Allan Leverone - Postcards from the Apocalypse

Her dead husband had been a highly successful real estate lawyer in the process of downsizing his business; spooling it down to a three-day-a-week enterprise in order to semi-retire while still retaining the ability to earn an income. According to Lillian, Martin came home from work three days ago, ate dinner, and then immediately went back out, telling his wife only that he needed to do a favor for his longtime secretary, whose daughter had found herself in some sort of unspecified trouble.

Martin refused to divulge any further information to his wife. “He didn’t want to worry me,” she said tearfully, before blowing her nose and wiping her eyes. “It was the last time I saw him alive.”

“But you’re certain he wasn’t drinking.”

“Of course I’m certain!”

Brick was quiet for a short time, clearly deep in thought. I, too, was quiet, not so much because I was deep in thought but because I hadn’t a clue what to say. Finally my uncle asked, “Had you noticed any change in Martin’s demeanor recently?”

She nodded. “Yes, as a matter of fact I had. He was much happier. The police claim he was despondent over the downturn in his business and that’s why he jumped off that building, but that’s just a bunch of bunk. He was thrilled to be cutting back his workload. He wanted to spend more time with me and the grandkids. Martin was murdered, Mr. Callahan, and I wish to hire you to prove it.”

Brick nodded. “We will take your case, Mrs. Saunders. I don’t know whether Martin was the victim of foul play or not, but I will be happy to look into the matter for you. Now, about our fee—“

“I have plenty of money,” the brand-new widow replied, “and I would be more than happy to spend it all, if that’s what it takes, to find out what happened to my Martin, and to bring his murderers to justice.”

“I don’t think bankrupting you will be necessary,” Brick answered. “Is there anything else you can think of that might be helpful?”

“Only this,” she said, handing a small white object to my uncle. “The police returned it with Martin’s things when they closed the case following their so-called investigation. I’ve never seen it before, and can only assume he picked it up while he was out and about on the night he was killed.”

Brick glanced at it for just a moment before handing it to me and escorting the distraught woman to the door. I examined it as he offered his assurances that we would get to the bottom of the matter, and sooner rather than later. The object was an ordinary matchbook, plain white, and on the front was emblazoned the words, The Little Devilz. The “i” in “Devilz” was printed to resemble a pitchfork, and holding the pitchfork was a cartoon devil, horns sprouting from his head, leering madly at the world.

The rest of the matchbook was entirely unadorned, front and back. It was plainly a cheap promotional item, undoubtedly manufactured by the thousands, and I had no idea what use it might be to us. I stuck it in my pocket as Brick returned.

“Let’s take a drive,” was all he said.

The murdered man’s secretary was named Madge Simpson, and I couldn’t help but picture the blue-haired mother from the long-running animated television show with the same last name as we navigated the busy city streets. Brick drove, as always.

You might think an eighty year old man would be overmatched mixing it up with Boston’s notoriously aggressive drivers, but not Uncle Brick. His driving style, if you could call it that, was to go wherever he wanted whenever he wanted, changing lanes seemingly at random, squeezing his silver Mercedes into spaces that seemed much too small for a Matchbox toy, much less a real, eighty thousand dollar automobile. When he drove, he left in his wake a nearly-continuous cacophony of angry honking horns, with a full slate of shaking fists and protruding middle fingers tossed in for good measure. He seemed blissfully unaware.

We pulled into a tiny driveway outside a small, single-family home in Revere, a gritty blue-collar city located just north of Boston, not far from Logan Airport. The pavement was rutted and cracked, badly in need of repair, a clear testament to a down economy and a family with more pressing monetary priorities than a repaved driveway. The intense heat struck like a fist as we exited the air-conditioned car and walked to the front door. The neighborhood seemed deserted and the heavy air felt moist and dirty and somehow ominous.

Madge Simpson opened the door, looking nothing like I had pictured. She was short and squat, close-cropped auburn hair framing a wide, remarkably unlined face. My uncle introduced us, telling her we were investigating the death of her boss and she smiled, the act more a display of dogged determination than genuine good humor. She was clearly stressed, working hard to hold herself together.

Mrs. Simpson invited us into her shabby but squeaky-clean living room and we took seats around a butcher-block style coffee table, Brick sitting in an overstuffed easy chair and me taking a seat next to the frazzled woman on the couch. Without waiting for a question, she exclaimed, “I feel so guilty about poor Mr. Saunders. Whatever happened to him was all my fault!”

I waited for my uncle to take the lead in questioning Mrs. Simpson. I figured his half-century of experience in private investigations probably trumped my half-month. “Mr. Saunders’ widow,” Brick began, “is convinced her husband did not commit suicide. She said he left home immediately after dinner last Friday night to handle some sort of business for you involving your daughter, is that right?”

“That’s exactly right. And you want to know what he was doing.”

“It would seem to be the key to unraveling this mystery, wouldn’t you agree?”

The woman sighed, the sound deep and heartfelt, her despondence clear. “Of course,” she answered, and then was silent for a moment.

“It’s just that I didn’t know where else to turn” she finally continued. “I went to the police about my situation first and they did nothing, so I simply asked Mr. Saunders if, what with his legal background and all, he might take a look into the matter himself. You know, maybe throw his lawyerly weight around a little.”

Brick smiled politely and nodded, as if this cleared everything up in his mind. I had no idea what the woman was talking about and I assumed neither did Brick, but I had learned a long time ago you could never be too sure with Brick Callahan.

“I see. And what matter would that be?” Phew. My uncle was as confused as I was; he was just better at hiding it. I hoped that once I developed a little experience in this mystifying world of private investigations, I would be better able to roll with the punches, too. At least these punches were figurative ones rather than literal. So far.

“It’s my daughter, Phoebe,” she said to Brick. “You see, she’s only fifteen and she’s turned into quite a handful. She’s a good girl, really, but she’s at such a difficult age. Anyway, Phoebe and I have been fighting recently and, well, she ran away a couple of weeks ago. I recently discovered she has been hired as a dancer at one of those… those awful… adult entertainment places.”

“ Your fifteen year old daughter is a stripper?”

I couldn’t help it; I blurted it out before my brain even realized what my traitorous mouth was saying. I mean, in fairness to me, that was the last thing I had expected to hear. Brick shot me a look like I had just set my hair on fire and he couldn’t wait to douse it with gasoline.

He apologized to the woman before I could even react while I made a mental note not to say another word until we were back in the safety of the office. Judging from the look on Brick’s face I thought even that might be pushing my luck.