Ken Kuhlken_Hickey Family Mystery 03 (17 page)

Anyhow, the baby couldn’t do them any harm. Wendy prayed silently that one of the men, at least, would prove a little kinder than a monster. She was repeating the prayer when Meechum’s hard fingers touched her cheeks.

While Meechum stood petting her, he glared furiously as though she’d rigged his every trouble and woe. He made a hiss and slapped her hard across the cheekbone, then squared his shoulders back.

“Let’s get it over with,” he snarled. “Give me the damn ax.”

“What about her old man? Soon as we get rid of her, we go down and pop him, right. And for that one, you’re paying us two grand each, up front.”

“Who’s got two grand?”

“Foster.”

Meechum rapped his ears with his knuckles. Noticing a mousetrap on the floor, he reared back and kicked it hard. “Forget the husband.”

“How are we gonna do that, when he’s dogging us?” Bud asked.

“He won’t be dogging anybody. Hickey’s a goner.”

“Right,” Bud said. “You’re gonna tell us you whacked him all by your lonesome.”

“I’m telling you Harry Poverman’s gonna take him out.”

“Get lost. Harry likes the guy.”

“Not after he lost his head, made the dumbest bonehead move I ever heard, pointing a gun at Harry. By now, a dozen sharpshooters are waiting outside Poverman’s place. He steps out, they fix him. Hickey’s a dead man.”

“Who says?” Tersh grumbled.

“Foster told me, a couple hours ago in Reno. And I stopped at Harry’s club for a minute, heard the same story. Everybody knows it.”

“Stopped by the club, did you?” Tersh lifted the ax to his shoulder as though contemplating decapitation. But Meechum ignored the gesture. It must’ve been single-mindedness that turned him so cocky and bold. He reached for the ax, grabbed it out of Tersh’s hands.

He was checking its weight when a noise from outside interrupted. A rumble, then a whoosh, and finally a boom that made the cabin tremble.

Chapter Twenty-six

A cluster of stars appeared and beamed on the lake for a moment before the lacy fringe of a cloud mass blotted them over. It blew from the northeast, toward the Rubicons. The willowy lodge pole pines bowed, rose and fluttered, like a chorus line.

Beside the picture window, Hickey stood condemning himself. The more fatigue, the more benzedrine, the more viciously he lamented his stupid mistakes. Leaving Wendy alone. Throwing up the gauntlet to Paoli and Schwartz. Involving Leo.

For years, Hickey’d posed as a fatalist. Never in that time had fear gouged him so deeply. With Cynthia on the loose, Wendy wouldn’t mean a damn to the freaks. If they hadn’t killed her already, not a chance she’d survive the night.

An hour ago, at twilight, he’d tried exorcising his remorse by confiding in Poverman and Frieda, because they were the only available humans except the cowboy, who’d gone to check on some whinnying they’d heard from the stable. Frieda, while delivering an ale, had asked if somebody might tell her why Mr. Hickey was mad at the boss.

Harry suggested that her muscle-bound pal must’ve told her, but she claimed that if Tyler knew the scoop, he wasn’t talking. So the gambler deferred to Hickey, who explained he’d gone off on a case and rubbed the wrong guys the wrong way.

But why, Frieda asked, did he leave his pregnant wife alone?

To contend that Wendy had wanted him to go, because somebody needed help, seemed a miserable excuse. So he confessed to being one of those jerks who had to become a soldier, fireman, cop: a dope compelled to risk everything for somebody else every chance he got. Trying to earn his way out of purgatory.

Now he watched the stars tease. They seemed to duck behind clouds, peek, then spring out and flash their brightest. Even distracted by the view and his remorse, Hickey didn’t worry about the boss jumping him. If Poverman rubbed his nose or scratched his ear, Hickey’d hear or feel the movement in the air, electrified as his senses were. He could hear cars from the village a half mile up, through the woods. Every one, he fervently hoped, was the station wagon delivering Frankie Foster.

A sleek cabin cruiser ran circles a hundred yards out from the shore, bounding and leaping over its own swells. Probably a drunken playboy impressing his gal.

Out in the woods, somebody coughed. Hickey’d caught the noise of sticks cracking underfoot and a whistle, probably of a goon who thought he could imitate a bird and didn’t know the difference between summer and February. About twenty minutes ago, just after dark, a man had sauntered along the beach, making like he was out for a stroll, bareheaded, in a tailored overcoat. Every few feet he’d sneak a glance at the picture window. Finally Hickey’d recognized him as a pit boss from the casino.

Four months ago, when the baby’d started kicking, Wendy had developed a new tone of voice in which she called Tom’s name. She gave it two syllables, the second a fluttery sound that tickled his heart. She only called him that way when she wanted him to feel her belly. Just as the cruiser finally bounded out of sight, he heard her beckon him like that. The voice was so real and close, he wheeled, truly expecting to see her at the front door. Only it was a phantom. He turned away from the window, flopped into his chair. The gambler was staring menacingly.

“You got a problem?” Hickey muttered.

“You bet. I gotta decide how long to keep playing this game and when to call it a night and put you outta your misery.”

