Dead Street

I heard back from Davy Ross a few hours later. I recognized his voice, said, “Hi, buddy. What do you have?”

“Forget any ID on those Burnwald slugs. They didn’t match any in the ID files, but photos of them are at hand. Most likely the shooter has already dropped the gun in the river and there are no witnesses who saw anyone make an entrance into the Credentials offices.”

I nodded into the phone. “Thought it would be that way.”

“What have you got in your mind, Jack?”

“Nothing I can put into words, pal. I’ll be in touch when I can.”

“Roger and out, Captain,” he said, then added with a laugh. “That’s G.I. talk, remember?”

“How could I forget?” I told him.

Before I could hang up, he said, “Hey, Jack!”

“Yeah?”

“Damn near forgot to tell you. I just saw old Bessie O’Brian, when her daughter picked her up. She told me something funny.”

“Like what?”

“She said she saw a guy wandering around that dead old street... reminded her of Bucky Mohler, who used to live down from her. You remember that piece of work, don’t you?”

“Sure, Davy — and I remember the Blue Uptowners nailing Bucky with a stolen car. Mashed the hell out of him.”

“Well, you know old Bessie. Whatever happened on that street, she’d know about.”

“Yeah, she always was a reliable old bird, only this time she has to be off the track.”

“You so sure?”

“Bucky’s wallet and a dry cleaner’s ticket were in his pocket. Bloodstained, but readable.”

“Maybe, Jack. But even his family couldn’t identify Bucky, at the morgue. And old Bessie says she saw him.”

“Bessie’s older than dirt, Davy.”

“So are we, Jack. So are we....”

She knew I’d be coming over there.

So did her dog. When my hand turned the doorknob, I heard Tacos’ soft yip and Bettie’s head turned and her smile reached between the two houses and she waved.

She wasn’t wearing her sunglasses, and somehow her pupils followed me down the steps and across to her porch. When I reached her she held up her hand the way she used to twenty years ago and when I kissed it her eyebrows gave a minute twitch and nobody had to remind me that this was an unconscious act of remembrance. I had kissed her hand many times in the past, but not where somebody could see me do it. Big cops never did that sort of thing to young ladies. To their mothers, maybe, or grandmothers, but not to a beautiful, sensuous doll.

Cops sure had a lot to learn.

I pulled up another rocker and sat down beside her. I didn’t try to be surreptitious with my question, but something had to jar her recognition facilities and I said, “You used to work at a place called Credentials, didn’t you?”

“Why.... ” Her mouth creased and she paused. “That sounds a little bit familiar. I think. Remember, I only think.”

“Good enough.”

“Is it important?”

Now was the time I had to sink the barb in. I told her, “The man who owns Credentials was shot and the files ransacked. He was injured, but he’s alive. His name was Ray Burnwald.”

“Mr. Burnwald!” she blurted out, almost painfully. The skin of her face paled.

“Did you know him?”

“I... I... don’t remember. It seems like....”

“What?”

“The name... I’ve heard it before.” She looked at me, not seeing me, but as if she were.

“Would it bother you if I gave you some more information?” I asked her gently.

“No, please.”

I said, “You worked on computers at Credentials. Your job was data management.”

Bettie seemed to mouth the words, a small frown tensing her lips. “Data management,” she repeated quietly. “Mr. Burnwald was... nice.”

And that was all I got.

But it was a start.

Again, that look. She was seeing me without seeing me. Her pupils were locked directly on mine and there was a vague expression in them. It lasted for about five seconds, then went back to non-recognition again.

That was a start, too.

Her mood seemed to impart itself to the greyhound. He paused in the middle of a big yawn that showed a mouthful of huge teeth, and his head moved a few inches to scan the both of us, wondering what made this visit so intense.

I reached over, squeezed her arm and said, “How about us three taking a drive? It’s a beautiful day and...”

“But I can’t see it, Jack.”

“So I’ll describe it to you and you can smell the flowers. Tacos can bark at passing cars.”

“Tacos doesn’t do that,” she said.

“Good. Now let’s go.”

The greyhound hopped into the back seat, happy to have the space all to himself, with the window cracked down so he could smell the flowers too. We drove through the center of the village and friends of Bettie called out to her and waved. Two of my old buddies made some odd grimaces when they saw me out with my blind, but very striking, lady friend.

Two blocks up the musical bells of an ice cream truck rolled out its national theme song. I asked Bettie if she wanted a cone and she shook her head. “Those boys on those trucks are too fresh.”

“What did they do?”

“I was walking the dog and they whistled and made pretty rude remarks.”

“What were you wearing?”

“Halter top and shorts. It’s what all the girls wear.”