wes and Ginger’s house and walked over to meet me. It was Lt. Castro, from the city’s homicide squad.

“Alright Kenyon, what are you doing here?”

I showed him that I could skip the niceties, too. “Is it Wes Coleman?”

Castro thought for a second and decided he could throw me a scrap of information. “Yeah.  A neighbor heard a couple of shots an hour ago. Wes was shot right inside the front door. Two nine-millimeter rounds right in the chest at close range. The killer must have simply rung the doorbell and waited for him.”

I looked up toward the house from where we stood on the sidewalk. There was a uniformed policeman standing at the door. In the darkness inside the door I could make out a couple of lab boys doing whatever it is they do. A misshapen heap what looked like old clothing lay on the floor just inside the doorway. I looked away.

“By the time the neighbor looked out the window the killer was gone.” Lt. Castro paused to shake a cigarette out of a pack and light it. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

“Does Ginger know?

“Yeah. One of the uniforms answered the telephone a little while ago and was stupid enough to tell her without realizing who she was.” The Lieutenant and Wes started together on the force years ago. I heard he was the best man at their wedding. “Now, no more stalling. What are you doing here?”

“I was supposed to pick him up this morning.”

“When?”

“Right about now.”

“Any particular reason?”

I decided this wasn’t the time to invoke client confidentiality. Wes was past caring about technicalities. “He wanted me to go with him to city hall, to the planning department. He was going to request information about a project.”

“Anything else?”

“He thought one of the managers there was involved in some kind of big-time graft. The manager’s name is Haggerty.”

Castro looked at me sharply. “Douglas Haggerty?”

“Yeah, why?”

“’Cause Haggerty was killed about an hour before Wes. Same M.O. The doorbell rang, the door was opened and two shots were fired. Only this time we have a witness. Mrs. Haggerty looked out an upstairs window and saw someone running away.”

Mrs. Haggerty didn’t have to worry about that divorce any more. “Not much to go on.”

“Except we already have a pretty good idea who it is. A professional hit man named Nathaniel Newcomb.”

I frowned. “Never heard of him.”

“He’s from the east coast, all the way from Maine, an enforcer for the New England mob. They call him The Deacon, on account of how he looks. We had a tip from the authorities there that he was headed our way. Someone must have imported him for the job. Mrs. Haggerty’s description fits.”

The back of my neck felt cold. “Tall, thin guy, in his fifties, short, gray ponytail?”

Lt. Castro’s eyes narrowed. “Where’d you see him?”

“Last night at the Hoodoo Lounge. That’s where Wes and I met to talk about his case.”

A screech of car tires interrupted Castro’s next question before he could begin. We both looked and saw a car turning into the cul-de-sac. It was moving too fast and the brakes locked as it skidded to a stop in front of the house, half in the driveway and half on the sidewalk. There was a red-haired woman behind the wheel. She was struggling with her seatbelt.

“Oh, hell,” muttered Castro and hurried over to the driver’s side of the car as the woman escaped the seatbelt and got out of the car.

“Where is he?” Ginger sobbed. “Where is he?” Lt. Castro tried to talk to her and keep her from going near the house. She pushed him away and ran toward the house, slipping on a lawn still wet with morning dew. Castro trailed behind her, calling to the uniformed officer standing at the front door while I stood on the sidewalk, watching and knowing there was nothing I could do.

Ginger reached the front door where the uniformed officer tried to keep her from going in. He had as much success as Lt. Castro. There was another wail of anguish as she went inside and then silence. I decided I had seen enough and turned toward my car.

“Kenyon! Wait up.” I turned back and waited for Lt. Castro.

Castro tossed his cigarette away as he came up to me.  “I want you to go downtown, right now and give a statement with everything you know. Got it? Right now.”

“Anything you say, Lieutenant.” I turned again to go but Castro grabbed my arm and kept me.

