Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 25, No. 3, March 26, 1980

Lady Luck by Percy Spurlark Parker

Ollie Hymes was as dead as he was ever going to get...

Big Bull Benson took a deep drag as he lit his cigar. The tobacco was light and fresh and welcomed the flame from his gold lighter. He blew the smoke out in a slow billowing stream, looking steadily at Sergeant Vern Wonler who sat across from him on the couch. Vern’s long dark face held no warmth of recognition for their years of friendship. Vern was all cop now, and the business at hand was murder.

“Where’s Sam, Bull?”

“I haven’t seen him since last night.”

It wasn’t a lie. Sam held the slot as his head bartender, and Bull hadn’t seen him since closing time last night. But he wasn’t about to volunteer the fact that he’d been rapping with Sam over the phone less than twenty minutes ago. Sure, he and Vern were tight — they’d done some things as kids that should’ve gotten them thrown under the jail. And there wasn’t a cop on the force he trusted as much as Vern. But in a lot of ways, he and Sam were tighter. It had been Sam who’d taken the punk kid off the streets and taught him the beauty in a deck of cards. He had never thought his big mitts could be graceful with the pasteboards, but Sam had taught him how to stack a deck in what appeared to be an innocent shuffle till dealing seconds and thirds became as easy as putting on one shoe after another. But Sam taught him these things for defensive purposes only, things to look for when he was sitting with strangers.

“Gamblin’ is knowin’ the odds an’ makin’ ’em work for you,” Sam had said. “Treat Lady Luck like a lady, an’ she’ll take care of you.”

Sam’s schooling culminated a few years back at a high-stakes game where Bull won the deed to his hotel. A lounge took up most of the first floor of the hotel, which he quickly renamed the Bull Pen and brought Sam in with him.

“Let’s cool the lying from the get, O.K., Benson?” Charlie Evans, Vern’s partner, was standing behind the couch. He had never gone in for the afro, keeping his hair cut short, which seemed to go with his puffy square-chinned face. Charlie had as much use for Bull as a drummer with a headache, and he never pretended otherwise.

Bull pulled gently on the cigar, leaned back in his chair, and scratched at the corner of his moustache — taking his time, letting the play form in his mind. “Look, you dudes bust in here without so much as a good morning and expect me to start popping off with the answers. Well, man, I don’t know where Sam is. He should be at home. Have you tried there?”

“We wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t,” Charlie said.

“You know, cops for breakfast ain’t the best way to start off a Monday morning.” Bull straightened himself and tried to get the right amount of concern in his voice. “Lay it out for me, Vern. How serious is this thing?”

Vern grimaced. It was easy to see he wasn’t buying the acting job. They’d known each other too long for lies to work well between them. “O.K., Bull. Sam’s running scared and I guess I’m suppose to believe he hasn’t contacted you for help. Well, I know better, pal. You’re sitting there thinking about what you have to do to get Sam out of this mess, but there’s too much heat on this one, Bull. The only thing you can do for Sam is advise him to turn himself in, and back out of it from there.”

Bull waited.

“Want me to lay it out clearer than that? The Feds have been on Ollie Hymes’s back ever since his release from prison three days ago. They had him pretty well covered until this morning when he gave them the slip, then wound up dead two hours later in Sam’s apartment. So you’ve got us and the Feds in on this, which means you stay out, or so help me you and Sam’ll get to share a cell together.”

After they left, Bull hit the kitchen and started throwing some breakfast together, letting what he knew straighten itself out in his mind. Ollie Hymes had been involved in a string of suburban bank and savings-and-loan jobs that netted him and his partner around ninety grand. Mutt and Jeff would’ve been a good name for the team, with Ollie being the big dude, but because they both wore phony beards the papers had labeled them the Smith Brothers. Their full getup actually consisted of wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes, the beards, double-breasted dark suits, black leather gloves, and a pair of sawed-off pump guns that did most of their talking. It had ended with Hymes getting shot up pretty badly and his partner barely getting away. Hymes never talked, and he did fifteen years of hard time for his silence. The cops had rattled Hymes’s every known acquaintance who fit the size of the missing Smith Brother and Sam had fallen into that category. They leaned on him heavily before turning their attention elsewhere.

