The Subtle Art of Brutality

“And the dope?”

“Junkies, as a species, are liars as well. Comes with the territory.”

“So what? How does it add up?”

“She is...a liar.” Am I the last investigator left on the planet? “If you think she lied to you as an alibi and she has a history of lying to police, then squeeze her. She’ll talk.”

“I’m not like you, Mr. Buckner,” she says with a tone that tells me she very clearly differentiates her breed and my own.

“That’s obvious,” I say and openly stare at her breasts.

She groans and adjusts her shirt over her business cleavage. “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I guess I don’t.”

“Ponder it for a while, then,” she says and closes her notebook. She’s finished. Simple as that. Body language says done. I pity the poor schmuck in her life.

We’re quiet for a beat and then I turn to my favorite turd in the world.

“Volksman, what’d you think?” I ask.

“I’m wondering why you’re here at all, RDB.”

“I’m here on Mr. Derne’s behalf.” True but skewed. Doesn’t matter.

“He hired you to do the real police’s job and investigate his tragedy? Didn’t tell me that.”

“Doesn’t have to. Consider me saying what I have so far a favor to you. Face it, Volksman, without me working this case it’ll never get solved.”

“Fuck you,” he says

“Any other thoughts? Case-related?”

Huffs, plays along. “He’s an older man. Sweet but grumpy. Friends and neighbors say he’s warm-hearted, generous. They also says he’s a dude who has a penchant for popping off here and there. Blows his lid, then gets all great again. You know the type.”

“Booze?”

“Asshole.”

“You think he did it?”

“Hardly. Owns a small business in rock masonry and has been in litigation with various other businesses for years. Hell, the job he and his crew did at the new General Bank of America over on Tillson last year is being scrutinized for shoddy work. Five years ago he did some landscaping for a new business office over off of 38 West and he got sued for it.”

“Small businesses catch grief sometimes.”

“He also crossed Erminio Andretti.”

“Mob?” Erminio Andretti is the latest in a line of Andrettis who have run a semi-functional mob family in Saint Ansgar. I’ve personally dealt with a few of their people both as a cop and as a PI.

My dealings as a PI were more fun. Their main torch man was a goof named Paulie Torreno. I make a note to look him up. He has an ear in the fire; he might have heard some buzz. Or, he might have done them.

“Yes, mob,” Volksman says, annoyed. “Six years ago he was redoing the stone front to Andretti’s Italian restaurant over in the hills and they had some dispute. Some bullshit over the price of Arkansas River rock versus Missouri limestone. I dunno. Anyways, they wound up in court and Derne won.”

“Why wait six years?” I ask. “Andretti’s dad and older brother both were as impulsive as a two coked-out dudes starring in their first porno. They wouldn’t wait six minutes to sweep the trash from their front porch, let alone six whole years.”

“Maybe Erminio learned from their mistakes.”

“No. If he had he’d have rebuilt their family by now. If anything the family has a weaker hold on things than they did before he was the head.”