Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2006

It Could Be Murder by Percy Spurlark Parker

Big Bull Benson flipped the wipers on, and the twenty-inch rubber blades made quick work of the raindrops that had accumulated on the Caddy’s windshield. It was more sprinkles than anything else, and the sparse rain clouds had done nothing to block the sun from shining brightly. Rain and sunshine at the same time. The devil was beating his wife, folks used to say. Or was it the wife beating the devil? He couldn’t remember which way it went or what it was supposed to mean, if anything. Just something he’d heard as a kid.

His was the last car in the funeral procession, and the trek out to the cemetery had taken just under forty-five minutes. It had been enough time to reflect on life in general and death in particular.

The problem with living a long life is that most of the people you know start dying off. Last year it had been Sam Devlin, now it was Charlie Evans. Three peas in a pod if it’s simply looked at as the three of them being black. Three different pods if it’s taken into consideration that Sam was older than Bull, Charlie was younger. And although the deaths were at both ends of the spectrum for him, Sam being the closest thing Bull had to a father figure, and Charlie, Detective Lieutenant Charles Evans, well, he’d always been an impossible to deal with, hard-nosed SOB.

And yet, they’d both been a part of Bull’s life, good, bad, however it was cut, sliced, or diced. Now with Charlie gone, Bull knew a little bit more of himself was gone also.

A week and a half ago, Charlie had rented a room in a Westside hotel and an hour later did a header out of the sixth-floor window.

Bull could name a half dozen folks in one breath who were more likely to take their own lives than Charlie. And since his death, Bull had not come across anyone who knew him who was convinced Charlie killed himself. Yet that was the pronouncement from the police and coroner’s office, mainly because, barring gut reaction, there was not the slightest hint of any evidence to prove otherwise.

The smell of fresh-turned earth mixed with rain filled the air all around him as he got out of his car, buttoning his coat against the weather. He smoothed down his mustache with his thumb and forefinger, folded his arms, and leaned back against his car, deciding not to follow the throng of mourners trekking through the mud to the grave site. Charlie’s wife and a handful of other relatives trailed behind an honor guard of police in dark blue uniforms who served as pallbearers.

Reverend Jeremiah Wood of the Greatest Glory Baptist Church had conducted the services from a solid oak and highly polished pulpit. He was a long-winded orator, and Bull had thought the reverend had said all that could be said at the church, but the minister kept everyone in the damp, crisp weather a full twenty minutes at the grave site before the casket was lowered into the ground.

As the crowd hurriedly dispersed, one of its members broke from the ranks and came over to Bull.

“Bull,” Vern nodded, his shoulders hunched against the weather.

“Vern,” Bull replied.

They hadn’t spoken at the funeral. Bull had been seated in one of the back rows; Vern had been up closer with the family. Detective Lieutenant Vern Wonler and Bull had known each other since they were kids. They’d run the streets together, rolled drunks together, but early on, their lives had taken different paths. After a stint in the army, Vern had become a cop, and Bull, thanks to Sam’s tutoring, had become a gambler. Gambling had gotten him decent clothes, money in the bank, and the deed to his hotel, which he’d picked up a whole lot of years ago in a marathon poker game.

“I still don’t buy it,” Vern said, shaking his rather elongated face. He was almost as tall as Bull, and although he’d filled out some over the years, he was still a good eighty pounds off Bull’s — what was it these days, two ninety-seven?

“I never had any use for him,” Bull said, not being especially harsh in his delivery. “You know that. I’m sure the same can be said for him about me. I can count the civil words that passed between us on one hand. But it doesn’t sit well with me either. I never figured Charlie would do himself in. Getting whacked in the line of duty, set up by someone he pissed off, that I can see.”

Vern and Charlie had been partners years ago back at the old Moore Street Precinct. The precinct’s boundary had encompassed Bull’s hotel. And he’d gone head to head with Charlie a number of times, with Vern acting as a buffer.

The old precinct house had been torn down about five years ago, and a new, larger facility erected around the corner on Drummen Avenue. But most of the folks in the hood still called it Moore Street.

“Are you coming to the repast?”

Bull shook his head. “I paid my respects to the family at the church. Charlie’s wife knows I’m around if she needs anything, although I don’t expect to be asked.”

“Yeah, I know. Well, I’ve got to put in an appearance. Maybe I’ll drop by your place later.”

“Be looking for ya.”

With another nod, Vern turned and quick-stepped it to one of the black stretch limos the funeral home had provided. Bull got back into his Caddy, got the engine started, and switched the heater on. He sat there, letting the traffic in front of him filter out before kicking his ride into gear.

The Bull Pen Bar and Grill took up most of the first floor of the Benson Hotel. He parked out back, and used the rear entrance, going directly to his office. Hanging his coat in the closet, he started to check things out in the bar but changed his mind, instead going to his desk and getting the bottle of Old Grand-dad Whiskey out of the bottom drawer.

