The Big Blast Page 9

  I smiled. She had me. “I can’t argue that.”

  We fell asleep in love. We woke up in love.

  The next morning I took her to the doctor, and when I got to my office, Ernie and Orson were waiting for me.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Welcome home,” I said.

  Ernie, in uniform, an eyepatch on his right eye and bandage on his left hand, was standing in the reception area with Orson, Clip, and Miki nearby at her desk.

  He was thinner now, and there was something in his remaining eye that hadn’t been there before—perhaps pain and a bit of humility—but much of the former twinkle, intelligence, and kindness remained too.

  “Look,” Orson said, “Ahab and Orca together again.”

  Ernie and I embraced.

  He felt bony and a just a bit brittle.

  “Haven’t seen you since you lost your right jab,” he said. “Now all I have to look out for is your left hook.”

  “I’m afraid without a right jab to set it up, it’s not much anymore.”

  “Who you kiddin’?” he said. “It never was.”

  We all had a good laugh at that.

  “What’s going on with your left?” I said, nodding toward the bandage on his left hand.

  “Lost a few fingertips,” he said.

  I introduced them to Clip and Judy, and Ernie and Clip compared eyepatches.

  “How long’d it take your vision to adjust?” Ernie asked. “I keep missing steps and walking into walls. And my depth perception is for shit.”

  “I’m still working on it,” Clip said.

  “How long ago’d you lose it?”

  “Couple a years.”

  “So, not fast,” Ernie said. “Damn.”

  “Ain’t much that’s fast in my experience,” Clip said. “’Cept maybe a few certain types of cars and women.”

  We went into my office, leaving Clip to translate his last statements for Miki.

  “You’s always different, Jimmy,” Ernie said when we were inside with the door closed.

  “How’s that?”

  “Walk your own way, don’t you?” he said. “Always have.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “A Negro partner and a Jap secretary.”

  “Clip’s more than a partner,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m saying. How many guys you know have a black best friend?”

  “I thought we was his best friends,” Orson said.

  “Not anymore, pal,” he said. “That was childhood. Jimmy’s all grown up now. He’s put away childish things. It’s a good thing. I admire it. We’ve all got to do it.”

  Orca nodded. “Lots of time has passed. Lots has happened.”

  “Certainly has,” I said.

  “So a PI, huh?” Ernie said.

  I nodded. “It’s where cops who get shot go to die.”

  “Speaking of cops. Orca tells me they sweated him all night last night. What gives, pal? You know as well as I do Orca’s not a killer whale. Can’t you set ’em straight?”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “Well try harder, brother. Can’t let one of the Three Musketeers be treated like that.”

  “What all has he told you?” I said.

  “Doesn’t matter. There’s no way he did it. No way. Don’t tell me they got part of your brain when they got your arm?”

  I laughed.

  “I’ve missed you, pal,” I said. “I really have. Why don’t I get Clip to drive Orca home so he can get some sleep and we can catch up? That okay with you, big fella?”

  “I could use a few winks,” he said. “Sure could at that.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Ernie said. “Boy, what I wouldn’t do for a real Southern breakfast.”

  “Am I really gonna get some breakfast?” Ernie said.

  He looked like he needed to eat. I couldn’t remember him ever being so thin—not even as a boy.

  “Or,” he continued, “did you just do that to get rid of Orca so we could talk?”

  Clip and Orson had just left. Ernie and I were still in my office.

  “I’m gonna get you some breakfast—and fast, but first close the door, will you?” I said.

  “It’s like that, is it? Damn.”

  He closed the door and sat back down in one of the client chairs across my desk from me, holding his bandaged hand up, which he said helped with bleeding and throbbing.

  “The cops like Orca for two murders,” I said.

  “Anything in it?”

  “Not sure,” I said. “Could be. Have you noticed how much he’s changed?”

  “Look, pal, the only thing that’s changed is you, if you think ol’ Orca murdered anybody.”

  “I’m not saying he did. I’m saying given what I’ve observed of him, his behavior since he’s been back, it’s at least a possibility.”

  “No way. Not Orca. But why don’t you give me the goods and let me decide for myself.”

  I did.

  “So he was the last one seen with the first victim and he choked the second one right there in front of everyone?”

  I nodded.

  “He ain’t been right since they put that plate in his head, hasn’t been the same. Still . . . it’s gonna take a lot more than that to make me believe he killed a couple of working girls. What kind of PI are you? Can’t you find out who really did it?”

  “Not much of one,” I said. “But I’m working on it. It and a few other things—including trying to find your girl.”

  The perplexed expression on his face formed a question. “Whatta you mean by that?”

  “Orca didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Sorry, Ernie. I thought you knew. She’s missing. Orca’s been looking for her. I’ve been helping. I thought you knew he was.”

  “I asked the big lug to look in on her when he got here and tell her I wouldn’t be too far behind him, but . . .”

  “He tried to do that but found her missing. He’s been searching for her. I’ve been helping him the last few days.”

  “Last few days. How long’s she been missing?”

  “Week and a half.”

