Page Thirty-Seven

Page Thirty-Seven

I approached the building slower than usual, concentrating on the echo of my shoes. Footsteps bouncing off the walls, then getting sucked into the alley like a baby finishing off its first bottle of the day. Looking up at the door, I felt a familiar tightness; a brief but serious consideration of what I’d do if I wet myself.

Climbing the steps of Sixty-One Farthing Street was the last thing I wanted to do tonight or any night, but when I got the call, I couldn’t refuse. The moon was bright enough, so I checked myself before heading in. Slacks were smooth, blouse was conservative. I didn’t have a mirror, but I knew my hair was good. It was always good.

I took a deep breath and opened the door, clutching my purse a little tighter than I liked, but unable to stop myself.

I went up the windowless staircase for the thousandth time, but the air felt different. There was a smell, foreign but familiar, that took up residence in my nostrils. Something burnt.

The light bulb in the sconce at the end of the hall was just barely hanging on. It sizzled and dimmed, just to come back strong, then sizzle again. In the end, it glowed hot and bright in one final moment of glory before it went dark for good. But in that single moment, halfway down the corridor, it illuminated the body of an old man, reaching out for help that was never going to come. My father.

The two gunshot wounds in his back had done their jobs and the blood crept from underneath him in every direction. As I reached his corpse, I automatically crouched down. I felt for a pulse, knowing there would be none. Tears welled up in my eyes and my knees wobbled. Dad would have called me weak, but if our positions were reversed, I hope he would have gotten a little misty over finding me dead, too.

“Fuck,” I said.

My mind flashed on the notebook in my purse, an ancient relic of Dad’s time as a cop, and the reason I was here in the first place. Dad needed it for some case he was working. Someone else must have wanted it too, but figured it was here instead of stashed in my old doll house, made up to look like a bed. Probably the most creative thing Dad had ever done.

The pool of blood kept spreading just enough so I knew I hadn’t missed the killing by much. I carefully reached around under Dad’s jacket to the small of his back, and I wasn’t disappointed.

Pulling the dull but deadly snub-nose revolver from its accustomed place, I blew a lock of hair that had dared to fall out of place away from my eye, and slowly shifted my weight enough to stand noiselessly upright. Much as I hated learning all the crap he taught me about his job growing up, I was glad to know it now.

I looked past Dad’s body to the office door beyond him. The frosted glass in the upper half of the door was unbroken and still said, “Bartlett Investigations” in fancy gold letters. Not, “Grayson Bartlett, P.I.” as I had suggested. He didn’t want the added expense of re-doing it if I ever changed my mind and came to work for him. Idiot. Never gonna happen.

The door was the tiniest bit open, and through the crack I heard a faint, but unmistakable creaking noise coming from the office. A noise I recognized as the window leading to the fire escape.

“Double-fuck.”

I made for the stairs as fast as I could go and still maintain silence. Once at the bottom, I made a beeline for the alley on the north side of the building, and crouched down behind a pile of garbage, gun ready. Looking up, I saw a shadowy figure come off the fire escape. I had to choke down the adrenaline and focus. When the figure got to the ground, it calmly walked away from the building. I took off my too-noisy shoes and followed up one block and down the next, staying deep in the shadows.

I wondered just what the hell I was doing. For four years, Dad had been after me to quit my job designing landscapes and join him. For fifteen years before that, he taught me all about his cockamamie plan for a Father/Daughter P.I. agency. He and his pals made sure I knew how to handle myself. But knowing how to handle myself was not the same as this. The instincts my dad gave me had gotten me safely this far, but now that my brain was slowly taking charge again, I wasn’t so sure. Rock walls and rhododendrons don’t shoot at you.

Whomever I was watching stopped at the corner and looked around. I shrank behind a mailbox to keep from being discovered. The figure unlocked a door and went inside the derelict building.

I stared at the door for at least twenty seconds, then looked at myself. I felt the anger welling up again, but pushed it away in favor of common sense.

“Screw this,” I said. “The cops can handle it.” I turned around and carefully retraced my steps until I was sure I hadn’t been spotted, then I shoved the gun in my purse, put my shoes back on and rushed back to Farthing Street as fast as I could, listening again to the echo of my footsteps.

# # #

I could see the police cars and the ambulance outside the building. I was looking around for the lead detective when a hand rested on my shoulder.

I quickly dropped to a crouch and swept my leg around behind me. I felt the satisfying whump of whomever touched me hitting the ground and was about to find some crotch to kick when a voice interrupted.

“Trisha! Knock it off! I’m too goddamn old to explain to my buddies how a little girl kicked my ass!”

Relief poured into me as I recognized the voice.

“Uncle Morrie!” I said to my Dad’s old partner. “What are you doing here? Do you know what’s going on?”

“From the looks of it, your dad finally pissed off the wrong people,” Uncle Morrie said. “I’m sorry Sweet Pea, but the way he operated he was bound to catch a couple in the back eventually.”

“I have to go down there and talk to those cops,” I said. “They need to find whoever did this.”