“Look, Kenyon. Let’s get one thing straight right way.” I didn’t say anything. “I don’t want you getting in the way of this investigation. You give us what you’ve got and then you steer clear. You got that?”

I nodded. “I got that.”

He studied my face, not certain if he believed me.. I didn’t care if he believed me or not. After a long moment he realized he wasn’t going to get anything else from me.

“Alright, Kenyon. Head downtown. I expect to see that statement within the hour.”

A voice called my name as I opened my car door, one that was once very familiar to me. “Nyles, wait. I want to talk with you.” I turned around. Ginger was dressed in sweats, her hair was a mess and her face was red and puffy. Blood stained the front of her sweatshirt.

“Ginger,” I began.

“Spare me the platitudes, Nyles.” Her voice was hard-edged and her eyes held a coldness I had never seen before. “Just tell me you’re going to get this guy.”

“Lieutenant Castro’s given me strict orders to keep away.”

Ginger gave a short, unpleasant laugh. “Since when did you start doing what others told you to do?” Over her shoulder I could see Lt. Castro watching us from where he stood on the lawn.

“Look, Nyles. I’ll be honest. I didn’t want Wes going to you, getting you involved in that case. I didn’t think it was as serious as he thought and I was afraid you’d end up just causing more trouble. He finally convinced me it was the right thing to do. Now he’s dead.” She paused and balled her hands were balled up into tight fists. “Nyles, I’ve got to know. If Wes had come to you sooner, would you have been able to stop,” she struggled to find words, “to stop this,” she gave a quick glance back toward the house, “from happening?”

There was no point in my lying about it. She already knew the answer. “Probably. It doesn’t really matter anyway. What’s done is done.” I turned and opened my car door. “I’ve got to go. Lieutenant Castro wants me down at headquarters to make a statement.” I got into my car but Ginger stopped me from closing the door repeating the question she already asked.

“Are you going to get him?”

I didn’t say anything, but my eyes gave her the answer she wanted.  Ginger gave a grim nod of satisfaction and let go of the car door. I closed it, started the car and drove away. In my rearview mirror I watched her image recede in the distance, as she stood alone in the street.

# # #

I left the downtown police headquarters two hours later. My statement only took a few minutes to dictate, as there wasn’t much for me to spill. But then it had to be transcribed and then I had to wait until Lt. Castro arrived. He came into the small, windowless interview room without any greeting, sat down and picked up my statement. Before he had a chance to read it there was a knock at the door. A young woman in uniform came in and whispered something to him. Castro shook his head but she persisted. Finally, he barked “wait here,” at me and left with the young officer. Twenty minutes later the door opened and the same young woman poked her head in. “Lieutenant Castro says you can go,” she said and then escorted me to the front door.

Outside the station I found the morning had turned into a beautiful day. Somehow that seemed wrong, it should have been dark and overcast, such weather would have suited my mood.

“Hey, Kenyon.” Lt. Castro stood near the corner of the building, smoking another cigarette. He waved me over and held up the cigarette.

“I feel like I’m in high school again, sneaking a smoke behind the gym,” he said.

I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Castro took a drag and slowly exhaled.
“Look, Kenyon. I want to give you a heads up, but you didn’t get it from me, understand?”

“All right,” I said.

“That phone call I got? It was from the Chief. There’s a team of feds arriving from Washington this evening. They’re taking over the case. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that we are to lay off The Deacon until they arrive. I guess they know Wes had a lot of friends on the force because I was told that no way, no how is The Deacon to get shot while,” here Castro made quote marks with his fingers, “ ’trying to escape.’ They want him alive.” As I considered this bit of news, Castro dropped the butt and ground it with his heel.

“Anyway, I figured I should pass that on to you. Let’s just say it’s another reason for you to stay out of the way.” He looked at me. I kept my face neutral.

“Alright, Kenyon. Just stay out of trouble.” Castro pushed past me and walked back to the building’s entrance and went inside.

