Eager Wal-Mart shoppers will step around or over anything to get inside the store.  A corpse dumped at the front entrance at high noon on this of all days was no exception.

Andy Keefer was doing a security gig at the time, posing as a Greeter in pursuit of boosters. He'd been at it for three days and would have quit except he needed the money. He always needed money.

The corpse was a stranger to Keefer. His manner of death wasn't. Gunshot. Several in fact.

The guy who'd shoved the body out the side door of an Econoline was no stranger to Keefer. He was a local heavy-for-hire, Ralph Minsky.

Keefer had seen the action through the store window. He ran outside, checked the body, then faded. The last thing he needed was old pals from the cop shop razzing him about his new station in life. He'd doffed his blue Greeter vest and was tooling his rusted-out rattling Sprint off the parking lot before he heard the first siren. Later he could tell the floor manager he'd left early to prepare some reports.

No dice. Croft and Yablonsky, two of Homicide's rising stars, rousted him at home before the six o'clock news. They'd ID'd him from store surveillance tapes.

"Why'd you run, Keefer? You'd've been among friends." said Croft, always quick with a dig.

"Maybe that's why."

"You're a so-called seasoned professional. You could have saved us a lot of time, unless of course you were involved."

"It was outside my scope of work."

"So was being an honest cop, which is why you're now a PI," said Croft. Croft was the talker, Yablonsky the watcher.

"Nothing was proved."

"The story is IA backed off because you could have been an embarrassment."

"Maybe I still can."

"Not to us, Keefer. We're clean as the Wal-Mart parking lot two hours after closing."

"Empty isn't the same as clean."

"Empty? Hell no, we've got a hot lead. You." Croft was getting a little ticked. "We're wondering why a stiff gets dumped where you just happen to be front and center."

"I wasn't alone; I was sharing space with a few hundred other people."

"You're the only one we recognized. You're the only one who took off like you had a burr up your ass." Croft's best lines were when he stated the obvious.

"The camera should have picked up the truck."

"It did, but even with enhancement we couldn't pick up the driver or the Number Two who dumped the body. We figure you can help us out on that."

"Sorry, I was busy directing a little old lady to the elastic stocking section. The van was closed and heading out before I turned around."

"Could you give us some detail on this little old lady?"

"Croft, you're the kind of guy who has to look at the smear on his tie to remember what you had for lunch. Don't expect from others what you’ve never had yourself. Anyway, every investigator knows eyeball witnesses are unreliable."

"Your mouth's going to get you in trouble."

"So's walking blindfold in traffic. I can't help you. If you guys are finished, I'd like to get to bed."

"Sure, Keefer; early to bed. We'll be back."

Keefer didn't go to bed right after the pair left. That came a couple of hours later. Instead, he cracked a beer, which he didn't drink, and stared thoughtfully at a spot on the wall, which he didn't see.

He wondered why he hadn't given up Ralph Minsky. The mook was nothing to him, as far as he knew. A whisper in the back of his mind had said, "Don't do it."

Whatever Croft and Yablonsky might think, the corpse didn't have a connection to him either. The dump was for someone else's benefit. Or maybe Minsky just had a perverse sense of humor. On the other hand, as far as Keefer knew, Minsky didn't have a sense of humor to begin with.

One thing for sure: Keefer had lost his taste for "Greeting". More so the next day, when his name showed up in the morning paper as an eyewitness--nice touch considering the name of the victim hadn't been released. Croft and Yablonsky were pushing. Real sweethearts.

Minsky must have read the paper too. Along came the same Econoline, only this time Minsky stuck a shotgun out the side door and tried to take down Keefer as he turned to enter the shabby building where he rented a basement office. The blast took out the glass door. If Minsky had aimed lower he'd have splashed Keefer, who'd seen it coming and hit the sidewalk.

Keefer didn't sprawl long in the sodden garbage and God knew what else rotting by the side of the building. Minsky might be circling the block for another try. Not wanting to hang around his office now and not wanting to go home just then, not with Minsky on the prowl, he headed to the Orange Angel, a bar he favored because Ozzie Banion, the owner, let him run a tab. He'd done a service or two for Ozzie a few years back and now they were pals of a sort, the sort called shared guilt.