Midway through his second drink, he started to feel a little better. It wasn’t the weather — the Caddy’s heater had taken care of the chill on the trip back from the cemetery. It was just a funky mood he had to work himself out of. It surprised him. He’d never thought Charlie’s death would’ve affected him this way. Not that he’d ever thought of Charlie dying. Disappearing. Yeah, that had been a thought. Just one day Charlie wouldn’t be around anymore. It would’ve made his life easier a time or two. Beating the pure hell out of him. Yeah, that’d entered his mind a number of times also — he’d even relished the idea. But Charlie actually dying. He’d never thought about it, never wished it.

Now it was a fact.

By the time Vern showed up, Bull was in the bar helping out behind the counter. He’d pushed the funeral to the back of his mind, or at least managed not to dwell on it. No wakes were going to be held in the Bull Pen. There was booze to pour, jokes to crack, women to flirt with. A new nurse with the regulars from Jayburn Community looked promising. In her early thirties, Bull guessed. A woman with meat on her bones in the right places and no wedding ring. He’d popped for the group’s second pitcher of beer, learned her name was Fran and that she’d recently moved here from Milwaukee.

Vern came in before he’d gotten much further.

He wasn’t alone; a beefy white dude saddled up to the bar with him. Another cop, no doubt. Bull had seen him at the funeral sitting with some of the folks from Moore Street. He had a thick mat of reddish brown hair, thin eyebrows, a wide mouth framed by heavy jowls. Bull didn’t like him. Blame it on first impressions.

“Bull,” Vern said, nodding toward the white dude. “Fabian Murphy. He and Charlie been partnered up for the past few months.”

“I thought Armstrong was Charlie’s partner.”

“He rotated downtown. I came in from Vice, North District. Get a shot at doing some real police work.”

“Fabian, hell of a name.”

“I go by Murph.”

“I would too.”

Murph grinned. “Bull’s not your typical moniker either — who tagged you with that?”

Bull shrugged. “Folks I kept running over, I guess.”

Another big grin from Murph. “Charlie always said you were a hard-ass.”

“We had that in common.”

“If you two are finished with your pissing contest,” Vern said, “I’ll have a beer.”

Vern slipping into the referee spot brought home to Bull the edginess of his and Murph’s conversation. He hadn’t meant for it to happen; nothing was thought out or planned. The friction was just there. Not that he got along with most cops. There were some he did, and some he had no use for. Just how Murph had fallen into the latter category so quickly was a puzzle to him.

Bull slid a mug of beer across the counter to Vern, tilted a mug to Murph who nodded his okay, and filled a mug for him from the tap also.

Vern was the first to speak after a hefty swallow. “You know, Charlie wasn’t my first partner, but I partnered with him longer than anybody else. We kept in touch after he got transferred. Once a week we’d have coffee or lunch someplace.”

“I didn’t know that,” Murph said. “Even when we were partnered up?”

Vern nodded. “It was kind of our time. Couple of old war horses talking over what was and what is. Every now and then we’d get together with our wives on the weekend, take in a movie or something.”

“And he never gave you a hint that he was thinking of killing himself?” Bull asked, pouring himself a Grand-dad.

“Never. I’ve tried recalling every conversation we’ve had in the past month, and I keep coming up empty. Guess that’s one of the reasons I still can’t believe he did it. That and the fact there was no suicide note.”

“Not all suicides leave notes.”

“Most of them do.”

“You’re not thinking it could be murder?” Murph asked.

Vern shook his head. “Thinking Charlie let himself get tossed out of a window is just as difficult to believe as if he killed himself.”

“We can’t have it both ways,” Murph said. “Either he did or he didn’t. Either somebody did ’im or they didn’t.”

“Yeah,” Vern said, draining his mug. He pushed it toward Bull for a refill.

Bull tasted his Grand-dad. “Look, it doesn’t add up at either end, but you’ve had some good people on this thing, right?”

The detectives both nodded, Vern somewhat slowly.

“And they couldn’t come up with anything else, right?”

Another dual nod, but this time Vern added, “I don’t know how much the brass wanted to push this aside and have it done with, though. A cop suicide isn’t something they want to keep in the headlines.”

“A cop murder with no suspects wouldn’t be the highlight of their day, either,” Murph interjected.

“So what are you saying?” Bull asked. “The brass would rather it be a suicide they can forget about than an unsolved murder?”

Murph shrugged. “Why not. Hell, we’re supposed to protect the populace. What does it say about us if we can’t even protect our own?”

“I see your point,” Bull nodded.

“So Charlie’s name gets thrown in the pile with cops and ex-cops that nobody wants to talk about,” Vern said, almost spitting the words out.

Along about the end of the third round, they still hadn’t come to any satisfactory conclusions about Charlie’s death. So they switched gears and started sharing anecdotes about Charlie, and although Murph had only worked with him a short time, he had a couple to add.

