Salamanders

by Pete Murphy

Chapter 10

Getting into it

I did a push-up once, didn't care for it. I know as much about jogging as a chicken knows about Shakespeare. Zack used to hang by his feet from the closet rod and unscrew the light bulb. He’d pull up, reach, hold the position, unscrew the bulb, lower himself, pull up again, put it back. Back and forth like that until he'd had it in and out twenty times. I watched him do it once. After a while I couldn't watch him anymore. Made my beer flat. Finn had arms like Popeye, did pushups with his thumbs. Fat thumbs. Even little Sully, four-foot-nine, could lift the front end of a Volvo with his feet. He did it. We dug a hole for him and he crawled under on his back and pushed it up and we changed a tire. Warren opened walnuts with his fingers.

I've never had the urge to take a poke at anybody. That's not true. I've had the urge many times, but I was afraid they'd hit me back. My mouth always ran ahead of my nerve, my legs would shake. Nobody else noticed, but I knew it was happening. I did try to hit a kid at Miss Mattson's school when I was about eight. I don't count that time. Didn't hurt the back of his head at all. Just made my knuckle swell up. I ran pretty good, though.

It was always Finn or Zack who stood in for me if I got in trouble. Even Connie. She gave a guy who was pushing me around at a picnic a bloody nose once.

Maybe I owed somebody something.

It was nine o'clock and we hadn't opened yet. Jessie was washing glasses. I'd been at the morgue since daybreak.

"When will you be back?"

"Not long. Couple hours, three." I looked at her. "Seems you came here at a weird time. You sure you want to stay?"

She pushed the hair from her face with the back of a wet hand, smiled at me. "I'm staying, Locke, until you kick me out."

"Suit yourself."

#

It'd been bad for me at the morgue. It's a cold impersonal place. Objective, mundane, clean, slick, slippery: Dust just couldn't hang on. A place for dead flesh. A little shirtsleeved guy with glasses led me to the coldroom. He looked like Wally Cox. I asked for Billy first.

It was a different face: Wax. Dried egg-white. His eyes were closed, his tongue sticking out, puffed, blue. The wire made the only bruise. The wire line ran from a point under each ear, came out of the hair and down the neck beneath the jaw, and met itself in a long gash above his adam's apple. I pulled the sheet down to his waist, found no bruises, lowered it to his feet and checked his legs. My eyes went to the hand last. I turned away, then back again. The last two fingers of his right hand had been cut in half. Not cut. Sawed. Not sawed. Bent back to break the knuckle and twisted off. No. The skin had been pinched and pulled away after the knuckle had broken, pinched off and pulled, rolled back in place above the splintered bone, like you'd gnaw on a chicken bone.

Wally spoke. "They had the wire in the wrong place."

I looked up at the little round glasses, his scrubbed red face. He smelled like vitamins. I didn’t answer him.

My eyes drifted again to Billy's adam's apple.

I threw the sheet back over his face.

"Show me the other guy."

Otto Frosch was an ugly bastard. His face had been hit a lot. The only thing holding his head in place seemed to be the bones. Somebody'd hacked or chopped most of the flesh away with a dull object.

Wall wiped his nose on a sleeve. "This guy took a long time to die too."

I looked at the jugular.

"Not long enough."

I walked away, didn't want to be there anymore.

#

The icehouse was about fifty miles north.

I found my exit, turned west, and drove another twelve miles and onto a dirt road. Everything I'd seen since the expressway was forest. I went another seven miles, crossed five wooden bridges. From here all the creeks ran to the river I'd passed twenty miles south.

It was called the ice-house only because it used to have ice in it. Nobody ever bought ice here. It was a long squat building with a bunch of cold-rooms. They'd buy a calf or a pig from a local rancher and bring it back here to be slaughtered, butchered, packaged and labeled for their freezers, nickel a pound.

It had been closed for years.

I pulled up thirty yards from the building and got out. The ground was all pebbles and sand. Weeds grew from it two feet high. I bent to check the tracks, found the odd one and looked at the print. The van had apparently thrown part of a retread. The other car's tires were new. I'd take Kiefer's word it was a limousine. The van's oil puddle was about twenty feet from the door.

