Irregular Verbs Page 8

  “All deaths are murders, Roger. The question is who pulled the trigger and how.”

  “But how can that matter now? I mean, I’m dead, aren’t I?”

  “Do you know what happens after you leave here, Roger?” He shook his head. “You go on to the airport, and they put that briefcase on a scale. If there’s too much in it—I mean, if it’s heavier than a feather—then you get right on another flight and start all over again. Maybe as a tree, maybe a pigeon, but probably just another dumb guy, making all the same dumb mistakes.”

  “And if it’s light enough? What then?”

  I shrugged. “Then you find out what.”

  “So—” He shook his head. “Why are you still here, if you know all this? You an angel or something?”

  I cocked an eyebrow, took off my fedora to reveal my halo-free head. “I emptied out my suitcase a long time ago, but I decided to stay here for a while, help guys like you.”

  “I already said, I can’t pay much.”

  “Don’t worry about it. What you have is enough.”

  “So how do I make my suitcase lighter?”

  “Like I said, I solve your murder. That’s what you’re hauling around in there: your fears, your desires—all the things in your life you can’t let go of. I find the one that had such a hold you let it kill you, and then you’ll be able to leave them behind.”

  Roger took a long breath, released it. “I guess. Sure—I mean, it sounds better than starting all over again.” He reached down for his suitcase, hauled it up and held it out to me.

  Taking the case, I popped it open. Inside were a set of jars—not jam jars but clay tubes, each topped by a lid carved into a little statue. “Once I start, I won’t be back till I’m done,” I said. “I may be a little while, but don’t worry—I haven’t failed a client yet.”

  He nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “So what do you do first?”

  I uncorked the first jar. “Round up the usual suspects.”

  The Jackal’s place stank of beer and stale smoke. Once-opulent oak and leather booths sat under a layer of grime, their original colour barely recognizable; on the wall a sign reading PLEASE NO PIPES OR CIGARS had been angrily defaced. From outside tiny shafts of sunlight crept in tentatively through windows that had once been stained glass but were now just stained.

  I went up to the bar, elbowing aside a guy who was wide enough to need two stools. The barman was pulling a pint. I watched him pour it, working the tap with forearms like Popeye’s. I slipped one of the coins Roger had given me out of my pocket and put it down on the bar, to catch his eye when he turned my way.

  “What’s your poison?” he asked, putting the mug of dark amber beer in front of the man I had pushed aside. The barman was a heavy guy, too, all soft except for those pistons he used to pull the pints with. His head was mostly bald, and it just sloped outward from the dome top to his jowls and then his shoulders, not bothering with a neck. He wore an apron that bore the stains of a thousand different meals.

  I picked the coin up again before he could grab it, turned it so it caught the light. “The Jackal around?” I asked.

  The barman’s pig eyes narrowed. “Maybe,” he said.

  “Could you find out?”

  He reached out for the coin in my hand, took it like a frog snatching a fly. “Yeah, he’s here,” he said. He jerked his head at the kitchen door, moved aside so I could get to it. “Go on in.”

  I worked my way around the bar, squeezed into the barman’s side past a man who was attacking a plate of steak and eggs like it was Juno Beach. The kitchen doors swung aside as I pushed through them, letting me into a crowded room where steam and smoke were fighting for supremacy. A pair of short-order guys worked the grill, each skinny as a rail. Neither one looked at me or at each other, but kept their eyes fixed on the job in front of them. They didn’t say anything either, except to swear now and then under their breath when a grease fire flared up.

  “You got a reason for being here?” a raspy voice asked me. Peering past the smoke I saw the Jackal sitting at the waiter’s table. He had a high forehead and sunken cheeks, eyebrows that climbed right up his head. A plate sat in front of him, crammed with just about everything that might go on a grill or in a fryer, and handy by his elbow was a double-pint glass of beer. He had tucked a little white napkin into his collar so that it looked like an ascot.