“Tell Frieda to bring me a scotch.”

“On top of the bennies, you’re liable to get crazy.” He yelled for the maid. “You’re not worried she’s gonna spike the drink with a goofball?”

“Oh, yeah. Never mind the drink.”

“You’re losing contact, Tom. Another hour, I breathe hard, it’ll knock you over.…Okay, what I’m thinking—you give your word you’ll tell darling Claire nothing but my virtues, I’ll give you to midnight.”

Hickey answered him with a scowl, and Frieda came scurrying out of the far cube, hair in rollers and face blotched with vanishing cream that hadn’t vanished.

“Coffee,” the boss said. “And how about, we got any of those Italian cookies?”

Before she could answer, tires squealed off the road and clattered on the driveway. Hickey motioned the boss to his feet and followed him to the door, while Frieda hustled back into the bedroom cube as though she feared the car might be full of movie scouts whom she’d get only this one chance to dazzle.

The gambler stood at the window beside the door, with Hickey an arm’s length behind him. They watched the Chrysler station wagon roll to a stop. First out was Tyler, who ran around and let a woman out the rear passenger door: a little blonde, her hair stacked and sprayed into a cone. She wore a long silver-fox coat.

Frankie Foster climbed out of the shotgun seat. He had big flapjack ears and slicked dark hair, sloping shoulders that made his neck appear stretched.

As Tyler started following the others around the car, he suddenly turned and looked off into the woods toward Hickey’s place, then backstepped that way, keeping an eye on Foster. He stopped beside a tamarack, its trunk the width of an oil drum, and leaned against it. No doubt talking to one of Poverman’s boys hidden behind the tree. Hickey made a note that if ever the world got right again, he’d ask Tyler who he’d thought he was fooling.

Foster and the blonde stood beside the porch rail, waiting for Tyler, who finally returned and led them up the steps, across the deck to the front door. The woman pranced in front, on her high spiked heels.

Harry swung the door open. “Hey, Laura.

The woman offered him a kiss and Harry graciously accepted, wrapping her and the silver fox in his arms. Eventually he let her go and stepped back out of the doorway. Foster walked at the woman’s heels. He was short, level with the tiny woman on her stilts. Though his skin was smooth and taut, he looked about sixty. He had a generous mouth and lips that curled down on the right side. His eyebrows were high and curved like a beauty queen’s. He shook Poverman’s hand but declined to return the smile.

“What’d I do, Harry? Why don’t you trust me? I got a car. My kid’s a good driver. We’d of been here on our own in a hour or so.”

“Trust,” Harry said ponderously. “Trust you, huh? I gotta look that word up in my dictionary one of these days.” He turned and called, “Frieda, there’s a bunch of thirsty guests out here.”

Hickey’d stepped far enough back to watch all of them. The woman gave him a sidewise glance, then turned to scrutinize him while she peeled off her fur. Her lipstick was scarlet outlined in black. Her eyelids were plastered blue. She wore a tight golden sleeveless and shoulderless dress, with necklace and earrings to match, over a startling body: breasts and rear end enough for a goddess eight feet tall, and a waist so slight a guy might’ve encircled it with his thumbs and forefingers. Spotting the pistol at Hickey’s side, she leaned toward Poverman. “Who’s the bruiser?”

Harry didn’t answer. He stood listening to Tyler, who’d stepped up close and was talking low. When Tyler finished, the gambler put a fatherly hand on his shoulder and boomed, “Get the creeps outta Tom’s house. Tell ’em, anybody so much as cussed in front of Miss Blackwood, they’ll be working graveyard as a slot runner. Matter of fact, bring Miss Blackwood over here. Tyler, you take phone duty at Tom’s place. All you gotta do is stay off the line and pass messages. You got my number. We go anyplace, we let you know. Come on, move it.” He gave Tyler a shove. “On your way, make a spin around the house and tell the boys out there anybody messes with Tom before I say so gets sautéed and dumped in the spaghetti sauce.”

Hickey stepped closer. “Nice act.”

“Act, huh? What was that word Frankie used, the big one? Trust. Now I remember what it means. How about this—Tom, you trust me; me, I’ll trust Frankie. Frieda!” he yelled. “Last call, honey. We got a toast to make.”

Frieda came running, in her maid costume, her hair fluffed except in front where one roller dangled. She took orders for Harry’s martini, Foster’s scotch mist, and the woman’s double vodka with a lemon wedge and a single ice cube. Poverman led the way through the leather and Formica maze.

Laura sat on the couch beside him, shimmied her behind into the cushion, while her father perched on the window seat, gripping the edge, his toes on the floor as though making ready in case he needed to bolt. He looked at the stockpot beside him, took a whiff. “What’s this thing?”

“I was peeling potatoes. Frieda’ll get it outta here.” The boss motioned toward Hickey, who’d flopped into his chair. “My neighbor, Tom Hickey. You heard the name?”

Foster appeared to sift through his memory before he shook his head. “I should know him?”