“We stop this guy. Old wino from the smell of him. I thought Charlie was going to run him in. Couldn’t figure out why he’d bother. We’re detectives, right? We’re supposed to be going after the real crooks. But he gives the guy ten bucks and sends him on his way. Turns out the bum was an ex-cop Charlie knew from way back...”

“Tom Evergars,” Vern said.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“He and Charlie went through the academy together,” Vern continued. “His wife and kid were killed in a car accident. He was driving. Never stopped blaming himself.”

“Guess there was more to Charlie than I thought,” Bull said.

Vern nodded. “I always told you there was.”

Murph finished his beer, turned down the offer of another, and bid them good night.

“I guess I’m going to hit it too,” Vern said, draining his beer mug. “Say, I’ve got tickets for tomorrow night’s game, the Lakers are in town.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bull said. He always enjoyed the stadium atmosphere, especially booing the visiting team.

“Cool, I’ll swing by and get you when I get off my shift.”

He tossed and turned for hours trying to get to sleep, but he just couldn’t shake the idea that he should be doing something about Charlie. Why? Hell, he certainly didn’t owe him anything. He hadn’t made anyone any promises. But the feeling persisted. The clock on his nightstand said it was almost three A.M. The cops had closed the case. He didn’t have any business nosing around. Not everything had to have an answer. Some things just were and that was that. All sound arguments for him to turn over and get some sleep. But...

The Monroe Hotel was a transient joint on the fringe of the city’s downtown area. Hookers and their johns made up the majority of its clientele. There was a small, fenced-in parking area at the rear of the building, which offered about two percent more safety than parking on the street. Bull being Bull parked his Caddy on the street.

The old dude behind the glassed-in counter looked up from his magazine as Bull approached. He didn’t bother closing the magazine, leaving it open to a double-page spread of nude women in somewhat less than artsy poses.

He adjusted his rimless glasses, scratched his whiskered jaw. “Thirty-five for two hours, fifty for four. Cash, no credit cards.”

“I’m not here for a room,” Bull told him.

“That’s all we got here, mister,” the clerk said, frowning. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter. Bull guessed if he stood he wouldn’t be more than five-seven or eight, and from his pallor Bull figured he drank most of his meals.

“I need some information.”

“This is a hotel, mister, not the Chamber of Commerce.”

Ignoring the clerk’s declaration, Bull asked, “Were you on duty the night the cop went out the window?”

The clerk gave Bull a slow once-over. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“Then I don’t think I’ve got to answer any of your questions.”

“No, you don’t have to,” Bull said, pulling a hundred dollar bill off his roll and slipping it through the money slot. “Were you?”

The clerk didn’t hesitate scooping the bill up and tucking it away in his shirt pocket. But he did take a moment before replying. “Yeah, okay, I was on duty.”

“How did it go down?”

The clerk shrugged, licked his chapped lips. “Just who the hell are you anyway?”

“Bull Benson. I’m a friend of the family.”

“Benson, oh yeah, I’ve heard of you.” He adjusted his glasses. “Well, uh, he jumped out of the damn window.”

“That’s not what I meant. Was he alone? Did he look like he was expecting someone? Had he been here before?”

“Cops asked me the same thing about fifty times. Like I was going to change my story.” He was breathing a little heavier now. “Look, I don’t remember seeing him before. Not that he had ever been here. We get a lot of folks bouncing on our beds, but I couldn’t place him. He was alone that night and didn’t say anything about anybody joining him. He flashed his badge, said he wanted a room, and I gave him a key.”

“He didn’t pay for the room?”

The guy shrugged. “We try to keep on good terms with the police.”

Bull knew how that went. He could ask to see the room, but that wouldn’t prove anything. Even if it was empty now, which it probably wasn’t. It had most likely been used three or four dozen times since Charlie died.

Had he learned anything? The clerk had seemed to get a mite nervous, but that didn’t mean anything: Some people don’t handle questioning well. So had it been worth getting out of bed, dressing, and coming out here? Only if he considered that the trip proved there was nothing more to learn. That way, he couldn’t deem the trip a total loss.

He thanked the clerk, turned to leave, and almost bumped into Tessie Wickes and a short, balding white dude who was going to be her companion for the next two hours.

Tessie had been plying her trade for as long as Bull had known her, which was pretty close to fifteen years now. She wasn’t a lightweight, but stout in the bust and hips. A pleasant enough face, despite the deep scar at the right corner of her mouth. Bull had never asked her how she’d gotten it, and she had never volunteered the information.

“Hey, Bull,” she said, with as big a smile as the scar would allow, then she turned to her companion. “You go get us a room, sugar, I won’t be long.”

He licked his thin lips, drawing himself up as much as he could. “Okay, but hurry up. I haven’t got all night.”

Bull watched him trot up to the counter. “Hey, I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Naw, don’t mind him. He likes to show off. He’s a regular, city councilman or something like that.”

Bull gave the guy another glance, not being able to place the face.

“You’re looking good,” Tessie said, looking up to him.

“I can say the same for you.”

