Ask the Dice Page 3

  "Ghosts don't talk on the phone, home slice."

  "She lied? Is that what you're laying on me?"

  "Bad word choice. Mama screens my calls and uses the AIDS fib as my cover. You can't be too careful."

  "Are things that rough for you?"

  "Well, I'm keeping together body and soul."

  "Ain't we all."

  "What's on your mind?"

  "Before your alleged demise, I wanted to say hey is all."

  "Right back at you. Long time, no see. Too damn long. What's your hustle now?"

  "Same one as before."

  "Say what? That was a temp thing to tide you over."

  "Right, well, I still prefer to view it that way."

  "The money and hours must be unbeatable."

  "No major beefs. Where are you?"

  "I'm in Philly where I’ve been staying with my, uh, cousin."

  "Your cousin must be F-I-N-E fine."

  "Put it this way. They don't come any finer."

  "You be making it back this way anytime soon?"

  "Could be. You be needing a hand, Tommy Mack?"

  "Well, you see, this situation has come up…"

  "Say no more. My ass is in the south wind. Be looking for me tomorrow."

  "Rendezvous at the Lincoln's Dog Tavern. Just hang there, and I'll be by in the same coupé."

  "I remember your ghetto sled well."

  "Or just beep me when you hit town."

  "Beep you hell. You got a cell phone?"

  "Nope, I don't believe in them."

  "Still? Uh-uh, we can't have that tired shit. I'll get you fixed up."

  "Just get down here. I'm in a tough jam."

  "Hang in until I do. Later, Tommy Mack."

  I returned the phone receiver and fingered the return coin slot. Pocketing a quarter and discarding the found zinc slug rewarded my diligence. Hearing my friend's voice helped to steel my droopy mood, and any time speculating why he'd set up the death-by-AIDS ploy with his mamma was pointless. I also relied on a few ploys, and I figured D. Noble's troubles paled when stacked up against mine.

  My hope was his loyalty for his old homey in D.C. trumped his addiction to the new poontang in Philly. We'd see. My analysis gave me a better than even coin toss he'd show. D. Noble was fearless and reckless, volatile traits when blended, but I wasn't picky about the personality quirks of my few allies.

  Meantime I drove off on my new quest. By now I suspected my boss, Mr. Ogg, was framing me for the homicide rap of his niece, Gwen. Christ. I wanted to puke. Ferreting out the information to be doubly sure of it was new for me. Usually I got the target's name up front, no mystery. I might run a tail job over a few days to plot his routines and patterns. That gave me an edge when shaping up my plans on when and where to whack him. No big deal.

  After stopping by a Greek joint, I ordered their jumbo gyro and greasiest platter of shoestring fries on this side of the truck stop. If I faced switching a new lean diet to rein in my high cholesterol, then I'd splurge on my old diet while it lasted. By the time I paid the cashier and left I knew I better recheck something. When I sat again in the coupé, I leaned over the seat, and thumbed open the glove compartment. The black velvet drawstring bag kept my 9-mm.

  It weighed as heavy as my meal did, and a sweat ring seeped out along my scalp. My heartbeat lurched, creating the wobbly flutters bound to upset Dr. Izellah. The 9-mm, the tool of my trade, was equivalent to a pimp's bling, a magician's wand, or a junkie's spike. The 9-mm had no life of its own, but in the wrong or right hands, depending on your point of view, it cancelled—pop, pop—human life. Still the 9-mm exerted a dark mystical hold over me; like Macbeth's trio of witches did over him.

  My fingers untied the drawstring and unlimbered it. They probed the velvet bag, pinched the grips, and slid out the 9-mm. Its solid heft filling my palm felt righteous. Peering at it, I waited to see what happened next as I held my breath in anticipation.

  "Damn! I don't believe it! Not again!"

  I dropped the 9-mm and jiggled my gun hand, but it was true. The same scarlet rash had attacked my skin like a virulent outbreak of the German measles. According to Mr. Ogg's quack dermatologist, my skin reacted from coming into physical contact with the gun steel that had grown toxic to my system. My disbelieving glare had speared her.

  Barbers contracted similar skin allergies, she said, from using steel scissors and had to quit their occupation to take up a new career field. There was no cure. Impossible, I told her. I was too old—54—to break into a new hustle. Wasn't there a treatment—even an experimental one involving steroids, boric acid, or laetrile—available? Short of attaching an artificial hand, just grin and bear it, she’d replied with a straight face.

