Heaven, INC: Chapter 18: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE FLYING PRIVATE DETECTIVE

Who’s on the seventh floor, brewing alternatives?
What’s in the bottom drawer, waiting for things to give?
—The Cutter,
ECHO & THE BUNNYMEN

OFFICE OF GEORGE McCRACKEN,
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
9:49 AM PDT

GEORGE LOOKED UP from his open briefcase. “Hey, Mick, I was just gonna call you.”

Mick smiled. “What a coincidence: I was in the area and thought I’d stop in.” He whistled. “Wow, George, great view.”

Out the window lay Petco Park, buzzing as the Padres prepared for a game against the Dodgers. Beyond Petco was San Diego Harbor and the Coronado Bridge and, beyond that, Coronado Island. The window was open enough to hear the sound of traffic and a jack-hammer seven floors below, but not enough to clear the office of air stale with cigar smoke.

“Jesus, George, y’ever think about turning on the AC? Maybe open this window all the way, get some fresh air?”

“AC’s busted and the window’s stuck.” George was a tall and wiry man with ruddy skin and a nose ridged with the scar of a broken beer bottle. His eyes went to the phone on his desk and back to Mick. “Got a coupla tickets behind home plate to today’s game if you want em. Take Tonya and score some points.”

Mick studied George’s eyes before turning back to the window and giving it an experimental tug. “You could make a hundred bucks scalping two against the Dodgers, why you wanna give em to me? Besides, you know Tonya’s tit’s’re too big for standard stadium seating. We’d need at least a skybox.” Mick studied the window. “Problem’s someone painted over the window jamb. Hand me that letter opener there, would’ja? I’ll get it open.”

George’s gaze went to the letter opener— fashioned to resemble a ceremonial dagger— and back to Mick. “Don’t worry about that, Mick. I’ll call the property management company. Rent I pay on this dump, least they can do’s fix my goddamn window.”

“Forget it. Hand me that letter opener and I’ll fix it right now.”

George hesitated before handing over the letter-dagger.

At window, dagger in hand, Mick said, “So you said you were gonna call.”

“Right. About Mij Poopikov being dead.”

Mick turned to study George. “What?”

George studied Mick in return. “I just got a call. Somebody shot Mij about two a.m.”

Mick turned back to the window, again running the letter opener along the jamb and wondered if Bivo’d lost his temper again. Out the corner of his eye, he also noticed two travel bags packed and ready to go. “Cops know who did it?”

“Hard to say. Mij had a lotta enemies.”

Mick dug the blade between the window and jamb. “You hear anything about Mij being connected to the Russians?”

“Russians?” George seemed to consider the question. “Come to think of it, I think I heard somewhere Mij was into Viktor Ledbedev for a bit of money.”

Mick studied George studying him. Then turned back to the window and giving it an experimental tug. “Hey, look at that: fresh air.”

Seven stories below, a construction crew working on the new condominium high-rise next door had broken for lunch and was heading for the roach coach.

“They finish that condo and you can kiss your view goodbye, George.” Mick turned back to George. “You know Victor?”

George shook his head. “For my health, I find it best to steer clear of the Russians.”

“Yeah, that’s good thinking,” Mick agreed, glancing out the window. Far below, the lunching construction workers had moved to the shade of the building’s far side. “Well, it’s been nice talking with you, George, but I gotta go. I do appreciate the offer of those tickets, though— maybe another time, if you get a skybox for Tonya’s tits.” He started for the door and stopped.

“Oops. Almost walked out with your letter opener.”

“No problem,” George said, and held out a hand into which Mick plunged the letter-opener, stifling George’s scream by clapping a hand over his mouth. Then, using the blade as leverage, he yanked George from his chair and over to the open window, hissing, “Stop insulting my intelligence, George, or so help me, I’m gonna shove you out this window. Now you know why I’m here— Mij told Spiro what you two were up to. Fucking over Bivo Papacostas? Have you lost your mind?”

Mick removed his hand and George said, “Victor said he’d wipe me a clean slate.”

“You consider fucking over Bivo Papacostas a clean slate?” Mick twisted the blade to elicit another groan. “Where’s the master tape?”

“The master tape?”

Mick gave the blade another twist. “Don’t fuck with me, George: the tape of Bivo at the sub-regionals. You know what I’m talking about. The lip-sync tape.”

George looked pained by more than just the blade. “I tell you, you ain’t gonna kill me like Mij, are you?”

“For god sake, George, we were dorm-mates our freshmen year, how could I kill you? And I don’t know who killed Mij, but it wasn’t me. I just want the tape.”

George seemed to consider his options. “In the safe. Behind the picture.”

On the wall was a black-and-white photograph of downtown San Diego, circa 1920: Model-Ts, dirt streets and short buildings.

“Don’t move,” Mick said, and with the letter-opener still piercing George’s hand, he drove the blade into the window-sill.

Behind the picture was a wall-safe that looked old enough to have come with the building.

“What’s the combination?”

“You swear you aren’t gonna kill me?”

“George, quit being so goddamn paranoid and give me the combo.” Getting it, Mick opened the safe to find a manila envelope and a bundle of bills looked to be about 10 grand.

Removing the envelope, Mick said, “By the way, I meant to ask, how’s Ray Anne?”
George blinked. Across his brow, sweat stood out in heavy beads. “Ray Anne? She’s good. She’s a sophomore now, lives in the same dorm we did.”

Mick opened the envelope to a VHS tape. “Ray Anne still planning on studying Criminal Justice?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, she still wants to be an FBI agent, if you can believe it.”

“Better than being a crook or a crooked PI, right, George?” Mick studied the tape. “Hey, this is a copy. Where’s the master?”

George seemed to consider a lie and think better of it. “I gave one to Mij.”

Mick frowned. “Mij said you didn’t give him shit. And we tossed his car, house, even his shitty bar, but there was no tape. You lying to me, George? Because I don’t wanna hurt you anymore.”

“Uh, maybe you ougghta check his girlfriend’s house. The Russian chick? I got her address in my Rolodex. Maybe he stashed the tape at her place.”

Mick studied George, putting the lie detector on him. When nothing registered, he got the Russian chick’s address from the Rolodex.

“Look, George, I’m sorry about your hand, but it’s just business. Okay,” Mick said, gripping the letter-opener, “this is gonna hurt.”

George groaned as Mick yanked the letter-opener free. “Son-of-a-bitch that hurts.” Cradling his bleeding hand, he leaned against the window-sill studying it. “I’m gonna need a tetanus.”

Mick said, “George, I’ve always liked you, ever since we were pledges and we got caught raiding Pat Bridge’s ice-chest— you’re just a good guy who fucked up.”

George tried grabbing Mick’s arm, tried snatching at the place it had been, but it was too late— Mick’s hard shove was fast and forceful and out the window George tumbled. George was still on his way down and screaming when Mick pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping down the window. He wiped the safe, the desk drawer, the Rolodex, the doorknob and the picture of San Diego, too, but the letter opener and the ten grand he took, exiting the back of the building as a siren began to wail in the distance.