Another Senseless Killing (1) I The soft discordant rumble of distant thunder and the intermittent dull flashes of light served as strong indicators that an out of season electric storm was somewhere in the vicinity and getting closer. The blustery north wind had all but stopped, surrendering to occasional gusts, as the temperature tumbled to around forty-eight degrees, well below normal for the lower Midwest in early October. At six-thirty PM a faded blue two door Chevrolet Caprice stopped at the corner of Main and Fifth Streets near the outskirts of Cardwell, Ohio, a suburb of Cleveland. A short stocky middle-aged man with unusually smooth skin, close set bloodshot eyes, and thick black eyebrows, slowly got out of the car. He glanced at the dented fender through his wire- rimmed glasses, shook his head in disgust, then studied the ominous black and gray sky. He peered about him nervously before entering the rickety graffiti-covered phone booth. Broken glass from a broken panel covered the floor. It would have to do. He cursed the missing phone book, and dialed O. It would be a long distant call. Sweating profusely, and after depositing the exact amount of change that the mechanical sounding operator specified, he waited. He took out a dirty green handkerchief and wiped his face. A sudden burst of thunder and lightning made his heart accelerate and his body jump. He waited some more. Then feeling unusually jittery, he pushed the glasses up on his short pointed nose. The phone finally rang --- once --- twice --- . A dog howled far off in the distance and crickets screamed to their mates punctuating the brief quiet interlude while the caller waited for his party to pick up the phone. --- three times --- four times ---. "Hello." The voice sounded tired. The caller hesitated. "Hello." The response was louder this time. There were several seconds of silence. Then the caller, breathing heavily, put his mouth close to the receiver and spoke softly but distinctly, careful to enunciate every word. This time there must be no misunderstanding. Everything would go as planned. "I don't like to repeat myself. But I will." The caller wiped his face again. "I told you last time that I was there. I saw you do it." "Damn it!" The second voice interrupted. "We discussed this. I don't have it. So you listen." "NO!" The caller screamed into the mouthpiece. "You listen!" Once more there was silence except for the caller's heavy breathing --- more pronounced this time. The caller looked around him again --- anxiously --- cautiously. The proximity of a sharp flash of lightening and a loud clap of thunder almost caused the caller to drop the phone. Telephones and storms were a bad combination. But he held on and continued, softening his tone. "You didn't bring the money to our prearranged spot. I told you --- " "I don't have it. Just give me a little more time. Be reasonable for Christ's sake!" "Sorry. I am not a reasonable man." "Look, I can't --- " "Shut up and listen, okay?" The caller kicked away a small rock. "Either you get the money we talked about or the police will put your fucking ass in a sling. This is your final notice." "Damn you!" Fatigue was mixed with anger. "So don't fuck with me, asshole. I call the shots!" The caller smiled as he spoke with confidence. "And by the way, the price has gone up." "You son-of-a-bitch!" Now the thunder was softer and the flashes duller. Maybe the storm would blow over. "The price is now twenty-thousand." He waited. There was no response. "Today is Wednesday. Bring the money tomorrow night at eleven o'clock. Drop it in the wire waste basket at the corner of Main and Race Street across from Harley's Drug Store." The caller took a deep breath. "I'll be watching." After a brief pause, the other voice asked, "What if I refuse?" "You won't. Because we both know that would be stupid." There was more silence. The storm had definitely blown over. The wind was calm. The streets were still deserted. "Like I said. I will go to the police." He wiped his face again then put the handkerchief into his back pocket. "And come alone. No smart-ass shit! Remember --- I'll be watching." The caller hung up. Then he left the phone booth and stopped, looking in all directions. When he was satisfied no one had seen him, he ran to his car and sped away. * 11 "Where is Arthur?” My sister yelled from the bedroom. “Is he home yet?” When she yells it's usually from the bedroom, where she spends most of her time --- going to bed early and getting up late "I'm going to lie down. I have this awful migraine." Today it's migraine. Yesterday it was arthritis. Last week it was colitis. "He's not home yet, Bea." I yelled back. "He's still out." Arthur is always 'out'. Usually