  I picked up the 9-mm, what over the years of regular use had fused into an extension of me. Was the rash a plague sent to punish me for not living right? The longer I palmed the 9-mm, the uglier and redder the rash grew until the raw blisters buckled open on my knuckles. The splinters of pain ached as if I sat grit-blasting the flesh off my hands. When it grew too agonizing, I crammed the 9-mm back into its velvet bag, cinched the drawstring together, and slung it into the glove compartment.

  In a matter of seconds, the rash vanished right before my eyes. Nothing, not even the pockmarks or scabs, marred my skin. An amazing phenomenon, you bet, except I'd hotter priorities to occupy me, you know, like staying alive. I torched a Blue Castle and downed the coupé's window before I put on the rebroadcast of Kojo Nnamdi's NPR talk show, a favorite pastime of mine.

  Surely, by now the tidings had reached Gwen's next of kin. Her older sister Rita was a level-headed, fair-minded lady, and by the time the Blue Castle was left as just a cherry ember, I decided to reach out to her. I flicked the hot butt out the window while sorting through my brain's Rolodex of the public phones. The city fathers had razed the nine-pins alley for luxury apartments, so I trashed that card.

  Gas-N-Sips always yielded the best chances. So, I hit the nearest one and cursed at where the phone company had struck. A topless steel pedestal with a few stray wires marked where the coin phone had once stood mounted. My consolation on the next block was a phone still on its steel pedestal before a chiropractor's clinic. I thought of treating my old sciatica as I dialed up Rita. The street noise to the passing car engines in one ear counterpointed the tinny rings in my other. A lady's snobbish mewl answered.

  "Rita? Rita Ogg?" I said.

  "This is she. Who is this, may I ask?"

  "Tommy Mack Zane."

  "Oh. You."

  I winced at her snarky tone. She'd heard, and I was cast as the villain. Before she flew into a rant, my words clipped out. "Look, I'd nothing to do with Gwen's death. Somebody has framed me."

  "Fat chance."

  "What reason did I have? Tell me. What's my possible motive?"

  "Motive?" Her icy laugh could freeze a flow of red molten lava into glacial ice. "Since when did your ilk ever need a motive to kill?"

  "Your uncle ordered me to check into her problem, so I went to her townhouse. When I arrived, she lay dead on her brass bed."

  "Why did you go off and leave her that way?"

  "My shock understandably panicked me." I made my plea. "At least give me the decency to fully explain my side."

  "Decency." Her same spine-tingling laugh pealed out. "What do you know about decency, Tommy Mack?"

  This was breaking down as a quarrel I couldn't win, at least not with Rita. "You're making a big mistake. I did not kill your sister. You have to believe me, Rita. I've got no cause to lie to you."

  "Methinks, you doth protest too much, asshole."

  "Bear with me. Analyze it like the homicide cops will do. Did Gwen make any enemies? Did anybody stalk her? Did she cross anybody? Did she have a recent feud? Had she gotten death threats or obscene phone calls or emails? Those are the right questions to ask and smoke out the guilty culprit. It wasn’t me."

  "You're just blowing sunshine up my ass."

  "No I’m no
t. Others in my trade must use the two-behind-the-ear technique."

  "Good bye and good luck. You're going to need every bit you can scrounge up, I expect."

  I hated it when the other party got in the last word and hung up the phone in my ear. My callback got a busy signal. It didn't take an Einstein to dope out who she'd called. Pretending to be enraged, Mr. Ogg would seek his revenge. The irony of the hit now being contracted to make on the hit man prompted me to laugh.

  Chapter 6

  The infamous killers fired bullets of various calibers to fell their prey. In ascending order, Malvo shot a .223, Chapman a .38, Cunanan a .40, Billy the Kid a .41, Son of Sam a .44, Guiteau a .442, and The Zodiac Killer a monster .45. My point was each size of caliber, small to large, killed mortals just as dead. I didn't equate any of those assassins to me, but I'd studied their MOs, usually on what errors not to repeat since most died young or went in stir. Zodiac, the exception, must've retired to a condo village in Boca Raton to paint his watercolors of sad clowns and fortunetellers.

