A Fistful of Collars

TWENTY-ONE

It was the hottest part of the day when we got back to the old Flower Mart, and this was pretty much the hottest part of the year, all that heat making Bernie’s Hawaiian shirt-he wore the one with the fiery volcanoes-kind of damp. Not a cloud in the sky, but no blue, either: instead it glowed a dusty, golden brown.

“I don’t like that sky,” Bernie said.

Then neither did I. I hoped that another one would come sliding across soon.

No sign of Suzie in front, so we drove around to the back. No Suzie, and also the Dumpster was gone. We stopped and got out. All the lower windows of the old Flower Mart were boarded up, and the door looked boarded up, too, but it opened and Suzie looked out. She gave us that little hooked finger motion that meant come. We went inside.

“What’s up?” Bernie said.

He spoke in a low whisper, the low human whisper always clear as a bell to me, even from across a street. An odd thing about bells: easy to hear, no question, but their sound was sometimes so complicated, full of all these different parts separating and coming together, like THA-roomp, tha-ROOMP, that you couldn’t really call bell ringing clear.

“How did you get in?” Bernie went on.

“Why are you whispering?” Suzie said.

Bernie laughed. “I don’t know,” he said in a normal voice.

I looked around. We were in a big, shadowy space with shafts of dusty light shining down through the upper windows, the floorboards all torn up, paint peeling off the walls, wires hanging from the ceiling high above.

“I heard a toilet flush inside and tried the door,” Suzie said. “Turned out the boards weren’t nailed to the frame.”

“Because someone’s been squatting in here?” Bernie said.

“You’re sharp today,” said Suzie.

She led us to the far end of the room, past a big pillar, down a set of dark stairs, and into a small room lit by a single, weak lightbulb hanging from a beam above. A small room-toilet and sink on one side, counter with a hot plate on the other, bed in between-and very neat, with the bed made, no wrinkles. The man sitting on it-a little old guy in a faded uniform-looked neat, too, hair cut short, face shaved, shoes freshly shined-a smell hard to miss. Another smell I was picking up: bourbon, a smell I’m very used to, and happen to like.

“Bernie, meet Mr. Albert,” Suzie said. “Former caretaker of the Flower Mart.”

Bernie gave Mr. Albert a close look, his gaze taking in the faded uniform. “Former Master Sergeant Albert,” he said, “Korean War veteran and winner of the Bronze Star.”

“Correct, sir,” said Mr. Albert. “What service were you in?”

“Army,” said Bernie. “Same as you.”

“Overseas?”

“Yes.”

“Combat?”

Bernie nodded. Mr. Albert extended his hand, a bony, spotted hand with lots of thick veins. They shook.

“Korea came before the Flower Mart, just sose you know,” said Mr. Albert. “Before Korea was high school. Important to keep all these events in order.”

“Mr. Albert was the caretaker here until it closed down,” Suzie said.

Mr. Albert’s eyes narrowed. “How d’you know that?”

“You told me,” Suzie said.

Mr. Albert shook his head, then glanced over at a bottle standing by the sink. The bourbon with the red label: sometimes Bernie bought the same kind.

“What did you do after the Flower Mart closed down?” Bernie said.

Mr. Albert turned to him. “What time is it?” he said.

Bernie checked his watch. “Three fifty.”

“Military time is better,” said Mr. Albert.

“Fifteen fifty,” Bernie told him.

Mr. Albert nodded. Then he pointed to the dull-colored metal star on his chest. “How much for this?” he said.

“What do you mean?” said Bernie.

“How much will you give me for it?” Mr. Albert said. “What else could I mean?”

“I think you should keep it.”

“Huh? Don’t want it? You’re telling me you already got one of your own?”

“No,” Bernie said. I wondered why: could he have forgotten that he did have a star just like that, maybe a bit shinier, in one of the drawers in his bedside table? Barking started up in the little room.

“Hey, Chet,” Bernie said.

Uh-oh. It was me. I put a stop to it at once, or almost.

“I had a dog once, name of Marshall,” Mr. Albert said. “Not as good-looking as this one here, missing a leg, but I liked him fine.” He glanced over at the bottle. “Mind reaching me that?”

“In a bit,” Bernie said.

Mr. Albert looked Bernie in the eye. “You’re a hard man,” he said. “Hard men die, too, easy as soft.”

“I know,” Bernie said.

“I seen ’em die, like flies. Ever have a B-13 go off right over your head?”

“No.”

“Happened to me,” Mr. Albert said. “Keeps happening, too. My head’s never been the same since.”

Bernie picked up the bottle, handed it over. Mr. Albert didn’t unscrew the cap, just held the bottle in his lap.

“Can you remember what happened after the Flower Mart job?” Bernie said.

“A whole lot of shit,” said Mr. Albert. “Think I’d live in the shelter? Think again. I improvised my way back in here, wired myself up some juice, plumbed myself up some water, and hell with them all.”

“Why not?” Bernie said.

Mr. Albert gave Bernie a long look. “Maybe you’re not so bad.” He turned to me. “This your dog?”

Bernie nodded.

“Got the dog, got the wife, you’re on track,” Mr. Albert said.

“We’re not married,” Bernie told him.

“What’s the holdup?”

Bernie smiled, glanced at Suzie. She looked down. He stopped smiling.

“Life is short, never heard that?” Mr. Albert said. “B-13 goes off over your head and forget it.”

“Some people’s lives are shorter than others,” Bernie said.

Mr. Albert sat back a little.

“Are you aware,” Bernie went on, “that a woman was shot and dropped in your Dumpster the other night?”

Mr. Albert shook his head. “No, no, no,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”

Suzie started to say something, but Bernie made a tiny motion with his hand. “Tell me about it,” he said.

