The Hyperion Chronicles
“Just a Callipygian good time!”
#356 A Stone’s Throw from Rock Bottom
Editor’s Note: Shoot me a few times and I eventually get the hint. In Monday’s column I purposefully made part of the story only available on the website. Part of that is to try to steer people toward thinking “website” for the columns, and part was just to see how many would go there. The answer: a miserable failure on both parts. Two people wrote to say they had trouble with the link, but it looks like most people just didn’t care. So, I won’t be doing that again for awhile. If you did have trouble, you can read part (or all) of Chapter Six by going here: http://hyperioninstitute.blogspot.com/2005/06/355-chapter-six.html The other five chapters are available there too. Anyway, here is Chapter 7, as promised.
THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE ADVENTURES OF FAGIN DUPREE
Read Chapter One
Read Chapter Two
Read Chapter Three
Read Chapter Four
Read Chapter Five
Read Chapter Six
Chapter Seven: A Stone’s Throw from Rock Bottom
Fagin Dupree got out of the cab wearily, glad to be home. Lieutenant Travis had kept him in interrogation for almost 30 hours. Fagin never asked for a lawyer. He’d admitted to handling what was most likely the murder weapon, but there wasn’t enough evidence to hold him. They’d finally let him go, without his money back, either. Apparently Cowboy had hightailed it out of there.
Fagin carried his bags up his driveway, to see Christine Baran sitting on his front steps. Great. Just what he needed: more grief from her. She came alive when she saw him, running at Fagin and beating her fists on his chest and shoulders.
“I can’t believe you killed them, you monster. They were on your side. You had no cause to…”
Fagin dropped his bags and caught her wrists, but gently. “What happened, Christine?”
“They’re all dead.” She started sobbing.
“Who’s dead?” He insisted.
“Pittsnogle and Gloria and I think all those goons of his. I went by one last time and the door was wide open and…” She started sobbing again, collapsing into his arms. At any other time the irony would have made Fagin chuckle, but now he just stroked her hair, his eyes clouded with worry. Finally he softly disengaged her.
“Christine.” Fagin began. “I know you don’t think much of me, but I didn’t kill Pittsnogle, or Gloria. They worked for me; in a way were even my friends. Besides,” he said, “I was in Vegas for the last four days. I just got back.”
“But if you didn’t do it,” Christine asked, tears still on her face, “Who did?” does this have anything to do with Deelea?”
“No.” said Fagin. “Hard as it is to believe, Deelea is still very much alive.” Fagin saw Christine didn’t believe him. “I’ll prove it to you.” Fagin said. “I’ll let you talk to her.”
“You will?” For the first time hope crept into Christine’s face.
“Yes. In fact, I’ll do more than that. After you’ve talked to her, I’ll fly you down to see her. It might be a good idea to get away from here for a few days.”
Christine nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“I have to see a friend who might have some answers.” Fagin said, taking his keys out for the front door. But first he had to check on Ricky.
***
The ride to
Fagin made the turn off the main road and pulled into the parking lot of the Blue Parrot. He was actually on time for Lush’s meeting, but that couldn’t stop the hair on the back of Fagin’s neck from standing up. The entire trip up Fagin had tried Lush on the cell, but no answer. He had a bad feeling about this.
Bungalow #8 was dark. Fagin approached quietly, for once wishing he did own a hand gun. Best just to press on. The door was locked: Fagin had a dilemma. Did he break in, which might implicate him in any crime committed within? No choice, really. His chips were already in the middle, and Fagin was a huge underdog to lose this hand. That’s what happens when you go all in without knowing the odds. Fagin just wished he knew who was playing the other hand.
A least this time he had gloves. Fagin picked the old lock with little trouble, and went in. He had a flashlight, avoiding the overhead lights. There was only one thing to see, and it made Fagin eschew his plan and flip on the lights anyway.
J.W. Lush was lying on the floor, face down, a gun shot in his back. Fagin wasn’t an expert on Ballistics, but the entry wound looked huge. Fagin would bet all the chips in Vegas that Lush was killed by an antique Colt .45
Fagin did a quick inventory of the suite. Everything was still in order, as far as he could tell, including Debbie’s clothes, which may have meant she didn’t know about this. Realizing she was his only lead, and could be in danger, Fagin grabbed some of her things, exited Bungalow #8, and headed for the Kit-Kat Club.