The inside was damp, musty. The building was one huge rectangular room with windows in the front and side walls. The back wall had three chambers like large closets along it, and a row of six sinks. A huge thick table in the center of the room once served as a butchering block. At the ceiling, a long track of sliding hooks ran from one end of the room to the other. The roof had huge gaping holes in it. The floor was wooden, worn, splintered. Three empty barrels stood in one corner. The smell of slaughter was still here.

Four of them - or more - had brought Billy and Frosch here. No. That's not it. Frosch was one of them. Had to be. He helped them bring you here, Billy. You and somebody else: Dalby said somebody'd cut you down, removed the wire. Whoever killed you wouldn't have done that.

They'd sat on the table and smoked a lot of cigarettes. Questioning you? No. You had no bruises. You weren't beaten. They put you in one of the freezers. And sat here. Waiting?

I went back outside and down the porch steps. The oil made a large round spot in the sand. The van had been here a long time, that much oil. It had arrived first. The limousine followed. Much later. They were waiting for somebody to come in a limousine.

I went back into the house and looked at the table top, saw no signs of new blood. I looked at the rotted roof, all its holes. It had not rained here. The tracks outside wouldn’t still be clear if it had rained.

I went to the freezers. All three thick doors were open. I stopped at the third one from the outer wall. Hooks hung on chains wrapped around four-by-fours ten feet from the floor, hooks to hang meat on and cut up till it was small enough to work on at the long table in the main room.

The first room was the same as the other, but one end of the four-by-four had rotted and dropped to the floor. The chain was laying away from it, near a patch of dried blood, pieces of flesh in it. This was Otto's room. He’d bled to death here while somebody hacked at his neck. All the freezer doors had big iron hooks and eyes inside so you could keep the ice from melting while you worked. This one was bent almost straight. I checked the outside of the door. Somebody had splintered the jamb trying to pry it open. I studied the room.

They'd put your friend in here, Billy. He'd locked himself in with Otto.

I looked at the four-by-four, and at the spot it had rotted from ten feet up the wall.

I dragged one of the barrels into the room and climbed onto it. Pieces of clean wood hung from the nailheads. It had been torn loose. That's how he freed himself, Billy. I jumped down and picked up the chain. There was dried blood on the hook. Years of use had rounded off the end. I looked at the stain on the floor, the pieces of flesh.

You had to scream Otto: They were out there trying to get to you, to help you. And you kept gurgling until your vocal cords were gone.

I dropped the hook and studied the room again. No windows. I looked up. More holes, a larger one at the upper end of the four-by-four, still fastened to the other wall. I walked the board like walking up for coconuts: bent over with my hands clasped under it. At the top, now ten feet from the floor, it was easy to stand. I grabbed the roof and climbed out. He'd had a long drop to the ground, about fourteen feet. Splotches of the tall undergrowth had been shoved aside and trampled on, heading into the trees.

I slid back into the room and went to the back of the building. The brush was heavy here but I found the spot where he had landed and followed the broken underbrush about twenty feet to the edge of the woods. I stared into the forest for a while, then went back into the icehouse and looked at the center room.

It was the same as the first. I studied it a long time. This was Billy's room.

After a while I went in and sat against the wall next to the blood stains under the hook. This is where your fingers dripped, Billy. They hung you first.

I leaned my head against the wall and shut my eyes, listening to Kiefer.

Somebody was spitting blood onto the floor.

They hadn't hit you, Billy. That was too easy. Too hard for them. They didn't need it.

He came back for you. He got you down and held you. Sat right here and held you. And shut your eyes? Did he shut your eyes Billy? I know he tried to shut your mouth, tried to shove your tongue back in. But it wouldn't stay.

Somebody was spitting a lot of blood onto the floor.

I looked around. A trail of blood-spit led from the wall next to me over to Billy's little puddle. On the wall near the door were two long stains and a bunch of smaller ones on the floor.

He came back for you. He ran away and lost them in the woods and after a while came back for you. After a while...After a while, Billy, it couldn't have been your friend spitting all that blood.