# # #

I shouldn’t have cared about Wes. I certainly didn’t care about the late Douglas Haggerty and whatever graft he was mixed up with. I shouldn’t have cared about Ginger either. That’s my rule in life. If I don’t care about others then I don’t care what happens to them. There’s no pain when someone who asked you for help takes two slugs in the chest. If I don’t care about others then the image of Ginger in a bloodstained sweatshirt doesn’t affect me in the least. Damn it, that’s the way it’s supposed to work, so why the hell doesn’t it?

I walked a few blocks to Dino’s, a small diner I knew and went inside and sat at the counter.

“What will you have, Hon?” asked the waitress as she placed a plastic tumbler with ice water in front of me. Debbie is in her forties with shoulder length blond hair that showed dark roots and a worn face that reminds me of every waitress at every diner in which I’ve eaten.

“Two scrambled eggs, bacon, rye toast, and coffee.”

“You’ve got it.” Debbie scribbled my order on a pad, tore off the sheet, turned and attached it to a rotating stainless steel order holder. She slapped a bell on the counter between her station and the kitchen and spun the order holder and stopped it exactly halfway around with years of practice. A bored cook appeared, looked at the ticket and began fixing my order.

That was my usual way of deciding my next move. I go to a diner, sit at the counter and order breakfast. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is or what diner or when I last ate. Bacon and eggs are my comfort food and fuel for my thought process. And today I needed that fuel.

I took a battered notebook from inside my coat and found a pen in another pocket. Opening the notebook to a blank page I thought for a second, then wrote the name, “Nathaniel Newcomb.” After another second I added a slash and “The Deacon.”
According to Lt. Castro, The Deacon was from the east coast, a stranger in town. That meant he needed a gofer, a local who could help him in his work. The gofer would find a place for him to stay, well stocked with food so The Deacon didn’t have to venture out on the streets after the job was done. I figured The Deacon would want to stay undercover for at least three days. After that he could safely emerge and find his way back home to Maine. My task was to find The Deacon’s gofer and from him find out where The Deacon was hiding.

My food arrived and I put down my pen and began eating, letting my mind drift. I replayed the scene last night at the Hoodoo Lounge. I tried to dredge up something about The Deacon I hadn’t remembered, but there wasn’t anything there to remember. Yet something nagged at me, something else about last night. I let my mind drift further.

Then it came to me. Joey Jones, the weasel. My eyes snapped open and I stared straight ahead. Debbie stopped in front of me, carrying a coffee pot. “More coffee, Hon?” She had to ask twice before her words registered. I held up my cup without replying.

Joey Jones. He had spent the evening at the pool table, kibitzing on the play, all the time staying on the far side of the table from the booth where Wes and I were sitting.  I had assumed he was keeping an eye on me, worried I might revisit our disagreement of the year before. Now I wasn’t so certain. The more I replayed the scene in my mind the more I came to realize that it was Wes that Joey was watching. Was Joey The Deacon’s gofer? I wrote Joey’s name under The Deacon’s and drew a box around them. There still wasn’t much written on that piece of paper, no evidence of great deductions or detective work, just two names. It was only a hunch, but it was all I had.

I finished eating my eggs, then the last piece of bacon and the last piece of toast. As I did another thought came to me. Last year, when Joey and I had our run in, it was in a hiding place he had fixed up for himself at the abandoned Mother’s Cookie factory out by the highway. I figured there was a good chance Joey had The Deacon holed up there. Of course I couldn’t be certain and if I was wrong I would lose any chance of finding The Deacon, but on the other hand, it’s not like I had a lot of alternatives.

But I couldn’t just head over to that factory and blunder around looking for The Deacon’s hiding spot. He was a professional and would be vigilant. When I went there I had to have a good idea ahead of time as to where he was hiding and a distraction if possible. In short, I needed Joey to lead me through the factory and to The Deacon.  But how could I get him to do that? If I confronted Joey directly he would clam up. I could hire The Swede to help me try to scare Joey into believing we were going to beat the information out of him but I doubted it would work. Joey would know that while there was a limit to what we might do there was no limit to what The Deacon would do if Joey ratted on him. For Joey, The Deacon was the greater menace.