“Well, it’s not the same old bod it used to be, but it’ll do. What gets you out this time of night? Don’t tell me you feel like partying. I can get rid of this guy real quick, you know.”

“Thanks. But I just had a little nose trouble tonight. I knew the cop who died here. Thought I’d get a firsthand look at the place.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, her tight little braids barely moving. “That closed things down around here for a couple of days. Had to take my clients up the street to the High Point. What a fleabag! Did you know the cop well?”

“Well enough,” he said, not seeing the need for going into it any further.

“Tessie, you coming or what?” the white guy asked, standing by the elevator.

“Not yet, sugar, but I’m sure you’ll take care of that,” she said, which got a big grin from him. “Really good seeing you again, Bull. Maybe next time...”

“Sure thing.”

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he lit a cigar, pulling deeply on the tobacco. The night was cool and crisp, without a hint of the dampness the rain had brought. He got all the way to his car, the key in the door, when he thought of something else he should have asked the clerk. He returned to the hotel.

“How did he get a room on the sixth floor?”

“What?” The clerk was frowning again. He’d gotten off his stool when Bull came back in and was backing up slowly.

“The cop. Did he specifically ask for a room on the top floor, or did you just give him what was available?”

“Damn, now that was a question the cops didn’t ask me before. Yeah, he asked for a room on the sixth floor.”

Bull wound up getting only about two hours sleep, waking early and downing a half pot of coffee before he began to feel somewhat close to human. A long shower just about brought him fully around. Charlie had asked for a room on the top floor. It would seem to indicate he was planning on making the dive. There wasn’t much more for him to look into. Charlie had set out to kill himself and had been successful. Bull would have to get in touch with Vern sometime today and let him know what he’d learned.

Murph and Booker Johnson, one of the black detectives from Moore Street, were the first to walk in when he unlocked the door to the Bull Pen at eight that morning.

A couple dozen donuts sat in a plastic container behind the bar next to the coffee urn, which had just finished brewing.

Murph’s nose wrinkled as he sniffed. “Looks like we got here just in time.”

“Clay,” Bull nodded to the guy behind the bar. “Couple large cups.”

Clay Woodson, a light-skinned, wiry-haired dude who’d been working for Bull for about five months, filled two oversized mugs and sat them on the counter.

Murph took his straight. Johnson added sugar to his.

“You guys know each other?” Murph asked. “Booker’s my new partner.”

Bull knew Johnson well enough to give him a passing nod, or to take a few minutes to talk about the latest football or baseball scores. He was older than Murph, not quite as rounded in the shoulders. He had heavy eyebrows and somewhat of a pinched nose. He was also known to have a quick temper. Word on the street was to get ready to duck if he started smiling.

“I’ll have one of those donuts too,” Johnson said. “Glazed. Better make it two.”

Murph begged off any donuts for himself, and the trio made their way down to the end of the bar.

“You know, Benson,” Murph started, “Charlie had me thinking you were about the worst thing this neighborhood had to offer. I’ve got a different picture after last night.”

Bull shrugged. “Charlie and me never shared any warm fuzzy feelings.”

“Evidently.” Murph took a sip of his coffee, then a larger one. “I’ve checked with some of the other guys around the station. Word is you’ve even been helpful in cracking some cases for us.”

“More like things just happen. People tell me stuff, I pass it on. That’s about it.”

“That’s not the whole of it, Murph,” Johnson said, around a mouthful of donut. “Bull’s stuck his nose in a time or two. We don’t throw a lot of credit his way, but everybody knows what’s going on.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Anyway, I was going through some case files Charlie and I were working on, just to catch Booker up to speed. I found this name in one of the files on a scrap of paper.” Murph took a folded sheet of paper from a notepad he had in his shirt pocket and handed it to Bull.

Madison Street Max was scribbled in large uneven print. Bull studied it for a moment, handed it back to Murph. He didn’t know enough about Charlie’s handwriting to tell if Charlie had jotted the name down or not.

“I hadn’t heard of him before,” Murph said. “Booker tells me he’s a reformed pimp who’s now some kind of jackleg preacher. You know anything about him?”

“A word here and there, nothing special. Why?”

Murph shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. It was something that just didn’t fit. Thought I’d run it by you before me and Booker pay him a visit.”

“You’re not thinking he had something to do with Charlie’s death?” Bull asked.

“I don’t know if he had anything to do with anything. But the way you and the lieutenant were talking last night, I got more questions about the dive Charlie took than I had before. So I’m going to go talk to this Madison Street Max. But I wanted to get your take on this guy before I did. And, uh, well, I’d appreciate it if you’d put some feelers out, or whatever it is you do.”

It was a simple enough request. Bull didn’t have any reason to turn it down, although from what little he knew about Madison Street Max, murder had never been one of the things he’d been associated with.

He told Murph this, and added, “We used to run into each other every now and then. But I don’t think I’ve even seen him in the last two years or so. Since the religion bug bit him in the ass.”

“Think it’s just a front?”