I closed my eyes.

They brought you in here, Billy, and went out and locked the door. They sat out there smoking and waiting for the limousine. They waited a long time. When the boss came they went to work. They picked you first, Billy. They came in and hung you up, careful not to catch the adam's apple so you would last a little while. You strangled slow Billy.

What did they want to know? Why didn't you tell them? You didn't know. Goddamn it, Billy, you didn't know.

Who was spitting all that blood, Billy?

I began to feel a little sick. I rested my head on my knees and sat there a long time.

Something crunched the pebbles outside. I jumped up and went into the main room, strode heavily toward the door and out onto the porch. Nothing there.

I decided I knew all I could know from this place. Right now I was better off away from here.

Half a mile down the dirt road I passed an orange Datsun I hadn't seen coming in. I copied the license number.

By the time I reached the expressway I felt very tired and remembered I had gotten only about two hours sleep last night. I didn't want to think anymore. I drove slowly, letting my mind doze, thinking of El Yoyo. I needed to be back in my closet. Home is where the closet is.

#

Four people sat at the bar. I gave Jessie a little nod, attached a weak smile.

"Lunch hour", she said.

"Maybe I could do free baloney and bread on the bar."

"Wouldn't work. They don't eat. How do you feel?"

"Tired. I'm going up, maybe sleep a little."

"You've got company."

I looked across the bar. Two of my customers were drinking cokes. They wore cheap sportcoats.

"Hello, Oliver."

"Hey, Earl. Haven't seen you in a while."

"We been workin' mostly on the West side. Hated it there. Now we get to watch Odie's Motorola, make sure nobody steals it, get to dress up better."

"Yeah, I see that."

I waited.

"He wants to see you again, Oliver. Sorry."

I nodded. Kiefer was getting to be a bad tooth. "I'll relax with a couple beers first. Getting worn out today." I stared at his partner.

Earl said, "Sure. Relax."

His partner looked at me, then at Earl and back to me again, drinking his coke. I stared back, drinking my beer. Macho Man. Guy never read a book. I asked him.

"Y'ever read a book?"

"Fuck's that mean?"

"Nothing. Conversation. Ever read a book?"

"Sure."

"Nice. Which one?"

"I think, uh, something about a dog."

"Terrific book. I read it too."

I grabbed another beer and stretched out in my booth. I needed to be upstairs and asleep.

Earl's partner said something to him. Earl snubbed him with a waving hand and came over. "I'll tell him we spoke to you and you'll be there, that you're right behind us in your own car."

I smiled. "Sure, Earl." I told him "thanks" as he left. His partner grinned at me.

Jessie came over and sat down.

"Why don't they leave you alone?"

"They're working."

"But you don't know any more about any of this than they do."

"I'm not sure. I find things out from Kiefer."

She held my hands. "Why don't you sell this place? Go someplace nice. Maybe we... maybe you could find another bar in a better town."

I smiled at her, shook my head. "Thirty years ago..."

"You're still the same," she said. "Connie said you were. That's why I'm here. You bounce good, she said. That's what you do."

"I've got to go. I'll figure it out."

I'd been saying that all my life.

#

The sergeant nodded, smiled as he buzzed me in. I went to the office. A big guy in a gray suit stood looking out the window behind Kiefer and his desk.

"How'd you sleep last night?" I asked.

Kiefer looked tired, ignored me. "Talk to me, Locke."

I sat in a chair off to the side and crossed a leg over my knee. "Okay. I don't know anything. I don't kill people. Is this a rerun? I hope not. You look tired, Frank."

His face reddened. The straight guy turned from my reflection in the window. He looked better than straight. Intelligent. That was new.

Kiefer lit a cigar.

I lit a cigarette.

"What've you been doing, Locke?"

"General stuff. Taking care of business."

"That little bar keeps you busy, eh?"

"Keeps me out of trouble."

They stared at me.

"I been trying to track down Freddie Pebbles," I said. "Put the word out. Maybe help you find him. Up front, Frank, you need my help."

The straight guy, unimpressed, turned back to the window.

"Promise," I said.

