CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

 

 

Henry slowly walked up the stairs. The weight of this case was nearly unbearable. His head was pounding, but the die was cast, and soon there would be a resolution be it good or bad. Each step rang hollow in the hallway and seemed to echo into eternity. The rest of the world was silent.

When he neared the door of the strange little man, his landlord Bobby, he found himself trying to quiet his steps. It wasn't intentional nor did it matter. He heard the patter of Bobby's feet, and the door opened, though with less flair than usual.

"Hey, Henry..." Bobby said, then lowered his voice a bit and slowed his pace, "How you doin'? Anything you need?"

"No, Bobby, but thanks for asking," Henry said and smiled. The shortness of the meeting seemed odd, but he was thankful. He didn't feel like getting into one of Bobby's long-winded discussions. Bobby turned and went back into his horribly cluttered office and shut the door gently.

The Henry Wood Detective Agency seemed cold, but, when he checked the thermostat, it was fine. He took off his hat and coat, put them on the hat tree, and sat down at the desk. He leaned slowly back, keeping his gaze on the phone. He eyed it suspiciously as though it might bite him. He waited.

The phone rang. It sounded strange somehow. It rang again, and Henry leaned forward and slowly picked up the receiver. He didn't say anything.

"Mr. Wood, I presume," said the voice on the other end.

"Yes. Who is this?" Henry said with a sudden confidence and swagger that might have been posturing, but it felt right. The game was on.

"This is the man whose business you and your little friends have been sticking your noses into."

"I have a lot of cases. Could you be more specific?" Henry responded as if he didn't have a care in the world.

Tommy's short fuse had been lit. He roared into the phone, "Listen, you little bastard. I have your broad Sylvia; you have my book. You are going to bring me the book, and I won't burn your world to the ground."

"You are a scumbag. I doubt Sylvia is still alive. If she is, we can work something out," Henry said. He wondered if he had overplayed his swagger.

A rustling of chairs, the sound of a slap, and a yelp shot through the phone line and burned itself into Henry's mind. He would never forget that moment. Then Sylvia said, "I am here, Henry."

Tommy took the phone back and said, "You bring the book to my warehouse on the south side. You bring it at 11:00 tonight, and you come alone.

"I'll be there," Henry said and hung up the phone.

The wheels were turning; the game was, indeed, on. The next move would be to add one more player to the mix. Henry picked the phone back up and soon had the DA on the phone. Henry masked his disgust and tried to sound upbeat.

"Hey, I have some good news," Henry started.

The DA's voice was calm, "Oh, really? What is that?"

"I know you felt terrible about losing the journal. I am a cautious man and wanted to cover my own ass, so I made a copy before I gave it to you," Henry said. He didn't want to anger the DA by telling him that he had been given the copy. Henry was sure the DA would consider that a terrible slight.

"You did?! Well, that is fortunate. You must bring it to me immediately," he said, trying not to sound too eager. Henry imagined sweat forming on the DA's brow.

"It is even better. I am meeting Tommy at 11:00 tonight at his warehouse. You can catch him with the goods."

There was a heavy breath, then the DA said, "Yes, that is good. We will get him this time. You have done a great job, Henry. I won't forget this. I'll see you there."

The phone line clicked as the DA hung up. Henry thought to himself, You will certainly remember this night, and that I promise you.

Henry looked at his watch. It was going to be a long wait. He leaned back in his chair and thought about getting a bite to eat. The plan was in motion, but it could go wrong a thousand different ways. Even a convicted scum bag on death row gets a last meal.