“Could be, but as I said, I don’t know him that well. We never had any dealings with one another.” Bull paused. “I can’t give you any guarantees, but if you think it will help, I’ll ask around. See what I can come up with.”

“Thanks, Bull. I’m fishing big time on this one, but...”

“Yeah, I know,” Bull said, then thought of something. “Look, if it’s not a big departmental secret, can you tell me what file you found the note in?”

“I guess I can,” Murph said, looking over to Booker for a quick moment. “It was kind of puzzling to me too. It was in with a file we had on a rash of house burglaries on the South Side. Don’t know what one has to do with the other, if anything.”

“House burglaries. If it were in the suburbs or on the North Side, it’s pros looking for the wall safes. Out here it’s kids getting their first taste of crime, or crackheads looking for a TV or a DVD player. Anything small enough to run off with.”

Booker nodded, finishing off the last of his donuts. “Got that right, Bull. Whatever they can grab and take to the next block and sell.”

“Well, thanks again, Bull,” Murph said, sticking his hand out.

Bull took it; Murph’s callused hand almost matched his big paw. It was a firm handshake but not a contest. Well, first impressions don’t always have to hold true, he thought. Maybe Murph wasn’t such a jerk after all.

After the detectives had gone, Bull left Clay to handle the bar and headed for the phone in his office. Six calls and forty minutes later, he knew as much about Madison Street Max as he had before he started, except that Hazel Satterfelt believed Max was on the up and up. Hazel had done her time on the streets, twenty-five or thirty years, depending on which version of her life story she was telling. She owned three apartment buildings now and only did “favors” for special friends.

He’d fired up a cigar while he was on the phone. Half spent now, he flipped ashes from it into the ashtray on his desk, leaned back in his swivel, the springs on the leather chair taking his weight without a murmur.

Madison Street Max. Bull couldn’t recall when he’d last seen him, or even thought about him, for that matter. Max had been keeping a low profile. Bull’s usual sources didn’t have any answers, except Hazel, who also knew where Max’s church was located. Apparently, if he was going to find out anything about Max, it was going to take a face-to-face.

He decided to wait until later in the day, around three or four in the afternoon. He wanted to give Murph and Booker time to make their call, and leave some space in between before he showed up. He wasn’t sure what approach they would try. Whatever it would be, his would be different — they were cops and he wasn’t. That alone set them a world apart.

Naturally, waiting for what he thought would be the appropriate time to leave, the day dragged. Even the busy lunchtime, which usually sped his day up, seemed to take forever. A couple of times he started to head out early, patience never being one of his strong suits, but he managed to hold back. He managed to hold back until exactly 3:03, when he told Clay he had to make a run and would return shortly.

Traffic was light on the expressway, so getting over to Madison Street took a hair under a half hour. He didn’t have any trouble finding Max’s church; there was even an empty metered parking space in front of the place.

He parked his Caddy and fed the meter a buck’s worth of quarters. The church occupied the first floor of a three story walkup. The storefront window was painted a rich green, with HAVEN written in gold block lettering centered on the pane. In smaller print on the bottom righthand corner was REV. MAX IN RESIDENCE.

Bull expected rows of pews, or at least folding chairs and a pulpit of some kind. What he saw when he entered was a couple of tables and cushioned chairs — four for each table — a leather sofa, coffee brewing in one corner, and a plasma TV hanging on the wall.

Two women occupied one of the tables. They were both milk chocolate complexioned. The older one had a rather hard cast to her face, which said there was nothing out there she hadn’t seen before. The younger, almost innocent-looking one was on the thin side, not skin and bones, but a sandwich wouldn’t have hurt her. They’d been playing what at a glance looked like gin rummy.

They both looked up, but it was the younger one who asked, “May I help you?”

“I’d like to see the reverend. Is he in?”

“Back in his office,” she said, tilting her head toward the archway on the back wall. “You can go on back there, the door’s open.”

“Thanks.”

The older one rolled her eyes at him, then turned her attention back to the cards in her hand.

It was less than six feet from the archway to the Reverend Madison Street Max’s open door. He sat behind a small glass-topped desk, made smaller by the stacks of folders and magazines at each end. He’d been smoking and sat the cigarette in an ashtray, a frown increasing on his dark brow. Then it smoothed out, and a smile ripped across his wide mouth.

“I’ll be damned, Bull Benson.” He stood, extending his hand. “Good to see ya, man.”

He’d lost a lot of weight since the last time Bull had seen him, but the handshake was firm, showing no sign of feebleness.

“Sit yourself down, man. Rap to me. What’s been going on?”

“Same ol’ same ol’ for me. Looks like you’re the one who’s made the big change.”

“Guess I have,” Max said, shrugging. He’d always worn his hair long, straightened to shoulder length. It was the same now, with the addition of a few gray strands. The weight loss, however, seemed to have made the cheekbones on his clean-shaven face more prominent.

“Quite an unusual church you have here.”