Bull scooped up his eggs and sausage, poured himself a big mug of coffee, and took four slices of toast from the toaster. He was carrying about five pounds more than his normal 270. He had decided long ago that if he ever lost weight he wasn’t going to do it by starving himself.

He sat at the table and began to eat. Whether he was going to get involved or not wasn’t the question that occupied his mind. He needed to decide what was best for Sam.

Sam’s call had awakened him from a deep sleep, but the grogginess had split when he heard the urgency in Sam’s raspy voice.

“I got my of butt in the wringer this time, Bull.”

“Spell it out, Sam.”

“Ollie Hymes. He’s up in my place with a bullet hole in his chest. He’s as dead as he’s ever going to get.”

“You do it, Sam?”

“Hell no, but the cops are gonna think so. He called me last night at the bar, said he was gonna come by this morning, he had a favor to ask me for ol’ time sakes. So I was up this morning waitin’ for him when I hears this gunshot out in the hall. I opened the door and he stumbles in.

“I learned a long time back to take cover when somebody’s shootin’, but I guess I wasn’t thinking right. I ran out to see if I could spot anything, but all I got was a bunch of folks shoutin’ and pointin’ at me. My head started buzzing ’bout the heat the cops gave me before with Ollie and I just kept running. It was a dumb play. With all the preachin’ I’ve done bout knowin’ the odds, I sure went dead against them this time.”

“Well,” Bull had told him, “we’re not ready to fold our hand just yet. Plant yourself in some hotel and give me a call to let me know where you are. I’ll get a hold of Chet and we’ll figure something out.”

Besides being a close friend, Chester K. Lonsworth was a wicked studpoker player and the head of the largest black law firm in the city. Keeping Sam under wraps permanently was an impossibility. Having him turn himself in as Vern suggested was the best bet. But Bull wasn’t going to have Sam walk into any police station without Chet at his side.

He was right by the phone when it sounded and caught it on the first ring.

“Bull?” It was Sam again.

“Yeah, Sam, where’d you hole up?”

“The Lakeside.”

“Fancy.”

“Why not? If they throw me in jail it’s gonna be a long time fore I gets to enjoy any more comforts in life.”

“Ice that. If it comes to any charges I’m sure Chet can arrange bail. The way it’s coming across to me is that the cops have got it figured Hymes expected to have some of that bank money waiting for him for keeping his mouth shut all these years. Now, either the missing Smith Brother didn’t have any of the dough left or he didn’t want to part with it and offed Hymes to end the partnership and keep the cops from tipping to him. Since you’d been quizzed before and Hymes met his maker in your place that tags you as it. It’s nice and easy for them that way. Just the way they like it — saves them a lot of shoe leather.”

“Yeah,” Sam said slowly. “It lines up that way to me too.”

“Well, I don’t figure on making it that easy for them. I thought I’d nose around a bit, maybe throw some things their way that’ll make ’em get out and work. But I need some names from the old days. Some dudes who might’ve been in on this thing with Hymes.”

“I’ve been bustin’ ma head on some names too, Bull. Not too many cats still around from back then. I could only come up with a couple. Lemar Summers and Dave Tucker. Know ’em?”

“I remember Summers. He was into a bunch of things before he got that clothing store downtown. Hustling, numbers — even ran a book once, right?”

“Yeah, that’s Lemar. Cops gave him as much trouble as they did me back then when Ollie was caught. We’re both ’bout the same size.”

“What about this Tucker dude?”

“Dave’s a different story. He wasn’t in on those bank jobs with Ollie. The cat’s almost as big as you. And there’s been bad blood ’tween him and Ollie for years. Somethin’ to do with some bread Ollie was ’pose to ’ve cheated him out of a ways back. But I don’t know if Dave’s still around. It’s been a year since I saw him. Runnin’ a newsstand on the west side, around Central someplace.”