  “A week and a half. Oh my God. Her aunt has no idea where she is?”

  I shook my head. “Where would she go?”

  “Nowhere,” he said. “Not without telling me, her aunt, her friends.

  “But if she was gonna go somewhere . . .”

  He didn’t respond, just continued to shake his head and stare off into the distance.

  Suddenly, he stood. “I’ve got to find her, got to go talk to her aunt. Jesus, Jimmy. What the hell? Missing. I just can’t . . .”

  “Sit back down for a minute,” I said.

  “Why? I need to go talk to—”

  “There’s more.”

  “More?” he said, dropping back into the chair. “What more?”

  When he looked at me again, something in his eye had changed. The twinkle and intelligence had been replaced by something far more blunt, angry, even crazed. Orca wasn’t the only one who had changed.

  “Seems she was being watched by a creepy fella named Demetri.”

  “Whatta you mean ‘watched’?”

  “At the USO. He’d come in and just stare at her for hours until the mom and senior hostesses did something about it.”

  “You think he may have taken her?”

  “Ernie, I need you to brace yourself. Take a breath and prepare yourself.”

  “For what? Oh, God, no. For what? Is she—”

  “We found Demetri last night,” I said.

  “And? Did he have her? Was she—”

  I told him the entire story—with the exception of how much blood there was in the house.

  He didn’t speak for a long moment, then, “So you think this dead man, Demetri, took my Joan and . . .”

  “We don’t know yet,” I said. “It’s possible he had nothing whatsoever to do with her disappearance.”

  “You’re just
saying that to try to give me hope.”

  “No I’m not. I wouldn’t do that. I would never intentionally give you false hope. There are two promising pieces of evidence to indicate—”

  “What? What are they?”

  “The cops had her aunt look at the items of clothing found at Demetri’s house. She said none of it was Joan’s. Said she was certain.”

  He nodded. “That’s good, I guess. It’s not concrete, but it’s a little— What’s the other? You said two.”

  “Joan’s car,” I said.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s missing,” I said. “To me that indicates it’s more likely that she went off somewhere rather than being taken. If Demetri had snatched her, I think her car would’ve turned up by now, left wherever he took her. If he took her and her car, it would’ve been at his house. It wasn’t. He’s been using cabs. He doesn’t have her car.”

  “Then maybe he doesn’t have her,” he said, “but if he doesn’t, who does?”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  When I opened my door to let Ernie out, Henry Folsom and David Howell were standing there, Miki behind them asking in frustration for them to take a seat and wait.

  “Jimmy,” Folsom said like he always did.

  “Talk to you a minute?” Howell said.

  “Sure,” I said. “But from now on show more respect for my receptionist, Judy, or we’re not gonna be as friendly anymore.”

  Miki smiled and bowed a little.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Howell said. “Didn’t mean any disrespect. We get goin’ on a case and just get like a bulldog with a bone.”

  “Beg pardon, ma’am,” Folsom said. “Won’t happen again.”

  Pleased, she took their coats and hats and went to put them away.

  As she did, I introduced Ernie to them and them to him.

  “You might want to stick around for this,” Folsom said to him. “It’s about your big friend.”

  We all stepped back into my office.

  As the three of them were deciding which two were going to sit in the two client chairs in front of my desk, my door opened and Miki walked in with another chair from Clip’s office.

  “Thank you, Judy,” I said.

  “Yes, thank you, ma’am,” Howell said as he took the chair.

  “If Clip gets back before we’re finished in here, please send him in,” I said.

  She nodded, bowed, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  “By the way,” Folsom said. “Where is the big fella?”

  “At home catching some sleep,” I said. “What we hear, you boys went at him all night.”

  “Yet we’re still at work today,” Folsom said.

  “It wasn’t nearly all night,” Howell said. “Didn’t start ’til late and didn’t go long. We showed him every respect, treated him like a friend of yours. You have my word on that.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “But let’s be honest,” Folsom said. “The big guy’s not right. How much of it’s from before and how much of it’s the war?”

  “All of it,” I said. “It’s all war.”

  That brought on a reflective moment of silence.

  I felt real bad for Orson—worse because I didn’t know what to do for him or how to help him. He was a good man who’d gotten a bad deal doing good things for a good cause. The injustice of it made me livid.

  Eventually Ernie said, “You fellas mind telling me what you mean? I haven’t seen Orca in a few weeks—and guess I haven’t seen the kind of things you’re talkin’ about.”

  “Jimmy,” Folsom said, “why don’t we let him hear it from you?”

  “It’s shell shock,” I said. “He’s jumpy and paranoid, easily set off—by everything from a woman telling him to leave her alone to a car backfiring. He blacks out, has huge holes in his memory, truly can’t remember important things. He’s got anxiety, not sleeping well.”

  “And he’s not thinking straight,” Howell said. “His mind’s a mess.”

  “I don’t doubt any of that,” Ernie said. “Hell, I probably got some of that goin’ on too. But he ain’t a killer. No, sir. Especially not of women. No way.”

  “No one wants to believe his pal is capable of—”

  “Mine’s not,” Ernie said. “And what kind of pal would I be if I could think he was?”

