Three to Get Deadly (7 page)

“What, you never lied before?”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Half an hour later, I turned the Buick into the RiverEdge Apartments parking lot. Jackie was there, all right, parked in her Chrysler. I pulled up behind her, got out and rapped on her window.

“Yeah?” Jackie said by way of greeting, not sounding all that happy.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m waiting for that shit-ass car thief to come out, and then I’m going to put a hole in him big enough to drive a truck through.”

I don’t know a whole lot about guns, but the cannon resting on the seat next to Jackie looked like it could do the job.

“That’s a pretty good idea,” I said, “but you look cold. Why don’t you let me take over the surveillance for a while?”

“Thanks all the same, but you found him, and now I get to kill him.”

“Makes perfect sense to me. I just thought it might be better to kill him when it warms
up some. After all, there isn’t any real rush. No point sitting out here, catching a cold, just to kill a guy.”

“Yeah, but I feel like killing him now. I don’t feel like waiting. Besides, I’m not gonna do any business today what with this weather. Only crazy men go out to get their oil changed on a day like this, and I don’t need any of that lunatic dick shit. Nope, I might as well sit here. Better than standing on my corner.”

She could be right.

“Okay,” I said. “Be careful.”

“Hunh,” Jackie said.

I drove over to the office and told Lula that Jackie was hunkered in for the siege.

“Hunh,” Lula said.

Vinnie popped out of his office.

“Well?” Vinnie asked.

We all looked at him. Well what?

Vinnie settled on me. “Where’s Mo? Why don’t we have Mo in custody? How hard could it be to catch an old man who sells candy?”

“Mo’s done a disappearing act,” I said. “He’s temporarily vanished.”

“So where have you looked? You check his apartment? You check his sister? You check his boyfriend?”

The office went suddenly silent.

I found my voice first. “Boyfriend?”

Vinnie smiled. His teeth white and even in his olive complexion. “You didn’t know?”

“Oh my God,” Connie said, doing the sign of the cross. “Oh my God.”

My head was reeling. “Are you sure?” I asked Vinnie. As if I’d doubt Vinnie for a nanosecond when it came to expertise in alternative sexual behavior.

“Moses Bedemier is a flaming fruit,” Vinnie said, his face wreathed in happiness, his hands jiggling change in the deep pockets of his pleated polyester slacks. “Moses Bedemier wears ladies’ panties.”

Vincent Plum, bail bonds. Specializing in sensitivity and political correctness.

I turned to Lula. “I thought you said Mo was a customer.”

“Unh-uh. I said I knew him. Sometimes when I was on the corner he’d ride by late at night and ask directions of Jackie or me. He’d want to know where to find Freddie the Frog or Little Lionel. I figure he do some drugs.”

“Oh my God,” Connie said. “A homosexual and a drug user. Oh my God.”

“How do you know?” I asked Vinnie.

“I’d heard rumors. And then I saw him
and his significant other having dinner in New Hope a couple months ago.”

“How do you know it was a significant other and not just a friend?”

“What, you want details?” Vinnie said, smiling wide, enjoying the moment.

I grimaced and shook my head, no.

Connie squeezed her eyes shut tight.

“Yo ass,” Lula said.

“Do you have a name?” I asked Vinnie. “What’s this guy look like?”

“The guy was Mo’s age. Smaller, slimmer. Soft, like Mo. Dark hair, bald on top. I don’t have a name, but I can make some phone calls.”

I didn’t give much credence to the drug buyer theory, but I wouldn’t want it to be said I’d left a stone unturned. When Lula was hooking she’d plied her trade on Stark Street, a mile-long strip of bars and crack houses and row houses converted to airless apartments and rooms to let. It’d be a waste of time for me to canvass Stark Street. No one would talk to me. That left me with two alternatives. Lula was one of them. Ranger was the other.

I could ask Ranger to make inquiries on Mo. Or I could ask Lula. This was a dilemma, being that Ranger would be my first choice, but Lula was here in front of me, on the scent, reading my mind.

“Well?” Lula asked. Shifting her weight. Nervous. Belligerent. Rhino mode. Looking like her feelings would be hurt if I didn’t ask her to work with me. Looking like at any moment she might narrow her eyes and squash me like a bug.