“Well, it’s a start anyway, Sam. Look, have you got any idea where Hymes was staying?”

“With Bess Warren, I guess. Now there was some lady. Used to wear the highest spike heels ya ever saw. Gave her a couple of inches on me but it didn’t stop me from makin’ a play on her. She went for the money cats. Whoever had the dough had her time.

“Things changed when she and Ollie connected. They were a hot number back then. But she got banged up somethin’ awful in a car accident a little after Ollie was sent to prison. Permanently paralyzed, I think. She was livin’ on the west side somewheres last I heard, but I ain’t sure where.”

“She sounds like a lady I need to talk to,” Bull said. “She might be able to provide me with some names.”

After instructing Sam to stay put, he got lucky and found Bess Warren’s number and address in the phone book. There was no listing for Dave Tucker, but Lady Luck smiled on him again and he caught Chet Lonsworth in his office. Chet was going to be tied up with court appearances until three-thirty, so they made arrangements to meet at the Lakeside with Sam at four.

It was a little after twelve by the time he got in his Caddy and headed downtown for Lemar Summers’ clothing store. He had a lot of running around to do, but if he got the right pieces for the puzzle Sam wouldn’t have any worry from the police. Traffic was light and he made it downtown without any hassle. There was a self-park across from the clothing store. He found an empty slot on the second level, parked, and took the stairs to the street rather than wait for the elevator.

Summers wasn’t after the quiet elite. The walls in his place were metallic slabs of red and gold. The costumed manikins displayed the same boldness either in color or style, and the Commodores jammed loudly over the speakers, keeping the customers in a partying mood, a spending mood. The threads were priced high enough to throw any mother’s son into heavy debt.

“May I help you?”

She was a foxy little number, decked out in orange slacks with a halter top, milk-chocolate complexion, and pale-tan eyes. Every time she smiled some dude would probably decide he needed another pair of slacks or a shirt, or that the yellow striped tie was just the one he’d been looking for.

“I’d like to see Mr. Summers,” Bull said, resisting the urge to turn the conversation to a more personal level.

“Is he expecting you?”

“No, but I’m sure he’ll see me. Tell him it’s Bull Benson, a friend of Sam Devlin.”

She started to turn, then swung back. “Benson? You don’t happen to own that hotel and lounge out south, do you?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Nice place. Me and some of my friends have been out there a couple of times.”

“If you ever make it by there solo, look me up.”

“I’ll surely do that.” she said, winking.

Summers’ office was muffled from the blast of the music and the dusk-blue walls were drab compared to those out front.

“Grab a chair, Bull. Good to see ya again.”

The years hadn’t done much to Summers — thinned and greyed his hair a bit, but that was all. The cops had quizzed Summers and Sam about the Smith Brothers’ bank deal. Seeing him again it was easy to tell why. Summers had a few more pounds on him than Sam, but otherwise they were the same size.

“I suppose you’ve heard about Ollie Hymes?” he said, taking a chair before Summers’ desk that gave a little moan under his weight.

“Yeah,” Summers said, rubbing his narrow chin. “Tough thing to happen to of Ollie. Gets out of jail and bang! Word is that Sam did the number on him. How straight is that?”

“What do you think?”

“It doesn’t strike me as being right. Not Sam anyways — not his kind of action.”

“Well, we agree on that. But the cops aren’t convinced.”

Summers shrugged, his tailored shoulders raising and lowering in a smooth move. “I kind of expected the cops to come by here today, but I guess if they got their sights set on Sam I won’t be seeing them.”

“Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”

Summers’ small mouth worked itself into a slight frown. “What’re you trying to say, Bull?”

“Nothing. Just looking at this thing from a few different angles. Somebody killed Hymes. If we both agree it wasn’t Sam, then who did?”

“Well, it wasn’t me, Bull, so look somewhere else.”

“What time did you get here this morning?”

Summers shook his head, the frown still there. “You’re going to push this thing, huh? O.K.. I got here at eight-thirty, and the help started floating in at nine-thirty, quarter to ten. Would you like to know what I had for breakfast?”