  I held up my wallet, flipped it open and then quickly closed it again. “Health inspector,” I said.

  The Jackal gave a barking laugh. “You think you’re the first guy to try that?” he said. “I pay good money so I never have to see a health inspector, so whoever you are, you ain’t him.”

  “You got me,” I said. I put my wallet away. “I’m here about a guy.”

  “Unless his name’s Fish or Chips, you’re in the wrong place.”

  I shook my head. “Roger Adams,” I said, watching his eyes. “That mean anything to you?”

  “What about him?” the Jackal asked.

  “He’s dead, for starters.”

  “Huh.” The Jackal’s knife and fork were still in his hands, the blade of the knife slipping rhythmically in and out of the tines of the fork. “Why are you telling me?”

  I shrugged. “Word is he used to spend a lot of time here,” I said. “As who wouldn’t, a quality place like this?”

  “Hey,” he said, pointing his knife at me, “maybe this isn’t one of those joints where you get a half-dozen peas on a silver plate, but people who come here, they go away happy. Satisfied.” To make his point, he speared a slice of fried ham with his fork and stuffed it into his mouth, working his sharp jaw up and down. It went down like you had dropped it in a bottomless pit: for everything he ate the Jackal was nothing but skin, bone and gristle.

  “Maybe you don’t ever see a health inspector, but how would it go down if those guys out front heard somebody had died from eating here?” I asked. “You understand, I don’t care if it was you who killed him or somebody else. But I have to find out.”

  “You think you can scare me?” the Jackal said. Flecks of half-chewed ham sprayed onto his shirtfront. “Half the guys out there know they’re gonna die with a fork in their hand.” He swallowed. “I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.”

  The mixed smell of grease and sweat was starting to get overpowering. I took a step closer, pulled his plate across the table before he could stop me. “I don’t want to make this a quarrel,” I said.

  He dropped his fork on the table, reached spastically towards the plate. “Hey,” he said, “a man’s gotta eat.” He looked over at the short-order guys: each one had his back to us, focused on the grill in front of him.

  “Roger Adams,” I said. “Seen him lately?”

  The Jackal started to stand up and move towards me, but I took a sidestep away, keeping the table between me and him. He reached out at me again, trying to stretch his arm longer, then finally sat down. “He used to come in all the time,” he said, “but I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  I looked him in the eyes, nodded. “So where’s he been?” I asked, holding the plate just out of his reach.

  “Falcone’s,” he said, his eyes fixed on the plate. “You know, the strip club on third? I heard he’s there almost every night. Was, I mean.”

  I held the plate a few seconds longer, just until I started to enjoy it. Then I handed it back to him, turned away before I could see him start to gorge himself. Suddenly I wanted to get out of that place and breathe some fresh air, or at least what passes for it around here. I pushed back out the kitchen doors and past the barman, keeping my mouth shut as I squeezed by all the customers perched over their groaning plates.

  Finally I was outside again. I risked opening my mouth, took a cautious breath in and waited to see if anything came out. My throat caught for a second, and I closed my eyes. There was a noise behind me, but before I could do anything I felt a cr
ack on my skull and after that the lights stayed out for a while.

  When I woke up I was in Heaven. Well, maybe not your Heaven but mine: my head was in the lap of a soft, young brunette, her teardrop-shaped face hovering over me. Her hair was pulled back and she wore a pair of glasses with tortoiseshell rims, which she was holding onto with her right hand to keep them from falling.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  “How long was I out?”

  She shook her head, leaving a blurry trail that told me I wasn’t quite back in condition. “I don’t know how long you were unconscious before I found you,” she said. “It’s been about ten minutes since I brought you back here.”

  Reluctant as I was to leave the nest I had found I drew myself up onto my elbows. She had laid me on a long couch, cracked brown leather patched with electrical tape. All around were shelves full of books, paper and hardcover mixed pell-mell. “Where’s here, exactly?”