  I wondered if that was directed toward me. I decided it had to be and that he was right to do it. How could I believe my friend, the boy who cried at the thought of leaving behind a seagull with clipped wings, could kill anyone? Yet he had in the war, hadn’t he? He had been good at it. Was it so hard to imagine him continuing to do it now that he was back home?

  “Out of honor to his service and what I owe Jimmy,” Folsom said, “we’re giving him all the breaks—and then some, but . . . we can’t ignore evidence. If he were anyone else, he’d be in one of our cells by now.”

  “His alibi is his grandmother,” Howell said.

  “There was plenty at the crime scene to make a reasonable person question whether or not it was him,” I said.

  “If we don’t lock him up and he does it again . . .” Folsom said.

  “How about this?” Ernie said. “We become his chaperones. Me and Jimmy. One of us with him all the time. Then when it happens again, you’ll know it’s not him.”

  “If he was in one of our cells and it happened again, we’d know it wasn’t him,” Howell said.

  “But given what the guy is going through, my way is more humane—and he deserves that. And did long before he went over and fought bravely and valiantly for his country.”

  “Jimmy?” Folsom said.

  I looked at Ernie.

  “I’ll do most of the watching,” Ernie said. “We’re gonna be looking for Joan anyway. I won’t let him out of my sight unless you’re watching him. We can do this. Come on. We owe him that much.”

  I nodded. “I may get Clip to help too—just to make sure—but somebody will be watching him twenty-four seven.”

  “I hope you realize what a favor this is, Jimmy,” Folsom said.

  Howell shook his head. “I don’t think it’s a favor at all. Be better for everyone—including him—to lock him up.”

  “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else,” Folsom added. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Three things kept me alive over there,” Ernie said.

  We were eating breakfast at a small cafe that had recently sprung up on Harrison just down from our offices toward 6th Street.

  “These,” he said.

  He withdrew a tattered paperback from his back pocket.

  It was an Armed Services Edition of A.J. Cronin’s The Keys of the Kingdom.

  Armed Services Editions were compact paperback editions printed by the Council of Books in Wartime and distributed to servicemen serving overseas. Meant for both entertainment and education, the compact books, which fit nicely in cargo pockets, consisted of classics to contemporary bestsellers and everything in between—fiction, nonfiction, poetry, drama, short stories, essays. Their distinctive covers read “Armed Services Edition: This is the Complete Book—Not a Digest.” The abridged versions read “Condensed for Wartime Reading,” or “Slightly Condensed for Rapid Reading.”

  ASE’s slogan was “Books are weapons in the war of ideas.”

  ASEs were printed on pulp magazine presses when they were not in use, for very little cost—about six cents per book.

  These extremely popular books were read and reread, shared and swapped, ripped and torn into sections to accommodate two or more soldiers reading at the same time. A recent newspaper commented that “The hunger for these books, evidenced by the way they are read to tatters, is astounding even to the Army and Navy officers and the book-trade officials who conceived Editions for the Armed Services.” And a sailor was heard to say “A man is out of uniform if one of them isn’t sticking out of his hip pocket.”

  Ernie handed me the book and retur
ned to his breakfast.

  I caressed it gently.

  “I heard Hitler has burned over a hundred million books,” I said.

  He shook his head and stopped eating for a moment. “You know, for some of the boys these were the first books they had cracked open since school.”

  I shook my head and something I had heard a while back came to mind. The man who doesn’t read good books has no advantage over the one who can’t. I wasn’t sure who said it—had actually heard it attributed to a few different people—but it was as true as anything I’d heard in a long time.

  He returned to his breakfast.

  Ernie and I had always shared a love of reading and had connected through books. Before he went off to war, we swapped books back and forth the way he had the Armed Services Editions over there.

  Books had saved my life too. More than once.

  The Keys of the Kingdom was a particular favorite—one Lauren had given me and that we both loved.

  “Couldn’t count on letters over there,” he said. “They rarely arrived—and never on time. Some of the ones I received arrived more than five months after they were written. So whatta you do when you’re lonely? Scared? Bored? Worried? You read. All the boys had these. I went through dozens and dozens—maybe all there was. I’m not sure. I would’ve gone crazy without them. They are one of the reasons I’m here today.”

  I nodded, took one more look at the book, and handed it back to him.

  He shook his head. “Want you to have it,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  He nodded. “Brought it all the way back for you.”

  “Thanks, Ernie. I really—”

  “You’ve already paid me back,” he said. “I took one from your office.”

  “What’d you get?”

  “Graham Greene,” he said. “The Power and the Glory. You had two.”

  I smiled. “And another couple of copies at home.”

  “Then you still owe me,” he said. “This one doesn’t count.”

  I nodded my agreement. “So,” I said, “that’s one. What’re the other two?”

  “Other two wh—oh. Joan, of course. Her letters—when I would get them—kept me going like nothing else. Knowing she was here, waiting for me, missing me the way I was her. The things she wrote me, the way we shared our very souls through pen and paper . . .”