Free A Bullet Apiece by John Joseph Ryan Page B

grin I’d been restraining since she walked out of the back room. “We’ll need some gloves,” I added.
    Jimmy’s laugh sounded like an old coffin creaking open, then splitting to pieces.

Chapter 7
Simple Simon Meets a P.I. Man        

    We wrapped The Beef’s body in an old tarpaulin. Sweating and cursing the whole way, Jimmy and I hauled him to the basement freezer. The inside of the freezer felt damn good, and we both lingered with the body for a moment, catching our breath and not looking at each other. Kira volunteered to do hose duty in the alley. By the time we finished, it was dawn. Jimmy was grouchier than usual—which was understandable. Hell, I wasn’t so great myself. Besides my throbbing head, my empty gut was begging for a fill-up. I didn’t think staying around to wait for a continental breakfast was going to get me fed, so I bid them good morning and promised to come by later in the afternoon. The Courtesy Drive-in on Kingshighway would be near enough to Dogtown, so I headed there.
    The restaurant was mostly full with blue-collar guys and a few business types. I sat at the counter, the sunshine beaming through the glass and bouncing off the chrome trim. My stool was still warm from the last customer, but the A/C was already cranked up.
    As usual, Carl, the short-order cook wearing his characteristic smudged white apron, was flipping patties and spreading hashed brown potatoes around on the top of the grill. The smell of strong dark coffee mingled with the mouth-watering grease. I ordered a slinger, extra cheese, and onions. Lois, who has waited on me for a few years now, poured my coffee and moved on to another customer without a word. The “courtesy” is everyone gets treated the same—pour the coffee, take the order, and slap the plate and ticket down in one swift motion. No chit-chat or how-you-doin’s. Eat and get out. It suited me just fine.
    As I sipped my hot coffee and tried not to salivate at the sights and smells of heavy food, I thought about Kira Harto. Here, like some two-bit Mafioso, I’d spent the morning hoisting a big, dead man into a freezer, and all I could think about was Kira, and her transformation from a broken-English war-bride, to a well-spoken, educated woman. I’m sure she had good reasons for keeping up the act inside the bar. I suppose it kept most men at an enjoyable, tense distance. What I couldn’t figure, though, was how she connected with a lug like Broad Jimmy? But hell, there’s probably plenty about him I don’t know, either.
    Shaking off thoughts of Kira, I returned to The Beef’s death. So much for my middle-of-the-night squeamishness about taking the police out of the equation. The coppers—at least one of them—were already in the thick of it. I didn’t know what to make of that. If it was a cop from Dogtown, he had strayed a good six miles from his beat. So, I figured, he was there on his own time. Did he work with a partner? Did he have something on The Beef that necessitated giving the boxer a permanent KO? My stomach churned. A sour taste erupted in my mouth. Whether from the ramifications of this budding case and my part in hiding a dead body, or the coffee I was now slurping, I’d need some rye toast. First to even out the Joe, and next, to decide what the hell I was going to do, since I was now an accomplice in covering up a murder.
    At 6:30 I paid my check and left. I took Kingshighway to Manchester and then onto Hampton. I cruised down West Park, went several blocks, then cut over to Nashville. I parked at the top of the last block, just east of McCausland, and got out. The rising sun was at my back as I started down the sidewalk checking house numbers. Jimmy said he didn’t know which house belonged to Simon, only that it was on the north side of Nashville. He thought it had blue shutters, but couldn’t remember if the cracker box was brick