  “This is my shop, Foy’s Books. I’m Zoe Foy.”

  I sat up, groaning as my head protested the move, and extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Foy,” I said. “Buddy Sutton. You spend a lot of time dragging drunks out of alleys?”

  “But you’re not a drunk,” she said quickly. After a second she took my hand and squeezed it. Her hand was warm. It felt nice. “I mean, you do smell a little like one—but I know the look of the guys that spend all their time at the Jackal’s. I see enough of them, it’s right across the street.”

  “So you’re just a good Samaritan.”

  Her mouth went tight. “I just—I thought—”

  “It’s okay,” I said, patting her on the arm. It felt nice too. “You just get suspicious, in my business, especially after a knock on the head. I shouldn’t snipe at you for doing a good deed.”

  “I understand,” she said. She was smiling now, her face sunny again. “So what business is that, exactly?”

  “Well—”

  A jingle came from the other side of the shelves. “Oh, that’s the door,” she said, standing up. Standing had a good effect on her, especially from my perspective. She held up a finger. “You hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  I watched her go around the bookshelf, counted ten and then stood up. As quietly as I could, I moved to the nearest shelf and peered through it. The room was a big one, and probably had first been a warehouse: only the shelves divided it into corridors. They were all used books and shelved without rhyme or reason, mouldy encyclopedias next to last year’s bestsellers. I was just about to sit down again when I heard a scream.

  A few quick steps took me to the other side of the bookshelf and down the hall towards the door. Zoe was in front of it, frozen. Past her, standing in the doorway, was someone in a long dark overcoat. Before I could get a look at his face I caught sight of a gun barrel rising up to level with Zoe’s heart. There were still at least ten steps between me and her.

  Instead of running, I threw my shoulder into the bookshelf nearest me and heaved with all my might. The shelf creaked for an endless second and then fell my way, throwing hundreds of books into the air. A shot broke the air and Zoe screamed again as I fought my way through the paperback rain. She was crouched on the floor now, her arms thrown over her face to protect her, and the man in the dark coat was gone.

  “Do you know what that was about?” I asked, helping her up. A book on the shelf above her had been blown to bits, a copy of Gray’s Anatomy shot through the heart.

  She shook her head. She was crying, breathing in gasps. “I can’t imagine what,” she said. “I’ve never seen that man before in my life.”

  “It was a man? What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t get a good look,” she said, turning away. “He had a hat on, the light was behind him—he was clean-shaven, about your height. That’s all I know.”

  I reached up to stroke the stubble on my cheek. Clean-shaven, about my height—that narrowed it down to about a million guys, just in Bardo City. “All right,” I said. “I guess this was about me. Somebody probably saw you pulling me in here.”

  “What should we do?”

  “You stay here and close up,” I said. “I’m going to go register my displeasure.”

  She grabbed my arm with both hands. “I can’t stay here,” she said. “Not now.”

  I looked back into the store, then at her. “Do you have a car?” I asked. She nodded. “Okay, then. You’re going to stay in it.”

  She nodded again, two quick jerks.

  I took a step towards the door, paused. “Before we go—do you have a copy of the Lotus Sutra, the 1903 British Buddhist Society edition with the missing line on the fifth page?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, throwing a glance at the pile of books on the floor. “Is it important?”

  “Probably not.” The door jingled as I opened it for her, and I threw a quick glance left and right before stepping outside.

  The lights were on at Falcone’s, neon dancers flickering onto the sad sacks slouched around the door. When the engine cut I opened the door, turned to Zoe. “You coming?”

  She frowned. “I thought you wanted me to stay here.”

  “Right. Sure, I forgot.” I got out of the car, fixed my gaze on the bouncer at the door to the club. “If I’m not back in twenty minutes send a rescue party.”

  “Don’t you carry a gun?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “Bad karma.” I shut the car door behind me, cut into the line right in front of the bouncer. He wasn’t that big a guy, an inch or so shorter than a grizzly bear.

