check and make sure Christy’s pushing daisies. Any other boys that might still be around from his reign of fun.”
I swung back up the Gateswood’s drive. The house and guesthouse were dark. One dim light shone on the walk separating them near Rick’s Ghia. I pulled up behind it and fed my lips a smoke. “So — keeping score,” I said, bringing the glowing lighter to my face, “we’ve got a mouthpiece for Gateswood’s opponent paying an out of town shamus to shadow Gateswood’s sister in law, who had something worth tearing a house apart for, something that lost Gail her head over, maybe something obvious to the right person in those files or that address book. But the ideal man with the ideal motive for the killing, the CF those tattooed initials fit, died in a fire months before. So that leaves blackmail as the motive?”
“Blackmailers often meet a violent demise in the cauldron of their own iniquity. It’s said to make killers out of ordinary men.”
“And beasts out of ordinary killers. The guy who beheaded Gail has to be a beast. Cauldron of their own iniquity? Stop — you’re giving me hives.”
***
The night crept by like a queue of tired mules on a muddy Georgia road. I said goodnight to Rick and planned on heading straight home for a late dinner and an early bed. My head still pounded behind my eyes. Rick took the address book and left the files for me to check over. When I reached for my keys I stopped. The air, still and close. It would rain, and rain pretty hard. Thick black clouds hung heavy over the gables of the house, jutting like sentries. I leaned back and waited for the first drops to fall. When they came they splattered on the Buick’s hood and melted into a downpour.
Julia’s eyes danced in my brain. I had an itch to see her again. Asking about the briefcase and its contents would be a good reason just to watch those eyes again. Whenever I thought of Julia my scar itched too, and I didn’t think that was Dad’s warning. For a dame like Julia I might even consider plastic surgery. My conscience once told me that I’d be scarred deeper than my face if I pushed Molly aside for a skirt like Julia. Why must there always be more than one voice prodding me? Wasn’t Dad’s enough?
The rain stopped as quick as it had started. I drove slowly back to the Gateswood estate. What was in those files and listings dangerous and of enough value to whack Gail’s head off? Had one of Christy French’s few friends waited two long years for revenge? And what about the Antigone angle? What did it really mean? Would Henry know? Questions bounced around my brain until I pulled up in front of the house. I assumed the Gateswoods had gone straight from the airport to some political function because it didn’t look like anyone was home.
Being a private detective is like having a license to be a cop without having a supervisor to tell you when to back off or a pension at risk. You can bend the rules and even stomp all over them as long as you’re quick enough and daring enough to set things right, get out of the way or hand the bad guys to the suit dicks on a silver platter. If you save them work they shrug and leave you be; if you cost them headaches or paperwork they leave marks about your psyche or body. Thank you’s are rare and not worth much at the supermarket anyway. If you cost the shields more work, even though you’re hot on the solution to their most pressing case, you’re a depraved pedophile after their twelve-year-old daughter; you’re a punching bag they can use for a workout.
Most times I do my job, keep my nose clean and let the cops think all the brilliant ideas are theirs. Glory’s not my thing, though I confess the rush of hunting down bad guys is its own reward. Clodhopper, stumbling Angel, always broke, always in the way, always with the wise cracks, eking out a few bucks — it took some work pulling it off but it was the way I wanted Chicago’s finest to think of me
I swung back up the Gateswood’s drive. The house and guesthouse were dark. One dim light shone on the walk separating them near Rick’s Ghia. I pulled up behind it and fed my lips a smoke. “So — keeping score,” I said, bringing the glowing lighter to my face, “we’ve got a mouthpiece for Gateswood’s opponent paying an out of town shamus to shadow Gateswood’s sister in law, who had something worth tearing a house apart for, something that lost Gail her head over, maybe something obvious to the right person in those files or that address book. But the ideal man with the ideal motive for the killing, the CF those tattooed initials fit, died in a fire months before. So that leaves blackmail as the motive?”
“Blackmailers often meet a violent demise in the cauldron of their own iniquity. It’s said to make killers out of ordinary men.”
“And beasts out of ordinary killers. The guy who beheaded Gail has to be a beast. Cauldron of their own iniquity? Stop — you’re giving me hives.”
***
The night crept by like a queue of tired mules on a muddy Georgia road. I said goodnight to Rick and planned on heading straight home for a late dinner and an early bed. My head still pounded behind my eyes. Rick took the address book and left the files for me to check over. When I reached for my keys I stopped. The air, still and close. It would rain, and rain pretty hard. Thick black clouds hung heavy over the gables of the house, jutting like sentries. I leaned back and waited for the first drops to fall. When they came they splattered on the Buick’s hood and melted into a downpour.
Julia’s eyes danced in my brain. I had an itch to see her again. Asking about the briefcase and its contents would be a good reason just to watch those eyes again. Whenever I thought of Julia my scar itched too, and I didn’t think that was Dad’s warning. For a dame like Julia I might even consider plastic surgery. My conscience once told me that I’d be scarred deeper than my face if I pushed Molly aside for a skirt like Julia. Why must there always be more than one voice prodding me? Wasn’t Dad’s enough?
The rain stopped as quick as it had started. I drove slowly back to the Gateswood estate. What was in those files and listings dangerous and of enough value to whack Gail’s head off? Had one of Christy French’s few friends waited two long years for revenge? And what about the Antigone angle? What did it really mean? Would Henry know? Questions bounced around my brain until I pulled up in front of the house. I assumed the Gateswoods had gone straight from the airport to some political function because it didn’t look like anyone was home.
Being a private detective is like having a license to be a cop without having a supervisor to tell you when to back off or a pension at risk. You can bend the rules and even stomp all over them as long as you’re quick enough and daring enough to set things right, get out of the way or hand the bad guys to the suit dicks on a silver platter. If you save them work they shrug and leave you be; if you cost them headaches or paperwork they leave marks about your psyche or body. Thank you’s are rare and not worth much at the supermarket anyway. If you cost the shields more work, even though you’re hot on the solution to their most pressing case, you’re a depraved pedophile after their twelve-year-old daughter; you’re a punching bag they can use for a workout.
Most times I do my job, keep my nose clean and let the cops think all the brilliant ideas are theirs. Glory’s not my thing, though I confess the rush of hunting down bad guys is its own reward. Clodhopper, stumbling Angel, always broke, always in the way, always with the wise cracks, eking out a few bucks — it took some work pulling it off but it was the way I wanted Chicago’s finest to think of me
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