"How'd you do?" Kiefer asked.

"So far he's out of touch. Blue suit made a bad approach last night. Who was he?"

Kiefer started to speak, stopped himself. He studied me for a while, then swiveled in his chair and looked at the other guy.

"Locke, this is James Brody. From New York. He's got an interest in this case."

I nodded at his reflection in the glass. He ignored me. Neither of us spoke. I'd always trusted chance too much, like playing pool: I knew better but took the shot anyway. "I heard you've got some really weird creatures up in New York. Any of you guys ever hear of a cannibal running around? Somebody who chews on people?"

Brody turned. His left leg was stiff, maybe wooden. He stared at me. I stared back, focused on a brown mole in his left eyebrow, a little mushroom with hard peach-fuzz on it.

"Why do you ask?"

"Oh, some guy was in the bar the other night says he read about it someplace. I didn't believe him."

"Rumor," he said. "A lot of people have made up stories about a drug runner likes to chew on people, a fairy tale. They make up jokes about him, make him a comic book character, toss him into everything that happens, a bizarre game people delight in if they've got nothing else to do." He hesitated. "Around bars," he added.

I smiled. He didn't.

Kiefer let a huge cloud of cigar smoke creep from his mouth and watched it dance in front of him. "Locke, you've got nothing new to tell me?"

"Nothing."

"How come I keep getting the idea since Billy Presser and Freddie Pebbles were chums of yours you're into this thing?"

"Look, chief. I saw Billy this morning. Dead. I haven't seen him in years. He was a friend of mine. I want to find out who killed him, just like you do. Different reasons, but the same end. And since I did know Billy and Freddie I might be able to find out things you can't. We help each other, sort things out, it gets figured out. All you've got to do is trust me."

Brody sniffed, turned back to the window.

Kiefer chewed on his cigar, studied me.

"You figure out anything at the ice-house?"

I managed a blank stare.

"We know you were up there."

Tibbet. The orange Datsun. Dalby was selling me to Kiefer, a down payment on his shield.

"So?" I said.

"Up front, huh?"

"Checking things out, Frank, like I said. I got this." I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket and handed it to him. "Whoever owns that car was up there too, same time I was. I didn't see anybody. Might be a lead."

I gave him Tibbet's plate number.

Kiefer pushed a button on his desk and a uniformed cop came in.

"Pick this guy up." Kiefer handed him the license number and the cop left. "That's all you've got?"

"Absolutely."

He looked at me.

"Truly, Frank."

"Some guy named Cussler called this morning, Locke. He lives about two miles from the icehouse, near the river. Runs a few sows and some dairy goats. He gives them free range in the woods. They go off and eat acorns and hickory nuts in the woods and come home for shelter. He heard some shots late in the evening as they came home for feeding and worried about it enough to go out at daybreak and take a look. Figured somebody'd taken a shot at his animals."

He looked at me real close.

"Got two more bodies up there. One's got his head caved in. The other guy's spine's broken. They were twenty feet apart."

"So?"

"Two goons from New York."

"So? I didn't do it. Promise."

He stared at me. "We took some prints off the barrel of a shotgun one of them was holding. We figure they belong to the guy who killed them, name of Christopher Duncan."

He couldn't have done it better if he'd hit me with the desk. Kiefer didn't take his eyes off me. Brody watched my reflection in the window.

"Shit," I said.

Finn's life had always been a hairpin curve.

"You guys were bread and butter, Locke."

"I haven't seen him in seven years, chief. Promise."

"He hasn't tried to contact you?"

"No. Finn won't do that."

"He will."

"Maybe."

"He will."

I scratched my head hard with both hands.

"If it was him up there," I said, "it was self defense."

"He's got to come in. If it was self-defense he'll have nothing to worry about. I want him. And Pebbles. You find them, Locke."

I nodded.

I'd find Freddie Pebbles.

What I'd do with him then, I wasn't sure. I got up. "A cinch, Frank. Nobody's on my back on this one. I'm not involved and maybe I ought to help Finn, so I'll do it for you then go back in my hole. I'm not involved, Frank, promise. Nobody's on my back."

#

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