Wrong Place, Wrong Time Page 3

  “Maybe, but those people can do things I can’t. They understand double-entry bookkeeping or they know how to fix TV sets or drive trains or make furniture. We all have different skills. Like you say, I’m a thug. Pretty goddamn good one, too.”

  “Are you in trouble with the police because of today?”

  “No,” I said. “They’re satisfied that I wasn’t involved. Well, I was involved, but not … you know what I mean. Durkee and Ricco will give me a hard time for the next twelve or thirteen years, but I was dumb enough to deserve that, so …”

  After a long, quiet moment Hilda said, “Are you going to be able to walk away from it?”

  When I didn’t answer her for a while, she said, “You can’t, can you?”

  I said, “Well, I thought I might poke around a little. Between other cases, of course.”

  “Hah! I know you, Rafferty. You’re going to hunt down that fake bounty hunter.”

  “Oh, I think ‘hunt down’ is a trifle strong.”

  Hilda sighed and moved restlessly. Her skin was cooler now, and we didn’t fit quite so perfectly together, side by side. “It won’t do that poor man any good, you know. He’s already dead. And it was not your fault.”

  “I know that, babe.”

  With a sudden fierce movement she thrust herself up and pushed her face close to mine. “Tell me this,” she said. I could feel her breath on my chin. “Is it because of what he did, how he killed that man, or is it because he made you look foolish?”

  It took me a long time to come up with the only answer I could honestly give her.

  “I don’t know, Hil. I wish I did know, but I don’t.”

  Chapter 6

  Eight-forty-five the following morning. I unlocked the office door and went in, feeling vaguely uneasy about the coming face-to-face meeting with Honeybutt.

  On the other side of the big plate-glass window, she was already hard at work, head-down over a desk covered with forms and reports. She must have sensed my presence at the window; she looked up at me, smiled hello, then returned to her work.

  I cleaned up the office some. I threw away yesterday’s paper, and I dusted my desk and the client chair. I felt a fleeting temptation to straighten the untidy stacks of old city directories and telephone books, but the feeling passed quickly enough. Checked the office fridge; not much beer left. Oh, well, it was probably too early to offer Honeybutt a drink, anyway.

  I took the coffee mugs down to the men’s room, washed them, and remembered to bring back a fresh paper towel for the coffee tray. I loaded the percolator and turned it on.

  Eight-fifty-five. I sat down and watched Honeybutt work. I found myself sighing and hoping she wouldn’t turn out to be an airhead with a screechy voice and too much perfume. Alan Alda and New Age men be damned; it wasn’t easy to end a nice, stable, sexist relationship like the one Honeybutt and I had.

  Promptly at nine Honeybutt looked at the clock, then at me, and mouthed, “Okay now?”

  I nodded. She got up and headed for her office door. Before she reached it, though, inspiration struck. I knocked on the window.

  Honeybutt stopped and turned back with a quizzical look on her face.

  Hamming it up as much as I could, I went into an exaggerated bodybuilder’s pose. She looked at me strangely, then the corners of her mouth twitched. I flexed every muscle I could think of and imitated some of those routines the oily guys in little bitty underwear did on television.

  Honeybutt smiled first, then she grinned, and finally she launched into an outrageous mock leer. She did a brief war dance and stuck her little fingers in her mouth in that gesture that means “I’m whistling” but no one can really do.

  Maybe Honeybutt could whistle that way, though, because her boss came to the doorway of his office enclosure and looked out. He was a thin, balding man with a long face. He had several pens in his shirt pocket and a sheaf of papers in his hand. He looked at each of us in turn, shook his head as if confused, and closed his door.

  Honeybutt watched him go, then gave me a broad, saucy wink and turned sideways to me. She put her hands on her hips and bent forward from the waist. While I clapped and leered and pawed at the ground, she arched her back and wiggled her bottom. And she was grinning as broadly as I was.

  Honeybutt was wearing a high-neck, frilly white blouse and a beige pair of those baggy-legged slacks invented by a misogynist, so the overall effect wasn’t especially sexy. Which didn’t matter at all.

