The Dead Detective Page 11

  So things were naturally pretty strained at first between me and Dorothy (real name Dooriya) Uwanawich and Bobby (Boiko) Marks when we met up at Billards. To make matters worse, the bar was crowded because of being prime time on a Saturday night, and I had a terrible time finding any place to sit where I could talk to them privately and without interruption, never mind Bull McGuinness and the Gimp (real name Alvis Andersson, he told me on the way over), who were hovering around the two fuming Gypsy vics like a pair of jailers. And the Gypsies were literally fuming; sending up more smoke than a small forest fire―both were chain-smokers in death, as in life. Hey, at least the tar and nicotine wouldn’t have time to kill them, thanks to me.

  Finally, we arrived at a price: they started out by asking for ten grand, but we ended up settling on $500 because that’s the max I could draw from my bank’s ATM. The two had been dead just long enough to take it. Inflation seems to lag behind the real world by about fifty years and 500% in Shadytown, which is pretty much the only thing that makes it an attractive place to settle down, as far as I can see, unless you’re really into retro architecture and fashion. And all the free cigarettes.

  After I paid them off, things got maybe a tiny fraction friendlier between us. Cash is an even greater social lubricant than booze among the dead. This said, how much longer could I afford to milk ATMs just to set fire to yet more of my money? At this rate, I won’t have anything left to pay for my divorce with. Or anything else. After they retrieved the cash from the ashes, we enjoyed a few minutes of being all BFF, so I asked them about the “Horvati”, as they referred to the Nichols family. Like, how much do they know about them and where can I find them? But first I groveled again for the whole killing them thing. You know, just in case they were still holding a grudge.

  “It wasn’t my fault that I shot you. I had to. I was possessed. Gana Kali put a magic spell on me.” I know, right? Here I was, standing on a street corner downtown in the middle of the night burning fifty-dollar bills and talking to myself, saying shit like that right out loud in public. If anybody from Social Services had overheard me, I’d have my ass carted away straight into the nearest loony bin.

  However, this time the two appeared kind of mollified. Now that they had a little walking around money out of it, I guess. And who knows? Maybe they’ve already begun to fit in on the other side of the river. Maybe they’d run into some old friends or family members.

  “Oh vater duva, that mush-raki chuvvi’s a muller, og,” said Boiko.

  “He says the ugly old witch can raise the moro fowki, the dead.”

  “She’s the one who wanted you dead,” I told them. They shrugged.

  “That gotchi only does what the purri mush Eli tells her,” the woman said. “The old man.”

  “Don’t you want your revenge?” I asked them, when they told me they had no idea where the Horvaths were now. The woman just said they’d get plenty when the Horvaths got to the other side. So I promised them a thousand more if they find out where Gana Kali is now. This stirred some interest.

  “Enough carrot―maybe you two’d like to see some more stick,” said Bull menacingly. But for some reason, I objected to this idea. I guess I was feeling protective or something, since I’m the one who got them into this mess in the first place.

  “Nah, lay off, Bull. They might be my cousins. I’m the daughter of an Irish traveler―a didikoi,” I told them.

  They then approached me closely and peered at my face by the gloom of the city crime-lights. So close I could smell the bloody powder-scorched holes in their foreheads. If I didn’t mention it before, I can now smell the odors of the dead, too―and I gotta tell you, it hasn’t done wonders for my appetite lately.

  “Yeah, I can see the kinshna in you,” said Dooriya after a few moments. “You’re very rawna, though―white. A real rinkana chai. That means pretty girl.”

  “She ain’t no tatcha Romani chal. She’ll never be pura ratti.” Boiko spat on the pavement.

  Dooriya patted my shoulder sympathetically, and for a second, I could actually feel it. This was the first time I’d been able to feel any contact from the other side, and it was shocking and kind of spooky. “You’re a poshrat. That means a half-blood.” Great. I’m a poshrat. “Not gadjo, but better than nothing.”