The place was loud, lit up, and jammed to bursting. Fagin pushed his way through the crowd, looking for Debbie. He found her upon a stage, almost undressed. Men of varying ages were watching appreciatively, money in hand. Without any explanation Fagin pulled Debbie down roughly, to a chorus of catcalls and boos. Luckily, it was early, and people were more curious, not drunk enough to press the issue. Fagin dragged Debbie into a corner. She looked terrified.
“Some men came.” She said. “They told me I had to keep dancing until you came. They showed me a picture of J.W. It’s a fake, right? Fagin’s face was confirmation. Debbie started to lose it. Fagin shook her.
“You have to hold it together, girl. I don’t know who is watching.” Debbie nodded, her eyes big with unshed tears. “You’ll have to keep working for a bit, while I look around. Then I’ll get you out of here. I have some of your clothes in the car.”
For all her faults, Debbie adjusted quickly. She was already smiling bravely by the time she got back on stage. Fagin scanned the crowd….there. Over in a corner sat Arbuckle Greene, with those two bodyguards. It had to be him. Fagin walked over.
As he neared the table, Fagin saw a fourth man he’d missed in his first glance: Cowboy. Same damn hat and wrap-around glasses. Fagin almost went for the man’s throat, but managed to stay calm. A frontal assault against superior forces would do little good here.
“Told you I’d be seein’ you.” Cowboy said with a laugh. The two goons laughed as well. Arbuckle Greene said nothing. Fagin said down at the table, uninvited.
“It has been an interesting few days, Mr. Greene. I applaud this little drama of yours. I trust I played my part to your satisfaction.”
Arbuckle Greene ignored Fagin and turned to Cowboy. “You were right about him keeping calm. I didn’t believe you.”
Cowboy laughed. “A man can stay serene getting cheated out of one and a half million dollars, he can handle most anything. Did a damn sight better anyway than that old man did. Did much better than his queer business pardner; ‘Rick-kay,’ or that whore of his.”
That was the last straw.
Fagin leaned in close. “I don’t know who or what you are, Arbuckle, you fat piece of lard, but know this: it doesn’t end here. I will wait in the tall grass for you and we will finish this.”
Fagin didn’t even see the hand from one of the goons, but he felt it hit his cheek hard enough to loosen teeth. Fagin rocked backward as the goon spoke.
“Nobody uses Mr. Greene’s first name.”
Fagin resisted the urge to rub his jaw, and cleared his head best he could. Out of the corner of his eye Fagin saw Beth Ann Greene walk in the club. A plan began to form. He sat back up, once again all aplomb.
“Forgive me, Mr. Greene. I didn’t know.” Arbuckle Greene motioned to the other goon, who took out a small digital camera and passed it to Fagin. He looked and his heart sank.
Arbuckle Greene spoke. “Just now, Mr. Dupree, you spied my daughter Beth Ann, and perhaps you now seek to take your revenge on me through that avenue, yes? Well, as you can see, we are aware of where Deelea is. So noble of her to be down in
Fagin kept his face straight, barely.
“Furthermore,” Arbuckle Green continued, “As you have no doubt surmised, BÏSTDÅGG ACQUISITIONS now belongs to me. I do want to thank you for all the leg work; clearing out my rivals and setting up a peerless distribution network. I almost feel I should pay you for your services. However, the people of Atlanta are more than ready for heroin and cocaine again, and I’m sure to you that is thanks enough.
“You are, Mr. Dupree, to stay in Atlanta doing your ‘art thing.’ You are quite excellent at it. If you go anywhere or lift a finger towards me, or have a conversation with law enforcement, you can rest assured a Lieutenant Travis of the Las Vegas Police Department will receive a most desired piece of evidence with your fingerprints—and only yours—all over it. I do not have to tell you what that is, yes?”
Fagin sat there, in shock. Cowboy laughed uproariously and clapped Fagin on the back heartily, calling for a drink.
“Face it, pardner: you just never had the cards, and the River brought you nothing. Going All In against Mr. Greene is a losing proposition. You had a good run, but it just wasn’t meant to be.”
The drinks arrived and Arbuckle Greene toasted Fagin. “To Mr. Dupree. He made it further than anyone thought after reading that Parchment. Unfortunately, Mr. Dupree, I read it too.”
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