“Hey, I’ve got to be different, you know?” Max smiled. “Actually, with the folks I deal with, this works better. I don’t need an audience to hear me preach. One or two at a time is fine. If I can get through to them, lend a hand when I’m needed...”

“Why?”

“Why?” Max repeated.

“Yeah. What brought you from where you were to where you are now?”

“Is that why you’re here, Bull?”

“One of the reasons.”

“Well, you’re not the first to ask. Lot of folks still find it hard to believe I’ve changed. Mostly it’s the cops. I used to get pissed having to explain all the damn time. But I’ve just come to realize it’s to be expected.” He took a shallow breath. “I guess part of getting upset about explaining myself is that I really don’t have an answer. At least not one particular thing I can point to. It was just one day I got tired of doing what I’d been doing for a good part of my life. Messing over people, women mostly. It wasn’t what I wanted to do anymore.

“Not being a cat to do things at half measures, I wound up with this church. Went so far as to take a correspondence course to make the reverend tag legit. Now I’ll admit I haven’t taken as many women off the street as I put out there in the first place, but I’m pleased with what I’ve been able to do so far.”

“Seems to me your former brethren can’t be too happy with you.”

“I’m sure they don’t speak of me favorably; however, they know I’m no major threat to them. A big part about a pimp’s life is show and flash, Bull. I don’t march in any parades. I don’t wave any banners. I don’t get all up in their faces and challenge them. So it’s easy for them to ignore me. I go about it quietly and simply offer a way out for those who want to take it. Is that enough of an explanation for you?”

It was as good a reason for changing one’s life as Bull had ever heard. He’d heard a number of them, from being afraid their luck was going to run out, to causing the death of someone dear. In his own case, he’d never gotten into anything heavier than strong-arming drunks. A life of crime was there for him, but thanks to Sam teaching him the beauty of a deck of cards and the sweet sound of rolling dice, he had not had to go that route.

“My turn again,” Max said. “You gave me one of the reasons you’re here, what’s the rest of it?”

“Questions been popping up on how you fund your church. Some folks been trying to tie it in with the burglaries happening on the South Side.”

“Cops again? You their errand boy?”

“Just doing a favor.”

Max nodded. “Yeah, I remember now. You were always kind of tight with the boys in blue.”

“One or two. There’s still a bunch out there that don’t like me.”

“Well, go back and tell them I don’t need any money from any burglaries. I didn’t get rid of all my scratch when I was in the life. I own this building for one thing. And I’ve got enough other investments to keep me and my church going, as they say, for the foreseeable future.”

He retrieved his cigarette. “My last vice,” he said, sticking it back in his mouth and pulling hard until the end of the cigarette glowed red. He blew smoke toward the ceiling, leaned back, and asked, “If that’s it, Bull, maybe next time you come by we can make it a purely social call.”

“There is one other thing. Just how much of a pain in the ass was Charlie Evans being to you?”

Max shook his head. “Name sounds familiar, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Detective Lieutenant Charlie Evans.”

“No.” He started to shake his head again, stopped. “Wait a minute. The cop that jumped out the window? Never met the dude. Somebody said different?”

“No. He had your name in a file. Thought he might have come by to see you.”

“Naw, last cops dropped by were from the local precinct selling tickets to the policemen’s ball. I got a half dozen.” He hunched his shoulders, tilting his palms up. “The new me believes in supporting law enforcement.”

On his way back to the Bull Pen, the uppermost question in his mind was why hadn’t Murph and Booker paid their visit to the Reverend Madison Street Max yet? There were probably a good half dozen answers, although he couldn’t think of any. Max may have been no more than what he appeared to be, a reformed dude trying to reform others. But Bull had been fooled before. People had lied to him, some whom he’d had more reason to believe in than the Reverend Max.

Bull relied on his instincts a lot, the vibes around him, whether he was in a poker game or just trying to get a handle on someone. This time around his gut told him Max was playing it straight or, at any rate, didn’t have anything to do with Charlie’s death.

The early after-work crowd was trickling in when he got back to the Bull Pen. Mindy and Joy were covering things behind the bar.

“Hey, boss,” Joy smiled at him, as he came up to the counter. She was five feet nothing, light complexioned, with a blanket of freckles across her nose.

“Anything come up while I was gone?”

“Vern called.”

“He should’ve tried my cell.”

“I told him. But he said he just wanted to remind you about the game tonight.”

“Duly noted.”

“Also, you’ve got somebody waiting for you — back booth, nursing a beer.”

He’d noticed her when he came into the joint, her short skirt and crossed legs showing a lot of shapely thigh. Too much makeup and not enough clothes. He didn’t know her, but he knew the business she was in.

“You wanted to see me?”

“If you’re Bull Benson.” She was young, in her twenties, her chocolate cream face wrinkle free.

“That’s me, baby,” he said, sitting down across the table from her. “What can I do for you?”

People came up to him all the time, passing secrets, telling tales, and again, some even offering up out-and-out lies. He wondered which it would be this time.