“Maybe not what — but where?”

“The joint across the street. I’m there every morning I work.” His frown deepened. “Why don’t you just forget about this? I didn’t kill nobody. I ain’t even placed a bet on the ponies in I don’t know how long. Did you take a good look around when you came in? I’ve worked my tail off here for fourteen years getting this place where it is today. I’ve turned my back on the old days and the old ways, Bull. You won’t find anybody any cleaner in this town.”

Patience wasn’t one of Bull’s strong points. When it came to something that required finesse he really had to work at it. Actually, if he had the slightest hint Summers knew something that would help Sam, he’d as soon bounce Summers off the walls until he came up with the information. But that kind of play wasn’t called for yet.

“When the cops checked you out after they caught up with Hymes — can you think of any names you didn’t give ’em?”

“Who says I gave them any names?”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m sure Sam probably gave them your name, and you gave them his. It’s a natural thing to do. They were trying to pin a heavy rap on you and you gave them somebody else to look at. What I want to know is if you thought of someone who might really’ve been in with Hymes, and kept it to yourself ’cause it was the healthy thing to do.”

Summers leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread this around, Bull. I gave the cops every name I could think of. It wasn’t like finking on anybody. I still don’t know who was tied into those jobs with Ollie. I just dropped some names to get them off my back.”

“So who else did you give ’em besides Sam?”

Another deep breath with an accompanying frown. “Hell, I guess it ain’t hurting nothing now. There was Mac Tremain, Fingers Howard, both of the Brown cousins, Richy Richards, and Lou Two-Step. But half of them cats are dead now, and I ain’t seen the others in years.”

“Did you throw them Dave Tucker?”

“Tucker? What for? Cops were looking for somebody my size. Tucker’s as big as a house. ’Sides, he and Ollie didn’t get along. He said Ollie cheated him in a card game once and Ollie busted him up pretty good — put him in the hospital for a week.” He brightened. “Hey, Tucker always talked about settling things with Ollie, even after Ollie was sent to prison. Maybe he’s your man, Bull.”

“Could be. You seen Tucker lately?”

“Not for a while. Heard he was pushing papers on the west side.”

Bull didn’t feel he was going to get much further with Summers just now. “Spreadin’ the crap around in a poker game is one thing,” Sam had said years ago. “But it’s the folks who volunteer lies ya have to watch out for.”

It was something, like many things Sam had taught him, that he never forgot.

Bess Warren lived in a housing complex of three-story brick jobs the city had made quite a fuss over five or six years ago when the complex was new. Inferior workmanship and materials had quickly turned the complex into a dump, while the city officials looked the other way.

The chick who answered the door could have been a beauty if she took a little more time with her makeup. She was young — early twenties, no more. Her afro was snarled, her eyeliner too heavy, and her rouge didn’t blend in with anything.

“Haven’t you cops bugged us enough?”

“I’m not the heat, lady, and I could be a friend.”

The anger in her face melted and he got a quick glimpse of what she would be like with all the junk washed off. She could be more than a match for the toy he’d met at Summers’ store.

“Look, I’m sorry for jumping at you, mister. It’s been kind of a rough day.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s about Hymes that I’m here. I’d like to see Bess Warren if I could.”

“With all the cops parading in here, Mama’s not up to too many visitors right now.”

“I’ll make it short. Please.”

She hesitated for a long moment, then stepped back and let him in. The place was just as rundown inside as out. A faded cover was thrown across a lumpy couch. An armchair sat next to a curtained window, cotton showing through one armrest. An old TV stood in a corner, one of its antennas hanging at an awkward angle. Throw the TV away and it could have been his place when he was a kid.

“You got a name?” she asked.

“Your mother might’ve heard of me. Bull Benson.”

The anger was back — tight eyes, curled mouth. “How many friends do you want? Isn’t Sam Devlin enough?”

“Look, I’m not trying to jive you, doll. Your mother doesn’t want Hymes’s killer caught any more than I do. I just don’t happen to believe Sam did it, that’s all.”