  At this point, I felt like I wasn’t getting much bang for my five hundred bucks, so I tried quizzing them some more on the subject of the Horvath clan. The Horvati were, Dooriya said, outsiders. They’d relocated here about a year ago from south Florida and promptly moved in on the territory of the other Romani families. Everyone hated and feared them now, because they had connections with the Sicaria, the Sicilian mafia.

  “What kind of connections?”

  Both of them shook their heads at me mutely.

  “They say they move drugs for them. And luvva. That means money. If you want to be real poshratti, you need to learn our cant sometime.” That would be a good excuse to see Val again; I could ask him for lessons. But their attention was wandering now, and I could tell they were about to make a break for it.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Do you know what tliet gh’orrief means? I think the Horvaths are working for them.”

  This had the same effect as if Bull had used his nightstick on them; they both jerked around to look at me, then edged away, fading in and out like an old-fashioned TV broadcast. The woman shook her head fearfully.

  “Oh, you don’t want to mess with them, chai. Those words mean the Three Wise Men of Malta; very beng, dush luvva. Evil, like devils.” And then they took to their heels and ran off down an alley like bats out of hell.

  After a moment, at a nod from Bull, the Gimp followed them.

  My car was parked a few blocks away in the lot on Fairfax. We were in the heart of Downtown, in a neighborhood that had once been crumbling and filled with derelict buildings, but was now dramatically gentrified. The police headquarters at Center Plaza was just one of a number of shiny new high-rise buildings that loomed overhead. As McGuinness and I approached Main Street, the streets and sidewalks around us were as lively and crowded, even on a weeknight, with the dead as they were with the living. Shades walked right through me constantly in both directions, and every now and then I could feel it with the slightest of seasick thrills, just as I had when the Gypsy woman’s ghost had touched my shoulder.

  “How does it feel when you touch another shade?” I asked Bull on impulse. “You ever get a kind of tingle from it?”

  He laughed uproariously at this. “Do you ever, and how! Just wait’ll it happens with a real live wire, like with Lorna. Then you get a whole lot more than just a tingle.”

  Which unfortunately reminded me of my own sex life―which was now feeling ferociously frustrated after its rude interruption earlier that evening. “How the hell did the Gimp know where to find me?”

  “Because I peeled him off to tail you the minute you left the stationhouse and went to that restaurant for your date with Romeo. Then he followed you from there to the love nest in a cab and kept me clued in.”

  “How? By mental telepathy or something?”

  “Hell, no―we use police callboxes. There’s one on almost every block this part of town. See those painted iron boxes on the sides of building and lampposts?” Now that he pointed them out, I could see their ghostly outlines; I’d taken them for fire alarm boxes, I guess. Or mailboxes, if they’d had slots.

  “In life, both Gimpy and me were coppers―we died with callbox keys in our pockets, so they came over with us.”

  “Skeleton keys…”

  “Try using one of yours on this side, and see where it gets you.”

  Something about the way he’d said the word “Romeo” led me to believe that Bull didn’t think too highly of the Gypsy King. When I challenged him on the subject, he just shrugged.

  “You dames are all the same: you go for the pretty boys and the hoodlums, just like in the movies. And you never learn to tell a good guy until it’s too late.”

>   And right on cue, my cell phone, which I’d been clutching for cover, suddenly rang, piercing the dull rumble of traffic noise punctuated by occasional bursts of music and noisy laughter from people on the sidewalks across the street. It’s Harper. Oh shit, I thought; I’d totally forgotten to call him back, what with almost having sex with Val and everything.

  “Harper, I’m so sorry. I got caught up in a case.” Meanwhile Bull disappeared into the ghostly shell of a public telephone booth just inside the darkened doorway of what had once been an old luxury hotel and was now awaiting demolition.

  “It doesn’t matter―I’ve had an even better idea. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner! All we have to do is implant the Baby-Plus over a Syncardia artificial heart pump. You know, to mask the pumping sound. The Syncardia would restore your circulation normally after a complete transfusion, taking care of the BP problem. Two birds with one stone. And you know? I bet I could rig up some kind of custom chemical heater inside it. Maybe in one of the biventricular assist devices in your breasts. What do you think?”

