Murder by Candlelight (5 page)

Looking over, Z noticed that Bud had
his big fists clenched into boxing gloves.

Z nodded again.

"The problem is," Bud continued, going
slow, "I got a maniac on my trail."

"Maniac?"

"Yeah."

From his back pocket, the gentle giant
extracted what looked like a playing card, handing the card to
Z.

Z took it. Looked at it.

Bicycle style.

Worn.

Turning the card over, Z saw it was
the queen of spades.

Z handed the card back, Bud returning
it to his hip pocket.

"I know it don't look like much," Bud
said, begging Z's pardon with a sickly grin, "but that's the death
card."

Ah! Hocus-pocus. Explaining why Bud
Izard sought Z's advice.

Z could do nothing but regret the day
he'd taken on the "ghost light" case at Bateman college in the
nearby town of Liberty. Since then, all he seemed to get was
"paranormal" work, receiving calls from respectable people and
cranks alike. You got a reputation and ....

The occult was Jamie Stewart's line --
Jamie, the girl "ghost hunter" Z was paired up with on his last
major case.

Every time Z thought of frolicsome
Jamie Stewart, he felt like blushing; would have, if he were the
blushing kind. They'd been on a job together, Jamie hunting the
source of a "ghost light," Z hired as her muscle. They'd spent a
lot of nights in this abandoned house; just the two of
them.

Predictably, with Jamie's sexual
appetites ....

Fun, but dangerous, Susan
the kind of woman to make a "ghost" of
Z
if she caught him
cheating.

Not that Z's playing house with Jamie
was his fault -- it wasn't. Given the intimate situation, any man
would have ....

Females!

Why they couldn't figure
out that
sex
had
nothing to do with
love
, Z didn't know. Even bright women, like Susan.

There was Paula, for instance, Z's ex.
....

But that was going far afield with Bud
there beside him, a hang-dog expression on the big man's, little
boy face.

"So?" Z had to learn more.

"It was like this." Bud looked all
around to make sure no one was listening, like men did when they
were about to embarrass themselves. "At the tavern a couple of
weeks ago, this beautiful young girl came in. Blond. Big tits. But
not showing them off more than what was tasteful. Friendly, you
know?

"Had to be a hooker, but with class.
Real class, you know?"

Z nodded. "Had legs on her like they
was goin' out of style, what I could see of 'em from behind the
bar. She had them crossed, you see. Short skirt slit up to China."
Z nodded. B-girl. Had to be. "I was paying her the kind of
attention a girl like that deserves."

In spite of himself, Bud smiled, a
grin the size of coal lumps on the biggest snowman in the world.
"And -- don't laugh -- she was comin' on to me, too."

Far from being surprised, Z was
thinking that's what working girls did. Work.

"So I was gettin' all
heated up like I hadn't been in years. I'm gettin' older. We all
are. Not so easy to get it up as it was when we were kids." Z hoped
Bud didn't think he was speaking for
everyone
their age! "So I hardly
noticed this other guy that come in to sit at the bar. But then, I
did. 'Cause he began tryin' to get the girl's attention,
too."

"Joy-girl have a name?"

"Yeah. Her name was Carrara Marble.
Beautiful, ain't it."

Z nodded. Maybe the
girl
did
have a
sort of class. After all, "Carrara" was the expensive kind of
marble Michelangelo used for his important sculptures.

Back before Z and Susan were
officially dating, Susan had gotten Z to go to Kansas City's Nelson
Art Gallery. (This was after Z took a slug in the lung from Susan's
crazy ex, the bullet putting Z in the hospital -- and almost in the
ground.)

To recover, he'd had to walk a lot.
Slowly.

What better place to walk out of the
weather than the art gallery, a grateful Susan suggested. You try
to walk slowly in a mall and health-chasing grandmas ran you
down.

Z hadn't known anything
about art at the time, but with Susan beside him to explain what he
was seeing, had learned.
More
than learned; had come to love the
gallery.

The silent, beautiful
rooms.

The antique armor.

The Greek lion in the Ancient History
room.

Particularly, the Monet.

Back to the present.

Called herself Carrara
Marble, did she? Maybe the chippy
was
as classy as Bud Izard said, the
kind of hundred-dollar hooker that those "in the life" called a
racehorse.

"Well," Bud continued, swallowing
hard, "she don't give the other man the time of day, see? And I
could tell he was gettin' mad.

"Now, he's a little guy, so I don't
expect no trouble." Bud stopped suddenly. Looked at Z. Hard. "But
maybe you know him? He was in your class." Bud looked back at the
party shed. "He's not here today, the little bastard. I was careful
to look. Name of Howard Kunkle?"

Z shook his head. With four-hundred
students in his graduating class ...?

"So pretty soon," Bud continued, "this
Kunkle leaves. And to tell the truth, the girl leaves shortly
after. She was just waitin'. Had a rich trick in the neighborhood,
would be my guess. So I got to admit it. Maybe she wasn't coming on
to me as much as I figured. Was just being nice, you know? You
don't expect that from a whore. Just being nice for nothing." Bud
paused again, thinking.

"So I figured that was the end of it.
But then this Kunkle guy comes back in the tavern. And he's pissed.
Claims I stole his girl. First thing I know, he's whipped out this
card. And he gives it to me. Says it's a death card. That it means
I'm goin' to die." Bud was shaking his massive head.

"I laughed it off. Told him to sober
up. And again, didn't think nothing more about it 'till he took a
shot at me after I locked up last night. Oh, it was him alright. I
saw him. Across the street. The same little guy. By this time, he's
running. But he took a shot at me. It was him."