  A .22 cap had snuffed out Gwen's brief candle. If I had to choose a favorite caliber, I'd pick the deuce-deuce. A .22 with a silencer add-on performed the best, and its teardrop-sized slug pinballed inside the victim's cranium. Some clandestine bastard—my pile of blue chips had gone on Mr. Ogg's square—knew my MO. He'd copied it to set me up for her cold-blooded murder.

  I veered off the main drag, prowling down a gravel side lane and saw the Vietnamese delicatessen and Nigerian tune up garage had closed since my last visit. Damn lousy economy. Next up, the auto upholstery shop sported an Art Deco theme—splashy reds, yellows, and blues—and I docked in its shade. At the sight of my old hanging post, my nerves lost some of their jitters since I'd shared lots of hearty laughs inside where I ambled through the door.

  The neat's-foot oil used for leather treatment was the pervasive odor. My shoes squished over the tufts of high-density, yellow foam strewn over the buff concrete floor. The nicotine coat on the white paint gave the sheet metal walls and ceiling a jaundiced tint. The 16-foot work bench held a jumble of dowel rods, glue tubes, wooden mallets, and odd carpet remnants. A toolbox rolled off to the side brimmed over with staple lifters, magnetized tack hammers, gooseneck webbing stretchers, and I don't know what all tools. I'd watched Esquire use the curved and straight needles to sew on the replacement upholstery by hand.

  "Tommy Mack, I didn't hear you come in, sweetheart."

  Turning, I chuckled at the salutation. Esquire (he went by just the single name a la Bono, Shaq, Beyonce, or most notably, Oprah) never physically changed. Swearing he was of Castilian lineage, he looked ripped on steroids, but he also swore he only ingested multi-vitamins, raw eggs, and wheat germ. I was a dolt at guessing weights and heights, but I'd always tap him—like now—to be my wingman.

  We'd palled around since Old Yvor High, and then in his early 20s, Esquire had taken it into his head that he was a gay man. Don't ask me why. I just don't know. Perhaps the closet had grown too small for his physical bulk. His coming out was fine by me as long as he bore in mind that I flew straight as an arrow. He did, and our friendship hadn't taken a dent.

  "Where have you been lately?" he asked me.

  I shrugged a shoulder. "Taking care of business. What else?"

  "Is that the secret business I shouldn't delve into?"

  Right off, I regretted broaching the old topic. "Yes, it is."

  He set the magnetized tack hammer on the work bench. His face lost its humor lines. He stared at me slit-eyed and grim-jawed while he torched a cigarette. The ubiquitous Blue Castle, I saw. "You know that I know what your actual business is, right?"

  "Uh-huh, but I'll never say it aloud. Such an admission will bring me major repercussions."

  He sent a nifty smoke ring wafting toward the ceiling, then smiled. "Did you sign a confidentiality waiver?"

  "You can see it that way."

  "Okay, what's happening?"

  I hesitated, not because he wasn't a solid enough friend, but I'd just told him I didn't want to discuss my job with him. What the hell? I needed his help, so it was unavoidable. "Some chump has framed me for killing a lady."

  His hand almost reaching his lips for a second puff didn't make it, and he lowered the smoldering Blue Castle. "Who got it?"

  "Do you remember my employer—Watson Ogg?"

  "As little as possible."

  "I don't blame you there. Well, earlier this morning I found his niece Gwen in her townhouse's bedroom. She'd been shot dead from a pair of .22 slugs behind her ear."

  "That's the fatal dose of lead poisoning."

  I didn't react to his wisecrack. "Her conniving killer fixed the scene to point at me as the triggerman."

  "All right, simmer down. Maybe it's not as bad as you think. Go back to square one. Had her door or windows been pried open?"

  My head wagged. "No, the door wasn't locked."

  "So either her killer loided the lock, or she knew him to let into her townhouse." After discarding his Blue Castle to mash it underfoot, Esquire looked at his cell phone to get the time. "Why don't you let me finish up doing a rush job on an SUV out back? Then I'll pitch in and lend you a sleuthing hand."

  "Sounds like a plan. What time?"

  "I should wind it up around sevenish."

  "Good. Meantime I’ll fire up a cigarette."

  "When did you take up the nasty habit?"

  "All hunted desperados smoke cigarettes."