She settled some, but not much.

“All I want to do is ask her a few questions. I’ve known Sam for a lot of years. Believe me, he’s not capable of killing anybody.”

“Carol, who’s that out there with you?”

She looked over to the far wall where a door stood slightly ajar, then back up at him, the curl in her lips still there.

“Carol?”

She let loose with a short harsh sigh, said, “Come on,” and started for the door.

Bess Warren seemed to be sinking into the mattress she was on. There was a wheelchair at the side of her bed, but from the looks of her she hadn’t gotten much use out of it lately. She was bone thin. Her skin seemed dry and slightly ashy, her eyes dark, circled with shadows, and her short grey hair was matted about her head. She’d been a knockout in her day from all reports, but the only claim she had to that now was her daughter.

“Bull Benson — yeah, I remember you. Of Sam’s protégé.” Her voice was weak — calling to her daughter seemed to have sapped what strength there was. “Sam talked you up a lot, boy. Ollie always planned to sit in on a game with you.” The tears swelled up suddenly, and she dabbed at her cheeks with a crumpled tissue she’d been holding.

Carol had left them alone, and he now felt completely out of place. Bess Warren needed comforting, not questions. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“No, no, that’s all right. I’ll be O.K. It’s just that I waited so long for my man to come back to me, and now he’s gone again. We pay for our sins, I guess.”

He didn’t try to answer her. He figured there was something in everyone’s past that they’d have to do penitence for one day.

“I lived a wild life, Bull, wilder than most, and I didn’t slow down when Ollie and me got together. We were some pair, and he was good to me. Treated Carol like she was his own. Ollie was the closest thing she had to a real father, and he was only around her for a little while.” She paused, licking at her dry chapped lips. “Did Sam kill him, Bull?”

“I don’t believe he did.”

She nodded. “You say no, the cops say yes. Who knows the answer?”

“Maybe a dude name Dave Tucker. Know him?”

A wrinkled smile broke across her lips. “Davey? Sure. We went together once. Damn, I’d almost forgotten about him. It was at a poker game Davey took me to that I met Ollie. Ollie came on real strong. A lot of smooth talk and flashing a big roll. I left the game with Ollie. He was big time. I never missed the chance to do better for myself. They tangled about a week or so later and Davey ended up in the hospital. You can’t tell from the way I look now, but it wasn’t the first time I had men fighting over me.”

“I bet,” he said, winking.

“Bull—” the tired eyes looked at him firmly “—Davey carried a big hate for Ollie from then on. If he’s still around, maybe he’s the one.”

Carol was waiting for him when he left the bedroom, and she walked him to the door. She was more relaxed now, her expression less challenging.

“I overheard you and Mama talking,” she said. “I guess I’ll try an apology that sticks this time.”

“No need.”

“But I want to. I’m really sorry, Mr. Benson.” She paused, looking away from him for a moment. “You see, Ollie getting killed has kind of blown things apart for me too. I was six when he was sent to prison and Mama had her accident. Grandma came to live with us and took care of me and Mama while I was in school. Then Grandma died when I was in my senior year of high school, and that just ended any plans of college or a personal life.

“Don’t get me wrong, please. I love Mama very much. She never asked to be crippled. But I thought when Ollie got out of prison he’d take over caring for her, and for the first time I’d start living for myself. He came in Friday night and it was wonderful. You should’ve seen how Mama perked up. This old dump ain’t never heard so much laughter. I was feeling so good I didn’t even go to work this morning. I was window shopping, making plans. Then I happen to catch one of those news bulletins over the radio.”

The Warren women seemed to have cornered the tears market. Carol’s eyes got glassy and her lower lip trembled as she fought to hold them back. “Find this Tucker, will you, Mr. Benson? Somebody’s got to pay for this.”

He fired up a cigar when he got back in the Caddy. A shot of hundred-proof bourbon would’ve been nice too. He couldn’t help feeling for Bess and Carol Warren. A lot of tears are shed over lost dreams. Their dreams, although separate, had been tied to one ex-con who’d gotten himself blown away three days after his release from prison. The world hadn’t dealt them too many good cards.