But what I could use was Joey’s eagerness to stay in The Deacon’s good graces. If Joey thought there was a credible threat to The Deacon, he would do his best to warn him. And I had an idea how to get him to do that.

I finished my coffee and scooped up my check from where Debbie had placed it on the counter. I looked at the total, tossed down enough bills to cover it plus a tip and left.

# # #

I went to my apartment and changed into some grungy clothes and an old army jacket I keep specifically for this kind of work. I grabbed a sheet of paper and scribbled some words on it. Then I grabbed another sheet of paper and tried again, this time writing carefully in block letters. I didn’t have a lot of confidence in Joey’s literary abilities. The note told Joey that I knew where The Deacon was hiding and that I’d go to the cops if I didn’t get five grand by morning. I read the note over again, then folded it and put it in an envelope and wrote Joey’s name on the front. I stuffed the envelope into a jacket pocket. Next I went to the kitchen and opened a cabinet near the floor. Inside was a small gun safe. I crouched down and punched in the combination and opened it.

The first pistol I took from the safe was my little Colt .25 pocket pistol, the one I shot the mugger’s foot with the night before. I took a loaded magazine from the safe, checked it, then slipped it into the Colt and worked the action, chambering a round. I set the safety on and slipped the pistol into the back pocket of my jeans.

The little Colt was a good back up pistol, something to use as a last resort, but I needed something with more stopping power if I was going up against The Deacon. I reached into the safe again and let my hand hover for a moment over my favorite piece, a pretty 1914 model thirty-two caliber Mauser with wooden grips, then picked up my not-so-pretty 1934 model Beretta. It shoots thirty-eight caliber Police Specials and grain for grain and gram for gram those will beat a nine millimeter any day. I picked up three magazines from the safe and a box of ammunition, closed and locked the safe and took them with the pistol over to the kitchen table.

I opened the box of ammunition and loaded each of the magazines and slipped one into the Beretta, chambered a round and set the safety. I got up from the table and put the Berretta into a front jacket pocket and the spare magazines in the other front pocket. I grabbed a dark knit cap from the table, put it on and left my apartment.

My first stop was at a nearby ATM where I withdrew a stack of twenties; more than I could afford to take from my meager savings. Those went into yet another jacket pocket. That’s a nice thing about old army coats – there’s always another pocket. Another nice thing is that they don’t stand out where I was headed, down Second Street, past the intersection with E Street and well into a part of town our local civic boosters usually neglect to mention.

I was looking for Joey’s digs. Not the hiding place he arranged for The Deacon, just Joey’s own place. Like most of his kind, Joey moved often but he generally stayed in the same eight-block area. There were several ways for me to find out where Joey lived. If I had time, I could have simply hung out for a few days until I spotted him. But with the feds arriving time was something I didn’t have and so I used a quicker and more expensive method. I parked my car near the edge of my search area and headed down the sidewalk. There was nothing subtle about this method. At every place where it looked likely someone would know Joey I went in, waved a twenty and asked for him.

The first five places were a bust. I saw a bar across the street and decided to try it. I figured the Ten Spot might change my luck. It was as crummy as the Hoodoo Lounge but without the music to make it worth visiting. I went up to the bar and got the bartender’s attention by putting a twenty on the bar. His hand went for the bill, but I kept hold of it. “What do you want?” he said.

“I want to know where Joey Jones lives.”

“I don’t know anyone named Joey Jones.”

“Gee, that’s too bad, cause I got another twenty right here to go with that one if you did.” With my free hand I held up a second bill. He considered for a moment, weighing whatever loyalty he had to Joey against a quick forty dollars. Loyalty lost.

