Reed Coleman - Little Easter

I didn’t doubt it.

“Johnny,” the giant continued, reaching for a bottle of Murphy’s Irish, “only had one blind spot.”

“The girl,” I offered.

“The girl,” he accepted with a nod. “I tried warning him off her, but Johnny was a kid. Kids don’t listen. See him,” pickle face pointed to an ornately framed photo of an elephant-eared boy in Marine blues. “That was my son. Told him not to join up. Coulda gotten him onto the force, but kids don’t listen. Got himself killed during Tet. It killed his mother too.” The bitter man lobbed his shot glass at the photo and missed.

“What about the girl?” I tried to snap O’Toole out of his foggy reminiscence.

“Don’t know that much about her,” red-nose admitted, drinking directly from the bottle. “Johnny was smart enough not to discuss her around me once he figured I disapproved. That’s-”

“Disapproved,” I cut in. “Why?”

“She was someone else’s toy. And from what I could sniff out, that someone else was family connected. Do you get my meaning?”

“Mafia.”

“Bingo, boy. You win a drink. Here,” he stuck the Murphy’s in my fist.

I didn’t want a drink, but I plugged the bottle with my tongue and made believe. The tip of my tongue didn’t like it, but the rest of me appreciated the pantomime.

“The bitch was a Jew to boot,” the giant grabbed the bottle back.

Maybe something showed on my face. I don’t know, but O’Toole squinted at me.

“What’s your name anyways?” He tried dressing the question up with an air of nonchalance, but his self-consciousness was showing.

“Klein. Dylan Klein,” I replied with as little affect as possible.

He just smirked, threw up his free palm and raised his brows. That was as much of an apology as I was going to get. And I wasn’t about to push him. I couldn’t afford to plug the the only pumping well I’d struck so far. So what if he wasn’t a flower child. Besides, hate was probably all he had left. I was so good at rationalization.

“So she was a wiseguy’s girl and she didn’t take communion.” I put us back on track. “What else? What about Johnny Blue?”

“There ain’t much else,” he took a small ocean of a drink. “The Johnny Blue stuff was a code thing between ‘em. Like I said, Johnny knew I disapproved. So she’d leave notes at the precinct house for Johnny Blue or Johnny Green. I didn’t make detective,” the booze was making him repeat things now, “but even I could figure that one color meant the coast was clear and the other was a warning.”

“Anything else?” I pumped some more.

“See him?” O’Toole was pointing at his son’s picture again. “Kids-

“-don’t listen,” I finished. “Johnny and the girl,” I prodded.

“Right,” he tried licking the bottom of the bottle. “Kids don’t listen. Coulda gotten him onto the force.”

I figured the well was running dry as the Murphy’s and my time had come to leave. I planted one of my old business cards in his shirt pocket and reminded him to ignore the office number. I thanked him and asked him to call if anything, no matter how insignificant, about Johnny and the girl came to mind.

“Did I tell ya the cunt was a matzoh eater?” he smiled that evil-toothed smile up at me. His blue eyes were as glazed as a holiday ham. “Hey, get me a beer, fella, huh?”

“Yeah, you told me about the girl,” I assured him, popping open a Coors. “Sleep tight,” I handed him the beer knowing he would. I started for the front door.

“Crazy,” the sour cop’s voice boomed to my back.

I considered not turning to him, but I don’t always pay atttention to what I’m thinking. “What?” I shouted.

“Crazy, I’m crazy for feelin’ so lonely,” the giant sang in a queer falsetto. “Johnny was always singin’ that. I told ya.” He hadn’t. “The kid had some good pipes on him. I got him right outta the academy; greener than clover. .”

I closed the door quietly behind me as the scarlet-nosed giant ate at his bitter heart and finished his drunken tape loop of stories.

The only thing working hard the next morning was my dialing finger. O’Toole had finally given me some meat for my table. But when you spilled out all the fat and reduced it over high heat, there really wasn’t much to chew on. I’d gotten just enough to eat to let let me know how hungry I really was.

I punched up Larry Feld’s office. Much to my chagrin, his secretary was still alive. She didn’t exactly treat my call like the second coming, but Mary managed to put me through before any more of my hair turned gray or fell out. I knew it was in my head, but the phone got cold against my ear when Larry spoke. I bit my lip and thanked the man for his guide to the Diamond Exchange and the list of Johnny’s cop mates. Before he could ask, I admitted both seeds had borne fruit. Larry lied about being happy to help. Larry didn’t understand happy, but even at this distance I could hear him tallying up the payback. Larry understood debt. I decided to increase mine.

There was just one more little favor I had to ask. I gave him as much as I could about Kate Barnum. I needed to know more. I needed to know why she was dumped from the Times. I wanted the inside skinny on her husband’s suicide. I needed to know about any dirt, about anything that could hurt or stop her. Larry didn’t respond immediately, but I could swear I heard his fangs clicking against the phone. Larry didn’t have to ask why. He understood about blackmail and painting people into corners. Some people painted corners of their own.

Kate Barnum’s number came quickly enough to my finger. I’d just dictated it to Larry. I got in half a ring before her smoky voice interrupted.

“Your hand surgically attached to the phone?”

“God,” she coughed, “I wish I could be so witty. Do you think you could teach me?” Barnum moved on without waiting for my answer. “I got prelims on the deceased bird collector. Want it now or in person?” This time she waited.

“Give me the basics now and we can get particular later,” I spoke, expecting the dead woman to have; ‘. . some kinda funny name. Something biblical. An-drella, maybe.’ That’s what O’Toole had prepared me for. It’s not what I got.

“Carlene Carstead. 1422 General Lee Boulevard, Biloxi, Mississippi. Forty-four years of age. Unmarried. No children. Assistant manager Dixieland Pig and Whistle, 2001 Delta Avenue, Biloxi. .”

She droned on like that for some time. I’m not sure when I stopped paying attention. My mind was racing fast enough to lap itself. I tried recalling the dead woman’s made-up orange face and her self-possessed tone of voice when asking for Johnny Blue. Somehow my recollections of her didn’t add up to the deep south. South Brooklyn maybe, but not the deep south.

“Do you have a place of birth down there?” I shouted into the mouthpiece.

“Wait. . Yeah, right here; Baptist and Saviour Hospital, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 4/1/45. Why?” Barnum had picked up on my frantic curiosity for a fact which shouldn’t have mattered much.

“Nothin’,” I did my best stage yawn.

“Nothing my ass, Klein,” the reporter didn’t care much for my acting.

“Speaking of your ass. .” I injected, trying another tack.

“Later. Tonight around eight?” she agreed too readily, figuring she’d have more success with me in person.

“Eight it is. Make me up a copy of your little fact sheet. Okay?”

“It’ll be here. Klein!” she screamed, sensing me about to hang up.

“Yeah?” I pulled the phone back to my ear.

“What do you suppose a glorified grocery clerk from Biloxi was doing in Sound Hill, Long Island, New York on Christmas Eve? And what do you suppose she did to make someone mad enough at her to blow an access road through her skull and then pave it with golden feathers? Klein,” she paused, waiting for an answer that wasn’t forthcoming. “You’re not the only mathematician in town. Pretty soon the whole neighborhood’s gonna be working on this equation. I’ve already started putting some twos and twos together myself.”