Pigeon Blood

CHAPTER SEVEN: A Stone Cutter Outta Detroit

  Going back to Matt’s Pizzeria was scary after having seen two people beaten to death right outside of it. Police had cordoned off the alley to warn people that the murders were still under investigation. The black and yellow crime-scene ribbon swayed to-and-fro in the gentle, mid-June breeze. Even during the day, the alley was dark because of the shadows the buildings on either side casted depending upon the position of the sun. Just looking at the place brought flashbacks hurling through Blair’s mind, images he would just as soon forget. Pulling a bottle of gin from his pocket, he knocked back a couple of swallows before going into the restaurant.

  Blair was amazed to see all of the hustle and bustle going on outside as well as inside the place. Figuring the news of the murders would hurt Matt’s business, he was surprised that the place was three times as busy as it normally was.

  “Hey, Blair!” someone called and he looked up in time to see Johnny DeMario’s wide, inimitable smile making its way through the crowd. Johnny’s dark eyes were twinkling like never before, and his bushy, black mustache was shiny and slick with perspiration. Blair had always thought it strange that the hair on Johnny’s head was almost white, while his eyebrows, eyelashes, and mustache stayed black.

  Johnny was co-owner of Matt’s and spent a lot of time tossing pizzas in the back because he “liked the feel of the dough.” Truth was, Johnny came from a long line of hard workers and wouldn’t feel right just sitting back and collecting profits. Likewise, he always had to have a reason for giving Blair handouts. Keeping the yard clean didn’t necessitate the amount of money Johnny felt obligated to pay Blair, but so long as Johnny had a reason, any reason, it was okay in his mind.

  “How’ve you been, Doc?” Johnny said, throwing a towel over his shoulder and leaning over to hear Blair better. A rowdy bunch was lunching in the pizzeria today. Every table was filled with patrons, and their conversations were loud and boisterous.

  Johnny had been making pizzas for so many years, he actually smelled like tomato sauce. “One hell of a job you did to the place the other night,” he told Blair. “Sorry I didn’t have the money to pay you.” He stared at Blair’s blank expression for a moment. “The socks fit, don’t they?”

  “Socks?”

  “The ones I gave you for the job you did. You wore holes clean through your old ones. They were lookin’ mighty sad.”

  “What job?”

  “Picking up the place on Wednesday night. Don’t cha remember?”

  “No, I….”

  “You gotta get credit for the work you do, Blair. If you don’t keep track of what you’ve done, folks’ll take advantage of you.”

  “You’d never do that,” Blair said.

  “Shit no!” Johnny said, reaching into his pocket and giving Blair a ten dollar bill. The hand he held it with had fingernails bitten well back. “I believe this squares us. Oh, yeah,” he said, pulling out a fistful of coins from another pocket, “here’s three dollars and twenty cents for the empties.”

  “Empties?”

  “The ones you collected on Wednesday. You asked me to turn ’em in.” Johnny gave Blair his undivided attention. “Boy, you’re sure actin’ queer.”

  “I’m just not myself,” Blair said with a sigh. “What happened to Cynthia has really rattled me.”

  “Me, too.” Johnny shook his thick head of graying hair. “It’s a shame about Cyndi. I’m sorry it happened and especially sorry that it had to happen right outside my place.”

  A waitress carried a couple of large pizzas topped with the works over to a long table with six burly guys wearing white tee shirts and blue jeans. They were passing pitchers of beer around and having a good old time. Two of the men started hooting and hollering when they saw the food coming.

  “Ain’t it a bitch?” Johnny continued. “People have been rushing in here because they consider this place famous now or something. Two people get murdered, their blood splattered all over the outside wall, and folks get a thrill from it.” Johnny looked around as if he hated what he saw. “There are a lot of sickos in this city.”

  “Your bank account must be singing a happy song, though.”

  “That’s true enough, but it’s blood money, you know? It’s making me rich, but it still makes me wanna puke just the same.” Johnny paused, staring at Blair. “Jeremy stopped in,” he finally said, and that caught Blair’s attention like the declaration of a second prohibition would. Dr. Jeremy Driscall was managing to pop up everywhere, especially for a guy who didn’t think this part of town was good enough for him anymore.

  “When?”

  “Thursday, same day as the murders,” Johnny said. “He came with a doctor friend who’d just gotten accepted into a residency in Ann Arbor.”

  Blair listened, nodding his head.

  “Have you been eatin’?”

  “I had some eggs and a couple of biscuits this morning.”

  “And what about yesterday?”

  “I don’t remember what I had yesterday.”