  Somehow without taking a step he filled the space between me and the door. “There’s a cover.”

  “I’m not here for the floor show,” I said. “I need to see Falcone.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked. I told him, and he flipped through a little pad that he held in his left hand. “Not on the list,” he said.

  “I understand,” I said. “But I need to see Falcone. He’ll be sorry if he misses me.”

  The bouncer nodded slowly, then brought his right hand up in a fist against my jaw. Somebody somewhere was uncorking a bottle of champagne. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  I took a step back, stopped myself. “Okay,” I said, stepping back up to the bouncer. “But I need to see Falcone.”

  “No,” the bouncer said. He put his hand on my chest, flat, and pushed. When he saw I wasn’t going anywhere he swung back and socked me in the stomach. “No,” he repeated.

  A cough flew out of me, spattering blood in his direction. I straightened up, kept my hands at my sides. “I need to see Falcone,” I said, my voice a bit slurred.

  He drew his fist back, and I flinched. He paused. “You gonna swing back?” he asked. I shook my head. “You one of those guys who likes getting beaten on?”

  I shook my head again, regretted it. “I need to see Falcone,” I said again.

  A look crossed his face, pity or maybe disgust. His fist was still drawn back, but his posture had gone slack. After a minute he shook his head slowly, stepped aside. “Go in, then,” he said. “You tell Falcone those lumps were from me.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks for the comp.” The way my jaw was rattling, though, I don’t know if he understood me.

  Falcone’s was a classy place, the kind where they spray the girls with a mister instead of just letting them sweat. Nina Simone was on the speakers, singing “Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” good and slow, and there was a girl at each end of the T-shaped stage following her rhythm. It was a little bit like the Stations of the Cross: you could get up and walk from clothed to undies to nude if you didn’t feel like waiting.

  I let my gaze drift from the stage and looked around the room. It was full of the same guys I had seen outside, slouched and embarrassed. They sat at the stage if they could, or else close to it, staring at the girls without blinking. A few of them chatt
ed up the waitresses, dancers on their off-shifts, and every now and then one would slip the girl a bill and the two would vanish up the back stairs.

  Fratelli Falcone was sitting at a table near the back. Unlike his customers he faced away from the stage: he knew the dancers were there. A girl sat on either side of him. One of them was buttoned up in a shirt, jacket and tie, like a Catholic schoolgirl. The other was dressed about the same but the effect was different, with the tie loosened, the shirt halfway undone and the skirt about six inches further north.

  “Buddy,” Falcone said, spreading his arms wide as I came near him. He had a sharp face, with a nose you could use to climb mountains. A walking stick leaned against his knee and he wore a brown cape with a fringe like feathers. “So long since we’ve seen you.”

  I looked at one girl then the other, and finally tried to stare Falcone in the face. “Not my scene anymore,” I said.

  “Oh? And what are you into now?”

  I raised my hand to my still-aching jaw. “Being beaten up,” I said, “but to tell you the truth I’m getting tired of it. So how about we get right to business: what does the name Roger Adams say to you?”

  Falcone gave a slow, wide shake of the head, taking in a good look at each girl. “That is not a name I know,” he said. His voice was oilier than the grill at the Jackal’s. “Buddy my friend, I think you have been working too hard. How would you find a visit to the Champagne Room? On the house of course.”

  Despite myself I looked at the two girls: the first looked away demurely, while the second locked eyes with me and ran her tongue across her lips. I shook my head. “Another time,” I said.

  “These are my best girls, Buddy,” Falcone said. He sounded disappointed. “It’s never just business to them, they are very talented at making it seem natural.” He took his hand off the girl to his right and waved it in the air, looking for the right word. “Genuine.”

  “Is that what happened to Roger?” I asked. “Did he get too tight with one of these girls? Is that what he can’t let go?”