“I think he’s got a room at the Irvington Arms.” He tugged on the bill on the counter but I kept hold of it. “Yeah, I’m sure he does.” He tugged again without success. “It’s a couple of blocks down Second Street from here. You can’t miss it. Ask for Ed. He’s the clerk. Tell him Carlos sent you.”

I let the bill fall onto the counter and Carlos swept it up without taking his eyes off the second twenty. I let it fall, turned and left while he was still scrambling for it.

Some of the old residence hotels on Second Street retain a shadow of their former charm and dignity. Not so the Irvington Arms. It’s a cheap flophouse in a row of cheap flophouses. I climbed the outside steps and went into the tiny, dark and dingy lobby.

There was a man sitting behind the counter, holding a pencil stub and squinting at a crossword puzzle magazine. He was wearing nothing except boxer shorts, sneakers and a dirty undershirt.

“You Ed? Carlos, told me to see you.” I said. Ed looked up, then back at his crossword puzzle. I guess he wasn’t too impressed with that introduction. It was time for Andrew Jackson to do some more talking. I tossed a twenty so that it landed on top of his puzzle magazine. He looked up. I tossed another twenty at him. He put the pencil down and made the bills disappear.

“What do you want?”
“Joey Jones’ room number.”

“Joey’s not here.”

“I don’t care. I want his room, not him.” Ed gave it some consideration.

“You’re not going to bust up his room, are you? That’s a furnished room, the stuff in there don’t belong to him.”

“I’m not even going to go inside.” He looked doubtful. I took the envelope out of my jacket and showed him Joey’s name on the outside. “See? I’m just going to put this on his door. That’s all.”

“What are you, some kind of process server? Never mind. I know, none of my business. He’s in 204. Second floor, down the hall on the left.” I started to turn toward the stairs. “Wait, you can use this.” I turned back and he handed me a thumbtack. Who says people aren’t willing to help strangers these days? I thanked him and headed up the stairs.

I made my way down the dimly lit, second floor hallway. It was dimly lit and smelled of mildew and decay. As promised, room 204 was down the hall on the left. After I tacked the envelope to the door, I had a feeling of being watched from the peephole of more than one of the doors I passed on my way back down the hall and down the stairs. Ed didn’t look up as I crossed the lobby and left.

# # #

The Mother’s Cookies factory is a sprawling complex of decaying buildings, crumbling concrete, a rusting railroad spur and a general sense of abandonment. I didn’t want to risk my car being seen anywhere near it, so I took a city bus to the outskirts of town and hiked the rest of the way. I wanted to get there well before Joey, if he was even going to show up. Joey would be watching his back the whole way, watching to see if I was following.

At about six in the evening I found an unlocked side door and slipped inside. I quietly worked my way to the front of the factory to a place where I could watch the road and the entrance. The back of my neck itched as I was aware The Deacon might be somewhere in the massive, ruined building, armed and ready to shoot first at the any sign of trouble.

Joey showed up an hour later, walking across the parking lot in the growing darkness. He kept looking over his shoulder as he approached the front of the building. He found his way inside with ease, using an emergency exit that must have been jimmied. Once inside Joey continued to play it safe. He found a place to sit and watched the street and the parking lot. He was about forty feet from me and I had to work hard at remaining still. Fortunately Joey’s eyes and ears were concentrated on watching for someone following him. It didn’t occur to him I might have gotten there first.

Finally, after a good fifteen minutes Joey got up and headed back into the interior of the factory. I followed, making as little noise as I could.

We made an odd procession as we walked through the maze of the interior of the abandoned cookie factory. Joey walked quickly while I followed behind, far enough that what noise I made would not carry to Joey’s ears but not so far as to lose sight of him.

We twisted and wound our way between the machines and conveyor belts that cluttered the massive factory floor and on into an interior office area. Once I was sure of our destination, the same small suite of offices in which Joey had holed up the year before; I split off from him and headed down a parallel corridor where I knew there was a connecting hallway I could take. The worn carpet muffled my footsteps and allowed me to break into a trot.