  Finally I waved a “come on over” gesture, she stopped posing, called out something to her boss, and went out her office door.

  Twenty seconds later, she came bursting in, slightly flushed with a big, open smile. “That was great,” she said. “The perfect way to, what, shift gears?” She stuck out her hand. “Beth Woodland,” she said. “Hi.”

  “Rafferty,” I said, and we shook hands. “Coffee?”

  “Oh, yes, thanks.”

  We went through the coffee-pouring routine—cream? sugar? a mug okay?—and came out the far end seated across from each other, sipping tentatively, and still smiling.

  “So,” she said, “you’re really a detective.”

  “Really am. Wanna see my blackjack collection?”

  “No, that’ll be all right.”

  Honeybutt—Beth Woodland, dammit! I’d have to watch that—Beth had not changed physically when she came from her office into mine. She had the same shortish brown hair, the same heart-shaped face, and the same nice figure I’d admired bending over filing cabinets for years. But she wasn’t quite the same, not really. It was hard to explain.

  “Tell me something,” Beth said. “About a year ago, there were three men in here. One of them was angry, I think, and he pointed at you. Then you got up and …” She looked at me closely. “Did you really break his finger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” She held her coffee mug with both hands, up close to her lips, and she took small sips as we talked.

  “He threatened the woman I love. I broke his finger to show him how seriously I take threats about Hilda.”

  “Would he have really hurt her? If you hadn’t done that?”

  “I don’t know. From what I learned later, probably not, but I couldn’t take the chance.”

  A small sip, then, “So you’d do it again.”

  “In a New York minute,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, a … what?”

  “A New York minute. Smallest known unit of time. Busy, busy, rush, rush.”

  “Oh,” she said, and smiled. “You know, I’m not as uncomfortable as I thought I’d be. It’s funny, though. After four-and-a-half years on each side of that window, but not … Ron—that’s my husband—Ron said maybe I should ask someone else if I felt that way, but I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “Well, uh, Beth,” I said, “what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry. The problem is Thorney, my great-uncle.”

  I was still trying to work out what a great-uncle was when Beth said, “He’s my grandmother’s brother. Her older brother, in fact. Thorney’s eighty years old. He’ll be eighty in a few months, anyway.”

  “Okay, now I know his age and his name is Thorney—”

  Beth cut in. “Sorry! Ron says I always start in the middle somewhere. His full name is Walter J. Thorneycroft.” She smiled fondly. “But don’t ever call him Walter. He hates it.”

  “Got that. And what exactly is Thorney’s problem?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course. A couple of nights ago, Thorney took his rifle out onto the porch and shot at the neighborhood kids.”

  Chapter 7

  Beth Woodland sighed and said, “At least Thorney didn’t hit any of those kids. He says he missed deliberately. He’s such a … a capable old fossil he might be telling the truth.”

  “Maybe he is,” I said. “You don’t always shoot to kill.”

  “But if he can still shoot that accurately, it means he could hit one of them anytime he wanted.”

  “Mi
ssing is always easier than hitting, no matter how good you are. But I see what you mean.” I gathered up our coffee cups and poured another round. “Anybody call the cops?” I said.

  “Oh, yes,” she said bitterly. “Thorney’s wonderful neighbors didn’t waste a second calling the police.”

  “I take it he wasn’t charged.”

  “No. Thorney told them he’d only fired down into the ground to scare the kids. And maybe he did.” She smiled fondly. “He can be a charmer when he wants to. Anyway, they lectured him for a while and let it go at that. But the older policeman said he’d charge Thorney if it happened again.”

  I handed Beth her fresh coffee. “Here you go, Ho—Beth!” I scuttled behind the desk with my own cup. “I guess you know he could have been charged with anything from discharging a firearm within the city limits to attempted murder, depending on how near the miss was.”

