The Big Bout Page 7

  “Hey,” she whispered, turning toward me, pressing her body and lips to mine. “What happened?”

  I had joined her in the room at the Dixie Sherman. Miki was asleep in the bed next to ours, her rhythmic breathing nearly but not quite a snore.

  “They didn’t show.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That Miki’s uncle is thinking strategically instead of emotionally, that this could go on a while, that he may prove to be a far more formidable foe than I thought.”

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m the happiest man in the world,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “Just tired, but happy too. So happy.”

  “Get some sleep,” I said.

  “I don’t want to sleep,” she said. “Don’t want to do anything but be with you––to hold each other and talk all night. Well, what there is left of it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I felt like I had a big bulls-eye on my back, as if every move I made was being watched through the scope of a high-powered rifle.

  It made me feel awkward, stiff, self-conscious.

  Walking from my car to the Bay High gym, I actually scanned the area and looked over my shoulder several times.

  The morning sun was high overhead, the day bright but cold, the biting wind causing the palm fronds to rub each other and clack together.

  No one shot at me.

  I made it to the door and walked inside.

  Clip and Saul were sitting in the bleachers, watching as Freddy’s sparring partner stalked him around the ring. He probably outweighed Freddy by eighty pounds or more, but he was slow, his movements lumbering, each punch preceded by a Western Union telegram announcing it was on its way.

  “We need to talk,” I said to Saul.

  “Okay.”

  “Freddy too.”

  “He time it right,” Clip said, “he could come over in between fat boy’s punches. He’d never know he was gone.”

  When Saul stopped the action and called Freddy over, I thought the sparring partner was going to come over and hug him. Instead he remained over in the ring with Freddy’s trainer, Gus, who immediately began coaching him on what he had been doing wrong.

  “What?” Freddy said when he reached us, holding out his gloved hands in a way that conveyed both question and frustration.

  “I solved the case,” I said.

  “You did?” Saul said. “Already?”

  “The two big bastards who came in and threatened to break your hand,” I said. “You know who they are and why they came.”

  Freddy didn’t say anything.

  I turned to Saul. “Do you?”

  “Huh?”

  “He knows them,” I said. “Do you?”

  “No. He does?” he said to me, then turning asked, “Freddy, you do? Who are they?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Who they are’s not important. Who they work for is.”

  “Who?”

  “Miles Lydecker.”

  “The bookie?” Saul said, his voice rising in volume and pitch.

  He looked over at Freddy.

  Freddy stared back defiantly.

  “This true, Freddy?” he asked, but I could tell he knew it was.

  “Is what true?” he said.

  “How much you into him for?”

  “How much what?”

  Clip cleared his throat. “Answer a question with a question again and see if I don’t knock you on your ass.”

  “I owe him some, yeah. So what?”

  “How much?” Clip said.

  “Five.”

  “Five hundred dollars?” Saul said.

  “Five thousand.”

  “Fuck, Freddy,” Clip said. “’Round here, nigger get killed over five dollars.”

  “He ain’t wantin’ to kill me.”

  “Thought that why you hired us,” Clip said.

  “Death threats ain’t comin’ from him. Got nothin’ to do with him. They comin’ from somebody else.”

  “The hell make you think that?”

  “Miles want me fightin’,” he said.

  “So you can pay him back?” Saul said. “Do you know how many fights that would take?”

  “He say I can pay him what I owe him with this one fight. Say all I gots to do is be beatin’ the guy bad, then when he say to, go down and not get up.”

  “What the fuck?” Saul said. “We’re doin’ all this, working so hard, just for you to throw the fight?”

  “No, sir. I’m not going to. Why you think he keep sendin’ those big sons a bitches to threaten me?”

  “Whatcha think?” Clip asked.

  I shrugged. “Hard to protect a man from himself.”

  He nodded.

  Freddy was working out with Gus, moving between the speed and heavy bags so rhythmically as to be musical, the beat of his actions so distinct it was as if I could hear the song he was doing it to.

  When we had started to leave, Saul had asked us to wait for a moment while he retrieved something from the locker room, which is what we were doing standing over near the exit talking now.

  “Whatcha wanna do?” Clip said.

  “It’s your call.”

  “Know you gots enough to worry about without this shit. Japs alone are . . .”

  I shook my head. “Only question is what you want to do,” I said. “You say we’re in, we’re in. You say we walk, we walk.”

  “Can’t believe the dumb motherfucker lied to me.”

  “People lie,” I said. “People desperate enough to hire people like us lie a lot. First rule in the PI handbook––all clients lie.”

  “Why I just hearin’ there a handbook?”

  “You made it sound to him like we were still on the job,” I said.

  “But if there’s no real threat––”

  “The threats are real,” Saul said.

  He had just emerged from the locker room and was standing behind us holding a file folder.

