THREE


It was a comfortable Tuesday morning. I felt the blood in my veins for the first time in a long while. I started my haphazard search for Mr. Letale, making calls, connecting the missing pieces left by his distraught wife. Nothing.

I visited a friend of mine named Liz who ran a watering hole on Jones and knew from gossip everyone in town. It turned to be a dead end. She thought the name familiar but failed to produce anything of use.

After a shave and a couple of cups of strong coffee I decided to venture out to the Letale house to see if that story of hers would hole of under a surprise visit. It had holes here and there but wasn’t anymore sordid than most of my cases, that is when I was lucky enough to get them.

The Letales live outside the city in a quaint little place big enough for only ten families. Eleven is out of the question. Past the gravel laden drive resting between s-shaped hedges and a sea of grass was the enormous front doors. I stood there looking out into the yard trying to get my eyes accustomed to all that green. I knocked aimlessly. An older gentleman dressed in proper butler finery quickly answered the door; his skin had long lost its elasticity and was darkened from age.

“Yes?” His stuffy English voice spoke.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Letale.”

“I wasn’t told she was expecting anyone.”

“Tell her Philip Bottino is calling.” He bowed and ushered me into the living room.

It drove me nuts, all that space. Might as well sleep outside. I stood on an oriental rug that spread like a spill to the master staircase, the kind one would expect to see in a musical only with out the chorus line. They preformed later.

“You’ll wait here.” He bowed again. I yeah-yeahed at him still casing the joint. I whistled and said:

“Swank.” There was either ten more of me somewhere or my words echoed like a banquet hall. It wasn’t long before the butler returned from the room behind the stairs.

“Mrs. Letale will see you in the sitting room.”

“Lead on Jeeves.”

“Yeah.” His voice cracked free of the accent.

The room was small in comparison to the rest of the beastly house but still too big for my tastes. I found Lena there on a loveseat starring at a mirrored vanity on her left.

“Philip!” She greeted my with a smile sending old Jeevesie Boy away.

I took a seat on a rocker next to a window gazing out to the backyard. It was lined with Spanish curtains in a dark red trimmed with gold.

“You want a drink?” She stood. “Gin?”

“Scotch’ll do.” I placed my hat on a table by my elbow. Photographs framed in silver occupied its surface. One of a fifty-year-old man caught my eye.

“This him?” I asked. She looked from the mirror, gave me a nod in the affirmative before going back to her task.

Mr. Letale was rather unpleasant with melting jowls; catfish like lips broad and as lifeless as his eyes. They had a cold dead stare.

Between the frame and the photograph, a corner of some paper protruded that I pocketed without hesitation as Lena returned drinks in hand. She sat with her knees below her on the loveseat adjacent to me. I took the scotch, rolled it with my fingers while she gulped hers. I sipped at mine without interest and when I lowered my glass she planted other kiss on me. I stood with my hat, without the drink.

“Now wait.” I started making my acting as vivid as possible. “I’m here on business. What if Jeeves saw us?

“Who Hannay? It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.” I was frightened and felt my hand twitch inside my pocket. There was a primal look in her eyes that said she was a girl that welcomed trouble, the one thing I didn’t need more of.

“I’ll update you on your husband’s case. If you haven’t forgotten him yet.” Again she sat there not speaking save for her eyes. “Good day, Mrs. Letale.” I nodded heading for the door.

I didn’t make it far however. Two men, one was Hannay hustled in faster than union square on a good shopping day. The second was a big, offish fellow stepping bluntly with little care.

“Where’s Letale?” He asked out of the side of his mouth. Hannay moved around him like a fly buzzing around a bullfrog. Lena stood changing her mood.

“I’m Mrs. Letale. What can I do for you mister…”

“Hall. Letale ain’t been t’work for a while.” The fat man spat out.

I looked to Lena. Her face was sullen, aimed to the floor. “Yes, I know he has been missing.”

“Well, he owes me five g’s.”

“When he gets back I’m sure Mister Hall that,”

“Dat t'ain’t good ‘nough lady. I’m here t’ collect.” I was quick to the man’s hands. He had pulled an automatic from his waistcoat aimed at Lena. He was strong but unbalanced so I managed to move the heater skyward as we struggled with each other like a couple of street dogs over a bone.

A sound like dynamite going off in my eardrums stopped both of us. The fierceness in Hall’s eyes dissipated and it wasn’t long before he began to topple over. On his way down he hit the vanity, cracking the mirror but the glass stayed in its position. I could see through its distorted reflection Lena with a pistol the size of her hand.

She seemed to be shaken; not as much as someone who just murdered should be though. I thought looking down at the bloated backside of Hall. I took his pudgy arm still equip with the rod and shot at the couch opposite of us.

“What are you doing?” Lena screamed at me.

“Self defense. He shot at you first. That’s what we tell the cops when they get here.” Hannay walked in during my speech with a grapefruit sized mouth.

“Everything is all right.” Her voice was throaty and spastic. “The police?” she continued, “Do we have to call them?”

I met her gaze with an inclined eyebrow. “You going to leave him here? Maybe make a coffee table out of him?”

“Of course. You are right.” She had stability again. “Hannay go call them immediately.”

“Better let me do it.” I knew how to deal with them better. After all I had been doing it for a few years now.