  That cheerful observation clamped her eyebrows down. “I know. Ron said almost the same thing.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “At Thorney’s house. He has an old place a few blocks off Fitzhugh.”

  “I’m not surprised about neighbors calling the cops, then. In the wilds of Highland Park they use lawyers, not guns, on each other.”

  “Thorney’s place is just outside Highland Park, but you’re right. Look, Thorney’s not rich or anything. He bought that house years and years ago with money he made opal-mining in Australia.”

  I grinned at her. “Old Thorney really got around, didn’t he?”

  Beth shook her head. It was an amazed shake, not a negative shake. “You have no idea,” she said. “Anyway, the house is smaller and not as well kept as the rest of the block, but it’s no dump. It’s just that Thorney lives alone and he’s old and, well, the other people practically encourage their kids to pick on him.”

  “That’s why he took a shot at them?”

  She nodded rapidly. “Right. Oh, I hope you didn’t think he just—No, the old guy put up with a lot before he fought back, bless his heart. Even so, he shouldn’t have shot at them, of course.” She took a quick swig of her coffee and put it down. “There’s this gang of kids, they’re, oh, probably thirteen or fourteen years old. They’re decent-enough kids, I suppose, most of them. But there is one, a boy named Gortner. He’s a little older, apparently, and he’s the troublemaker. His father is some political bigwig, and the kid thinks he can get away with anything.”

  “What have they been doing to bug Thorney?”

  “Well, most of it is pretty juvenile. Or it was at first, anyway. Soaping windows, throwing toilet paper around, annoying phone calls, that sort of thing. But now they’ve started breaking things and throwing paint. Thorney got upset and …” She shrugged helplessly.

  “What did he shoot at them with?” I said.

  “An old rifle he’s had for years. A Krag? Is that the name of a rifle?”

  “I’ll be damned. Old is the operative word, all right.”

  Beth nodded. “Krag is probably right, then. Ron and I took it away from him. It’s at home, in the closet.”

  “You know,” I said, “he probably did fire into the ground. Lotta houses and people out there; if he didn’t aim for dirt, he’d have hit something.”

  “Oh, good. I think. Anyway, will you help him?”

  “Sure, if I can.”

  Beth Woodland beamed. “Tremendous. That would be great.”

  I put on my stern, client-admonishing look. Despite what Hilda says about that expression, I find it effective. “Beth. Listen carefully. I cannot arrest those kids. I may not be able to keep them from bothering Thorney in the future. But, if worse comes to worst and Thorney pops off another round or whatever, you’ll have my reports as evidence of harassment. Thorney’s lawyer could plead provocation. Okay?”

  She nodded solemnly.

  “And,” I said, “who knows? Maybe when the kids see me putzing around the edges of this thing, it will cool them down a little.”

  “Thank you. And what do you charge?”

  Uh-oh. That added an interesting element. I didn’t think this would take more than a few hours; charging her like she was a stranger just didn’t seem right. But then again, not charging her might be …

  Hell with it. Rafferty’s Rule Thirty-One: When in doubt, dodge. “I’ll have to get a feel for what’s involved. I’ll let you know.”

  Beth looked at me oddly but didn’t say anything.

  “So,” I said, “I’ll drop by and see Thorney this afternoon or evening. I have another little project scheduled for today, and …”

  “Make it this evening,” she said. “I’ll meet you there. I’d better introduce you. And I still have to think of a way to sell the idea to Thorney.”

  She gave me the address and we agreed on a time. She was leaving; was halfway out the door, in fact, when she turned back.

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said, “but I have to ask this. Not knowing is killing me. A while ago, you started to call me something, then you caught yourself and stopped.” She looked me right in the eye; a little smile flashed on and off her mouth. “Tell the truth now. Before today, before we just met, had you made up a name for me?”

  “A name? What kind of thing is that to—”

  “Because—oh, God, this is embarrassing—I had a name for you. Then. Before now, I mean.”

  “Oh.”

  We looked at each other for several seconds, then she said, “I’ll tell you yours if you’ll tell me mine.”