  He handed the folder to Clip instead of me––a show of respect that made me appreciate Saul Behr more than I thought possible.

  Clip opened it and we both flipped through the death threat notes inside.

  There were several. Letters cut out from various publications––mostly newspapers––pasted on pristine white typing paper. Each note was a variation on the same theme: Get the nigger to drop out of the fight or he dies.

  “All of them have been addressed to me,” Saul said, “left in various places.”

  “These ain’t from Miles,” Clip said.

  “No,” I said, “they’re not.”

  “Guess we should find out who they is from,” he said.

  “Guess we should,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Kay Hudson was waiting for me when I got out of my car in front of my office.

  She seemed to just want a brief chat on the sidewalk, but, target that I was, that wasn’t something I could do.

  Leading her up the stairs, she commented on the boarded-up door and bullet holes, and I told her what had happened.

  “You’re mixed up in some stuff, aren’t you, fella?”

  Our offices were empty and cold, and made me feel lonely. Made my various wounds ache even more too.

  Inside my office, I placed the folder of death threats on my desk and we sat down.

  “I just wanted a quick update,” she said.

  When I told her what Francis Stevens and Henry Folsom had said, she had nodded quietly, but her reaction to what Birdie said was quite different.

  “She’s lying,” she said.

  “About which part?” I asked.

  “All of it, I’m sure,” she said. “Everything that comes out of her mouth is a lie.”

  I didn’t say anything, just waited.

  “You don’t believe me? You think because she has money and power she’s honest?”

  “Actually, those things bias me in the opposite direction.”

  “Well,
good . . . because she’s . . . a conniving, evil old . . . She’s always tried to control her son––and until recently has succeeded. That’s what’s changed. That’s why he’s missing. Don’t buy any bullshit about him convalescing somewhere. And acting as if she doesn’t know where Rebecca is . . . Hiring you to find her––that’s just her way of inserting her money and her will into the case. Think about it. Why wouldn’t she tell you where he was?”

  “I have,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Thought about it.”

  “Oh. And?”

  “I agree . . . her motives aren’t what they seem.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” she said. “For a minute there I thought––”

  “But what about yours?”

  “My . . .”

  “Motives,” I said. “Will you be more honest than she’s being? Why hire me to find Jeff, Mrs. Hudson? You don’t really expect me to believe you’re just a concerned colleague.”

  “She called me a home wrecker, didn’t she?”

  I nodded.

  “I have that reputation, I guess, but I’m not. My motives may be as mixed as the next fella’s, but I assure you I’m not trying to take Jeff from Rebecca. And that’s not what concerns Mrs. Bennett anyway. She doesn’t care if Rebecca has him, so long as she does. That’s what matters to her.”

  “An heir seemed pretty important to her too,” I said. “But let’s get back to you. You’re not being completely honest with me.”

  “I am asking you, Mr. Riley, to find both Jeff and Rebecca––whether they’re together or not. Would I be doing that if I wanted Jeff for myself?”

  Before I could answer, the phone on July’s desk rang.

  “Excuse me a moment, please,” I said.

  I stood up slowly––more slowly than I intended.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Still healing from . . . Move slower sometimes than others.”

  She stood. “Well, I won’t keep you. Do call if you find out anything. Think about what I’ve said. And do be very careful where Lady Bird Bennett is concerned. You have no idea what she’s capable of.”

  Nor she I, I thought but didn’t say.

  By the time I reached the phone, Kay Hudson was down the stairs and out the door.

  Since I wasn’t sure what to call the agency yet, I just said, “Hello.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Francis.”

  “Hiya Francis. Got something good for me?”

  “Gee, I wouldn’t say that. No sir. It’s not good at all. It’s . . . it’s more like––”

  “Why not just tell me what it is?”

  “Sure. Okay. Well, you know how I said Gentleman Jeff left without payin’ his bill?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Turns out that’s not what happened at all. He didn’t skip out on the bill. I should’ve known he wouldn’t do that. A gentleman like him. I feel ashamed for even thinking it. Though, I guess now I wish that was what happened.”

  “Francis,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “What is it? What’d you call to tell me?”

  “Mr. Bennett didn’t check out at all. He never even left the hotel at all. I mean, I guess he didn’t. I guess he could have.”

  “Francis.”

  “He must’ve just moved or been moved,” he said, “’cause he was just found murdered in a different room.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The moment I stepped off the elevator, Butch started shaking his head.

  “No,” he said, holding up his thick mitts. “No way. Turn right back around and go crawl back in whatever it was you crawled out of this morning.”

  He had stepped a few feet down the hallway toward me, leaving two uniformed officers near the doorway behind him.

  Butch was a thick, dark bully with the look of a brawler about him—black, bushy hair, dark complexion, stubble, scar tissue around his eyes beneath unruly brows, and a nose that had been broken a few times.

