Three Twisted Stories Part 3

Charlie scowled, because he thought even a lady cop would be smarter than to play this kind of trick. Besides, she'd already caught him in a lie. He'd all but admitted he was there.

She said, "Finkelmeyer's wife took that picture five years ago before it all went to h.e.l.l for him. Look at his eyes. Maybe that'll jog your memory?"

Charlie gave a perfunctory glance, then he did a double take. The eyes were startlingly blue. The same blue as the homeless man's.

He leaned closer.

Finkelmeyer's jawline was hard and clean-shaven, but Charlie could easily imagine what he'd look like with a full beard, his hair grown wild, his skin unwashed.

He would look exactly like a white version of the homeless man.

Charlie said, "That can't be right."

"Not surprised you didn't recognize him." She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. "After what happened to him." She tapped the pack against the heel of her hand. "Five years ago."

Charlie could hear the blood pulsing through his arteries. "What happened?"

"Not sure. Something bad. He went from being a successful businessman to living on the streets."

Charlie got a lump in his throat.

You're gonna end up just like me.

The cop lit her cigarette. She dropped the match into the ashtray on the coffee table. She blew a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. "We looked into it. Don't worry, the fact that he was keeping books for Mike Thevis had nothing to do with his downfall. I'm sure you know that people who screw over Thevis end up dead in the gutter, not living on the streets."

The lump in Charlie's throat turned to sand. He coughed around the fine particles.

"You've heard of Thevis. He did that movie. What's it called?"

The first cop provided, "Deep Throat," and Charlie startled. He had forgotten she was standing by the door.

"Deep Throat." The woman sucked on her cigarette. "You seen it?"

"No," Charlie lied. He put his hand to the back of his neck like he could stop the sweat. "This homeless guy-Finkelmeyer. He was a successful businessman before?"

She smiled, obviously pleased with his reaction. "That's right. He had a bunch of fleabag motels, rented rooms by the hour. Girls in and out all the time, if you get my meaning."

"He was a pimp?"

"Only black men are pimps. Finkelmeyer was a slumlord. He rented to hippies and students, but his big business was giving the pimps a place to do business." She shrugged. "Worked out fine until he got greedy. Crossed the wrong people. Bunch of pimps got together and burned down all his motels. He ended up homeless. Kind of funny when you think about it."

Charlie didn't see what was funny.

"Slumlord ends up homeless."

Charlie realized he was sitting on the edge of the couch. The photograph was in his hand, though he didn't remember taking it. He looked down at Melvin Finkelmeyer. The man's skin was almost as white as Charlie's. Maybe it was the dirt and the grime of the street that had made the guy look black. Maybe it was his life being s.n.a.t.c.hed out from under him. He had a wife. He had kids. And then he had nothing.

Charlie asked the picture, "What happened?"

There was a loud bang in the bedroom. Both cops put their hands on their guns.

"Jesus Christ, how long is this gonna take?" his girlfriend asked through the door. "I need some cigarettes."

The two cops exchanged a look. They didn't take their hands off their guns.

"The store's two blocks up the street," she whined. "Come on."

The first cop walked across the room and opened the door.

Charlie's girlfriend almost fell into the room.

The cop offered, "I'll walk you to the store."

"I'm not a dog."

"You want your cigarettes or not?"

Charlie watched her lower lip stick out like she was three. But she needed her smokes, so she walked toward the door. She slowed down long enough to give Charlie a wink, like he hadn't told her ten minutes ago that he was leaving her.

Maybe he wasn't. She'd changed into a new dress. The material was clingy. He could see the perfect crest of her a.s.s. She was wearing high heels that made her calves flex like cut stone.

"Radio if you need me," the first cop called. The door clicked shut behind them.

The room went quiet. The second cop was sitting close to him, their knees almost touching. Neither one of them said anything. Charlie could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. He thought about the knife in his pocket.

"So," the cop said. "You wanna tell me what you were really doing at the dry cleaner's today?"

He crossed his leg to put some s.p.a.ce between them. There was a twinge in his back. Charlie uncrossed his leg. He crossed the other one. The twinge didn't go away.

She prompted, "The dry cleaner's. What were you doing there?"

"Had to pick up a suit."

"Like the one you're wearing?"

Charlie shrugged.

"That's a nice suit, is all I'm saying. It's got good lines. Especially across the shoulders."

Charlie felt a rush of heat go to his face. What the h.e.l.l did that mean? Was she saying his shoulders were wide? Or that they weren't? He crossed his arms over his chest. He could feel his jacket pulling tight across his back.

The cop said, "Salmeri's in Midtown, you're up near Buckhead, right? Your dealers.h.i.+p's two blocks from Carriage Cleaners."

He shrugged. "So?"

"So, what's a guy like you doing in that part of town?"

He picked a piece of lint off his pant leg. "The price is cheaper than on the Northside."

"Still." She put her hand over his. "You drive up in that fancy car of yours wearing your good suit, people see that and think ..."

"Think what?"

"Think you're looking for trouble."

Charlie pressed his back against the couch. Her hand moved to his thigh. This was getting crazy. He said, "Listen, lady. I can take care of myself."

"Lady?" She chuckled. "Come on, Charlie. We're all friends here. You can call me by my name."