  “Well …”

  “Please?” she said.

  “Honeybutt,” I said.

  She giggled. “Hotstud McGoodbuns,” she said, and turned and strode briskly away. As she rounded the corner down the hall, I heard Beth whoop with laughter.

  Looking through the big window, I saw her enter her office. She seemed to be chuckling. She went straight to her desk and jauntily sat down. She picked up a letter or something, then caught me looking at her. She waggled her fingers, smiled, and turned her attention to the letter.

  Even though she was reading the letter very, very intently, her shoulders kept jiggling up and down. Just a little bit, but they were definitely jiggling.

  I, on the other hand, had mentally moved on to other business. Places to go, people to see, things to do. I looked up the address for Aqua-Tidy Pool Service, switched off the coffeepot and left. Briskly. Seriously.

  Hotstud McGoodbuns?

  Goddamn.

  Chapter 8

  I thought I had written down the wrong address. I had expected to find Aqua-Tidy Pool Service on a noisy thoroughfare crowded with used-car lots and furniture discounters.

  This, very much on the other hand, was suburbia. Circa 1950, with lawns and trees and sidewalks, all that old-fashioned stuff they tend to leave out now, but definitely suburbia.

  I was probably lost. Still, it seemed to be a nice neighborhood for it.

  The street number I’d copied from the phone book was a small two-story frame house with a porch that ran all the way across the front. There were no business signs on the house or in the yard. There was a garage, though, a big garage, with what appeared to be several drums stored in it. Chemicals, Sherlock? Perhaps.

  I pulled in to the curb, stopped, and got out of the car. As I walked away from the Mustang, a brief, ominous hiss came from under the hood. It sounded like something expensive might happen soon. Maybe this was not a good time to be working on simultaneous, financially bereft, cases.

  The house was painted a very pale yellow color, like a white watercolor but the brush hadn’t been quite clean. That sounds strange, but it looked nice. The planked floor of the front porch had a reasonably fresh coat of that old-timey battleship gray paint. Nostalgia City.

  I knocked, still wondering exactly what I expected to accomplish here. Even if this was, in fact, the long-lost corporate headquarters of Aqua-Ti—

  “Hey, man, whachoo want?” It was a deep voice, so downtown angry soul brother it was almost satirical. It came
from a scowling black face awkwardly poked through an open window a half-dozen steps down the long porch.

  I started along the porch toward him. “Good morning.” How’s that for a catchy ad-lib?

  He shook his head angrily. “You stay righ theah, whitey!”

  I stopped. “I’m looking for a company called Aqua-Tidy. This is the right address, but …”

  “Ah knowed it. Damn! Wha kinda humbug roust you gonna lay on …” He scowled again—or still—but differently now. “You from the council?” he said. “You don’t dress like you from the council.”

  “I have no idea what council employees wear on house calls,” I said, “but I believe my ensemble makes its own bold and personal fashion statement.” I was wearing old jeans, older desert boots, and a polo shirt. I couldn’t remember which little animal that particular shirt had on it; a warthog, possibly, or something equally silly.

  “Wait a minute,” the black man said, and he gingerly pulled his head inside the window. He seemed to have a certain amount of difficulty in doing that.

  A full two minutes went by before he opened the front door.

  He was in a wheelchair. He wore beige canvas trousers which did not disguise his emaciated legs or the stiff, awkward way they were folded to one side of the wheelchair. His face was smooth and calm now, about eight notches down the anger scale from his recent window performance. His upper body was slender, but strong-looking, and he, too, wore a polo shirt.

  I pointed at his left chest, looked at my own, and said, “Aw, hell, you win. You’ve got a beaver. Beaver beats warthog; warthog beats penguin—”

  “Come on in,” he said. “Don’t know who the hell you are, but none of those turkeys from the council have a sense of humor, so you must be somebody else.” He spun the chair around and wheeled himself down a hallway toward the back of the house. I followed him.

  “Rafferty,” I said. “I’m a private cop and this has nothing to do with you personally.”