I stopped to grab a fast-food burger, and by the time I finished and drove from Samantha’s to B 52’s in downtown Denver, it was close to seven. I was well past the time that I’d asked Deuce to meet me, but I knew that the pool tables would keep him from missing me. It was Friday, but I was lucky enough to find a parking space in a lot kitty-corner from B 52’s, and I walked the half block down, past happy-hour people enjoying the start of the weekend.
Inside B 52’s the sound of ’80’s music, U2 singing about Martin Luther King Jr., blared from hidden speakers. The hostess at the door recognized me and directed me to the back where Deuce was in the middle of a game of pool.
“Hey Reed,” Deuce said after he sunk the 9-ball in a corner pocket. He lined up his next shot but missed.
“I got you a beer.” Deuce handed me a Fat Tire with condensation dripping down the side. “Ace is watching the house right now. He said he wasn’t scared of any ghosts, but that he didn’t want to stay past ten because he’s got to get up early for work. He said to call him and he’ll give you a report.”
“That’s great,” I said, taking a sip of the beer.
“And he says you owe him a game of pool because he’s missing out.”
I smiled. “I can do that, too.”
“Bob’s meeting us here.”
“Oh yeah?” Bob was the older brother to the Goofballs. I hadn’t even known of his existence until he moved from the East Coast back to Denver a year ago. He had apparently taken the best of the Smith gene pool in the first round, leaving his two younger brothers to sort through the leftovers. Bob was an EMT and operated with a full deck – more than could be said of his siblings. But Bob had felt a first-born’s concern to keep an eye out for his brothers, which prompted his cross-country move.
“We’re trying to teach Bob how to play pool,” Deuce said. The Goofball Brothers may not have gotten much from the gene pool, but they definitely had ownership of billiards talent. I’d seen Bob play a time or two, and he was horrendous.
“I win,” Deuce said as he sunk the 8 ball in a side pocket. “How about a game?”
I picked up a cue, waited for Deuce to rack the balls, and then I broke them with a loud crack. It felt good, like letting the business of the day shoot across the green tabletop. As we played, I chewed on the events of the day: Cal’s research on Garrett Owens and Dominic Saunders, my visit to Henri’s shop, Jack learning about the insurance policy, and my conversation with Samantha. I couldn’t shake a feeling like I’d missed something.
I wasn’t concentrating, so Deuce beat me easily, and I suckered for another game. Deuce emerged the victor and had just challenged me to yet another game when his pupil arrived.
Bob Smith was a carbon copy of his brothers – or, since he was the oldest, I suppose the brothers were copies of him. Tall and slim, with soft gray eyes, Bob had an engaging smile and a gentle demeanor.
“Bob,” Deuce said, clapping his brother on the back. He chattered excitedly, telling Bob about how he had helped me out.
“Trey,” I said, shaking Bob’s hand. He always smiled when I called him by the nickname I’d given him when I first met him and mistook him for a third and youngest Goofball Brother.
“Spying on a house,” Bob said to Deuce as he returned my handshake. “Nothing dangerous?” he asked me, although there was a gleam in his eyes. He knew I would never do anything to harm the brothers, and that involving them in an investigation gave them a sense of importance.
“No,” I said, explaining that I was curious about who was coming and going from a house that was for sale.
“That sounds more fun than pool,” Bob said. Deuce grimaced, horrified.
“No way,” Deuce said. To the Goofball Brothers, mocking pool and billiards was like blaspheming to a churchgoer. Deuce grabbed a cue stick and gave it to Bob. “You have no idea what you’re missing out on. This is way better than detective work.”
Bob grinned at me. “What’s this latest case about?” he asked while listening to Deuce explain the finer points of handling the cue stick.
I explained what I had so far, which wasn’t much. “So I’ve got an angry ex-client who thinks Ned cheated him, and an angry ex-wife who gets to cash in on a life insurance policy,” I concluded.