I stopped when I reached the final corner before the offices where The Deacon was staying. I heard Joey knock on the door. “Deacon! Mr. Newcomb! It’s me, Joey Jones.” Joey tried the door handle. It was locked. He knocked again.

 “Mr. Newcomb. I gotta talk to you. It’s real important.”

I heard a muffled voice. Apparently Joey understood what The Deacon had said as he tried the door handle again. This time it turned. Joey opened the door and slipped inside. I hurried down the hallway and stood to the side of the half-open doorway. Light spilled out from the office onto the carpet of the hallway in a sharp-angled trapezoid. I took care not to step into that light. I listened. Joey was apologizing in his weaseling wheedling voice.

“I know, I know. I’m really sorry, but you need to see this.”

“Bring it over to me.” This was the first time I had heard The Deacon speak. His voice was thin and reedy, not at all as I expected for someone who dealt death so easily. There was a rustle of paper. I knew what it was, the envelope and message I had left for Joey at his room. The Deacon read my note aloud.

“Joey, I know The Deacon is hiding at the Mother’s Cookie factory. I want five thousand dollars by ten tomorrow morning or I go to the cops. Kenyon.” There was the sound of paper crumpling. “Joey, you are a fool.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Newcomb. I made sure I wasn’t followed.”

“Joey, when I came out here for this job I said I needed someone dependable, someone who could follow orders. And I gave you an order that you were not, under any circumstance, to contact me after the job was done.”

“But this is important.” There was a whine in Joey’s voice and more than a hint of desperation. Then I heard the sound of metal working against metal. It was the sound of a round being chambered in a handgun. “No, wait, listen.” Joey begged. I brought the Beretta out of my pocket and slipped the safety off.

“I am sorry, Joey. But you failed to follow my instructions.”  The sound of two quick shots exploded out of the room. I swiveled around the doorjamb; letting it provide me some slight protection and aimed my gun at the figure I saw standing in the center of the room.

Time froze. I had caught The Deacon by surprise. His gun, a new model Sig Sauer nine millimeter, was in his right hand and it was pointed toward Joey’s body on the floor, while my gun was pointed at The Deacon’s chest. Less than a dozen feet separated us. The Deacon looked at me, calculating the odds. I wanted to look at Joey and see if the poor little weasel was still alive but I knew better. I kept my eyes locked on The Deacon’s eyes. They would tell me if he was going to try it. For a moment it looked as though he would. Then he blinked and a slight smile came to his face. He tossed his gun to the floor next to Joey and raised both his hands.

“Mr. Kenyon, I presume?”

“Back up to that chair and sit down.” I kept my eyes on his eyes and my gun aimed at his chest.

“Whatever you say.” The Deacon backed up a couple of steps and sat in the old office swivel chair.

“Sit on your hands, palms up.”

“Indeed.” He did as I demanded. Only then did I leave the meager protection of the doorjamb and step into the room. I let my eyes flick over to Joey and back. There was no doubt Joey was dead. The poor guy looked even more pitiful than ever. There was no dignity in death for Joey the Weasel.

The Deacon saw my glance. “Don’t tell me you’ll lose sleep over little Joey?”

“Not really.”

He studied my face. “You were at the bar last night talking with Wes Coleman. After he left you went up on stage and played the bass.” I nodded.

“When I asked Joey about you later he said you were nobody in particular.”
“He was right.”

“Joey rubbed his nose when he said it. He rubbed it again a minute ago when he gave me that message you left for him. I assume you gave him that broken nose?”

“We had a disagreement a while ago. It was in this room.”

The Deacon nodded in understanding. “Ah, that explains how you found your way here so easily. Still, you couldn’t be certain he would use the same office.”

“That’s why I left him that note.”

“Of course. Very well done.” The Deacon took a long breath and exhaled slowly.

“Well, what happens next? Are you going to avenge the death of your friend Mr. Coleman by killing me?”

I shook my head.