“Hold up there, youngster,” Morrie said as we both got to our feet and dusted ourselves off. “You wanna think about that for a minute. If your Dad wanted them-ones involved, don'tcha think he’da called ‘em?”

“Yeah, but…”

“But nuthin’. He called me, not them. Why d’ya think I’m here at this godfersakin’ hour?”

I figured he had a point.

“So, what the hell is going on?”

“I dunno. I’ll go see what these assholes know, then I’ll fill you in at Carl’s.”

# # #

Carl’s Diner. A shit-hole about five blocks from Dad’s office, famous for heartburn and hard luck. Back when he walked a beat, he would meet me here on his lunch breaks to tell me about his day.

“Some skell beat up his wife,” he’d tell me. “Any bastard lays a hand on you, you drop and go for the nuts, you got me?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I’d say.

“And if you can’t get the nuts, you claw his friggin’ eyes out!” Uncle Morrie would chime in if he was walking Dad’s beat that day.

“You got it, Uncle Morrie.”

“Smart fuckin’ girl, Grasyon.”

“Watch yer fuckin’ language Morrie,” Dad would say, and then they’d laugh and laugh while Louise topped off their coffee.

“I said, 'you want cream and sugar?' Sugar,” Louise said, slamming the door on my memories. Instead of the still pretty forty-something waitress topping off Dad’s coffee, Louise was now looking at sixty-five and wondering if seventy was in the cards. But if the thirty plus cigarettes a day since she was twenty-two hadn’t killed her yet, there was a good chance she’d be refilling my own kids’ coffee one day. Some things just are.

Morrie came in then and slid into the booth across from me. Louise barely looked at him.

“Thanks Louise, yes," I said. "And pie?”

“Nah, girlie, all we got left is rhubarb, and it tastes like shit. You can have some if you want, Morrie.”

“Real sweet, Louise. Just for that, I think I will.”

“Your funeral.”

Louise walked off to get the pie, shaking her non-existent hips as if they were still drawing a crowd. The way Uncle Morrie watched her go, I supposed they were.

“What’d you find out, Uncle Morrie?”

“Listen, Kiddo. Your Dad told me he was after some real shitheels in the P.D. so I couldn’t ask too many questions,” Morrie started. “But I got good ears, and I heard a couple of them-ones talkin’ about a mob case he worked just before he retired. They said there was a stash of cash somewhere that only he knew about. Said he was staking his friggin’ P.I. shingle with it. You know anything about that?”

Straight to the point. Good old Uncle Morrie.

“You know I never talked to Dad about any of this crap. I’m busy, I have my own business to run.”

“Yeah, birdhouses and shit, I know.”

“Fuck you, Uncle Morrie,” I said, but with affection.

“Nah, fuck them birds is what I say. Look Kiddo, is there anything he said or did that was weird in the last few days? Something off?”

“Not that I saw or cared about.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Uncle Morrie looked at me.

“Here’s your shitty pie, Morrie,” Louise plopped the plate in front of him while gently sliding me my coffee. “If it don’t kill ya outright, have the decency to choke on it, willya?”

“Real friggin’ nice, Louise,” he said, getting up. “I’m going for a piss.”

“Sorry, Sweetie, but I gotta give you the check, since I know he’ll stiff me,” Louise said to Uncle Morrie’s back. Without looking around, he flipped her the bird.

“No problem, Louise, I’ll get it.”

I took the check as she walked to the back. There were two stubs stuck together, and when I separated them, there was a note underneath.

“Apple pie at closing time. Stay for some.”

I stashed the note in my pocket as I heard the bathroom door open and shut. Morrie returned.

“What did Dad tell you about the case?” I asked him.

“Humph. Fits what I heard outside his office. Some P.D. asshole wanted to shake him down for whatever hidden cash they thought he had, but he wouldn’t cop to any.”

“So what do I do, Uncle Morrie?” I asked with a tad more concern than I actually felt. Something about Morrie didn’t smell right, and I was feeling like I needed him gone.

“You sure your Dad didn’t give you anything? Or tell you anything odd in the past few days?”

“Uh, no Uncle Morrie, but he did ask me to come to his office tonight. Maybe someone beat me to it.”

“Hmmm, alright. I’ll go see what else I can find out and catch up with you a little later.”

Morrie headed for the door.

“Uncle Morrie, what about the check?” I yelled after him.

He just waved without looking and took off.

“Toldja,” Louise said as she approached.

“I saw your note. I thought you said you only had the poison rhubarb.”

“Clearly bullshit, my dear,” Louise slid a slice of pie in front of me.

“So why hold out on Morrie, Louise?”

“Because he’s fulla shit, that’s why. He was in here talkin’ to your Dad just three days ago. He knows more than he’s tellin’ you, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, I figured that, too. Did Dad mention me at all this week?”

“Actually, he did. It was kinda weird. After Morrie left the other day, he told me he missed you. Right outta the blue. Said he missed havin’ to tell you to make your bed thirty-seven times a day when you was a kid. Then he said he wished he hadn’t even wasted time makin’ his own bed. Like I said, weird.”

“He said he told me to make my bed thirty-seven times a day?” I asked.