bar hopping in out-of-the-way restaurants looking for men. On two separate occasions I spotted him with the same young man, and on both occasions we chose to ignore each other's presence. He never discussed it or even alluded to it, and I sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up. But he definitely knows that I know. I'm not sure about Bea. Maybe she doesn’t want to know. "Tell him to come upstairs when he comes in." Bea added. It’s not hard for Art to pretend because he’s not your stereotype gay. He is tall and solidly built with penetrating gray eyes, thick black wavy hair and a short firm masculine chin. And at age sixty-three, Art looks younger than me. "Okay, Bea." Personally, I would kick his ass out of the house. Art certainly won't leave because he is married to a very rich woman. Bea has a lot of money as part of a settlement from a very short but profitable marriage. She is secure financially but insecure emotionally. And I suppose as bizarre as it seems, Art must fill that emotional need. So if she doesn't mind him going out every night, why the hell should I? As much as I dislike the man, at times I cannot totally blame him for staying away. Being married to my sister has got to be a constant struggle. My sister lets me live rent free, which is a tremendous help financially. Being a private detective is far from a lucrative profession. But if I could afford to leave, I would. As much as I love my sister is as much as I hate being a freeloader. "I'm gonna defrost a TV dinner." I continued to yell. "I'm sorry I'm not up to making you a real dinner." she said apologetically. I just shrugged. I tell her she has too much free time to think about her ailments. I tell her to get a part time job or find a hobby. Something --- anything to keep her mind occupied. I might just as well speak to the sofa. "Manny, why don't you come up to the bedroom so we don't have to yell." "Later." Never! I can't stand to go into their bedroom. Seeing my sister play the invalid depresses the hell out of me. I put the frozen turkey dinner in the microwave, setting it for seven minutes. Just then, Arthur walked in. His black silk Fila warm-up and his top-of-the-line Reeboks totally outclassed my torn tee-shirt and Fruit-Of-The-Loom boxer shorts. “Dressed to ‘the nines’, I see.” He snickered then went up to the bedroom. If anyone else had said that, I would have laughed. Coming from Arthur, the prick, it annoyed me. But then everything about Arthur annoys me. Aside from his screwing around, our relationship has been strained ever since he bought an annuity from one of my competitors eight years ago. Ordinarily I never hold a grudge. But in this case I’ll make an exception. Those were the days I averaged one job per month. That month I sold annuities. I sat down at the small dinette, which is situated between the kitchen and the hallway to the two bedrooms. I thought it was poorly located, but I only live here. As I opened the Cleveland Plain Dealer to the sport section, the bell on the microwave announced that my food was ready. I poured a diet soda, took the food from the microwave, and put the entire dinner on the dinette. I sat back looked at the sport section. If I see one more article that says my Cleveland Browns will finish last, I will never read another sport section for the rest of my life. And since I'm forty-eight years old, according to the longevity tables that would be about twenty-seven years! As it was, there was no such prediction. A temporary respite. Hooray! All they said was ' Bellicheck is rebuilding and Testeverde will make a difference.' "Jesus!" I said it aloud. "There is no getting around it. The Browns are gonna suck this year!" "Big deal." Arthur's husky voice startled me. "It’s a big deal to me!" I spoke to the newspaper. I could almost feel his eyes riveted to the top of my head. "How do you eat that shit?" he asked Without looking at him, I knew he was making a face. I extended my middle finger, never taking my eyes off the newspaper in front of me. "Fuck you too, shamus!" I ignored the remark and took another bite of my turkey. Then I washed it down with the soda. "Arthur." Bea called from the bedroom. "Yes, Bea." I could hear the disgust in his voice. "I'll be up in a few minutes." I took a final bite of my dinner. "Mmm --- very good." I closed my eyes and licked my lips. He went into the family room and dialed the phone. After a couple of silent minutes, he returned to the kitchen. As I was taking my dirty dishes to the sink, I said , "Don't tell me he wasn't home." I emphasized the word 'he'. I looked up and he was glaring at me. His face was blood red. I decided to glare back. I was always good at this. Art finally blinked