“What’d he say?”
“Oh you know, the usual first thing in the morning sort of phone call. You’re missing and in violation of your release agreement.”
“Anything else?”
“He casually mentioned since you’ve disappeared and aren’t wearing the ankle bracelet anymore there’s a warrant issued for your arrest. They’ve posted a BOLO, Be On The Lookout for you. He sort of wondered if maybe I knew anything. Since apparently as your attorney, I’m the last guy to know anything, I really couldn’t help him out. Care to enlighten me?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve got some suspicions…” I went on to tell Louie about my damaged car, the cops at the office.
“So let me get this straight. You wake up and discover your car has been in an accident. And you have no recollection?”
“I know it doesn’t sound too good.”
“Possibly the understatement of the year. Does the term absolutely horseshit have any connotation?” Louie said.
“That a legal term?”
“I think we better meet, but probably not at my office and definitely not at yours.”
“You name the place, I’ll be there,” I said.
“There’s a bar, the Coal Bin, over on…’
“I know the place.”
“I got a motion in court late this morning I gotta deal with. Can you be at the Coal Bin about one-thirty?”
“I’ll be there.”
“And Dev, keep that car out of sight. They’ll be looking for it.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
I knew one of the dumbest things I could do right now would be to go to the KRAZ parking lot. At least that’s what I told myself as I sat parked in the far corner. Farrell’s BMW was in its usual place. Kiki’s Audi was parked two spaces away.
I climbed out of my car, walked over to Farrell’s BMW. I didn’t touch the thing, but I did notice sand collected beneath the wheels, I’m guessing washed up there after the rain the other morning. Lodged on the grill was a round plastic lid, a small hole in the middle like it might have been from a soft drink cup. The BMW hadn’t been moved in a couple of days.
I left the parking lot, tuned in seven-forty on the dial to listen to the KRAZ broadcast. Farrell, sounding as dull as ever, appealed for cash donations, followed by the cautionary reminder not to send checks lest the Communists and Anarchists in Washington monitor your active support of freedom. He stammered over the word anarchists, he seemed to do that a lot, the stammering.
The Coal Bin was a dismal little neighborhood joint that sat on a bleak corner of a back street, in sight of the old Northern States Power plant and the river. It had been pouring drinks since at least the beginning of prohibition. The sign above the corner door, illuminated in the middle of this muggy summer day, proclaimed Rusty and Marge as the proprietors. Rusty’s name had been spray painted over so long ago that you could read it again.
I pulled into the small rear parking lot a half hour early, parked on the far side of a large green dumpster. In order to see my car, you’d have to drive in the lot and somehow hit it.
Inside, the Coal Bin was what you’d expect, four guys sitting down the length of the bar on red vinyl and chrome stools, three stools apart, all staring at their beers. There wasn’t a hint of conversation. I felt like asking if the glass was half empty or half full?
A large woman, north of sixty, nodded, then wiped the bar, sort of directing me where to stand when I ordered. She had glow-in-the-dark red hair and didn’t smile. I guessed she probably doubled as the bouncer.
“A Summit,” I said
She grabbed a mug, pulled the tap, set the beer in front of me. Not a wasted motion.
I retreated to a dark booth in back and sat facing the door. I was on my third mug when Louie finally arrived.
“Louie,” the red headed bartender/bouncer squealed as he walked in.
“Marge, my beauty, how’s it going?”
They exchanged insults, and then she pushed a mug and a shot he’d never ordered in front of him.
“Gotta meet with this guy,” he said, and waddled over in my direction, sloshing beer.
“Been here long?” he asked, then drained a third of his beer before he sat down. It was close to two-thirty.
“Not to worry. She seems a fan,” I glanced toward the bar.
“I’m in here once in a while, kind of off the beaten path, allows me to sit in here and sort of think uninterrupted and shit, you know.”
“I do.”
“Okay, Dev, tell me what’s going on,” he took another healthy sip, dropped the level of beer to about the halfway mark.
“Well, I came home the other night, found a thong on my doorknob…”
Louie listened as if he heard this sort of thing everyday, nodded occasionally, sipped the bottom half of his beer. I told him everything, seeing Kiki at the U. The newspapers stacked up at Doctor Deaths house. I described Doctor Death dead and taped to the chair. Told him how I spotted the dents in my car, my suspicions about Kiki. I finished up with, “So, once I saw the cops at my office, I figured my chances were slim to none and kept on going. I cut the monitor bracelet off, dumped it and called you.”
Louie nodded for a moment before he tossed his shot back. He didn’t so much as blink when it went down.
“Well, let me tell you, you’re Mister Popular, seems everyone wants to talk with you. I already told you about the BOLO. Manning issued an arrest warrant for you, although that seems kind of fast if you just dumped the bracelet late yesterday. I’ll check it out, I’ve got to pick up the autopsy report on Barkwell later this afternoon, anyway. They’ll do an autopsy on that guy from the U, what’d you say his name was, Kevork?”
I nodded.
“They’ll do an autopsy on Kevork, when they find him. To my knowledge they haven’t, yet.” He looked at Marge, signaled another round with just a slight nod. “Gotta tell you, Dev, you could use some help in the girlfriend department. Man, I thought I was screwed up.”
I couldn’t disagree.
“Talk to me about the car. You washed the thing, found hair and threads, you said?”
“And blood,” I nodded.
“Not good, man, not good. Probably a smart guy would disassociate himself from that vehicle. I’m not suggesting get rid of it or hide it, that would be illegal, but you catch my drift. With the sort of testing they can do today, you could wash that thing a thousand times, they’d still be able to find something.”
I nodded, message delivered.
Marge arrived with a tray, two beers, and another shot, Louie handed her a ten.
“What is that shit?” I nodded at the shot glass.
“Sambuca, calms the tummy,” he said, then drained close to half his mug.
“The key is Kiki,” I said.
“Well, yeah, and the husband, her first one, that Farrell guy. It’s just not adding up, why go through all this bullshit? And then of course, if we ever figure out why, the question is how to get them? They seem to have been way ahead of everyone thus far.”
“Life insurance?”
“You mean on Barkwell? Nelson checked, the guy didn’t have any. Probably thought insurance was some sort of pinko plot.” Louie shook his head, suddenly snatched his beer and drained it, then eyed the shot of Sambuca.
Chapter Fifty-Five
I’d bought a couple of ice cream trucks a while back, a no questions asked, cash transaction, which was how Walter handled all his transactions. I walked into his office, actually The Trend bar late that afternoon. A nicely dressed gentleman was seated on a stool at the far end of the bar sipping coffee and reading the paper. As I entered the conversation level dropped, as I began to move toward the back of the bar things really got quiet.
“Hey, Walter,” I called and waved from between the shoulders of two very large, very solid black guys who had just stepped in front of me to block my progress. Both of them were looking down at me from a distance of about six and a half feet.