“My bet’s on the insurance money,” Bob said. He rested the cue lightly on one hand, and attempted to aim at the cue ball. “So why is Ace still watching that house?” He pushed the cue forward and watched it glance off the ball. It rolled harmlessly past the remaining balls on the table. Deuce snickered.
“Try this,” I said, adjusting the way Bob was holding the stick. “I don’t know that there’s anything going on at the house. I was curious about all the activity, but it might mean nothing. The ex-wife could be perfectly innocent, too. For all I know, Ned’s death was an accident, just like the police deduced.”
Bob hit the cue ball and it inched its way to a solid ball, barely nudging it. “Let me watch you guys.” Bob stepped back and let his brother play. “So where do you go from here?” he asked me.
I shrugged. “Research what I can on insurance policies,” I said. “And check on Samantha’s alibi.”
“It’s like one of your old Bogart movies,” Deuce said. “Always chasing after the wrong thing.”
“Yeah,” I said glumly. Just like a movie, but with a critical piece of the plot missing.
I was perched on a bar stool, watching the brothers play when my cell phone buzzed.
“Reed, it’s Henri.” I had a hard time hearing the Frenchman because of the din of rock music in the background.
“Henri, hold on a minute.” I ran outside and stood under the porch eave near the front entrance.
“I haven’t been able to look at the poster in great detail,” Henri said, “but I did some research on the availability of that particular print, as well as some pricing for an original, eh? I have quite a bit of research here, many notes on old posters. I thought you might like to see it all, so I left a message at the office, but I did not hear from you. I hate to bother you on your cell phone...”
“I haven’t been back to the office since I left your store.” I put a finger in my other ear to drown out the noise of people laughing and drinking out on the patio.
“My wife and I are going for a bite to eat, and I will be near your office. I could drop the notes off, eh? You could look and see what a find you might have.”
A sense of exhilaration surged through me. His excited tone meant that Henri thought I might have an original advertising poster.
“That would be great,” I said. I glanced at my watch – 7:30. “The front doors of my office building should be open until nine. Would that give you enough time? You could slip the notes under the door.”
“Yes, that will do. I will finish with this other collector’s memorabilia this week, and I will devote my full attention to your poster, eh?”
“Wonderful,” I said.
I hung up, sauntered back into the bar and shared the news with Deuce and Bob. But even as we toasted my possible good fortune, I wondered why Ned Healy had the poster in the first place. Add it to the other answers that Ned had taken to his grave.
After chatting with the brothers for another hour, I left for the office to get Henri’s notes. I was dying to know more about the poster and how much it might be worth.
*****
The headlights of the 4-Runner cut through the darkness as I pulled into the lot on the south side of my building, illuminating numerous parking spaces. My office was close to the restaurants and bars that littered the surrounding streets, including the 16th Street Mall, a pedestrian mall in central downtown. Parking spaces in the evenings were usually at a premium. But this was a private lot, so I pulled into a slot near a BMW and a Lexus, the only other cars parked there. I got out and locked the door and, after shoving a few bills into the self-pay kiosk, I walked around to the front of the building, passing a lone couple who were headed in the direction of the mall.
I took my after-hours pass key out before I noticed that the green light on the magnetic display pad was on. That meant the doors were unlocked. I stepped up to the glass doors. The right one wasn’t quite shut.
Weird.
The latch was stuck in place. I couldn’t free the lock mechanism, even after poking at it with my keys, so I left it alone. I’d alert the building supervisor about the problem tomorrow.
Most of the lights in the building were off, but at intervals a few fluorescent lights down the hallways glowed eerily, barely illuminating the gloomy lobby. I usually took the stairs to my office, but as I walked in the gray light toward the stairwell door, I had a sudden sensation that I was in some horror movie. The killer is behind the door, and even though you’re screaming at the actor not to open the door, he does it anyway, only to meet a gory death from a crazed madman wielding an ax. I hesitated, then turned and strode across the lobby to the elevators.