She pushed her beer mug aside, her nails glossy red claws. “I’m Sweet Pea. Tessie and me kind of work together.” When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “We were talking this morning.” Both cheeks sprouted dimples when she smiled. “Said you and her go way back.”

He nodded. “We had some laughs.”

“Bet you can still show a lady a good time.” She straightened somewhat. She wasn’t wearing a bra and her pale pink blouse did little to hide the fact.

“I don’t recall asking Tessie to send me any candidates.”

She shrugged. “No, that idea kind of popped in my head when you walked over here. I always have to keep an eye out for future business.”

“Can’t fault you for that. But that doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

“Well, as I said, me and Tessie were talking. Just flapping our jaws, you know, like we always do. We got around to that cop that killed himself. And she thought I ought to come tell you what I told her.”

“Which is...”

“I saw him that night, at the hotel. Me and a, er, client were just leaving, and we passed him in the hallway.”

“You sure it was him?”

“It was the same guy whose picture was in the papers the next day. And I knew he was a cop when I first laid eyes on him. I’ve been able to spot ’em since I was eight. Know how your mind plays games with you at times? Thought the joint was being raided for a second or two.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“No. More like completely ignored us. He was just standing there knocking on one of the doors.”

The night clerk had said he’d given Charlie a key. Why would he have to knock on the door? The obvious answer was that Charlie didn’t have a key and that there was someone inside the hotel room to open the door for him. Which meant, among other things, the desk clerk had lied. Looks like he had a reason to be nervous.

“Did you see who was in the room?”

She shook her head no. “When I got on the elevator and turned around, he wasn’t in the hallway anymore. Figured he was meeting a lady friend, and she let him in the room. I’ve had guys do that, have me get the room and they come up later, like they don’t want to be seen with me or something.”

“Had you ever seen Charlie there before?”

A frown line scratched her forehead.

“The cop who went out the window.”

“Him, no, never.”

Bull let the whole thing digest for a moment. Her not seeing Charlie before didn’t necessarily mean it was his first time at the hotel. The desk clerk had lied once, maybe he’d lied about that also.

There was something else she might be able to help him with. “You ever hear of a Madison Street Max?”

Her mouth sprouted into a crooked grin. “Hell, who hasn’t? Tried to pull me from my man Toby back when I first started out. I was working the North Side, little brown sugar for them white folks. Toby put a stop to him messing with me. Everything was cool after that — up to about a year ago when Toby got his self killed. Damn cops around there started acting like me and the rest of Toby’s girls belonged to them, so I moved on.”

“You saying you think Max killed Toby?”

“I don’t know who killed Toby. I don’t think it was Max though, he’d turned into Reverend Max by then. Saw him about two months ago. Tried to get me to quit the life.”

“You ever think about doing that?”

She shrugged. “For a little while, right after Toby got killed. But hell, it’s what I know. And I’m good at it.”

He didn’t doubt that part one bit. “Well, thanks for coming by, Sweet Pea, is it?”

She smiled with a slight nod.

He went in his pocket, slid a couple of hundred-dollar bills across the table to her. “For the time you wasted waiting for me.”

She folded the money in half and stuck it in a small purse she had sitting with her jacket on the bench next to her. “While I’m here, you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?” she asked, batting dark lashes.

Bull thought about it for a while, then said, “Tempting, but I’ve got a bunch of stuff I’ve got to do.” He started to stand.

“Wait a minute.” She went into her purse, tore a back page out of a small address book, and scribbled a phone number on it. “It’s my cell, just in case you get some free time.”

Back in his office, Bull started to toss the phone number into the trash basket, but he stopped himself and put it in his top desk drawer next to his box of imported cigars. Hell, maybe he’d make time for her one of these days.

He fired up one of the cigars, enjoying the rich taste of the tobacco as the smoke billowed around him. Sweet Pea added credence to his belief that the Reverend Max was a reformed person. And if she had actually seen Charlie at the hotel, then the desk clerk had lied to him. So exactly what did it all mean?

Charlie hadn’t been in the hotel room alone. Did he have help going out the window? Or had he taken the dive after the other person in the room left? For that matter, had there been more than one other person in the room with him?

Each question brought with it its own array of scenarios. Finding out how it had gone down was going to take more than sitting at his desk puffing on his cigar. He didn’t have any of the answers, but he knew it all had to start with the desk clerk. Bull would have to have another talk with the clerk when he came on duty tonight, more forceful this time. He’d persuaded people to share their secrets with a narrow-eyed stare, a gruffness in his voice, and the show of a clinched fist. On certain occasions, actual physical violence was a line he didn’t mind crossing.

There was a knock on his door and Murph stuck his head inside.

“Hell of a day,” he said, coming over and sitting in one of the chairs in front of Bull’s desk. He shook his head. “Never got to check out that Madison Street Max character. Caught a hit-and-run that tied Booker and me up most of the day. Hoping maybe you came up with something.”