Mr. Albert’s fingers moved on the bottle. I thought about this blanket Charlie had had, back when he couldn’t even walk yet-and what a shocker that was, seeing how long it took a human to get up and go, kind of basic, after all-and the way his tiny fingers would stroke it. Funny how the mind works.

“Long time ago,” Mr. Albert said. “Very hazy, like when the dust storm rolls in.”

“Was this before the Flower Mart closed?” Bernie said. “Were you still the caretaker?”

“Oh, yeah, still the caretaker. They paid me… what was it? Three eighty-five an hour? Might have been…” His voice trailed off.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bernie said. “The point is-”

“What the hell?” said Mr. Albert, his voice rising and getting squeakier. “Wage they give a man don’t matter? Ever gone hungry?”

“No.”

“Damn straight. Then you’d know a thing or two, by God.”

I myself had gone hungry, lots, in fact. For example, at that very moment a little something would have gone down nicely. I wanted to figure out the thing or two I knew from that, but there just wasn’t time.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Bernie said. “But I’m getting the picture that even though you weren’t getting rich, you were better off than at other times in your life.”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Albert, not so loudly now. “That’s the picture.”

“So,” Bernie said, “back when you were making some money and the Flower Mart was still a going proposition-”

“Know what it smelled like in here?” Mr. Albert said. “Heaven.”

Heaven. I’d heard of it, of course-it came up a lot in human conversation-but never been.

“Why did it shut down?” Bernie said.

“Forces. There are big forces at work in this world, case you haven’t noticed.”

“Like that night the woman ended up in the Dumpster,” Bernie said.

“Exactly what I’m talking about, brother,” said Mr. Albert. His fingers did that blanket-stroking thing on the bottle again. “Though you could barely call her a woman,” he went on.

“I’m sorry?” Bernie said.

“A teenager’s not quite grown-up, not in my book,” said Mr. Albert. “And I should know-I was all of eighteen when that B-13 come a-calling. Blew up over my goddamn head and then there was blood all over. Not mine, my buddy’s, which I didn’t realize right away. Made no difference in the end. Don’t expect anyone to understand that.”

“What I’d like to understand,” Bernie said, “is this story of the woman in the Dumpster.”

“Not a story,” said Mr. Albert. “It really happened. You can check.”

“Where?”

Mr. Albert shrugged. “The records.” He glanced down at the bottle. “Anything else for now? I’ve got to get back to my duties.”

“I’ll try to be quick,” Bernie said. “First, are you telling me that two women have been killed and left in the Dumpster?”

“Two?” said Mr. Albert.

“I told you-they found a body in there two days ago.”

“Two days ago? I’m talking about years and years.”

“Where were you two days ago?”

“Here. This is where I am.”

“Did the police come in the building?”

Mr. Albert shook his head.

“What about the sirens when they arrived?” Bernie said. “Didn’t you hear them?”

Mr. Albert got a faraway look in his eyes. “I thought it was a dream,” he said.

“It really happened,” Bernie said. “A woman-a second woman, if I’m following you right, ended up in your Dumpster. She was a reporter for the Trib named Carla Wilhite.”

“Not a teenager?”

“No.”

“The one I knew was a teenager.”

“You knew her?” Bernie said.

“Sure I did,” said Mr. Albert. “I knew all the workers on the floor, even the part-time kids who came in on weekends.”

“The girl was one of the part-time kids?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. A pretty young thing, nice smile.” Mr. Albert squeezed his eyes shut. “I can see her,” he said. “Pretty young thing, name of April.”

“April?” Bernie said. His voice didn’t rise-went the other way, if anything-but it seemed to fill the room, even push against me, like the sound was taking up space.

Mr. Albert’s eyes opened. “April something or other. But the April part’s easy to remember.” He paused for a moment or two, licked his lips. “It’s a month.”

“Who killed April?” Bernie said, tamping down that scary thing in his voice some; not scary to me, goes without mentioning-there was nothing scary between me and Bernie.

“Asking me?” said Mr. Albert. “I couldn’t tell you.”

Bernie reached out, not quickly, more like he was doing something he did all the time, and took the bottle out of Mr. Albert’s hands.

“Hey,” said Mr. Albert.

“Who killed April?” Bernie said.

“Already told you-I couldn’t say.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Albert gazed at Bernie. “Oh, good Christ-you think I’m the guilty party?”

“I’m not saying that,” Bernie said. “I just want the facts.”

“The facts?” said Mr. Albert. “Facts are scarce on the ground.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can’t have facts if they never found out who did it.”

Now Bernie got real quiet. “You’re saying it’s an unsolved crime?”

“The right way to put it,” Mr. Albert said.

“Were there any suspects?” Bernie said.

“Couldn’t tell you,” said Mr. Albert. “All I know’s what I told the detective.”

“Which was?”

“What you already know-April was a nice girl.”

“Who found the body?”

“Why, I did, of course-I’m the caretaker.”

“You went out to put something in the Dumpster?” Bernie said.

“You’re a smart one,” said Mr. Albert. “Torn strip of insulation-the pink kind.” He looked at Suzie. “And you, too, ma’am. Smart.” And then at me. “Even the pooch here. So if you’re lookin’ to find out who killed April, then maybe you will.”

“Who was the detective?” Bernie said.

“The name, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“My apologies on that,” said Mr. Albert. “But one thing I’m sure of-he had long side whiskers, like an old-time riverboat gambler. Also wore himself a tall Stetson.”

Bernie handed him back the bottle.

“But it was a long time ago,” Mr. Albert called after us as we climbed the stairs out of his little room. “So maybe you won’t.”

I heard a faint sound of metal on glass: that would be the bottle cap getting unscrewed.