“Stupid,” I mumbled to myself as I punched the button for the third floor. I got on the empty car, and the big silver doors slid closed. With a soft humming sound, the elevator ascended.
I stepped out and walked slowly down the hall to my office, resisting the urge to glance surreptitiously over my shoulder. Paranoid about nothing, I thought. Isn’t the human psyche amazing? All it takes is a little darkness and silence to set off waves of fear.
I chuckled as I unlocked the door and let myself into the outer room, stooping to pick up a couple of pieces of paper that were stapled together. I checked up and down the hall, but saw no one. Still, I bolted the door behind me. Just in case the bogeyman was out there.
I crossed to the inner room and flipped on the desk lamp. I sat down and perused the notes Henri had slid under the door.
The first page was a color printout of my poster, along with some website addresses that Henri recommended I go to for more information about vintage Hollywood posters. On the next page, Henri estimated that, if it were an original, The Maltese Falcon poster would be worth more than $12,000, depending on the market. Since collectibles were the rage right now, Henri thought his price was on the conservative side. The particular print I had was one of the rarer prints for the movie, with very few good copies available. Henri ended his notes with a paragraph stating that he would still need to do some sophisticated testing before he could determine if the poster was real and not a forgery.
My curiosity was piqued, so I turned on the computer, peering out the window while I waited for it to boot up. People walking down below looked like phantoms, featureless figures moving along the sidewalk. A couple passed under the streetlight, faces glowing.
I typed in one of the addresses that Henri had provided and within seconds, I was hooked. Two hours passed as I perused websites, reading about the golden age of Hollywood and the world of movie poster collecting.
At midnight I finally pulled myself away, shutting down the computer and inserting Henri’s notes into a folder to take it with me. I hurried back into the waiting room, hit the light switch and locked the hall door.
As I walked back to the elevator, my jeans made a swishing sound. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. In the stillness, it sounded like a chainsaw being revved up.
I hit the elevator button and the doors slid open. I was about to get on when I stopped. Was I going to let a little paranoia scare me out of my usual routine of taking the stairs? You bet.
I got in and rode down to the first floor, laughing at myself for being such a weenie. Some detective I am. Maybe if I carried my gun instead of just practicing with it, I would feel better.
The doors eased open and I stepped out.
A faint whistling sound broke the stillness and then my brain exploded. A million stars created a hazy colored pattern in my vision. My legs buckled, and I dropped the folder. I went down with twin thoughts circling in my head. One: Duck before the next blow comes. And two: This couldn’t be happening to me again.
My knees hit the floor and I tucked and rolled, sprawling into the lobby. A piece of 2x4 slammed down with a crack, narrowly missing my head. Wood chips flew past my cheeks.
I ended up on all fours, but quickly got my feet under me. My attacker had on dark clothes, gloves, and a black ski mask. He raised the wood again, holding it over his head like a pick axe. I launched myself upward, my right shoulder hitting him squarely in the stomach.
“Ugh,” a low voice gasped. The 2x4 fell to the floor with a clatter.
We collapsed like two bowling pins, kicking and tumbling over each other. I ended up on top of him, using my torso to pin him under me. He squirmed, but I was able to land a glancing strike off the side of his face. At the same time, his fists flayed out, darting around my face and upper body. A punch connected squarely on my chin. My teeth clanked together, jolting me all the way in my toes. The colored stars returned as I fell off of him, landing on my back with my legs twisted beneath me.
The attacker pounced on me and pummeled me with vicious blows. It was all I could do to ward him off. In a desperate attempt to stop him, I thrust my hands out. I grabbed his throat and squeezed for all I was worth. The pounding stopped and he grabbed my wrists, yanking my hands from his neck.
Agile as a monkey, he bounced to his feet. I rolled to one side, sucking wind. A black boot with a steel tip kicked me in the ribs. A searing pain ripped through me, like I’d been stabbed. I gasped for breath, couldn’t get any. Before I could move, he grabbed the 2x4 and whacked me in the back. If I thought I couldn’t get breath before, it was worse now.