“Yeah, it was a weird number, that’s why I remember it so well.”

“Thanks a bunch, Louise.” I left some cash for the bill and a tip and made for the door.

# # #

I never left my bed unmade more than ten seconds when I was a girl, and my Dad couldn’t have picked a made bed out of a lineup. Morrie was fishing for something and I needed to figure out what it was.

Walking home, I reached into my purse for Dad’s notebook. My fingers brushed the gun, coldly waiting for the order to kill. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but I was worried.

In the lobby of my apartment building, I walked past the empty doorman’s station and straight for the elevator. I jabbed the button marked “seven” and waited for the elevator to move a little before hitting the emergency stop.

I always made my bed and he never made his. Dad had clearly left that as a clue for me, but I couldn’t figure it out. I wracked my brain, wishing I had been a bit less of an asshole when Dad was trying to teach me this stuff. Then it hit me. Dad made a bed exactly one time in his life that I knew about. The one he stashed in my dollhouse.

I pulled out the notebook and turned to page thirty-seven. There was a note, clearly a fresh one.

“Button, (I hated when he called me that) it looks like my choices have caught up with me. You need to know that what Morrie and me did was a long time ago. Before you were born. Once I had you, I went as straight as I could, but our pasts always catch up with us.

“When we were Rookies, me and Morrie stopped a runner for the Luongo family. He was carrying a hundred and fifty grand in cash, and he bolted when he saw we had him. Only, he was a terrible driver and he ended up in the canal. I was gonna jump in and pull him out, but Morrie stopped me. I wanna say I fought Morrie, but I didn’t. I was just slower to see the situation than he was.

“It was over in a few minutes. No more bubbles, no more runner. That’s when we jumped in. The canal was kind of shallow that night, so we could take our time searching. After a while, we found the runner’s money and we split it up, a quarter for him, a quarter for me, and the rest hidden to keep us both honest. This year, we were supposed to split the rest, but I think Morrie is in some trouble. I think he wants all of it.”

Through tears of anger, I read the rest. Where the money was stashed, evidence Dad had saved from their crime, even where the key they needed was hidden. I didn’t care. Dad and I had our differences, but he didn’t need to die. Uncle Morrie didn’t need to kill him. I held the notebook in a death grip, my knuckles turning white at the strain.

I started the elevator up again. As it rose past four and five, I reached into my purse. Something wasn’t right. Coming up to the sixth floor, the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened. I tightened my grip on the pistol, but it was only Mrs. Edgars.

“Did you get off on the wrong floor again, Mrs. Edgars?” I asked. She looked at me with wide eyes but didn’t answer.

“Fu..” and a massive fist smashed me in the side of the face.

Mrs. Edgars rushed out of the elevator and ran down the hall. Uncle Morrie came onto the elevator as I pitched back and fell to the floor, Dad’s revolver lodging painfully under my back.

“You shoulda just given me the friggin’ book when you had the chance, Sweet Pea!” Morrie sneered at me. He reached down and yanked the notebook out of my hand, then grabbed me by my blouse and yanked me up to my feet.

In one motion, I used the momentum of him lifting me up and added a lifting knee aimed right for the groin.

“Yeah, yeah, I remember what your Dad told ya to do in a fight too, dumbass,” He sneered as he blocked the blow.

“I never listened to him,” I said. “But I did listen to you!” and with that I raked his eyes with my nails.

“Gaaagh! Bitch!” he yelled and flung me back to the floor. I pivoted and landed face and knees down, curling into a ball for what I knew was coming. Uncle Morrie didn’t disappoint.

He kicked me, and hard. The first blow went to my side. I felt a rib bend, but hopefully not break. The next went right into my tail-bone, sending a shudder through my whole body and making my legs go numb. I slumped forward and rolled onto my back, hands at my sides to protect my abused ribs. Instead, he stomped on my stomach, whooshing the air out of me, and making me sit up.

His rage momentarily spent, Morrie stared daggers at me with puffy, bleeding eyes. The right one would be okay. The left one? His problem, not mine.

“Twenty years I waited for this money,” he said, brandishing the book at me. “Twenty years, and your goddam goody-two-shoes friggin’ father wants to get rid of it.”

“You didn’t deserve it, asshole.”

“Fuck that! I deserve it! I deserve it ‘cause I SAY I fuckin’ deserve it. But your Dad didn’t see it that way.”

“That why you put two bullets in his back, Uncle Morrie?”

“Yeah, and I woulda put two more in him if I didn’t hear you clomping up the friggin’ stairs.”

“Yeah, you’re real observant, aren’t you, Morrie?”

I pulled Dad’s revolver from under my leg where I’d been shielding it. I leveled it at Morrie and asked, “Now what, Uncle Morrie?”

His good eye got big and he opened his mouth, but I couldn’t hear his answer. Gunshots are pretty damn loud in an elevator.

# # #

I looked at the figure in the office mirror. Slacks were smooth, blouse was conservative, and the hair, well the hair was always good.

As I sat behind the desk and put up my feet, the phone rang.

“Bartlett Detective Agency,” I answered.

The End