So I was beginning to see the wisdom of using Lula. No point to hurting her feelings, right? And probably Lula would be cool with this. I mean, what was the big deal? All she had to do was show Mo’s picture to a few
drug dealers and hookers. So she wasn’t subtle. Hey, was that a crime?

“You have a lot of contacts on Stark Street,” I said to Lula. “Maybe you could flash Mo’s picture. See if someone can give us a lead.”

Lula’s face brightened. “You bet. I could do that.”

“Yeah,” Vinnie said. “Get her out of the office for a while. She makes me nervous.”

“You should be nervous,” Lula told him. “I’m keeping my eye on your sad ass. You better not trifle with me, mister.”

Vinnie set his teeth, and I thought I saw wisps of steam curl out of his ears and evaporate off the top of his head. But maybe it was just my imagination.

“I’ll make some phone calls. I’ll see if I can get a name for Mo’s boyfriend,” Vinnie said, retreating into his private lair, slamming the door behind him.

Lula had one arm rammed into her coat. “And I’m gonna get right on this. I’m gonna detect the shit out of this case.”

With everyone else in motion, there didn’t seem to be much for me to do. I retraced my steps back to my Buick and drove home on autopilot. I pulled into the lot to my apartment building and looked up at my win
dow. I’d left the light burning in my bedroom, and it was all cheerful and welcoming now. A rectangle of comfort floating high above the gray miasma of morning ice smog.

Mr. Kleinschmidt was in the lobby when I swung through the double glass doors.

“Ho,” Mr. Kleinschmidt said. “It’s the early bounty hunter that catches the worm. Tracking down a ruthless murderer today?”

“Nope. No murderers,” I said.

“Drug dealer? Rapist?”

“Nope. Nope.”

“Who then? What gets you up and out so early?”

“Actually, I’m looking for Moses Bedemier.”

“That’s not funny,” Mr. Kleinschmidt said. “That’s not a good joke. I know Moses Bedemier. Mo would never do anything bad. I think you should look for someone else.”

I stepped into the elevator and pushed the second-floor button. I gave Mr. Kleinschmidt a little finger-wave good-bye, but he didn’t wave back.

“Why me?” I said to the empty elevator. “Why me?”

I let myself into my apartment and looked in at Rex. He was sleeping in his soup can. Nice and quiet. That’s one of the terrific things about having a hamster as a room
mate; hamsters keep their thoughts to themselves. If Rex had an opinion about Moses Bedemier, he didn’t lay it on me.

I nuked a cup of coffee and settled down to make phone calls.

I started with my cousin Jeanine, who worked at the post office. Jeanine told me Mo’s mail was being held, and that Mo hadn’t left a forwarding address, nor had he retrieved anything.

I talked to Linda Shantz, Loretta Beeber and Margaret Molinowsky. No one had much to say about Mo, but I found out my archenemy, Joyce Barnhardt, had a drug-resistant yeast infection. That cheered me up some.

At one o’clock I called Vinnie to see if he’d been able to get a name for me. The call was switched to the answering service, and I realized it was Saturday. The office was only open for a half day on Saturday.

I thought about doing something athletic, like going for a run, but when I looked out the living room window it was still January, so I trashed the physical fitness idea.

I returned to the phone and dialed up some more busybodies. I figured it would take me days to go through my list of gossips, and in the meantime I could pretend I was accomplishing something.

By three-thirty my ear felt swollen, and I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take being glued to the phone. I was contemplating a nap when someone hammered on my door.

I opened the door and Lula rolled in.

“Outta my way,” she said. “I’m so frozen I can’t walk straight. My black ass turned blue a half hour ago.”

“Do you want hot chocolate?”

“I’m way past hot chocolate. I need alcohol.”

I’m not much of a drinker. I’d long ago decided it was best not to muddy the waters of my brain with serious booze. I had a hard enough time making sense when I was sober.

“I haven’t got much in the way of alcohol,” I told Lula. “Light beer, red wine, mouth-wash.”

“Pass on that. I just wanted to tell you about Mo, anyway. Carla, the ho on Seventh and Stark, says she saw Mo two days ago. According to Carla, Mo was looking for Shorty O.”

I felt my mouth fall open. Mo was on Stark Street two days ago. Holy cow.

“How reliable is Carla?”

“Well she wasn’t shaking or nothing today,
so I think she could see the picture I showed her,” Lula said. “And she wouldn’t mess with me.”