I desperately tried to get oxygen as the man hefted the board again. My ribs and back screamed in pain and I barely managed to lift an arm to ward off another blow. My attacker clutched the board like a baseball bat and was about to use me as the ball when he hesitated. He stared out the front doors, then suddenly whirled around. He stooped to the floor and grabbed my file. Just like that, he disappeared around the corner.
I lay helplessly on the floor, my breathing ragged. After an eternity I pulled myself into a ball, scooting on my butt until I could lean back against the wall. Each breath caused a firestorm on my right side. I huddled on the floor, too tired and too hurt to move. I didn’t know where my attacker was, and at that moment, I didn’t care. If he came back to finish the job, at least the pain would stop.
After a bit, I acclimated to the sharp jabs in my side, panting in little breaths so my ribs didn’t expand too much. My head throbbed, and the left side of my scalp felt wet. I touched my cheek and stared at my hand. Blood. It looked like chocolate syrup in the darkness. I touched my head and found a gash above my left ear. It was oozing blood through my hair and down the left side of my face.
As I gazed at my hand, at the blood – my blood – anger rose in me like bile. So did my desire to live. I didn’t know what had scared my attacker away, but I wouldn’t be here if he came back. I slowly pushed myself up the wall until I was standing. I tested my legs. They supported my weight. My ribs and head I wasn’t so sure of.
I took a tentative step and felt woozy, but I cautiously made my way to the building entrance, bent over like Quasimodo. I favored my right side as I shambled outside and down the sidewalk to the parking lot. I fully expected to run into someone, but thankfully no one saw me. I rounded the corner and snuck between the cars to the second row.
The 4-Runner sat near the end and even in my foggy state I could see that something was amiss. As I approached my car, I saw glass sprinkled around the front end. Someone, gee I wonder who, had bashed both headlights to smithereens. I shouldn’t have been shocked, but I was.
I stared at the place where a light bulb should have been, wheezing, trying to ignore the stinging in my side. Laughter drifted toward me from the street, interrupting my reverie. I lifted my eyes to the front windshield. A crackling pattern covered the passenger side window.
I cursed as I dug my keys out of my pocket. I traipsed around the side of the 4-Runner, checking for further damage. The taillights had received the same treatment as the headlights. Red pieces of plastic floated in a muddy puddle. I stepped over the puddle and tripped, landing in a heap beside the car next to mine. A thousand pieces of light shimmered across my vision as a thousand tiny volts of pain hit me from various points in my body.
“Hey mister, are you okay?”
I wasn’t sure the voice was real. I shakily stood up and fought a wave of nausea as I angrily scanned the ground and saw what had tripped me. A piece of 2x4 approximately three feet long lay half in the puddle. I picked it up. Amongst the dirt and rainwater on the wood, I saw flecks of blood. I unlocked the car and hurled the two-by-four onto the back seat. Not that I would find any fingerprints or anything on it. As evidence, it was useless. As motivation, it was priceless.
“Oh my gosh, Mark! He’s hurt.”
I turned from the car and stared at a middle-aged man and who I assumed was his wife. They stared back at me, their faces a mix of concern and horror. Mark slowly moved towards me, his wife clinging to his elbow.
“Did someone attack you?” Mark asked. His voice sounded far off.
I nodded mutely. I didn’t want to say so, but Mark and his wife didn’t look so good. They were both out of focus, hazy at the edges. I grabbed Mark’s arm. “You look terrible,” I said. He frowned at me.
“Call an ambulance,” Mark said.
Good idea. He needed one.
The wife pulled a cell phone from her purse.
“No,” I mumbled, shakier with each movement. “I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.”
Mark’s face twisted into a Picasso painting. Suddenly I was on the ground, not sure how I got there. The voices faded and I blacked out.