Ace Atkins - Devil’s garden

“No.”

“Are you trying to frame me? Because if you are, I’ll tell them about every goddamn con we worked together. I’ll sing Hallelujah, you fucking rat bastard, as the stern slips beneath the waves.”

“Poetic.”

“They know.”

“I told the cops I’d taken Virginia’s clothes because they looked like nice rags to wash my machine.”

“And they bought that crock?”

“Come again? Bad connection.”

“They bought it?”

“I think so,” Al said. “But I have to come to Frisco and testify to the grand jury.”

“Me, too.”

“We should talk. You know, before.”

“What the hell are we doing now?”

“I’ll call when my train arrives.”

“Al?”

“Yeah?”

“If you fuck me, I won’t think twice about bringing us both down.”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. If I fuck you, I’ll kiss you first.”

“You call me sweetie again and I’ll bust your head wide-open.”

Maude rang off and put the earpiece back on the hook. She walked to the basin and placed a washcloth in some cool water, running the cloth over the back of her neck and her brow and looking at herself in a little mirror. She smiled, admiring her full fanny. She snatched a wide-brimmed black hat off the bed and adjusted it on her head to convey the proper tilt for mourning and took the washcloth to wipe off the paint from her eyes and mouth and bare breasts. A black dress that ran straight to her ankles hung on a hook on the door.

She practiced a few mournful looks until she heard a knock at the door. Staring out the peephole, she saw that gigantic policewoman, Katherine Eisenhart, standing in the hall with a bouquet of flowers.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up.”

Maude nodded and opened the door, taking the dress from the hook, only wearing her bloomers and stockings. “You’re too kind,” she said so softly.

“Have you even eaten?”

“I’ve tried, but no.”

Katherine walked to the windows, cracking open the frame to let in some cool air. “We have an hour till you’re to appear. My God, it’s so warm in here.”

“I’m so nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I’ve never spoken before such a group.”

“Just tell the truth, Mrs. Delmont.”

Maude watched big Kate fanning her face with her hand, a healthy flush in the big woman’s cheeks. Maude cocked her head and loosely fingered herself across her chest and belly, taking off the hat and pulling the sweaty black hair off the nape of her neck. She used her hands to brace herself against the window frame, letting the cool air come off the bay, nipples growing erect.

“You are such a great friend, Miss Eisenhart.”

“You can call me Kate, ma’am. Most everyone does.”

“Just how does someone so sweet become a policewoman?”

“Mrs. Delmont, the assistant manager, Mr. Boyle, has been asking me questions about your bill here. He said that you’ve said the San Francisco Police Department has put you up. I told him that he was surely mistaken, but he said that you had hung up in his face. I know he must be exaggerating his point, but I must let you know.”

Kate let her question hang there, making the rest of it seem indelicate. Maude loved women who still thought about indelicate subjects.

Maude sat on the bed, crossed her stockinged legs, leaned back on her elbows, and stared down at her perked nipples as if just noticing them and laughing as if a secret shared between two sisters. Kate looked as if she’d swallowed an entire egg.

“IF My PARTNER KNEW I was meeting you here, he’d eat my liver out with a side of onions,” Tom Reagan said.

“I wouldn’t eat your liver, Tom. I guess it’s pretty used up.”

“Funny, Sam,” Reagan said. “What do you want?”

“I came to watch the sea lions wrestle. You know, they look just like dogs to me. Look at that tough old bastard up on that rock. He looks like someone has taken a few good ole chomps out of his hide.”

“I can’t talk about Arbuckle.”

“And I don’t want you to talk about Arbuckle.”

Sam leaned into the railing of Pier 56, mashing the last of his cigarette against the wood and losing it in the waves beating the crusty pilings. He lit another and stared thoughtfully at the pilings, waiting a few beats before he was going to get to the point, but instead of great timing he found himself in the middle of a coughing fit that nearly brought him to his knees. He covered his mouth, splattering the cotton with phlegm and blood, and hearing bigheaded Tom Reagan say, “Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.”

“No need to say his name twice,” Sam said, recovering. “God hears you the first time.”

“You never told me you were a lunger.”

“You never asked.”

“Worse in the cold.”

“Doesn’t help.”

Tom was dressed in his city detective tweeds and no cap. His boots were shined and his milky Irish skin was so clean-shaven the blood vessels across his cheeks and nose glowed blue.

“Why would someone conduct an autopsy without permission?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

“You got to bring the man’s family into it? I’m just being hypothetical, Tom.”

“No, you’re calling in your marker for saving my ass in the train yards.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“Why?”

Tom peered down at the waves beating the pilings and out at two sea lions barking at each other and play-biting mouths before one did a somersault back into the bay.

He shrugged. “We don’t know.”

“But you wouldn’t have known about the girl dying or thought of it as a murder without that anonymous tip. Could it have been Delmont?”

“The call came from the hospital. It was a nurse.”

“Can I get a copy of the report?”

“It will all be handed over after the grand jury sees it today.”

“Did you at least ask for a second opinion? Did the coroner look at the body?”

“He did.”

“Tom?”

Tom looked skyward and readjusted his coat, making himself stand taller, as if standing at attention. He leaned into Sam’s ear. “It’s tough to make a good inspection when some of the parts are missing from the machine.”

He walked back on the dock toward the Embarcadero.

“Tom?”

The police detective waved back over his shoulder but never turned around.

Sam handed the man his card. “I’ve already spoken to the police, Mr. Hammett.” “You been the hotel dick here long?”

“About a year.”

“Rotten work.”

“You ain’t kidding.”

“You got to play babysitter to the lot of ’em.”

“Sounds like you know.”

“Lots of my jobs have been about the same,” Sam said. “My boss, Phil Geauque, said you were a good egg. Said we always trade out for some fair business.”

The hotel dick, Glennon, pocketed the Pinkerton card in the lobby of the St. Francis and screwed up his face.

“I don’t want to make trouble for you,” Sam said.

“Don’t look too quick over my shoulder, but you see that fat-cheeked fella in the glasses?”

“The one with the scowl?”

“You got it,” Glennon said. “That’s Mr. Boyle. You see, earlier today Mr. Boyle brought in the staff and said he’d fire us if we were even to say the word Arbuckle and to forget that Labor Day even came already.”

“Mr. Boyle doesn’t look like much fun.”

“How’s Mr. Geauque?”

“Soft as a bed of nails.”

Glennon leaned up on the toes of his dress shoes and sucked on a tooth. Loud enough for the lobby to hear, he said, “Mister, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave,” and in a lower voice, “John’s Grill, thirty minutes.”