“Still, it would be easy enough for you to kill me and claim self defense.”

I kept my eyes on his and my gun pointed at his chest. I knew what he was up to. He was trying to engage me, trying to entice me into making a mistake. Yet even knowing this I couldn’t resist answering.

“There’s no need to kill you. The feds are in town and waiting to pick you up.”
The Deacon’s reaction to this news was the opposite of what I expected. A broad smile crossed his face and his whole body relaxed.

“Oh, that is splendid news. Just splendid.”

My lack of understanding must have been visible. “You don’t know, do you?” He paused and studied my face again. “No, I can see you don’t. It’s not like they would want you to know.” He began to slowly bring his hands out from under. He held both hands open, palms toward me and raised them up over his head. “Don’t worry, Kenyon. I’m not going to try anything, not with the news you just gave me.” He laced his fingers together and placed them against the back of his head. “There, that’s safe enough, isn’t it?” Again he gave that broad smile. It was a creepy smile. I had no doubt he had a throwing knife in a sleeve or backup pistol hidden in the nape of his neck but with his fingers locked as they were I still had the drop on him and so I decided not to argue the point.

“Allow me to explain,” he said in the tone of a professor to a slow student. “Those federal agents are here in response to an offer from my attorney.” He saw the look of comprehension in my face. “Yes, I am becoming a witness for them in a number of high profile racketeering cases. In return I shall be given a new identity and a new life as a respected member of society.” Again that broad, creepy smile. “And the best part is that I shan’t be serving a single day of prison time.”

He watched my jaw tighten. “Sad, isn’t it, my friend. You’re one of the good guys, one of those nice people who believe in our judicial system. You shall have to stand back and watch, knowing that in six months I will be walking out of a federal building in Maine a free man while your friend lies deep in his grave.”

I let him gloat for as long as he liked.  Eventually he tired of it and of my silence. “Well Kenyon, aren’t you going to call in the feds? There’s no point in our sitting here all night.”

I nodded. “I’ll call them all right. But before I do I just wanted to let you know there are three things you got wrong.”

“Oh?” His face grew cold, wondering what I was going to say.

“First, Wes Coleman was not my friend.”

The Deacon shrugged. “And the other two?”

“Second, I’m not one of the good guys. In fact, I’m not a nice person at all.” His eyes narrowed as he considered what I had said.

“Third, you may be a free man when you leave that federal building in six months, but you won’t be walking out of there, not on that leg.” I waited until I saw the understanding in his face of what I was about to do. He started to jerk his hands from behind his head but he and I both knew it was too late. I squeezed the trigger of my Beretta. It roared and the next moment The Deacon screamed and clutched his leg. The .38 soft nose made a real mess of his right kneecap. He couldn’t touch the wound, but only hold his leg above where a wreckage of bone and blood mixed with torn cloth. He gritted his teeth and looked up at me.

“Or your other leg, for that matter.” Again I paused, just long enough for him to understand what was coming. My second shot roared out and again The Deacon screamed. I waited until he had quieted down and then crossed the few feet that separated us and looked down at him. His chest was heaving and he was fighting to stay conscious. Both his kneecaps were smashed beyond all hope of repair. He lifted his head and stared at me in a mixture of hatred and pain.

“You bastard. You god-damned bastard.” His voice was barely a whisper and came from between tight, gritted teeth.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I get that a lot.”

He was losing the battle to stay conscious. His words came slowly. “I – will – kill – you. – So – help – me – I – will – kill – you.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” I put the muzzle of my gun near his right arm and squeezed the trigger one more time. His elbow disappeared in an explosion of blood and cartilage. The pain was now too much for him to bear and he passed out. I turned my back on him, took out my cell phone and called Lt. Castro.

# # #

Lt. Castro’s reaction was pretty much as I expected when I told him the coroner and an ambulance were needed and where.

“God damn it, Kenyon. I told you the feds wanted The Deacon alive!”