He hit three newsstands before he found anyone who knew Dave Tucker and where he could be located. Tucker had a box on the corner of Central and Pine. Copies of the dailies sat on milk crates on either side of the open door. The dude inside was wearing a dingy T-shirt, showing a lot of old muscles that were turning to fat, and flipping through a copy of Penthouse. B. B. King drifted out of the radio on the shelf next to him.

“Dave Tucker?”

His attention came up from the centerfold, a little puzzlement in his eyes, a trench forming across his wide forehead. “You win the sixty-four dollars, mister. What can I do for ya?”

“I’d like to get your opinion of what went down today about Ollie Hymes.”

There was no change in his expression. “Who’s asking?”

Bull told him.

Tucker nodded. “Benson, huh? Yeah, you and Sam Devlin. Well, from one poker player to another, Ollie was the fifth ace in anybody’s deck. What do I think about him getting offed? It should’ve happened years ago. But I kind of get the feeling you knew that.”

“Some folks have said you and Hymes weren’t exactly kissin’ cousins.”

“The folks was right.”

“Did you kill him?”

Tucker tossed the Penthouse aside, rubbed a fist into the palm of his other hand. “Y’know, I’m not too old that I wouldn’t take a swing at you.”

“Yeah, and you’re not too old that I wouldn’t swing back,” Bull said, readying himself, not sure what Tucker would do.

After a moment’s staring contest, Tucker relaxed, grinned. “Ain’t no reason to get physical anyway. I was right here when Ollie got it. I pull a long day on this corner, from six to six. Come by in the morning and check my regulars. They’ll tell you I was here.”

The alibi rolled off like it was rehearsed.

Bull had challenged pat hands before, in games where he was the winner, or when he was holding some strong cards himself. This wasn’t one of those times.

Sam and Chet were waiting for him at Sam’s room at the Lakeside, along with a bottle of hundred-proof Grandad. He fixed himself a double on the rocks and drank half of it before telling them of his conversations with Summers, the Warrens, and Dave Tucker. He and Chet took the two chairs and Sam sat on the corner of the bed.

Chet smoothed his greying moustache with thumb and forefinger. “Well, so far, Bull, you haven’t said anything that’s going to keep Sam out of jail.”

“Yeah. I guess you’re right. What are the chances for bail?”

Chet shrugged. “It could go either way. If they overlook Sam’s association with the notorious Bull Benson and they don’t dig back too many years, we might make it. But there’s always the chance we’ll run into a judge who’ll want to be hard-nosed about it.”

Sam ran a hand over his bald dome. “The way ma luck’s been goin’,” he said in his sandpaper voice, “we’ll get the hard-nosed judge for sure.”

Bull finished the last of his bourbon and let the taste settle in his mouth. “Well, I don’t like the idea of turning Sam over to the cops.”

“It don’t set too well with me either,” Sam said.

Chet leaned forward in his chair. “What other options do we have?”

“Not too many,” Bull admitted. “Let’s go over this thing again. Sam, what time did Hymes get hit?”

“Little after eight-thirty. He said he’d be by my place by nine.”

“O.K. So we got Tucker, who didn’t try to hide his bad feelings for Hymes. But he paraded his alibi so fast he has to be sure it’ll hold up.”

“Yes,” Chet said, “but that doesn’t mean Tucker didn’t hire someone to make the hit.”

“Right. But if Hymes was killed because of the Smith Brothers deal, that throws it back to Lemar Summers. Summers opened his clothing store a year or so after Hymes was sent up. The missing money could have been used to finance that. I couldn’t make my mind up about Summers. He seemed a little too jittery to be the completely honest man he wanted me to believe he was. And his alibi for the time Hymes got it is a little shaky too.”

“Looking at the odds ’tween the two,” Sam said, “Lemar’s our man. He didn’t want to start the partnership up again, and he was waiting for Ollie when he got to my place.”

