Kirby's Last Circus Page 17

  Kirby dropped his suitcase to the sidewalk. He limped to the side of the cab. He ripped the door open. He grabbed the driver by the front of his shirt. He jerked him clear of the vehicle. He pinned him against the rear door. He hit him squarely between the eyes. He chucked him head-first back into the cab. He slammed the door. He said, “You KGB bastards never learn, do you?”

  Thirty-Nine

  He let himself into his apartment, pushed the door shut with his good knee, dropped his suitcase on his bad foot, flinched, cussed, sailed his hat at his overstuffed chair, missed, found a can of Hickory Barrel Ale in the refrigerator, slumped into his living room sofa, kicked off his shoes, lit a cigarette, and leaned back, bruised foot up on his coffee table, smoking, sipping the cold brew, glad to be home again.

  This thing with the KGB would blow over in due time. The KGB wasn’t in the United States of America just to eradicate a fourth-rate private detective who’d overloaded a circus cannon and gotten green and red mixed up with red and green. The KGB had more important things on its mind, namely the subjugation of the free world’s final bastion, and, after all, time heals all wounds, does it not? Sure, it does. Then he heard it—the rustling sound from his bedroom, faint, but not to Kirby’s ears. To Kirby it sounded like the collapse of the Empire State Building.

  He glanced apprehensively in the direction of his bedroom and noticed for the first time that the door was closed. Kirby never closed his bedroom door. The hair on the back of his neck was bristling. The Kremlin Kids hadn’t wasted much time—they’d located him within twenty-four hours of their Grizzly Gulch debacle. Well, he was too old and too crippled-up to run and if it didn’t happen now it’d happen later, if not here, some other place. There was an old Browning .38 pistol in his desk drawer, and he left his couch in silent haste to limp across the room. He had the gun in his hand when someone coughed lightly immediately behind him. Kirby spun, Browning at the ready, to find himself confronted by a slim, tight-lipped, pale blue-eyed, peroxide blonde woman in a silver nightgown. Tizzie Bonkowski’s frown was disapproving. She said, “Birch Kirby, will you point that God damned thing in another direction? Why didn’t you knock?”

  “Why didn’t I knock? What the hell, Tiz, I live here!”

  Tizzie was looking him over. “Birch, that allergy’s getting worse! There are ten or twelve of those nasty red splotches on your neck!”

  “Probably a nervous reaction to finding a woman in my apartment.”

  “I just got out of your shower—I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You got it done.”

  “Put that gun away, will you?”

  Kirby placed the Browning on the desk-top. “You wanna go out for spaghetti?”

  “Well, not in this condition, for God’s sake!”

  “Okay, so get dressed.”

  Tizzie shook her head emphatically. “We’re into a matter of priorities—first things first!” She stooped to peel her silver nightgown from her ankles to her armpits, holding it there, her stare unwavering. This was an unknown facet of the usually demure Polish prostitute, and Kirby liked it. She said, “It’s been three thousand years—get out of those clothes!”

  Kirby said, “All right.”

  It was shortly after eleven o’clock when he slipped out of bed, lit a cigarette, and hobbled to the window to watch the late traffic roll by. Tizzie stirred, sat up, and followed to stand at his shoulder. Her voice was tiny. “Not too bad, was I, Birch?”

  “Great—you’re always great, Tiz.”

  “As good as Dixie Benton?”

  “As good as any body—who’s Dixie Benton?”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “You should soak that foot in hot water.”

  “I will. Tell me about Dixie Benton.”

  Tizzie didn’t respond. She leaned her blonde head on his chest. She didn’t smell of roses and spice, she smelled of soap, an honest odor. Kirby rumpled her moonlight-streaked hair. In the darkened bedroom they stood at the window and after a while Tizzie said, “Would you just look at all those stars up there?” Her voice was dreamy. “Why, there must be a million!”

  Kirby said, “Yeah, but we’re short one, you know.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sure. The star that hung over Bethlehem isn’t with us nowadays.”

  Tizzie thought about it. “Who told you that?”

  “My mother.”

  “When?”

  “Way back when—Christ was a corporal then.”

  “Yes, but when?”

  “On a Christmas Eve.”