"I don't-" Charlie had to stop so he could swallow. "I don't remember your name."

She gave him a crooked grin. "Don't worry, sweetheart. After tonight, you'll never, ever forget it."

APRIL 6, 1974.

Chapter Four.

Charlie paced back and forth across his office floor. His head was pounding. He felt hungover. His body ached. He felt scared. There was no other way to explain it. He was safe in his office. The door was locked. But he still felt scared.

He wanted to put yesterday out of his mind. The task was impossible. He'd tried all night, but the minute he closed his eyes, an image would pop into his head. Smas.h.i.+ng into Finkelmeyer's shopping cart. Watching the blood spurt when the knife was pulled out. Grabbing onto the arm of the couch when the detective straddled him. The awful, humiliating things she had done to him while her partner was right outside the door.

"s.h.i.+t!" A sudden, sharp pain cut through Charlie's gut. He pushed open the door and ran toward the bathroom in a crouch. He wasn't going to make it to the end of the hall. At the last minute, he darted into the ladies' room.

"G.o.d!" Charlie knelt in front of the toilet. The cold concrete floor pressed into his knees. He was sweating, but he was cold. He stared into the still water inside the toilet. He wanted to throw up, but nothing would come. A drop of saliva sent ripples to the edges of the porcelain bowl. The cramping subsided, but his bladder started to spasm. Charlie couldn't stand up. He got on his knees. He pulled down his pants. He screamed as it felt like a razor blade was pa.s.sing through his d.i.c.k.

The urine was yellow, then pink, then bright red.

"s.h.i.+t." As if last night wasn't bad enough. Now he had some kind of G.o.dd.a.m.n VD.

"Hey." Deacon knocked on the door. "You okay in there, bud?"

Charlie winced from pain as he forced out the last dribble of blood. He sat back on his knees. He was panting. His hands were still trembling.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Just gimme a minute." Charlie put his hand to his stomach. The cramps weren't going away, but he was getting used to them. Maybe he needed to take a s.h.i.+t. Charlie sat on the toilet.

Nothing.

He stood up and flushed the toilet. He went to the sink. The faucet groaned when he turned the handle. He let it run for a few seconds. He splashed cold water onto his face. He looked into the mirror. Jesus, he looked awful. His face was as ashen as Finkelmeyer's. At least he was clean-shaven. Charlie ran his fingers along his chin. He felt a tender spot. He leaned in closer to the mirror.

"What the h.e.l.l?" He had a pimple on his chin. What had that broad done to him?

"Mr. Lam?"

Again, Charlie cursed under his breath. His secretary. "What is it?"

"There's a man here to see you." She lowered her voice. "He's black."

Charlie closed his eyes. This was the last thing he needed.

"Mr. Lam?"

"Put him in my office."

Charlie turned on the faucet again. He held his fingers under the cold water. He didn't want to look at himself in the mirror, but he had to. His hair was more gray now than it was the day before. His lips looked so pale they were almost white. There were bags under his eyes.

He wanted to lie down on the couch in his office and rest, but he knew that he couldn't. Not least of all because one of Thevis's guys was being shown to his office. The commissioner or the judge or the deputy wasn't used to waiting.

Charlie checked the front of his pants. There was no blood, but he couldn't take the chance. He rolled some toilet tissue around his hand and shoved it down the front of his underwear.

Now he had to wash his hands again. There were still pieces of dried blood under his fingernails. He rubbed the bar of soap between his palms. Lilacs. Charlie smelled the soap. It was like a garden or something. He looked around the small room. It was a h.e.l.l of a lot nicer than the men's room. Someone had put a s.h.a.g rug in front of the sink. There was a vase of fresh flowers on a side table. Magazines were neatly stacked underneath it.

Cosmopolitan. The model on the front cover looked familiar. Charlie wiped his hands on a towel that matched the rug. He picked up the magazine. He thumbed through the pages looking for the chick's name, but stopped when he saw an ad for Max Factor. He tore out the page, folded it into a square, and stuck it in his pocket.

Deacon was waiting for him when he opened the door.

"What are you doing in the ladies' room?"

"None of your business." Charlie said a silent prayer of thanks to G.o.d, because touching a Cosmopolitan in the ladies' room was a h.e.l.l of a lot more hygienic than touching one in the men's room.

He warned his brother, "Stay out of there. It's nice. You'll just stink it up."

Deacon waved off the concern. "Look, the Mustang. You got fifteen hundred in it, right?"

Charlie shook his head. "Two grand, plus I should probably get that oil leak fixed."

"No, you told me fifteen yesterday."

Charlie didn't just remember the conversation. He knew what he had in every single car on the lot. "I said two g's."

"You're losing your mind, buddy. It was fifteen hundred. I was standing right here when you told me."

"Why aren't you listening to me? I told you it's two thousand. Two thousand, Deacon. Not fifteen hundred. Two thousand."

Deacon held up his hands like Charlie was going to jump him. "Jesus, pal, what crawled up your a.s.s?"

Charlie couldn't do this right now. "You got some aspirin?"

Deacon pulled a Goody's powder from his pocket. "What's going on with you lately? You'd forget your head if it wasn't strapped to your neck."