  He had become my ex-partner’s partner before he died, and his dislike of me had been instant and intense and, to me at least, inexplicable. Since then it had only expanded and intensified. He was convinced I was crooked––something I had believed of him a time or two, before eventually deciding I was giving him too much credit.

  “Folsom’s not here,” he said, “so you don’t get no free pass to my crime scene.”

  Evidently, he was unaware of my falling out with Folsom. Was everyone?

  I knew it was pointless to argue with him, but I couldn’t help myself.

  “If it’s who I think it is, I may have some information that’ll help you,” I said.

  “You could have the murderer handcuffed in your car and I wouldn’t want a thing from you. Not a goddamn thing.”

  “Well, at least you’re reasonable. Good to see you still put the work first.”

  The elevator doors opened and David Howell gingerly stepped out.

  “Hiya Jimmy,” he said. “Butch.”

  “Morning,” I said.

  “So you two have met,” Butch said. “Be careful, Dave. You’re new. I’d hate for you to get off on the wrong foot––” As if he only realized right then what he had said, he looked down at David’s bad leg then quickly away, then said, “So to speak.”

  He shook his head. “We ready to have a look?”

  “He was just leaving,” Butch said, “but you and me, yeah.”

  “Why’re you leaving so soon?” David asked.

  “Because Butch wishes it so.”

  “What?” he said, then looked over at Butch. “Why?”

  “He’s . . . he’s private. Don’t need to be here.”

  “Folsom wants him to help out with it. Told me to make sure he gets our full cooperation.”

  “Tell you what then,” Butch said, starting to walk toward the elevator, “you two help yourselves to anything you like. I’ve seen all I need to. Been better if the silly old man would’ve died from that gunshot than to hang around and ruin the department.”

  “I’ll be sure to let him know you think so,” David said.

  “You do that,” he said, as he punched the elevator button. “You’re as bad as he is.”

  David and I walked down the hotel corridor to the room with the open door where the two cops were standing.

  “Whatta we got?” David asked.

  We glanced inside.

  “Male victim. Single shotgun blast to the head. Does not appear to be self-inflicted.”

  Inside the room there was blood on the bed and the wall, but there was no body. A young cop was tagging and bagging what remained.

  “Where the hell is the body?” David asked.

  “Already taken away. We’re just waiting for the rest of the evidence and belongings to be bagged and we’re out of here.”

  David shook his head. “Butch,” he said in disgust.

  We stepped inside, careful to keep back from the bed and avoid the blood.

  “Tell me,” David said.

  He shrugged. “Just here to gather up everything. Got nothing to do with the investigation.”

  “Obviously, we don’t either,” David said.

  We looked around for a few minutes.

  An open suitcase in the corner had only a few random clothes in it. Everything else had been picked up and placed in bags. The bags were stacked against the wall over near the door.

  As we were leaving, David asked the uniform at the door, “Got an ID?”

  “Bennett,” he said. “The boxer.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Riding the elevator back down with Howell, I wondered again about him. What was he playing at? Why antagonize Butch? Had something already happened between the two of them? Could he just tell Butch was a blunt bully? Or was it something else? And why lie? Why tell him Folsom said to give me full access to the case? Was he ingratiating himself to me for other reasons? I couldn’t yet guess at
what ulterior motives he could have––unless he were acting as a surrogate for Henry Folsom somehow.

  “Seemed sort of fast for the body to be moved,” I said.

  He nodded.

  “Wonder why it was and who was behind it?”

  “Plan to find out,” he said.

  The doors opened and we stepped out.

  Spotting Francis Stevens over in the far corner of the lobby, I walked over to talk to him. Howell followed.

  “Thanks for callin’ me,” I said.

  He looked from me to Howell.

  “He’s okay,” I said. “Speak freely.”

  “I tried you for a while before I got you. Most of the action was done by the time you showed up.”

  “I noticed. How long since they brought the body down?”

  He glanced across the way to the clock hanging on the wall. “Half hour.”

  “Did you go into the room when the body was first found?”

  He hesitated a moment, acting as if something near the front door caught his attention. When I followed his gaze, I saw there was nothing there.

  “Well, did ya?”

  “Never seen a dead body before,” he said. “Just wanted to . . . you know . . . sneak a peek.”

  “And?”

  “I feel bad for the fella, I do. But it was a sight to see. Glad I did. All that blood . . . and his head . . . and neck and . . . They got him but good. Pow. Right in the kisser.”

  “So his face was gone?”

  “No, sir. Most of his neck was though. Some of his chin, but no, you could see his face pretty good.”

  I looked at Howell.

  He looked back and I could tell we were thinking the same thing––and had been. Thinking that it had been a shot to the face to hide the identity. Now that we knew that wasn’t the case, our minds were going in different directions.

  “So you could see his face clearly?” I asked.