“Sure. He gets around, same as you. Tom’s an old cop, works for me now. Few days ago, he goes to help out a doll he used to know, sticks his nose in the wrong hole, and gets bit. A couple guys snatched his wife, who’s gonna present him with a baby real soon. You see what I’m talking about? These guys come right into my neighborhood, grab a friend of mine. You think I’m gonna sit still for that?”

“Hey, I sympathize,” Foster said. “Now, how about you tell me what I’m doing here?”

The boss flashed a grin, patted Laura’s knee, then fixed his gaze on Foster. “You’re gonna rat on the guys I was talking about. You’re smart, you’ll tell us where to find them. Get this: We’re not gonna ask you to say who these guys are working for, on account of we got no beef against you, Frankie. All we’re doing is, things went wrong, we’re setting them straight. Soon as the girl’s back, healthy and all, the whole deal’s forgiven. That right, Tom?”

“Good enough,” Hickey mumbled.

Laura had cocked her right arm, hand beside her ear like Yogi Berra setting to throw. Her lips had curled. Noticing she was going to belt him, Harry slid to the end of the couch.

“Why’re you putting this on Frankie?”

“Shut up, honey,” Foster said. He folded his hands, rested his chin on his thumbs. “Like she says, why you putting this on me?”

“You’re telling me you don’t know about these guys?”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you. I heard nothing about any snatch. Somebody say I did?”

“We pieced it together. Tom’s a dick, remember. You wanta hear the pieces?”

Foster gazed wearily at the two other men while Frieda swiveled between couches and coffee tables and around the snake tank, carrying drinks on a wooden tray. After Foster took a sip of his scotch mist, he held it on his knee. Frieda disappeared, leaving the place quiet enough so Hickey could hear the shaved ice rattle.

“See, Frankie, there’s a guy in Dago…I forget his name, but he was the one that blew the alibi for Tom’s old girlfriend that got popped for torching Johnny Sousa’s place. This guy, what’s his name?” Harry slid across the couch, leading with his chin as though offering it to Laura so she could sock it, and patted her knee. “Come on, what’s his name, the guy you were married to?”

“Jack?” Her eyes looked demonic, all painted and squinting fiercely. “Jack can go to hell.”

“What about Meechum?” Foster snapped.

The boss had slid away from the girl and leaned back into the hands folded behind his neck. “Tom, give it to ’em, will you? You got all the names straight.”

Hickey sat quietly, staring at Foster until the man blinked. “Charlie Schwartz had the hots for two sisters, Cynthia and Laurel. He got burned by both of them. Then Johnny Sousa, who was Laurel’s husband before he got toasted, started making pals with the Italians. Maybe Charlie figured he was grazing on both sides of the fence.”

Hickey noticed his voice had gone thin, as though he needed to ration the air in his lungs. He felt his skin tighten and chill in expectation. Any second he might learn if he still had a wife and baby.

“The way it fits,” he said, “Charlie saw a way to fix all of them at once. He gets somebody to torch Sousa’s house and plants Meechum to hang it on Cynthia. Now Laurel’s a widow, Johnny’s ashes, and Cynthia’s in the joint, which makes Schwartz one happy fellow.”

Foster unfolded his hands, leaned forward, and gripped them around his knee. He made a sneer, offered it first to Poverman, then Hickey. “Yeah, well, I don’t talk to Jack. The rat was stepping out on my daughter. That’s why she dumped him.”

“Shut up, Frankie. Let Tom finish.”

Hickey’d gotten out his Walter Raleigh. He stuffed the pipe, lit up. Thinking he glimpsed a light flash outside the picture window, he shot a glance over his shoulder. While he scanned the dark woods, confusion knocked him silly. Lost as though he’d just awakened in a foreign place, he felt the men staring at him and turned, his .45 lifted and ready to clobber somebody.

“Whoa, pal,” the boss whispered soothingly. “You wanta thump him, okay, but finish the story first.”

Hickey rubbed his sore eyes, sat back, and hung his head. “Cynthia wants me to spring her, so I go down and make a mess of things, including I spook Charlie Schwartz.” His voice had dropped to a gruff monotone. “See, Laurel’s probably got more pals at city hall than Charlie does. Could be he doesn’t walk this time. If Charlie goes down, Meechum gets hit with perjury, conspiracy, aiding and abetting; he loses his union cabaret card, where’s he gonna blow, street corners? You following me?”

“Keep talking.”

“Another thing is, Charlie hates my guts from way back. And Meechum’s starting to. So they’re gonna mess with me, and get me outta town till Charlie can fix things, make the right donations and all.”

There was clomping on the front deck. The door flew open. Claire Blackwood entered, with Tyler close on her tail. Harry stood up. As Claire approached, he swept his hand, offering her his seat on the couch beside Laura, who sat smoothing the golden dress over her thighs and scowling at the new competition.

“Miss Blackwood.” The boss nodded toward her. “Frankie Foster and Laura Meechum.”

“Laura Foster,” the woman hissed.

“Oh, yeah.” Harry remained standing, admiring Claire’s features even while he questioned the old man. “How about it, Frankie? Where do we find these guys?”

“Beats me. I got nothing to do with Schwartz or Meechum.”