Pretty poor shot, Z was
thinking, to miss a target, broad as Bud. On the other hand, most
people couldn't hit an elephant with a handgun.
Z
couldn't, that only
one
of the reasons he
never carried a piece.

"Report it to the cops?

Stupid question, said Bud's
look.

"What you want me to do?"
Z asked, at the same time nodding his agreement about the
helplessness of cops in such a case. Now if Kunkle had
murdered
Bud
....

"I don't know," Bud admitted. "But
could you do something?"

"Cost a hundred."

"Like I said, I don't know when I can
pay. If you was a drinker, you could take it out in trade ...
except you're not. But I'm good for it. You know that."

"Got an address?

"What? ... Oh, I see.
Yeah."

Unbuttoning the pointed, fold-down
flap on his western-style shirt pocket, Bud fingered out a slip of
paper. "I had my bar man look it up." Bud gave the scrap a
nearsighted stare. "Thought you might want it. He lives at 1761
Jarbo."

"I'll have a talk with
him."

"I don't know if that
would do any good, Z," Bud said quickly, far from convinced. "I
think he's crazy. I tried to run him off and it don't do no good.
And I'm a big guy. If he doesn't scare when
I
give him the bum's rush, how's a
talk from
you
going to help?"

An understandable concern on Bud's
part, since Bud didn't know how effective Z's "talks" could
be.

"My problem."

"Yeah. That's your rep around the
neighborhood. Good ol' Z. Takes good care of his
friends."

The deal struck, Bud rocked his weight
forward. Then back. Then forward, finally gaining enough momentum
to stand.

Z got up, too.

"Well. I'll be goin', then. But one
more thing. When you plannin' to see this guy?" Bud was pleading
now. Rare in a man that big. "I got to know."

"Tomorrow."

"You got a time in mind?"

"Midnight."

"Good. How you goin' to get in? ...
But that's what you're good at. Being a P.I. and all. That's your
business. I don't mean to pry."

"Yeah."

"Tomorrow night. At midnight." Bud
nodded to himself. "I don't mind admittin' I'll rest easier after
you fix this guy.

"So ... I'm goin'. Thanks, Z. You were
my hero back in high school. Hell, everybody's hero. I was all
broke up when those bastards fixed your knee. I was out of school
by then, but I come back to see you play in the Raytown game. Hell,
I come back to see you play in all your games. You was somethin' to
watch, believe me. If only you could have been in the stands and
seen yourself. A streak of light. And power, too. They don't teach
that. It's natural. You got it or you don't."

"Yeah."

"So, I'm going."

And ... he went.

And that was that.

Except it wasn't.

Z's talk with Bud springing Z from the
party, Z let Bud get a head start for the parking area, then
followed slowly, careful to avoid dog-dug holes that might twist
his knee.

Across the asphalt jogging strip,
through the fence, over the parking and off the curb, Z headed for
his car, thinking about the bake-job he was in for in the sun-fried
oven of the Cavalier. Roast Z, basted in his own sweat.

The car had air
conditioning at one time ... no way Z could get it fixed
this
summer.

At the car, ready to open the door, Z
noticed that the black stretch Lincoln was still down the line, its
tail end sticking out almost to the street.

Just something about that car that
reminded him of Johnny Dosso's monster-of-a-machine. Same kind of
black Lincoln. Something about the way the sun slanted off the
car's side windows. A "dense" look to it.

And that was it!

John had bulletproof glass in his car,
in John's world, a necessary precaution. Extra thick glass did
funny things to light. Hard to explain.

Convinced the car did belong to Johnny
Dosso (the "shooter" of the Three Musketeers,) Z didn't see how he
could have missed John at the party. Though their infrequent talks
were mostly on the phone, Z had seen John now and again.

Raising the question, could John still
be in the car?

Unlikely, but ....

Johnny had been of help to Z; gotten Z
hard-to-get items like fake identity cards and dynamite fuse.
Unfortunately, there was little Z could do for John in return,
except be a friend.

Deciding he'd better check, Z walked
along the parking strip, more certain as he approached that it was
John's car.

Detouring around the back of the limo,
the car's engine idling, Z came up on the other side to bend down
and look through the inch-thick driver's side window -- seeing
someone slumped behind the wheel.

John.

Was John sick? ........

My God! Carbon monoxide!

Frantically, Z tried the door! ....
Locked.

Pounding on the thick window with no
effect, Z bent over again, shading his eyes with his hands to look
through the darkened glass ... to find himself staring into the
barrel of a gun!

Startled, Z pulled back; saw the
black-tinted glass whisper down; felt the cold, inside air spill
out.

"It's the Z-man! How are ya, Z-man?"
Johnny was drunk. "Didn't mean to scare you," Johnny continued in
his unnaturally high voice, reaching under his hand-tailored
summer-weight coat to fumble the gun into its shoulder
holster.

"Come on in." John waved at the other
side of the car. "Too damn hot out there. Got it cranked down to
zero in here. Come on in and have a drink."

Drunken friends to be humored, Z
walked around the back of the car; opened the heavy passenger door;
backed into the sofa-soft black leather seat, and dragged his bad
leg inside.

Swallowed in the cave-like luxury of
the custom Lincoln, Z tugged on the silk-handled door pull, the
door closing with the "thunk" of a tank turret.

It was cold inside.

The car smelled like new leather and
Old Crow, a capped pint between them on the seat.

"Forgot. Forgot you don' drink,
Z-man." John was slurring his words. "Cause of your sainted
Mama."