Out on the Cutting Edge

I went into the bathroom and caught sight of my reflection in the mirror over the sink. All my years looked back at me, and I could feel their weight, pressing down on my shoulders. I ran the shower hot and stood under it for a long time, got out, toweled dry, got back into bed.

"You'll never find her, you can't bring her back."

It was too late or too early, there was no one I could call. The only person I knew who might be awake was Mickey Ballou, and he'd be too drunk by now, and I didn't have a number for him. And what would I say to him anyway?

"Forget about the girl."

Was it Paula I'd been dreaming about? I closed my eyes and tried to picture her.

When I awoke a second time it was ten o'clock and the sun was shining. I was up and half-dressed before I remembered the phone call, and at first I wasn't entirely certain if it had actually happened. My towel, tossed over a chair and still damp from my shower, provided physical evidence. I hadn't dreamed it. Someone had called me, urging me off a case I had already pretty much dropped.

The phone rang again as I was tying my shoelace. I answered it and said a guarded "Hello," and Willa said, "Matt?"

"Oh, hi," I said.

"Did I wake you? You didn't sound like yourself."

"I was being cagey."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I woke up to an anonymous call in the middle of the night, telling me to stop looking for Paula Hoeldtke.

When it rang just now I thought I might be in for more of the same."

"It wasn't me before."

"I know that. It was a man."

"Although I'll admit I was thinking of you. I sort of thought I might see you last night."

"I was tied up until late. I spent half the night at an AA meeting and the rest in a ginmill."

"That's a nice balanced existence."

"Isn't it? By the time I was done, it was too late to call."

"Did you find out anything about what was bothering Eddie?"

"No. But all of a sudden the other case is alive again."

"The other case? You mean Paula?"

"That's right."

"Just because someone told you to drop it? That's given you a reason to pick it up again?"

"That's just part of it."

Durkin said, "Christ, Mickey Ballou. The Butcher Boy. How does he fit into it?"

"I don't know. I spent a couple of hours with him last night."

"Oh yeah? You're really moving up in class these days, aren't you?

Wha'd you do, take him out to dinner, watch him eat with his hands?"

"We were at a place called Grogan's."

"A few blocks from here, right? I know the joint. It's a dive. They say he owns it."

"So I understand."

"Except of course he can't, since the SLA doesn't like to let convicted felons put their names on liquor licenses, so somebody must be fronting it for him. What were the two of you doing, playing canasta?"

"Drinking and telling lies. He was drinking Irish whiskey."

"You were drinking coffee."

"Coke. They didn't have coffee."

"You're lucky they had Coke, a pigpen like that. What the hell has he got to do with Pauline? Not Pauline, Paula. What's he got to do with her?"

"I'm not sure," I said, "but the machine went tilt when he saw her picture, and a couple of hours later somebody woke me up to tell me to drop the case."

"Ballou?"

"No, it wasn't his voice. I don't know who it was. I have some ideas, but nothing solid. Tell me about Ballou, Joe."

"Tell you what?"

"What do you know about him?"

"I know he's an animal. I know he belongs in a fucking cage."

"Then why isn't he in one?"

"The worst ones never are. Nothing sticks to them. You can't ever find a witness, or you find one and he gets amnesia. Or he disappears.

It's funny the way they disappear. You ever hear the story, Ballou's running all over town showing people a guy's head?"

"I know the story."

"The head never turned up. Or the body. Gone, no forwarding.

Finito."

"How does he make his money?"

"Not running a ginmill. He started out doing some enforcing for some of the Italians. He's as big as a house and he was always a tough bastard and he liked the work. All those Westies, tough Irish mugs from the Kitchen, they've been hiring out as muscle for generations. I suspect he was good at it, Ballou.

Say you borrowed money from a shy and you're a few weeks behind with the vig, and this hulk walks in on you wearing a bloody apron and swinging a cleaver in his hand. What are you going to do?

You want to tell him see me next week or are you gonna come up with the cash?"

"You said he was a convicted felon. What did he go away for?"

"Assault. That was early, I don't think he was out of his teens. I'm pretty sure he only went away the once. I could look it up."

"It's not important. Is that what he's done ever since? Strongarm work?"