  Tizzie was silent for a time. Then she said, “Birch, you’re going have to pick another star and just pretend.”

  “That’s what my mother told me.”

  Tizzie slipped an arm around his waist and squeezed hard. “Of course, she did—she loved you, that’s why.”

  “Let’s get to it, Tiz—what’s this about a ‘Dixie Benton’?”

  “In a few minutes.” She took his hand and led him back to the bed and they sat on its edge, side by side. Tizzie said, “How was your trip?”

  “It was a mess, but we lucked out.”

  “It wasn’t luck, Birch. I know all about it.”

  “All about what?”

  “All about you wiping out that Admiral Doldrum Circus in Grizzly Gulch. You’re a hero. I’ve never taken a hero to bed before.”

  “The newspapers gave no names.”

  “No, but it was you! Don’t deny it because, dammit, I know better!”

  “Where do you get your information?”

  “Oh, let’s just say that whores have a grapevine. You see, indirectly, it was a whore who brought about the launching of the circus investigation.”

  “You’ll have to explain that to me.”

  “Well, KGB operatives in this country can’t afford romantic entanglements—too risky—but they require sexual release from time to time, and the CIA is aware of this. Within the last year, CIA whores have been responsible for the apprehension of a dozen KGB agents.”

  “CIA whores, did you say?”

  “Certainly. Both sides use whores. My gosh, they’re an intrinsic part of the machinery.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh, yes, and that’s how Boris Chekov was caught. He took a liking to a CIA whore whose parents had been interned by the Soviet-dominated post-war Polish Government.”

  “She grabbed Chekov?”

  “Not literally, but she set him up.”

  “You knew this prostitute?”

  “Personally. She was a CIA operative who volunteered to play the role of a twenty-five-dollar bimbo, and she became adept at identifying KGB personnel. She could spot a KGB man from here to Kiev.”

  “Okay, but how did she manage to attract them?”

  “Nothing to it—she cultivated the first, showed him a good time, and waited for word to get around. Nothing disseminates as rapidly as the telephone number of a good whore, and KGB men are in touch with KGB men.”

  “You speak of her in the past tense—is she dead?”

  “No—battle-scarred, but very much alive.”

  Kirby was frowning. “I wonder if it amounted to an even swap—her body for a few KGB scalps—did it balance?”

  “It balanced beautifully!” Tizzie’s pale blue eyes glittered in her drawn face. “She felt that she was avenging her parents! Can you understand that, Birch?”

  “I think so. You’re still in the past tense—where is this, uhh-h-h-h, whore now?”

  “On the decent side of the street.”

  “She closed shop?”

  “Yes, in favor of a new assignment, one more to her liking.” Tizzie snapped on the lamp and took her purse from the nightstand. She dug into it and in a moment she handed Kirby a wallet-size plastic-sealed green card. Kirby studied it in the dim light. A photograph of Tizzie occupied a corner of the card. She’d been considerably younger when the picture had been snapped. He read the card’s embossed white lettering: TIZZIE SOPHIE BONKOWSKI, CENTRA
L INTELLIGENCE AGENCY. Tizzie said, “And that’s how I know about Dixie Benton.”

  Kirby returned the card. He said, “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “Surprised?”

  “Hell, yes! I had no idea that your middle name was Sophie!”

  “After my grandmother, also interned.”

  “And now you’re my bodyguard.”

  “Uh-huh. Convenient, isn’t it?”

  “How long is this assignment to last?”

  “Until death do us part.” She kissed his cheek. “We must be married, of course.”

  “Oh, of course, just so everything will appear to be on the up and up, right?”

  “Right!” She was peering at him. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

  Kirby responded with a question. “Were you in Grizzly Gulch?”

  “Yes, but who wasn’t? It was a call-to-arms affair. I got back early this morning.”

  “And you were the gray-haired lady at the Portside Hot-dog Galley—the one wearing the big smoked glasses.”

  “I had to wear them because my eye was still puffed. Did the eye give me away?”

  “No, but in all my life, only one other woman has looked at me like that gray-haired lady did.”

  “The other woman was your mother?”

  “Yeah, on the night she told me about the Star of Bethlehem.”

  Tizzie said, “Birch, how long have you been with the CIA?”

