you new? I haven’t seen you around.”
“I’m old as dirt. Been out of town a few years. Came back because my dad was passing. Think I’m back for good now.”
“Sorry about your dad.”
“Thanks. You and half of Columbus, it turns out.”
“Really? Who was he, if I may ask?”
“Patrick Mulligan.”
“Judge Mulligan?”
“One and the same.”
Half of Columbus made sense. Mulligan was a legendary common pleas judge and pillar of the local Democratic Party who’d served forty years on the bench. His death had warranted a front-page news article in the Dispatch. As Irish as they came. Unlike the man sitting on a bar stool beside me.
“So—”
“Ever heard of Joyce Brown?”
I shook my head.
“Jazz singer, out on the east side. Most beautiful voice you’d ever want to hear. Little whispery now, but she’s still got it.”
“And she—?”
“She’s my mom. And yes, black is beautiful.”
“Your mom—but not Judge Mulligan’s wife.”
“No indeed.”
“Does Mrs. Mulligan know?”
“She does now,” he said, bemusement in his eyes. “He wanted me in the hospital with him. Insisted on it.”
I pondered this. After a moment I raised my glass.
“To complicated histories.”
“Sláinte,” Mulligan replied.
I fingered his business card. “OK if I keep this?”
“Be my guest.”
I handed him my card in turn.
“Private eye, huh? You any good?”
“I hold my own.”
“Do any security?”
“Like what?”
“Like personal protection. The bodyguard routine.”
“From time to time. But I don’t carry.”
“Don’t, or won’t?”
“Can’t. There were limits to my plea deal, despite how generous it was.”
“Right. The point shaving. How quickly we forget. So, doing anything right now?”
“Now?”
“Need a hand with something, and my usuals aren’t picking up.”
“Moose, Buck, and Big Dog?”
“They’re sweet guys once you get to know them.”
“Sweet as pie, I’m guessing. So what’s the deal?”
“Minor little job. Guy on a bad check warrant missed his arraignment. It’s a felony because he had the bright idea of writing one for a thousand bucks. Think I found him in a house off Weber Road.”
“Weber east or west of 71?”
“East. But it’s no big deal. He’s a shrimpy guy. We’d be in and out in five.”
“If it’s no big deal why do you need help?”
“Two heads better than one, is my philosophy. What do you say? Two hundred bucks and I’ll buy you a drink when we get back.” He paused. “I might even spring for a burger and fries.”
I thought about Bonnie and my bank account and the low-balance alerts that kept clogging up the screen of my phone like globs on bird crap on a windshield.
I said, “Two-fifty, since it’s east of 71. And make it sweet potato fries.”
He reached out and shook my hand again. “Dig it,” he said.
7
THE ONE-STORY RENTAL HALFWAY DOWN the block was the color of puke left in the sun for a week. The blinds were drawn and duct tape covered a crack in the bottom right corner of the front window. The chewed-up lawn looked like a family of woodchucks had spent the night excavating it. What appeared to be an actual sapling was growing out of the front gutter, which sagged in the middle like a mocking smile.
“Good thing is, we don’t have to worry about some prissy home-and-garden editor interrupting us while we work,” Mulligan said, eyeing the property from where we’d parked along the street two houses up. He drove a battered Chevy Suburban that looked like it was motored new off the lot around the time Jimmy Carter was putting solar panels on the White House roof. “You go around back, watch the rear door, just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Inclement weather. Come on.”
He was out of the car before I could respond. I followed, walking behind him down the gravel berm. At the house, a rusty gate opening into the yard squeaked in protest. Mulligan signaled for me to cut left. I tiptoed past several piles of dogshit I was hoping were not as fresh as they looked and crept around to the back. Concrete steps ran up to the rear entrance. There was a screen door without its screen. The backyard lawn ornaments consisted of crumpled-up Taco Bell and White Castle bags.
I positioned myself a few feet away from the stairs and waited. I heard a knocking on the front door, followed by an explosion of barking. So the shit was fresh. I tried not to think of my Louisville Slugger collecting dust in my van back in German Village. More knocking, more barking, then voices. At first the tenor of the conversation sounded reasonable enough, as if Mulligan were pitching an alternative natural gas supply. Then I heard a shout and still more barking and what sounded like a crash. A rapid thudding inside indicated someone running, and getting close. I bent my knees and adopted my best pro wrestling stance, minus the makeup and green spandex. A moment later the rear door burst open and a man hurtled out. A small man, no more than five five and maybe 120 pounds in the shower. Definitely shrimpy. But his eyes were glazed, and for a moment I thought he might be high, which would have complicated things. Instead, I saw he was terrified, as if he’d just seen a ghost while in the shower. He ran straight into me.
“Easy now,” I said, grabbing him by the arms and turning him around. He didn’t struggle. Maneuvering him was like putting a coat rack back in the corner where it belonged.
“Otto!” I yelled. “Back here.” When Mulligan didn’t reply I started marching my prisoner around to the front.
“Please,” the man whined.
“Talk