“I saw him,” Bull said, and told him how the visit had gone.

“So, you don’t think that he had anything to do with Charlie’s death?”

“I don’t even think he knew him.”

Murph straightened himself in the chair, nodded. “I guess that’s that then.”

“Not quite,” Bull said, taking a last pull on his cigar before crushing it out. “I just had a visit with a young woman who threw some new information my way.”

He told him what Sweet Pea said she’d seen at the hotel, leaving out her name, of course. He rarely broke the confidence of people who confided in him.

“You believe this whore?”

“It’s something that needs to be checked out at least. I’m just waiting for the hotel clerk to come on duty.”

Murph took a moment before speaking, as though he was in deep thought. “I don’t think we’ve got to wait.” He took a notepad out of his inside coat pocket, flipped a few pages. “Ted Ragglan. I’ve got his address right here; we can catch up with him now. That is, if you don’t mind some company.”

“Company will be just fine,” Bull said, trying to figure out just how to play it. Murph had cupped his hands, but Bull had seen it was a blank page he’d supposedly been reading from. Going anywhere with Murph right now didn’t seem like a smart idea. “Let me just check with my people up front, and we’ll be on our way,” he said, as he started to stand.

There must have been something in Bull’s expression or the tone of his voice that gave him away. Murph had his gun out and pointing at him, a dark automatic, held steady. “This thing just isn’t going to fly, is it, Bull? Better sit back down.”

Bull reseated himself. “What’s this all about, Murph?”

“The dumb act don’t suit you, Bull.”

“Okay then. I’m guessing this is somehow tied in with Charlie’s death.” Faced with the situation, it really wasn’t such a wild guess.

Murph shrugged. “There you go. And if you didn’t already know it, you’d probably get around to me sooner or later.”

“You’re giving me more credit than I deserve,” Bull said. Beside his bottle of hundred-proof Grand-dad he kept a fully loaded Glock in his bottom desk drawer. But getting to it without getting shot first was going to take some doing.

“I had a hunch you were going to be a lot of trouble.”

“You invited me to this dance.”

“Yeah, I did. My lame attempt to get you off Ragglan’s ass, for all the good it did. He called me last night after you talked to him. He knew your rep, and he swore you knew he was lying.” Murph shook his head. “I’ve had that pervert under my thumb for years. He told you the same story I had him tell the investigators. But for some reason you got him rattled.”

“That’s why you tossed Madison Street Max into the picture?” It should’ve registered, a vice cop not knowing one of the city’s biggest pimps, former or otherwise.

“I thought it might work.”

“If it’s any consolation, everything was working until I found out Charlie didn’t have a key to that hotel room. Why did you do it?”

Murph didn’t answer right away, the gun bobbed in his hand slightly. “He said he had some stuff on me from my time on the North Side. I got him to meet me at the hotel. One cop to another. Told him I was willing to name names.”

“But it was just a setup.”

Murph shrugged. “I didn’t have much choice. I wasn’t about to turn stoolie, and I knew Charlie couldn’t be bought off.” He paused. “I coldcocked him as soon as he walked into the room.”

“Was Toby part of the stuff Charlie had on you?”

Murph grinned. “That another guess, Bull?”

“Just something that seems to fit.”

“We didn’t get that far, and I think this conversation’s gone about as far as I care to take it.” He slid his chair back, standing up. “I figure you’ve got a back way out of here. We’re going to use it without bringing any undue attention to ourselves.”

“I’m supposed to just go along with this?” The Glock seemed to be getting farther and farther away.

“Right now you’re the only one I have to deal with, Bull. You’re a dead man. That’s a fact. But you give me any trouble and I swear I’ll kill you right here. Then I’ll do those two barmaids you’ve got working tonight, and maybe three or four of your customers. Hell, I’m a white cop in this den of crazed black folk, I might even get away with it.” He motioned with his gun. “Now you can get up, slowly.”

Trying for the Glock wasn’t going to happen. Maybe he’d have a chance of going for Murph’s gun once they were outside.

The office door squeaked as Vern opened it and started to come in, his eyes growing wide as he took in the scene. Murph swung and fired, the slug chipping the door jamb as Vern jumped back and slammed the door shut. Bull made a reach for his bottom drawer; he knew he wouldn’t get another chance, but Murph swung back to him, leveling the gun.

The sounds of gunshots and the office door opening simultaneously erupted in the room as Vern fired his gun from a crouched position. Murph didn’t get another shot off. His body jerked violently to the three hits it took before crumbling to the floor.

Vern kept his gun trained on Murph as he knelt beside him and felt his throat for a pulse. Standing, he holstered his gun. “Well, this blows tonight’s game.” He turned to Bull. “You want to tell me what the hell just happened?”

Bull got to his bottom desk drawer, but it was the Grand-dad he brought out. He poured hefty drinks for the both of them. “I’d say you just restored Charlie’s good name.”

Copyright 2006 Percy Spurlark Parker