  “Too long.”

  “Jim Gallagher never told me, and I didn’t see it at first, but you were sent to protect a CIA whore who was assisting in the apprehension of KGB people. You’ve tossed at least seventy-five rowdies down the stairs, but there were no complaints and the police never came. I should have put it all together months ago, but you were so damned clever! All the time you had me believing that you were just a good-hearted, down-at-the-heels private investigator without a pot to widdle in! You fooled me, and, thank God, you fooled the KGB! It’s all over!”

  “Not quite—a couple of KGB wheels are still rolling around loose.”

  “Well, yes, but the immediate threat is gone.”

  “Dixie told me that Caviar and Tofchitsky may be holed-up right here in Chicago.”

  Tizzie nodded. “Caviar is probably a reasonable man, but Tofchitsky is a beast, they say—merciless man, undoubtedly some sort of mental case.” She shuddered. “Well, we’ll get them, hopefully, but they don’t represent my primary concern at the moment.” She cupped his chin in her hand, turning his head in her direction. “Birch Kirby, you’re sensational, and, dammit, you’re mine! Aren’t you?”

  Kirby sat staring into a puddle of moonlight on his bedroom floor. He said, “Why the hell not?” He shifted his gaze back to Tizzie and his mouth dropped open. She sat iridescent in her rumpled silver gown, moonlight streaming over her, her peroxide-blonde hair cascading to her shoulders, and he knew that he had seen the face of Hope at last, and that her real name was Tizzie Bonkowski. She took his hands.

  “Yes, Birch, why the hell not? You’re worn out, I’m worn out, you need me, I need you. But, Birch, I’ve made mistakes, very serious mistakes, and you should know that…” She tensed, her head snapped up, her fingernails were biting into Kirby’s palms. Tersely she said, “Get into a bathrobe, and hurry!”

  “What for?”

  “There’s someone at your door! Listen!”

  Kirby listened. He heard a distant scratching sound. Tizzie murmured, “They’re working on your lock, and it’s a creampuff—I popped it in less than thirty seconds!”

  Kirby slipped into his tattered plaid robe and they tiptoed into the living room. The sound was louder now, more persistent, and Tizzie lifted Kirby’s Browning .38 from the top of the desk. She put her lips close to his ear and whispered. “Open the door and get down! If it’s who I think it is, I’ll drop the bastards in their tracks!”

  Tizzie clicked off the Browning’s safety and Kirby eased to the door, glancing back at her. Her eyes were chips of pale-blue ice, and she was standing spreadlegged, holding the old pistol Gibraltar-steady, aiming it chest-high at the doorway. A light chill sprinted the length of Kirby’s spinal column—he’d just glimpsed the Angel of Death. Tizzie nodded curtly and Kirby took a deep breath. He swung the door wide-open, hitting the deck in the same motion.

  A scrawny black cat sauntered in, stepping carefully over the prostrate Kirby. The creature was dusty, disheveled, obviously fatigued, and it climbed wearily onto Kirby’s sofa to stretch, yawn, curl into a tight black ball, and go to sleep. Kirby scrambled to his feet and said, “It’s Uncle Tom—let the poor bastard sleep—he’s as bushed as we are.”

  Tizzie nodded, exhaling audibly as she returned the Browning to Kirby’s desk. She said, “Well, one never knows, does one?”

  Kirby’s smile was weak. He said, “I had a hunch it would be Caviar and Tofchitsky.”

  Tizzie shook her head. “Caviar, possibly, but certainly not Tofchitsky.”

  “Why not Tofchitsky?”

  “Tofchitsky wouldn’t have picked your lock—he’d have kicked your door in. That’s Tofchitsky’s trademark, kicking doors in.”

  “He must be a powerful sonofabitch.”

  “We have nothing but guesstimates on either of them. Caviar works unobtrusively, but Tofchitsky’s a different horse. We never know where he is and we never know where he’s going, but we always know where he’s been! It’s like following the eye of a hurricane!”

  “Dixie Benton told me that Caviar cooked up that whole Grizzly Gulch stew—pulled most of the strings from somewhere in Chicago.”

