ESP.LITERATURE

A DoubleNickel Detective Story

Portland Case # 27

TWO

The Blindman’s Dinner: A dinner unpaid for, the landlord being the victim. —Till Eulenspiegle’s Tale (16th century German folklore)

Noon the next day, sitting in the cockpit of my boat, I considered my options. Had a case that needed working, just didn’t have a client. Probably find the boy. I could do that. Mother would probably turn up on her own. Looked like a pro bono deal, but I had stiffed Fogarty’s widow and could spare the time.

Bonacorso had called that one. The Fogarty Fiasco, he called it. Someone had choreographed the whole business with every ‘T’ crossed and every ‘I’ dotted. Fogarty never was a missing person. Person or persons unknown had done him up proud.

The day after Gertrude had paid me a visit, I got an email that suggested I have a look on the Reed Island’s north side. I got Leo to run me up there in his bass boat. Found the judge on an island right where somebody wanted me to find him. Propped against a cottonwood tree. He was wrapped in a sheet, one hand tied at the wrist to a tree branch, the hand holding the handle of a rusted scythe; the other hand, the arm hanging limply at his side, held an empty bottle of MacCallam’s. Had a red blindfold covering his eyes and a hundred dollar bill stuffed in his mouth. Fella didn’t look too happy. A bobwire ligature kinda ruined his day. Mine, too.

A note hand written in distinctive block capitals was neatly folded and slipped into the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. Sure, I went through the guy’s pockets. My prerogative. The note read: HAD HIS FILL ONCE TOO OFTEN AT THE BLINDMAN’S TABLE.

The river lapped gently at a sandy shore. Brush and skinny stalks of maples mixed with some stout cottonwoods. Geese wheeled overhead. Leo had nosed his boat into a bank, and he was whining about missing the tide. Thought we might get stuck in the mud. Thought I already had. The perfect dupe. He hadn’t much cared for taking the north channel up along the Washington shore. His bass boat was brand new, and the water was always thin on that side of Reed.

“Don’t know why I let you talk me into these things,” he whined.

I’d had the case for two days. The cops had an army in the field, and were welcome to it. Knocking on doors and sifting through the judge’s case files was what they were good at. And tracking bad guys he’d put away. The wife had come to me. And her story added up to a negative number.

I nosed around. Turned some stones. Wasn’t hard to find the boyfriend; but him and the wife just stonewalled me. Then I got the email. Convenient. Once I’d found him, she was ready to can my ass. What was that about? Tall blonde going to gray whose outfits cost more than I made in a month. Her chest cost more than my annual income. Gertrude. Fickle woman. Didn’t seem too damned bereaved.

“Boat coming,” Leo said. “Patrol boat, four men on board.”

I stood up and waded through the brush.

“Hands,” barked one of the deputies. Tall, dark and handsome. No doubt cut the tails of his shirts to make them fit flat and square. Benson. Lieutenant Benson. Knew him when. Never liked him much. Think it was mutual.

Weapons appeared.

Felt like Davy Crockett at the Alamo.

I spread my arms showing them palms. Leo had his straight up in the air, face like oatmeal.

They came ashore like Iwo Jima.

“Names.” Handsome again. Like he didn’t know who he was looking at.

Leo spit out his. I grinned, reached into a coat pocket and didn’t get shot. Got yelled at. Flipped my folder at Benson. He fumbled with it, got it open, read the bad news, shook his head and said, “Shit.”

“He’s back in that copse of trees,” I told them.

“You better not a touched nothing,” the shortest of the quartet said.

“He’s a private dick, Whitman. Bet yer ass he went through the guy.”

Benson said, “You two go have a look. Don’t touch anything. Watch where you walk.”

Becoming a refrain. Everybody watching too much television.

He tossed my folder to me. “Go park it on your boat, soldier,” he said. “Footprints?” he said to my back.

“Swept. Carefully.”

“Got a client?”

“Now and then.”

“Shit.” Gave me stink eye.

Next morning, Gertrude pays me a visit. Dressed in black silk. Open at the neck. Cleavage. Ruby hanging from a thin silver chain laying nicely in her jugular notch. Bit of ankle teasing below the hem of the black dress. The woman had small feet with cute little shiny black pumps on them. I was side tied on the back pier and she had a ways to go; but here she came, head high, undaunted. 

I offered a hand.

She ignored it.

Gulls mewed and keened. Hot, hazy day in late September. Autumn in abeyance. Somewhere a pump rattling and barking. River down a bit. Pale washed out sky.

She clicked open a nifty little black hand bag, deftly plucked out a hundred dollar bill,  extended an arm.

“You’ll send me a bill for the balance,” she said.

I looked at her, looked at the bill.

“You don’t want to know who killed your husband, that it?”

“Take it,” she said.

Imperative case. KT, my school marm friend, had lectured me about imperatives. Divisive, KT had said.

I took the bill. What the hell, she owed me that and more. Just didn’t like getting dismissed like some pimply faced freshman in the principal’s office.

She said, “There is nothing more for you to do. Just so we understand one another.”

Like that was it.

It wasn’t.

I slowly nodded.

She turned and left.

TO BE CONTINUED