  Okay, what I was thinking was: Bride of Frankenstein…But all I said was, “You know, Harper, that sounds totally brilliant. Let me do some research on it first, Okay? Because I―”

  But he was thinking more like The Wizard of Oz. “We could implant it tomorrow, Richie. I mean, you could be a completely normal girl again. Come on, don’t be such a coward.” I’d be just like the Tin Woodsman. Or Woodswoman. Whatever.

  The thing is, it actually sounded…really good to me right that moment. Being completely normal, I mean. Having a pulse and being all warm and ready for Val. “Dude, you know, I really think I might be up for it. How much does one of these things cost?”

  He cleared his throat. “Um, about $125,000. But it’s covered by Medicare and most health plans.”

  “Harper! Hon…I’m not on Medicare! And I can’t exactly file for this through my workplace HMO, can I? I can’t afford it; I’d be lucky to get that much out of my share of the house.”

  “Richie…” His tone was pleading. “Look, if it’s about the money, I’ll be happy to―”

  “No, Harper! Seriously, no. Look, I don’t mean to sound so harsh. I’ll drop by the hospital on Monday, Okay? We’ll talk about it some more then. See you then. Hey, what’s up?” I say to McGuinness after I hang up. He’d come running out of the hotel doorway like his butt was on fire.

  “I just rang Lorna. She says to come home as fast as we can―says something terrible’s going on there.”

  “What?”

  “She didn’t say―hung up or got disconnected. Well, don’t just stand there gawking, toots. Let’s shake a leg!”

  keep a portable blue police flasher in the Toyota. I mounted it on the dashboard, and we started making good time once we were on the freeway, ninety in some stretches. Not like I would with the siren and the full police Mars Bar rig, but way faster than in a civilian car. “She didn’t say anything more specific than that? What were her exact words?”

  “Nope, just what I told you. She wasn’t screaming or nothin’, but I could tell she was scared shitless.” So was Bull; if ghosts could sweat, he was doing it now. And I guess I was, too―and in that instant, I realized things really were over for keeps between me and Devon. Because it wasn’t him I was freaking out about; it was Kitty.

  “How will the Gimp keep in touch with you?” I asked Bull, just to distract us both. I’d tried both my landline number and Devon’s cell, they’d gone to voicemail.

  “He’s got Lorna’s number.”

  “You mean my number?” But how did that work? Could shades use regular telephone lines? It might explain all those dead calls I get.

  “Nope, I mean the telephone number of the boarding house that used to be where your house is now. Cloverfield 8-084. Easy to remember.”

  That’s when I asked him why the Gimp was called the Gimp. He told me that Alvis Andersson had once been the deadliest hired hit man in the city. The little bastard had ice water in his veins, Bull said. “He did maybe thirty-forty contract killings over ten years. Because he had that shield, see? He could get in where no mob killer could. Citizens trusted him. Finally, one of his own customers gave him a bad case of lead poisoning, after torturing him for a few days first. That’s how come he’s got that phiz like a fish. But on this side, there ain’t no cops, only private hired dicks, so the Gimp and I were both out of luck when we got here. There’s no government is why. Some people go through the motions of runnin’ the town for a while, then they get tired of that or distracted and do something else when they find out there’s no dough in it. And Gimpy couldn’t practice his other trade here either, because there’s no market for it.”

  “How come?”

  “How can you die once you’re already dead? That’s the one thing death’s got over life―you ain’t never gonna die again. That’s a nice comforting feeling, sometimes. On the other hand, you can still get yourself into places where dying is all you’re prayin’ for…”

  That thought is enough to make me shudder.

  “And while we’re on the subject…well, I kinda hate to bring it up, but I been paying the Gimp out of my own cut, and those cab rides can cost you up to a fin. Thing is, he’s fallen on hard times with no work to do, and nobody likes having him around. So I was wondering―”

  “How much?” Everybody, living or dead, acts like I’ve got money to burn.

  “I was thinking maybe a couple more C-notes.”

  Sigh. “Okay. I guess you can’t take it with you.”

  “Well, yeah, I sort of always assumed that, too, when I was alive, I mean. But it’s always seemed to me there ought to be ways to cheat the reaper. Maybe you and me can huddle together and have a pow-wow on that sometime.”