and broke the spell. I knew he would. Then he pointed his finger at me and opened his mouth to speak. "Arthur." My sister's voice interrupted him. "Where are you?" "Coming, Bea." He answered mechanically. "Look, Arthur," I turned toward my brother-in-law. "I know it's none of my business, but --- " "You're right." I thought smoke was going to come out of his ears. "It's none of your business!" I was ready to kick ass, but I never got the chance as he quickly changed directions and went out the front door instead of going up to the bedroom. What an asshole! "Arthur?" Bea was at the top of the stairs now. I put the paper away and threw the garbage into the compactor. "He went out, Bea." I said, then I waited. After a long pause, she responded meekly, "Oh." I considered making the sacrifice and going up to her bedroom to see if she was okay. After all, it was my sister. But I decided not to. Maybe next time. * III It was five-forty-five p.m. My feet ached as if I were walking on hot coals and my head pounded as if it had been hit with a sledgehammer. My underwear clung to my body and my sweat-soaked socks stuck to my feet. I needed a long hot shower and a good night's sleep in my brand new waterbed. But for now, I still needed to earn a living. "Is this your husband?" I asked the tiny young woman seated in the worn cloth chair across from me. She was eighteen years old. Her dirty tan hair was short and her face was small with little exaggerated features, except for her hazel eyes, which looked too large. Overall, she was very unattractive. Her white sweatshirt had a large yellow stain right in the center. She reminded me of a mouse. "Yes." She answered in a grating high-pitched squeal. "That's Alex." She even sounded like a mouse. No wonder I had a fucking headache. I held the snapshot in one hand and wrote with the other. My notebook lay between the radio and the telephone; the only part of my desk that was uncluttered. I know it's hard to imagine, but even though the desk is an ungodly mess, I know where everything is. The snapshot showed a man not much older than my client, with long blond hair and a partially grown mustache and beard. His face was narrow and his blue eyes were wide and deep. "You think he's seeing another woman." She straightened up in the chair. "I'm certain of it." I nodded. "I know Alex. I just --- know. I can sense it." "Hmm --- not much to go on." I pulled my wet pants away from my ass and changed positions in the chair. "Tell me, Mrs. Delvecchio, --- " "Carmen." She smiled. "Call me Carmen." I hoped she wasn't coming on to me. I can't imagine what an eighteen year old mouse would want with a forty-eight year old partially employed private investigator sporting a ratty gray beard, hook nose and thin hair slowly approaching baldness. I immediately dismissed the passing thought as ridiculous. "Okay, Carmen ---, " I continued to write. " --- tell me when you saw him last and what he was wearing." She told me in detail as I turned to the last page. "How old is he?" I tried to sound like I cared. "Uh --- twenty-one --- and a half." "I see." I closed the notebook and put it and the pen in the top drawer of my desk. "Can I keep this snapshot?" "Yes." She took a tissue out of her purse and dabbed her eyes. "Of course." "Well, Carmen," I put the snapshot into my shirt pocket. "I think that's all I need for now." We both stood and I quickly but gently ushered her out of the office. I closed the door and took a deep breath. Trailing promiscuous men was not my favorite thing to do. But I guess it comes with the territory. And I was getting paid! I looked at the clock --- again. 6:05. It was time to leave. First, I needed five minutes to relax and unwind. I turned on the radio. Bach suddenly flooded the room. Then I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes. Perfect. "Five minutes." I said it aloud. My reverie was interrupted by a soft tap on the door. I opened my eyes and spoke to Bach. "Now what?" I waited a second, then I spoke louder and aimed my words at the door. "Who is it?" I wondered if Carmen forgot something. I waited some more. There was still no response. I took a pistol from the top drawer. "Who is it?" I repeated. After a couple of seconds the door opened slowly. I pointed my piece at the shadow in the open doorway. "Don't shoot." An attractive young woman emerged with her hands in the air and stood motionless. "Can --- can I come in?" I couldn’t talk. I could only gape. She came in anyway. "Is this how you treat a prospective client?" She closed the door with her hip and came closer. I finally got my mouth to work "I work by appointment." The weapon remained pointed at her. "Okay, so I don't have an appointment." There