“What about Shorty O? Do you know him?”

“Everybody knows Shorty O. Shorty’s one of those influential people on Stark Street. Middle management. Do some demolition work when there’s a need. I would have talked to him, but I couldn’t find him.”

“Do you think Mo found him?”

“Hard to say.”

“Anyone else see Mo?”

“Not that I know of. I asked lots of people, too, but with this weather, people aren’t out looking around.” Lula stamped her feet and made flapping warm-up motions with her arms. “I gotta go. I’m going home. It’s Saturday, and I got a date tonight. I gotta get my hair done. Just because I’m a natural beauty don’t mean I don’t need extra help sometime.”

I thanked Lula and saw her to the elevator. I returned to my apartment and thought about this latest development. Hard to believe Mo was on Stark Street for whatever reason. Still, I wasn’t going to totally discount anything…no matter how preposterous. Especially since this was my only lead.

I punched the speed-dial number for
Ranger and left a message on his machine. If anyone could find Shorty O, it would be Ranger.

Sunday morning I got up at ten. I made hot chocolate and French toast, carried it into the living room and slid the Winnie the Pooh video into the VCR. When Winnie was done having his adventures in the Hundred Acre Wood it was almost noon, and I thought it was time to go to work. Since I didn’t have a social life, and I didn’t have an office, work time was any time I wanted.

And what I wanted today was to get stupid, spineless Stuart Baggett. Mo was cooking on the back burner, but Stuart wasn’t cooking at all.

I showered and dressed and resurrected Stuart’s file. He lived with his parents at 10 Applegate Street in Mercerville. I spread my street map on the dining room table and located Applegate. It looked to be about two miles from the mall where Stuart worked. Very convenient.

I’ve been told there are places in the country where stores close on Sunday. This would never happen in Jersey. We wouldn’t stand for it. In Jersey it’s part of our constitutional rights to shop seven days a week.

I parked the Buick in the mall lot and diligently ignored the stares from people with less imaginative cars. Since my bank account was at an all-time low, I went straight to the hot dog stand. Best not to detour through the shoe department at Macy’s and succumb to temptation.

Two young women were behind the hot dog counter.

“Yes ma’am,” one said. “What would you like?”

“I’m looking for Stuart Baggett.”

“He doesn’t work here anymore.”

Oh boy. Minor guilt trip. I got the poor schnook fired. “Gee, that’s a shame,” I said. “Do you know what happened? Do you know where I can find him?”

“He quit. Closed up early a couple days ago and never came back. Don’t know where he is.”

A small setback, but not devastating since I still had his home to visit.

Applegate was a pleasant street of well-kept single-family houses and mature trees. The Baggett house was a white Cape with blue shutters and a dark blue door. There were two cars and a kid’s bike in the driveway.

Mrs. Baggett answered the door. Stuart was close enough to my age that we might be
friends. I thought I’d go with this approach first, saying very little, letting Mrs. Baggett assume the obvious.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m looking for Stuart.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, which might have been concern, or maybe she was just trying to place me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Stuart’s not home. Was he supposed to meet you here?”

“No. I just thought I might catch him.”

“He’s with one of his friends,” Mrs. Baggett said. “Moved out yesterday. Said he had a new job, and he was going to share a place with this friend of his.”

“Do you have an address or a phone number?”

“No. I don’t even have a name. He had some words with his father and stormed off. Would you like to leave a message?”

I gave her my card. “Stuart failed to appear in court. He needs to reschedule his court date as soon as possible. It’s very important.”

Mrs. Baggett made a distressed little sound. “I don’t know what to do with him. He’s just gone wild.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d call me if you hear from him.”

She nodded her head. “I will. I’ll call you.”

I could expend a lot of energy looking for Stuart, or I could wait for him to go home. I decided to go with the latter. Mrs. Baggett looked like a responsible, intelligent woman. I felt pretty confident that she’d get back to me. If not I’d make a return visit later in the week.

Ranger called back a little after seven with news that Shorty O had gone south for the winter. No one had seen him in days, and that probably included Mo.

