Good Lord, Deliver Us by John Stockmyer Page B

the card he was
looking for was in the badly sticking third drawer, a card with
Addison's direct dial number on it. (Z would normally have the
number in his head. It was just that, because he never intended
dialing it, he'd never ever looked at it.)
    Kicking the file drawer
shut -- instantly regretting his decision to do that -- taking the card, Z limped
back to his secretary's desk. (Sometime soon, Z had to get a
repairman out to fix the phone on his own desk.)
    In the front part of the office again,
Z eased down on the table top, turned, and dialed the
number.
    One ring. Two ....
    It would be a miracle if Addison was
at his desk, the man ....
    "Addison, here." Proving, like Z's Mom
used to say, that miracles never cease.
    Addison. Short of six-foot
tall. Voice, the rumble of a lion. Cat-quick fingers. A bright guy
who also had a sense of humor and more than the normal ability to
sniff out clues. Plus, surprise of all surprises, a man who was
black as the ace of spades, with teeth like crooked ivory -- the
shine of his teeth (Addison being so black) not a surprise.
    The big jolt was having Addison come to
Z's office last winter and talk like a white man. No jive. No street
hustle. Talked like an educated white man; like Professor Calder talked, for God's
sake!
    "Z," Z finally answered,
realizing instantly that a simple "Z" wouldn't do. He and Addison
hadn't had that much contact with each other. "I mean, this is Bob Zapolska.
Detective. North. The Nelson art theft."
    "I know a Z when I hear
one."
    Smart.
    Like a lot of guys, what Z knew about
blacks was what he saw on TV. Shooting each other; talking some
kind of shit-language. On the other hand, you'd have to be way
stupider than Z to believe what you saw on the tube.
    "I got an interest in something you
might know about," Z started.
    Addison didn't say anything -- a trait
Z liked. The man was patient. Didn't run off at the mouth until
there was something to say.
    "In K.C. North, I hear you
got some ...." Ted's word was bums . "... guys looking for work.
Guys ... disappearing."
    "Right."
    "So, what's the story?"
    "It's someone else's bust.
But I know about it. What's your interest?"
    "Just interested."
    Addison laughed, a sound like icicles
falling off a roof. "Seems to me that when you take an 'interest,'
all hell breaks loose." A reference to last winter's
case.
    "Well ......"
    "I don't want to pry. But, Z, if
you're looking into this, go easy."
    "Something to it?"
    "That's the trouble. There's too
little to it to say for sure. But there's a lot of smoke building
on this one, so much smoke that, if you start walking into it
blind, you could fall into the fire."
    "Yeah."
    "Friend of mine's on this one. Mostly,
on his free time. And he's not happy. He thinks we're taking it too
lightly."
    "Why?"
    "Some homeless men have been reported
missing. All from your area. Maybe all from one place in your
area."
    "Overpass. Antioch and
I-35."
    "You've been doing your homework, I
see." -- said with approval, Addison a "homework" kind of
cop.
    "And that's not all. The worst of it
is that this other cop's got a theory about what's been happening.
Got to digging. Got lucky. You know how it goes?" Z did.
    "Anyway, here's the story.
It seems that a couple of years ago, a Kansas City native attracted
local attention by bragging that he had a machete taped to the
inside door of his car so he could 'help' the police collar
criminals. Got our attention by charging out of his car in downtown Kansas City
and cutting some people. His lawyer pleaded insanity which actually
seems to have been the case, for once. So the nut gets sent to one
of those institutions they've got in New York for the criminally
insane."
    Z thought he remembered
reading something about that in the Star .
    "The thing is, a couple of months ago,
he broke out.
    "The name's Dale Ruble -- though names
seem to change a lot these days. Always have in our
business."
    Our business. Though Z had never been a cop, he was pleased