was a brief silence as we sparred with our eyes. "Can I lower my hands?" I got up from behind my desk and approached her. She had long auburn hair that hung loosely to her shoulders, deep dark brown eyes and full moist lips. Her nose turned up slightly and she had a tiny overbite. For me, that's an ideal combination. She also smelled of Giorgio. I recognized the aroma because my second wife, Ann, wore it. It drove me crazy. Unfortunately, it was the only thing about her that did. As I stood staring at her cleavage, I realized my mouth was open. I closed it quickly and walked toward the desk. Then for some stupid reason I wondered if she liked Bach. "Excuse me." She was pleading. "Can I lower my hands --- please?" I turned my stare from her chest to her eyes. "Sit over --- " I pointed to the ratty chair recently vacated by Carmen Delvecchio. " --- there." Then I sat down behind my desk and tried not to stare at her anymore. It was impossible. "Do you have to keep that --- that thing pointed at me?" she asked wearily. I looked at the forty-five, then slowly put it back in the top drawer. I followed her eyes as she casually looked around the tiny office with its dull gray walls, dull gray carpet and dull gray drapes covering the only window. Besides my desk and the two chairs, the only other furniture was a large green empty file cabinet in the far corner. “Why are you staring at me like that?” She asked. “I --- I didn’t realize I was.” I couldn’t lose the feeling that I’d seen her before. There was another long pause. She uncrossed her long legs, then crossed them again. I felt like she was teasing me. I loved it. I took out a cigarette, sat back in my chair, lit up and blew a large smoke ring at the ceiling. "Where's your receptionist?" she asked. She uncrossed her legs and put her knees together. Show time was over. "I don't have one --- yet." And I doubt if I ever will! I took the cigarette out of my mouth and began to pull on my beard. I hoped she wouldn’t equate a beard --- graying at that, and a receding hairline with old age. I narrowed my eyes and leaned toward her. "Are you going to tell me why you're here, or do you want me to guess?" She squeezed her black clutch purse and produced a faint smile. "I need your help." "I already figured that much out." I took another drag of my Camel. "Can you be a little more specific?" The smile vanished. "My sister has been missing for about a week." I took a fresh notebook and a chewed up pencil from the top drawer. "Have you notified the police?" She cleared her throat nervously. “My sister has a passion for privacy. Going to the police would be a bad idea. She would really be upset." I tried to write as fast as she talked. "I see." I spoke to the notebook and began to rub my beard again. Then I put the pencil down, put out my cigarette in the overcrowded ashtray and asked her point blank. "How did you get my name?" The feeling that I’d seen her before was intensifying. She took the guesswork out of it. "We met about two years ago --- briefly, at a writer's conference in Louisville, Kentucky." I took a long final drag. "You're kidding." "Nope. And my sister was with me." She crossed her legs again. “You are Manny Gold --- aren’t you?” “The last time I looked I was.” A diesel drove by. It sounded like it was coming through the wall. “How could I not remember you?” I asked. "Well --- there were a lot of people, and --- " I blinked. "But you remembered me." "Yes." Her smile was back. "I'm flattered." I returned the smile. "As a rule, I never forget a pretty face." She paused a moment, then narrowed her eyes. "Is that a pass?" I didn't respond at first. We stared at each other for a couple of seconds before I shifted gears. Then I asked as nonchalantly as I could, "Did you or your sister do anything with your writing?" She shook her head. "Nah. Neither of us had the talent. What about you?" "What," I gestured broadly. "and give up all of this?" Neither of us laughed. It wasn't funny. I looked back at my paper and put out my cigarette. The room was smoky and I couldn't smell Giorgio anymore. The music switched to Mozart. "Tell me your name." I felt really stupid. We had been talking for almost twenty minutes and I just now decided to ask her what her name was. "I know we met some time ago and I marvel at your recollection, but --- " "Margo Blair." I looked up quickly. “Margo --- Blair?” “Yes. And you’re staring again.” “I’m sorry. It’s just that --- “ I cleared my throat. “Uh --- where was I --- ?” My mind was suddenly a total blank. "How old are you?" It was the only question I could think of. "Why is that important?" She squeezed her purse. "It's routine." I lied.
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