  “That’s Langley’s theory, and it’s better than no theory at all.” Her speech was clipped, she’d been all business since the door episode. She glanced at her watch. “All right, let’s get moving! We’ll be catching a nightowl flight out of O’Hare to Cleveland at three-oh-nine this morning!”

  “What’s in Cleveland?”

  “A bus to Youngstown—we’ll take a cab to Hubbard.”

  “What’s the big, hairy rush? Tiz, I need a night’s sleep!”

  “If the KGB catches up with us you’ll get a lot of sleep—we have to clear Chicago by dawn!”

  “What about Uncle Tom?”

  “We’ll ship him from O’Hare.”

  Kirby yawned. “No rest for the wicked. Why can’t we drive? All the Ford needs is tires.”

  “The KGB would locate that Ford in a week! Look, run across the street to Puccini’s and get us a pizza—I’ll keep an eye on you from the window while I’m packing for both of us.”

  Tizzie blew him a smiling kiss, but the urgency in her voice was unmistakable.

  Forty

  On a red leatherette and chrome barstool in the smoky tap room of Puccini’s Pizza Palace, Kirby worked on a bottle of Hickory Barrel Ale and awaited his carryout order—a sixteen-inch thin-crust cheese and sausage with mushrooms, onions, black olives, and green peppers. He considered the whirlwind developments of the last few minutes with a generous amount of consternation. Since he could remember, Birch Kirby had walked Chicago’s refuse-littered streets, listened to Chicago’s brain-busting noise, breathed Chicago’s tainted air, and now, on virtually no notice at all, he was going to Hubbard, Ohio, with total assets of three thousand dollars, a cardboard suitcase, and a twenty-five-dollar whore. It wasn’t that Kirby resented change, or resisted it, but, at thirty-eight years of age, he entertained a healthy respect for it, and this stacked up to a move of more than monumental proportions. Jesus, for all he knew, the people of Hubbard, Ohio, could be fighting off nightly Indian raids, and shooting mountain lions in the streets.

  The decision had been Tizzie’s and Kirby was glad of that because he’d already made his share of mistakes. They’d be leaving it in Chicago, the whole lumpy package—the prostitution gig, the fifty-dollar divorce cases, the hangovers, the headaches, the tavern brawls. They’d be starting over—a clean slate for a couple of stray sheep who’d managed to sneak through the back door of the slaughterhou
se, and Kirby felt a surge of something akin to enthusiasm, but he failed to recognize it because Kirby had never been enthusiastic before. With Uncle Tom in mind, Kirby ordered a half-dozen slices of pastrami, finished his Hickory Barrel Ale, picked up his pizza, and crossed Diversey Avenue, whistling “Beautiful Ohio,” or maybe it was “Back Home Again in Indiana,” Kirby wasn’t sure. The same man had written both and Kirby had always wondered about that.

  He climbed the stairs to his apartment, tired but light-hearted for the first time within recent recollection, a man with something to look forward to. He hammered on the door and hollered, “Pizza man!”

  The door swung open and he went in to stop short. Hastings Jefferson stood behind him, closing the door, and Dixie Benton was sitting on the sofa, stroking Uncle Tom. Kirby said, “What the hell?”

  Jefferson said, “Sit down, Kirby.”

  Kirby took his carryouts into the kitchen and returned to park on an arm of his overstuffed chair. He said, “All right, just what the fuck’s going on here? Where’s Tizzie?”

  Dixie Benton said, “Kirby, don’t get up tight—we’re not looking for trouble!”

  “Well, you may not be looking for it but you’re about five seconds from getting it! Where’s Tizzie?”

  Dixie said, “We know you intended to bring her in on your own, that you were probably waiting for Tofchitsky to establish contact and then get two birds with one stone, but there was just too much at stake—we couldn’t wait!”

  Kirby swung his glare to Hastings Jefferson. He said, “I’ll try just one more time—where the hell is Tizzie Bonkowski?”

  Jefferson was grinning, ear-to-ear. “Tizzie Bonkowski? If you’re referring to Tanya Solystyn, alias Caviar, she’s on her way to the backroom of Sarah’s Boutique on Michigan Avenue. Palmer and Naples are taking her in—they’ll be grilling her the rest of the night, and they’ll accompany her to Washington tomorrow morning.”