We’ll get to Keith Waverly’s earlier TK O’Neill crime novel Dead Low Winter appearance later, but for the next several days we’re excerpting from Fly in the Milk, where boxer and outlaw Johnny Beam’s story is first told.
Johnny, if you read Dive Bartender: Sibling Rivalry, “was over in the corner by the jukebox holding court with a small entourage. What was it with fighters and entourages? Beam hadn’t fought since the sixties but he still had a following. And in some circles, like that of the gambling crowd, Beam was more popular now than in his pugilist days. From what Frank’d heard, and you heard a lot behind the bar at the Metropole, Beam was the man to see about a gun, the former champion said to be trafficking in stolen firearms to pay off some allegedly large gambling debts.
Johnny Beam is the man to see, Frank was thinking as he went to the cooler to get a nice green bottle of Heineken for his friend Keith Waverly, closest thing the Metropole had to Owsley Stanley.
EXCERPT 2, FLY IN THE MILK
A siren wailed in the distance as steam smelling of antifreeze, brake fluid and burnt motor oil drifted across the chunks of broken rock, shards of glass and colored plastic littering the pavement. Hayes kicked at a jagged hunk of metal and stared blankly at the wreck. “You sure pick some funny guys to defend, Adams,” he said. “Wasn’t this guy a bookie and a pimp and every other goddamn thing?”
“Fuck you, Hayes. I knew the guy, okay? It ain’t easy to see someone you know, dead.”
A few blocks to the east, an ambulance careened onto Superior Street and roared toward them with the siren screaming. Further back a tow truck and another squad car were also rolling toward the body of Johnny Beam.
“I got a question for you, Adams.” Hayes said, squinting at the approaching ambulance. “How do you think your friend went off that cliff? Think he was drunk—at six o’clock in the goddamn morning? Stinks like booze in there, but still—couldn’t the son of a bitch use the brakes?”
“That’s a good question, Dennis. A question I’m sure somebody is gonna want answered.”
“You never know, the brakes coulda failed,” Hayes said. “You know how them niggers are, never fixing anything.”
Adams swallowed hard. Was about to respond in kind when the ambulance came careening to a stop and the paramedics jumped out. Swirling red lights sliced through the steam and the fog and the grayness.
Like some kind of horror show, Adams thought. “We got a dead man in there, boys,” he said. “Go easy on him.”
The ambulance jockeys looked at the body with wide caffeinated eyes, searched for a pulse and grimly nodded to Adams.
Who’s gonna care about a dead nigger in this town? Patrolman Hayes thought. Sure, there’ll be a few like Adams who’ll moan about it long enough to make sure everyone knows they feel real bad. And then they’ll forget about it just like everyone else.
The tow truck rumbled up alongside Adams, who was scratching his head and trying to reign in his emotions. The gnarled-faced driver leaned out the window, cigarette smoke seeping from his nose and mouth. “You want us to drag that thing out of the way, officer?”
“You bet, Jack,” Hayes snapped, stepping between Adams and the tow truck. “We got traffic that’s got to get through here.”
Adams bristled. “We’re gonna have to leave it where it is until the chief and a medical examiner get a look at it. This could be a crime scene, Hayes. You go up to the top of the hill where he came through and look around.” He pointed at the arriving squad car. “Bring McNally and Ledyard with you. Put some tape around the area and make sure the tracks and everything are left intact. I’ll wait here for the brass.”
Hayes blinked and thought about saying something but instead launched a gob of spit on the damp pavement and strutted toward the patrol car. He leaned a hand on the driver’s door and filled in the inhabitants.
As the squad car pulled away, the chief of police and the chief of detectives arrived from the opposite direction in separate Ford Crown Victoria sedans, one blue and one brown.
(To be continued)
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