  But there’s no time for it now. We’ve pulled into my driveway with the headlights killed and are looking at the house for any clues as to just what the hell Lorna was talking about over the ghost telephone exchange. Devon’s car, a blue Audi Quattro, is parked in the carport, and there’s another car, a battered old white Suburban SUV with what looks like a children’s playground mural painted on its sides parked in the street just in front. A strange orange flickering is visible through the living room curtains, and I can smell smoke. And maybe it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but I could swear I hear drums pounding inside the living room.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” says Bull.

  I nod, swallowing hard. “Gypsies.” They’ve come back. They want me to kill for them again.

  “If you’re smart, you’ll get the hell out of here.”

  “But what about Lorna?”

  “Lorna can take care of herself. They can’t hurt her.” Bull doesn’t sound convinced. Neither am I. Something made her hang up on him.

  I shake my head. “I can’t leave Devon.” Or Kitty, either. Because right now all I can think about is the chicken blood or whatever it was spread all over the warehouse floor. Maybe it was dog―or cat. I take out my Westie and check the cartridges in the chamber without thinking.

  “At least dump the gat, sister,” says Bull pleadingly. “That way they can’t make you go out and shoot anybody else.”

  “I don’t care. I’m taking them down. Now!” I tell him, gritting my teeth. It’s smart advice he’s giving me, but I’m so filled with fury right now I feel like I’m bursting with it―like I can break the bonds of any stupid curse by force of sheer rage alone.

  Suddenly he’s standing outside the car. I open my door and get out, holding the gun. “Howzabout I pop in first and give you the low-down on the layout?” he says. “Wait here, okay?” And he’s gone.

  I follow him across the darkened lawn, pistol drawn and safety off. It must have drizzled earlier in the evening when I was lip-locked with Val, because the grass is glistening and damp underfoot. For the first time in my career as a cop, I wish I had an unregistered throw-down gun, a Saturday Night Special or something, to use instead of my legit side-arm
. Because if these creepy murderous fuckers have hurt Kitty…

  As I approach the house, the drumming swells, and the chanting becomes more clear. A woman’s voice in what sounds like a foreign language. The flickering light radiates even brighter through the front window curtains. I start to turn the knob on my front door, and just then McGuinness’ head suddenly pops out through it. “It’s not them!” he shouts. “It’s―” but it’s too late. I shove the door open and step inside.

  My living room stinks; that’s my first impression, along with a blast of heat and the glittering lights of the candles that line the room on almost every surface, filling the air with dark smoke. It reeks of candlewax, human sweat, angelica incense, rum―and of coppery-smelling blood, tiny drops of which are sprinkled all over my beige carpet. A strange man is seated on the couch beside Devon, a middle-aged very blue-black African American man with greying peppercorned hair and yellow dog-like teeth. He is naked to the waist and his skin gleams with sweat; he is wearing a pair of wraparound sunglasses and has a pair of conga drums between his knees.

  But it is the woman, the one doing all the chanting, who commands my attention. Commands it literally; I’m helpless to move. She is huge, maybe three hundred pounds of jiggling, wobbling dark brown flesh crammed into a colorful Caribbean traditional dress with long skirts and a white scarf tied around her head. I’ve caught her in the act of squatting down in the middle of her dance to scatter more drops of rum around the room from a Bacardi bottle. Only the whites of her eyes are visible as she bellows, “M ‘mande nou, Mama Brigide, Fèmen sa a lespri zonbi nan sèk la sakre!”

  She rises and sort of half-dances, half-sways in place, repeating the phrase over and over. There’s a cleared space in the middle of the room where the coffee table should be, inside a ring of candles and branches of bare wood. Though I cannot tear my terrified gaze from her, I am dimly aware of other things in my peripheral vision. For example, our paintings, which are mainly the New Age spiritual stuff Devon loves, have all been taken down from the walls and replaced with what look to be the skulls of goats. And there’s a dead chicken to my left, its throat cut and white feathers soaking in a pool of red blood. My first thought is: I’ll never get that out of the fucking carpet.