At eight o’clock I was standing across the street from Uncle Mo’s, and I was feeling nervous. Even though I had a key to his apartment, there were some who might regard what I was about to do as breaking and entering. Of course I could always fib, and say Uncle Mo had asked me to look after his things. If it was a judge who was doing the asking I guess my answer might fall into that undesirable area of perjury. Perjury seemed like a good thing to avoid. Although in Jersey, written law often bowed to common sense. Which meant perjury was better than being dispatched to the landfill.

The sky was dark. The moon obscured by cloud cover. Lights were on in houses up
and down Mo’s street, but Mo’s apartment windows were black. A car cruised by and parked three houses away. I was lost in shadow and the driver walked from his car to his house without seeming to notice me. I’d left the Buick on Lindal Street, one block away.

I could see Mrs. Steeger moving in her front room. I was waiting for her to settle before going closer. She peered out her living room window, and my heart stopped dead in my chest. She drew back from the window, and I gasped for air. Little black dots danced in front of my eyes. I clapped a hand to my chest. The woman made my blood run cold.

Headlights swung around the corner, and a car stopped at the Steeger house. The driver beeped, and Mrs. Steeger opened her door and waved. A moment later she was locking up behind herself. I held my breath and willed myself invisible. Mrs. Steeger carefully picked her way along the dark steps and sidewalk to the car. She seated herself next to the driver, slammed the door shut and the car drove off.

My lucky day.

I crossed the street and tried Mo’s house key on the candy store door with no success. I walked to the back and tried the
same key on the rear entrance. The key didn’t work there either.

It had occurred to me while talking to Ranger that due to police interruption, I’d never gotten around to searching Mo’s store. I don’t know what I expected to find, but it felt like unfinished business.

Since the house keys didn’t work on the store doors, I assumed there had to be another set of keys in Mo’s apartment. I took the stairs as if I owned the place. When in doubt, always look like you know what you’re doing. I pulled a flashlight out of my pocketbook and knocked twice. I called to Uncle Mo. No answer. I unlocked the door, took one step inside and swept a beam of light around the room. Everything seemed to be in order, so I closed the door behind myself and did a fast walk-through of the rest of the apartment. There were no keys lying on open surfaces and no cute little key hooks on any of the walls. There was no evidence that anyone had been in the apartment since my last visit.

The kitchen was small. White metal cupboards over a gray Formica countertop and an old white porcelain sink that had a few black chips showing. The cupboards held a mismatched assortment of glasses, cups,
plates and bowls. No keys. I went through the under-the-counter drawers. One dedicated to silverware. One for dish towels. One for plastic wrap, aluminum foil, plastic bags. One for junk. Still no keys.

I took a moment to look at the photos on the wall next to the fridge. Pictures of children. All from the burg. I recognized almost everyone. I searched until I found mine. Twelve years old, eating an ice cream cone. I remembered Mo taking the picture.

I poked in the refrigerator, checking for cleverly hollowed out heads of cabbage and fake cola cans. Not finding any, I moved on to the bedroom.

The double bed was covered with a quilted bedspread, its yellow and brown flowers faded, the cotton material softened from years of service. The bed and nightstand were inexpensive walnut veneer. Uncle Mo lived modestly. Guess there wasn’t all that much profit in ice cream cones.

I started with the top bureau drawer and sure enough, there was the key ring consigned to its own compartment in a removable wooden jewelry tray. I pocketed the key ring, closed the drawer and was about to leave when the stack of movie magazines caught my eye.
Premiere, Entertainment
Weekly, Soap Opera Digest, Juggs.
Whoa!
Juggs
? Not the sort of reading material one would expect to find in a gay man’s bedroom.

I wedged the flashlight under my armpit, sank to the floor and flipped through the first half of
Juggs.
Appalling. I flipped through the second half. Equally appalling and fascinatingly disgusting. The next magazine in the stack had a naked man on the cover. He was wearing a black mask and black socks and his Mr. Happy hung almost to his knees. He looked like he’d been sired by Thunder the Wonder Horse. I was tempted to look inside, but the pages were stuck together, so I moved on. I found a couple magazines that I’d never heard of that were devoted primarily to amateurish snapshots of people in various stages of undress, in a variety of embarrassing poses labeled “Mary and Frank from Sioux City” and “Rebecca Sue in Her Kitchen.” There were some more
Entertainment Weekly
s, and on the bottom of the pile there were a couple photographic catalogues, which reminded me that I’d found a couple unopened boxes of film in the fridge.