  “It’s the liquor, that’s why you don’t remember. I’m gonna fix up a plate of linguine for you. Just sit tight.” He pointed to a stool at the counter.

  “No, ” Blair said, “I can’t pay for that.”

  “You mean you don’t wanna pay for it. You’d rather booze it up.”

  “Whatever.”

  “The linguine’s on the house, just so long as I get to see you eat it. Look, you’d do the same for me.”

  “All right,” Blair said, sitting down on a stool and resting his hands flat against the cool, Formica countertop.

  “You’ll stay here and not move, right?” Johnny said, knowing Blair better than he’d realized.

  “Yeah man, I’ll stay.”

  “Good.” Johnny reached one of his hairy arms under the counter for a tumbler and then filled it full of water.

  “I’d rather have a beer.”

  Johnny held up the glass. “I can put it in a mug so’s you can reminisce.”

  “Or you could just bring me a beer and prove how much of a friend you are.”

  “Keep talkin’, and I’ll pour this out and replace it with milk, bub.”

  Blair raised his hands. “I’ll take my chances with the water,” he said.

  Johnny smiled and then put the tumbler down in front of Blair. “I’ll be back with that linguine in twenty minutes,” he said, tying an apron on as he went into the kitchen.

  They’d had a lot of good times together, Blair, Matt Shapiro, and Johnny. The memories brought a smile to Blair’s blistered lips. His throat was dry, and a cool drink was very inviting. He lifted the glass and drank most of the water at one time.

  As Blair gave one of the men sitting at a nearby booth a double take, his cheerful demeanor faded fast. When the guy glanced up, Blair quickly looked away. After waiting a few minutes, he snuck a peek. Everything about the man was familiar: his manner, the way he carried himself, the sound of his voice, the spectacles he was wearing…. It wouldn’t have been unusual for Blair to run into someone he knew in this part of town, but there was something about this man that frightened him.

  Could he be the one who killed Cynthia Maxwell and Kevin Massey?

  “I’m in trouble! Didn’t kill him! My tooth! Do you understand?” came soaring through Blair’s head as he recalled Cynthia’s voice. For a moment he could even see her standing where Johnny had been. As she spoke, a bit of her saliva touched his face and so he used a couple of fingers to wipe it away.

  The killer was strikingly handsome, and he carried his middle-aged years well. He was graceful even in casual conversation. When his companions grew playful and loud, he never raised his voice. A meticulously dressed fellow, his smiles came infrequently. Even the elegant woman sitting beside him didn’t seem to be enough to amuse him. His months-old beard and mustache angled his chin decisively as his cool blue eyes never missed a thing through those oval spectacles. One look from him let every man in the place know that he wasn??
?t taking shit from anybody.

  After flagging down a waitress, the fellow paid the tab. When he stood up, his towering figure sported a well-tailored vest and pants. There was a huge, green gemstone on his index finger; if it was beryl, then it was a mighty big one. Looks and style seemed to be important to him, as well as acting like a gentleman. He helped the woman out of her chair and then put his arm around her, letting everyone know that she belonged to him. His stocky, male companion shuffled along behind them.

  Grabbing a suit jacket and felt bowler from the pegs by the door, the man strolled outside with his arm still planted firmly around the lady. The heavyset gentleman wasn’t far behind. Johnny came back with a plate of linguine just before they left through the front door.

  “Johnny,” Blair said, “do you know who that guy is?” Blair pointed as the tall man stepped out of the pizzeria.

  “Sure,” Johnny said. “That’s Quentin Latrice. He’s a stone cutter outta Detroit.”

  “A stone cutter?” Blair asked. “You mean of precious stones? A lapidary?”

  Johnny thought for a minute. “The fellas what cut gemstones for jewelry. Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Do you know who those people were with him?”

  “I don’t know the girl, but the other fella, yeah, I know who he is. His name is Mikel Smith. Detective Smitty. You know, from the precinct downtown.”

  “The other guy’s a cop?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “You remember, don’t cha? He led Vinnie Moorland’s suicide investigation.”

  Blair looked down at his hands and remembered the times when Detective Smith had questioned him about Vinnie. Because he’d been the last person to see Vinnie alive, Blair had gotten asked a lot of questions. “I remember,” Blair said, feeling numb.

  “Detective Smith is also in charge of Cynthia’s murder investigation. I made him up a plate of spaghetti special, for working so hard.” Johnny merely rubbed his black mustache and then scratched at the stubble on the left side of his chin. “Well, you gonna try that linguine or what?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Blair said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Johnny said, wiping off the countertop.