  "Of course they do. See you at sevenish. Ta-ta, sweetheart."

  Esquire returned to his upholstery makeover of a client's SUV, and I thought of heading on home, but if Mr. Ogg had sent his welcoming committee, I'd be smart to boycott their welcome. Up in the air on how to burn some time until seven with no lead slug splattering my brains out on my shirt, I left in the coupé. A steak house with no hungry line out front came up, and after stopping, I went into its old-school elegance highlighted by the mahogany wall panels. Wynton Marsalis trumpeting Bird on the jukebox was the next promising sign that I was in the right pitstop.

  I claimed a window table, and the menu looked easy on the wallet, as did the server on the eyes. Their BLT down was exceptional, she said, but I wasn't all that hungry. A club beer arrived in a hobnail-bottom tumbler, and sipping it, I watched out the front window the three ladies—young professionals in their crisp but sexy suits—at the bus stop across the street.

  Everybody but me, it seemed, was going green by using public transport. They had their backs to me, and none used a cell phone. Instead they chattered, gestured, and laughed with enthusiasm. They were some family's sisters and wives. I'd no sister, wife, or even real family, and I carried no photos in my wallet. I never felt the profound loss any heavier than I did now.

  My roving eyes alit on the public phone in the alcove by the cashier's nook. My server made change, and I tabbed in my 50¢. This newer phone featured a push button to amplify your voice. I dialed a number by rote, and an older lady's chirpy lilt coming on was Amanda.

  "Happy belated Easter, Mom."

  "Same to you. It's about time you called. I thought you'd forgotten me."

  "Not a chance in a million."

  "It's good to hear your voice. How's life in Old Yvor City?"

  "I stay busy as the dickens, and I don't see any let up coming."

  "You're blessed in this recession."

  Yeah: blessed, that's me, all right. "Have you heard from Kathy?"

  "No, I guess your sister has the same leaky memory you do."

  That was the real blessing here. The prickly, bossy Kathy was a bit much. "Hey, do you remember D. Noble Yeatman?"

  "Oh him. Isn't he in the federal penitentiary?"

  "Where did you hear that? He's a little reckless, but he's never run afoul of the law. Anyways, he's coming to town."

  "I never liked D. Noble."

  Moving right along. "I saw Esquire today."

  Her tenor grew snippy and disapproving. "Is he still gay?"

  "Of cou
rse. That part of you doesn't change."

  "Esquire isn't my favorite person either."

  "Sorry to keep bringing up sore topics."

  "Speaking of which, have you spoken to your father lately?"

  "No, so please don't pump me. I've got nothing on Phil."

  "Oh, quit it, will you? We're still friends, sort of. While I've got you on the phone, I found a notebook of your poems up in the attic. Should I keep them?"

  "Yeah, I'll be picking them up. How's the bed-and-breakfast doing?"

  "The reservations are coming in. It's been a brisk spring, and we'll get busier once school lets out, and the summer vacations crank up."

  "Buzz me if you need an extra hand." I really wanted to ask her why she just didn’t retire like her friends had done.

  "Can you afford to take off the time?"

  "My boss is pretty flexible."

  "So it would seem."

  "I'm an old timer there."

  "Who are you with again?"

  "Right. I better get back to it. Nice talking."

  "Likewise. Be well. Love you."

  "You too, Mom. Bye."

  I hung up the phone receiver, a simple but elegant social ritual all but extinct from our popular culture. It was heartbreaking. Cell phones weren't just a passing fad. They were long past that stage and here to stay. They kept shrinking in size, so what evolved next? Some world zealot in the name of God, love, or whatever embedded his microscopic thought-control microchips in our brainstems.

  I was getting to be a bughouse case. Did my anti-progress rants cast me as a Luddite or curmudgeon? I liked to think not, but in my profession, cell phones enabling fast, easy links could bring disastrous results. They doubled my challenge to do a clean, neat hit where stealth and surprise made it go my way.

  When I returned to my window table Wynton's trumpet had gone mute, and the three young ladies had departed on the city bus. I polished off my beer and left as well. My phone conversation with Amanda had stirred up my latent brooding of my earliest boyhood spent in boondocks Texas, and I dreaded how the old, gut-wrenching memories would be tumbling to the fore if I let down my guard.