Black Dove by Steve Hockensmith Page B
Authors: Steve Hockensmith
the dead man’s pockets. “ ‘Madness’ wouldn’t get you this, now would it?”
He turned around holding up a folded slip of paper. Out of force of habit, perhaps, he handed it to his usual translator: me.
“Gimme that,” Mahoney snarled, snatching the paper from my fingers. He unfolded it with an angry snap of the wrist.
“Oh.” He handed the little note to Woon. “It’s in Chinese.”
The Chinaman appeared utterly unruffled by our little tussle, and he peered down at the paper as coolly as a man looking over a menu.
When he finally spoke, it was in a surprisingly lilting, sing-song voice—though his words sure struck a sour note.
“Suicide note,” he said.
“Bull-
shit”
said my brother.
9
BODY OF EVIDENCE
Or, Gustav Makes a Few Deductions and a Few New Enemies
“Excuse me?” Mahoney said, hacking out an incredulous laugh.
“You heard me.” Old Red pointed at the slip of paper in Woon’s hand. “If that’s a ‘suicide note,’ I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
“I’ll tell you what you are, you little—”
“Why don’t you read the note for us, Mr. Woon?” Diana said, shifting everyone’s attention to the chubby Chinaman—and away from the brawl that was about to break out. “So we can judge for ourselves.”
Woon peered at her a moment . . . then refolded the note and slid it into one of the voluminous pockets of his seersucker suit.
“No,” Woon said, his heavily accented voice still silky-soft. “Is private message. For certain gentleman only. I see he receive it.”
He looked over at Mahoney, seemingly sending
him
a private message, as well.
“And that’s good enough for you?” my brother snapped at the cop.
Mahoney’s eyes flicked from Woon’s now-empty hand to his round, placid face. “Chan wrote that? Saying he was gonna kill himself?”
Woon nodded once, the slow down-up of his head pressing then stretching the folds of flesh hanging from his chin like the bellows of a squeezebox.
“Suicide note.”
“Alright, then,” Mahoney said. “That settles it.”
Just from the way my brother drew in his breath, I knew what was coming next: a retort so pointed it’d draw blood. Diana must’ve seen it coming, too.
“Putting aside the note, for the moment,” she said before Gustav could cut the copper to the quick—and get himself beat to a pulp. “My colleague here said he had reason to doubt suicide. Something about . . . a dead canary?”
“That’s right.” Old Red jerked a thumb at the birdcage, his eyes never leaving Mahoney. “The little feller in there.”
“Uh-huh.” Mahoney drew the sounds out slowly, as if he was agreeing with some foamy-mouthed lunatic’s pronouncement that water is wet. “Soooooo . . . what? You think the suicide note was really for the
bird
?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Gustav spat. “The canary would’ve died before Chan did—died noisy, too. Why do you think they take ’em down in coal mines? For the tunes?”
Mahoney threw up his hands. “
So?
”
“
So
Chan would’ve knowed his pet was dyin’. His last moments on earth, he would’ve been listenin’ to its pitiful little death rattle.” My brother shook his head. “No. Not the Chan I knew. He was a healer.
Maybe
he’d kill himself, but
never
would he have killed that little bird. He would’ve set it free first.”
“That’s your proof?”
The cop shot Woon a “Can you believe this shit?” grimace. Whether Woon believed or not, one couldn’t say—he merely stared at my brother through heavy, half-lidded eyes, so expressionless a cigar store Indian would’ve looked like Sarah Bernhardt by comparison.
“The man was suicidal,” Mahoney said. “He wasn’t going to stop to worry about his canary.”
“That ain’t enough to get you thinkin’, then how’s about this?” Old Red persisted. “You say some neighbor found Chan’s body after smellin’ gas outside. But we didn’t get a whiff of nothing till we was practically at
He turned around holding up a folded slip of paper. Out of force of habit, perhaps, he handed it to his usual translator: me.
“Gimme that,” Mahoney snarled, snatching the paper from my fingers. He unfolded it with an angry snap of the wrist.
“Oh.” He handed the little note to Woon. “It’s in Chinese.”
The Chinaman appeared utterly unruffled by our little tussle, and he peered down at the paper as coolly as a man looking over a menu.
When he finally spoke, it was in a surprisingly lilting, sing-song voice—though his words sure struck a sour note.
“Suicide note,” he said.
“Bull-
shit”
said my brother.
9
BODY OF EVIDENCE
Or, Gustav Makes a Few Deductions and a Few New Enemies
“Excuse me?” Mahoney said, hacking out an incredulous laugh.
“You heard me.” Old Red pointed at the slip of paper in Woon’s hand. “If that’s a ‘suicide note,’ I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
“I’ll tell you what you are, you little—”
“Why don’t you read the note for us, Mr. Woon?” Diana said, shifting everyone’s attention to the chubby Chinaman—and away from the brawl that was about to break out. “So we can judge for ourselves.”
Woon peered at her a moment . . . then refolded the note and slid it into one of the voluminous pockets of his seersucker suit.
“No,” Woon said, his heavily accented voice still silky-soft. “Is private message. For certain gentleman only. I see he receive it.”
He looked over at Mahoney, seemingly sending
him
a private message, as well.
“And that’s good enough for you?” my brother snapped at the cop.
Mahoney’s eyes flicked from Woon’s now-empty hand to his round, placid face. “Chan wrote that? Saying he was gonna kill himself?”
Woon nodded once, the slow down-up of his head pressing then stretching the folds of flesh hanging from his chin like the bellows of a squeezebox.
“Suicide note.”
“Alright, then,” Mahoney said. “That settles it.”
Just from the way my brother drew in his breath, I knew what was coming next: a retort so pointed it’d draw blood. Diana must’ve seen it coming, too.
“Putting aside the note, for the moment,” she said before Gustav could cut the copper to the quick—and get himself beat to a pulp. “My colleague here said he had reason to doubt suicide. Something about . . . a dead canary?”
“That’s right.” Old Red jerked a thumb at the birdcage, his eyes never leaving Mahoney. “The little feller in there.”
“Uh-huh.” Mahoney drew the sounds out slowly, as if he was agreeing with some foamy-mouthed lunatic’s pronouncement that water is wet. “Soooooo . . . what? You think the suicide note was really for the
bird
?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Gustav spat. “The canary would’ve died before Chan did—died noisy, too. Why do you think they take ’em down in coal mines? For the tunes?”
Mahoney threw up his hands. “
So?
”
“
So
Chan would’ve knowed his pet was dyin’. His last moments on earth, he would’ve been listenin’ to its pitiful little death rattle.” My brother shook his head. “No. Not the Chan I knew. He was a healer.
Maybe
he’d kill himself, but
never
would he have killed that little bird. He would’ve set it free first.”
“That’s your proof?”
The cop shot Woon a “Can you believe this shit?” grimace. Whether Woon believed or not, one couldn’t say—he merely stared at my brother through heavy, half-lidded eyes, so expressionless a cigar store Indian would’ve looked like Sarah Bernhardt by comparison.
“The man was suicidal,” Mahoney said. “He wasn’t going to stop to worry about his canary.”
“That ain’t enough to get you thinkin’, then how’s about this?” Old Red persisted. “You say some neighbor found Chan’s body after smellin’ gas outside. But we didn’t get a whiff of nothing till we was practically at