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. He’s just winged in a couple or three places, nothing that will kill him. The meat wagon’s for Joey Jones. The Deacon killed him just as I arrived.” He swore again and slammed the telephone down. I put my cell phone back in my pocket and went out into the hallway and leaned against a wall and waited.
Not too long afterwards the place was busy with police, a couple of federal agents, paramedics and someone from the coroner’s office. I handed over my Beretta and stayed out of the way out in the hallway. After a few minutes The Deacon was wheeled out on a gurney. He was still unconscious. One of the feds went with him while a second stepped in front of me. Lt. Castro stepped behind him.

“Ok, Kenyon, you want to tell me what happened?”

I looked past the fed at Lt. Castro. He seemed to find the ceiling very interesting all of a sudden. “Sure. I followed Joey out here, got here just as your buddy The Deacon put two rounds into his chest. I tried to get the drop on him. He raised his gun and I fired three times.”

“How’d he get in the chair?”

“He fell back into it when I shot him. I shot fast and didn’t have time to aim too good.”

The fed looked at me in disbelief. “Three shots. One in each kneecap and one in his elbow? And all just by chance? Right.” Behind him Lt. Castro was still studying the ceiling.

“Yeah, well, like I said, my aim wasn’t too good.”

The fed stared at me for a long moment. It was obvious he didn’t buy my explanation. Finally he shook his head. “You’re a real bastard, aren’t you?” Then he pushed past me and left. He and The Deacon were going to find they had something in common.

Lt. Castro finally stopped staring at the ceiling. He shook a cigarette out and lit it. “I didn’t see your car outside.”

“I took the bus.”

He nodded and exhaled a plume of smoke. A second gurney was wheeled out. This one was covered in a sheet. Joey was going for his last ride. Lt. Castro and I watched as it was pushed down the hall and around the corner. He turned and leaned inside the office and said something to a uniformed officer inside. Then he turned back to me. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”

Lt. Castro discarded one cigarette and lit another as we reached his car. As he drove he held the cigarette in his left hand and dangled that hand out his car window. When he brought it in to take another drag he was careful to exhale in the direction of the open window. In spite of this his car reeked of cigarette smoke. We didn’t speak for a long while and he didn’t ask for directions to my apartment.

He finished his cigarette as we turned onto Central Avenue where I have my apartment. He took a last drag and flipped it out the window, exhaled, then rolled the window shut. “You’ll need to come down to the station tomorrow and make a formal statement and get your gun back.”

“I’ll be there first thing in the morning.”

“No need to rush.” He started to say something else, then stopped. I looked at him but he kept his eyes on the road. A few blocks later he pulled over in front of my apartment. He looked at me.

“Are you going to call Ginger Coleman and let her know what happened?”

I shook my head. “Not me. You go ahead.”

He nodded. “Right. Well, see you tomorrow.” I got out of the car and he drove away.
Once inside my apartment I unloaded my Colt and put it away in the safe. Then I opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of beer. It was pushing eleven, too late to head over to the Hoodoo Lounge. Besides, I wasn’t really in the mood for company. After a long, slow swallow of beer I put the bottle down on the little table in front of my sofa. I went over to the bookcase and turned on the small bass amp I keep on a shelf and untangled the cord for my headphones and put them on. I picked up my Westone and brought it back to the sofa. I sat down with it and checked the tuning. There was a remote on the table and I used it to turn on my music player and find the song I wanted. It was a recording of The Gravedigger’s Blues; a special one Patrick recorded for me, one without any bass accompaniment. I let the music wash over me and carry me away from my apartment and away from Wes and Ginger and Joey and The Deacon and the events of the last two days. I looked for and found the groove and lost myself in the music as I played.

“You say your Mama's an undertaker and what I sow she shall reap,
And you say your Daddy's a preacher and he's praying the Lord my soul to keep,
And you say your Sister's a real sharpshooter and over me she'll never weep,
And you say your Brother's a gravedigger and he's outside digging six feet deep.