“But how do we prove it?” Chet asked.

“Yeah, how?” Bull echoed, sitting back and letting the whole thing soak in. There had to be something he’d overlooked, some key that would make it work in their favor. Sam had preached to him endlessly about knowing the odds, about not making any sucker plays. But Sam had got rattled when Hymes fell dead in his apartment this morning. Sam had turned his back on the odds, and they had had to play catch-up all day. But thinking now, paying attention to the odds, there was really only one way it could have happened. He got up and started for the phone.

“Well?” Chet said.

“Well, if I’m right, we’ll make Sam buy us dinner tonight.”

“You better be right about this, Bull,” Vern told him as they walked toward the door.

“Yeah,” Charlie offered behind them, “or you’re heading directly to jail and you ain’t passing Go.”

Bull let it lie. There had been sparks between him and Charlie since day one and he doubted if the situation would ever change.

Carol answered the door and there seemed to be some surprise in her face in seeing them there. A smile started, then faded quickly into a wide-eyed stare. He made the introductions and had her take them to her mother.

“You can stay this time, Carol,” he told her as Charlie slid over and blocked the doorway.

She stood with her back to him for a moment, then moved over to the bureau in the corner, not looking directly at anyone.

“What’s this all about?” Bess Warren asked from the bed. “Did you find Ollie’s killer? Was it Dave?”

He went around to the side of the bed. “No, Tucker didn’t do it, Bess. But I think I’ve got the killer pegged.”

He watched her take in the whole room, her eyes darting from face to face and then settling back on him.

“You and Hymes must’ve laughed a long time, having the cops tear up the city looking for two black dudes — when one of the Smith Brothers was a woman.”

There was no reaction from her at first. Then she gave a slight nod, and a hint of a smile appeared on her thin lips. “Somebody finally figured it, huh?”

“You kind of told me,” he answered. “You said you and Hymes did some pretty wild things. What could be wilder than that? Big hat, phony beard, and gloves — who could tell all that stuff was covering one of the hottest little numbers on the south side?”

The smile got a little larger. “Yeah, that was me all right. It was Ollie’s idea, and it worked real fine.”

He sat on the side of the bed and took her hand. It felt awfully small and fragile to him. “Hymes was killed for the bank-job money, Bess. You’ve known that all along.” She tried to pull away from him but he held her firm. “You’ve had it stashed all this time, waiting for him to get out. Sam said Hymes was coming by this morning to ask him a favor. Hymes knew the Feds were watching him. Nine to five he was going to ask Sam to pick up the bank loot.”

She had stopped pulling away from him and was looking at him more somberly now.

“Hymes shook the Feds before going over to Sam’s. So whoever killed him didn’t follow him but was waiting in Sam’s hallway for him when he got there. Vern, how did Hymes get it?”

“.32, close.”

“Do you own a .32, Bess?”

Tears filled her eyes. “No, Bull — it can’t be.”

“Can you figure it any other way, Bess? Who else besides you and Hymes knew why he was going to see Sam this morning?”

Her thin lips began to tremble, repeating “No” softly, and then, “Carol, why?”

It was as though Carol was pinned to the bureau, her back hard against it. Her deep breaths seemed to shake her whole body and her face gleamed with sweat. “Why?” she shouted. “Why? Because I threw my life away nursing you, and all the time you had that money tucked nicely away for him. I heard you two talking, making plans. But what about me? What about me?”

Sam dug into his bank account and popped for a seven-course meal at Angelo’s for Bull and Chet. Bull went through the motions of celebrating, but he really wasn’t enjoying himself. He couldn’t shake the thought of Bess and Carol Warren.

The money had been kept in a storage locker on the north side. The Feds were happy as hell to get it back, and considering Bess’s health and age they weren’t going to be looking for any jail time. But Carol was doing her first night down at central lockup and the Red Cross had relocated Bess to a nursing home.

Did either of them deserve anything better? Probably not. But somehow he would’ve rather it had been Summers or Tucker who offed Hymes than the way it turned out.