As usual at that time of day, the Orange Angel was dark and quiet as a tomb except for Ozzie, and his pulse occasionally needed to be checked. He never had lunch trade; his regulars usually weren't out of bed before three in the afternoon. He didn't have supper trade either, probably a result of his limited menu--Fritos, peanuts, and pickled eggs. However, he did keep a loaded .38 under the bar by the beer taps. If that had been all Ozzie had going for him, it was enough for Keefer.

"I got a situation, Ozzie."

"I should be so lucky," said Ozzie, big dumbass grin.

"What's that supposed to mean?" At the moment Keefer needed no one's dull wit.

"Oh, brunette about thirty, class and ass all the way. Does that ring any of your bells?"

"Only the one that tolls for you."

"OK Keef. She was in the minute I opened, asking for you. Knocked back a double Chivas, paid for it with a platinum Amex and said she'd be back."

"You don't take Amex."

"She dazzled me. What can I say? I put it on your tab."

"What else?"

"Nothing else." Ozzie nodded toward the door. "Here she comes now. Take it up with her."

Keefer turned on his barstool. Ozzie was right. If she'd been a hooker she'd have been working the penthouses in five-star hotels. Keefer hoped she wasn't; he couldn't have afforded her.

Later, when the dust settled, Keefer would reflect that no one thing about her sucked him in. More, it was the way all her parts seemed to melt together. For now, he only wished he'd changed his clothes after diving into the sidewalk garbage.

"You're Andy Keefer?" Her voice melted into the rest of her. Ozzie hung close across the bar until Keefer glared at him. She looked too good to be true but even if she wasn't, Keefer had already decided he wasn't sharing. He steered her to one of Ozzie's back booths.

"I want to hire you," she said.

"On whose recommendation?" He'd decided she probably was too good to be true.

"The newspaper. I saw your name in the newspaper."

So what? So had Minsky. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"The old man who sells magazines in your office building. He said when you're not in your office you're usually here."

Keefer didn't have to ask if she had money to hire him. Not only did he come cheap, she had an Amex. Keefer would find someone who'd take it. So, like any good PI, he asked her her name.

"Pearl Madison. Missus. I'm married. My husband is Bryce Madison."

"Should that mean something to me?"

The question seemed to embarrass her. "Uh, no, I guess not. But I hope it will because I need you to find him." The rest of the story or at least the parts she was willing to tell him flowed from there.

Bryce Madison had been missing for three days. Pearl feared the worst because one of those days was their wedding anniversary. His gift had been delivered and installed--a hot tub. The notion of Pearl in a hot tub distracted him; he nearly missed that Bryce tended to gamble and lose.

Keefer settled down and got the details. Then she handed him a recent photo of her husband.

Keefer had been a good enough cop to know there are no coincidences. On the other hand, he also knew that shit happens. Bryce Madison was no stranger. When Keefer'd last seen him he'd been laying dead in the Wal-Mart parking lot. He was a good enough businessman though to keep his mouth shut until she provided him a retainer. Plus, he was enough of an old lech to pat her hand and then her shoulder in reassurance that he would be instantly be on the case.

"All in due course," he decided. Ozzie's place didn't have the ambience he needed to tell Pearl about her husband's fate. The widow's weeds could come later and she'd need some help from him then. Maybe the hot tub would soothe her. That first, a helluva fine idea. He'd never been in a hot tub before.

"Whaddya think, Keef? Was I right or what?" Ozzie could screw up a Buddha's meditation.

"Yeah, Ozzie. On the money. But that wasn't my situation. Remember when I came in here an hour ago I had a situation?"

"Sure, but you've gotta admit, whatever it was, this one's better."

"Maybe. But now I need to borrow your piece."

"Ah, shit. You won't fire it this time, ya hear? I don't wanna have to get another one."

"Just to wave it around if I have to," said Keefer. Ozzie's .38 was relatively new. Keefer had tossed the last one in the river, piece by piece, after having to use it on a banger who'd been hassling Ozzie’s live-in lady of the day, just the kind of nonsense Ozzie’d hired Keefer to prevent.

Still, Ozzie’d got testy about losing his gun. He'd have been a lot more testy if Homicide managed to find all of the pieces and trace it. Strictly self-defence. The banger had been hopping around twirling nunchakas in a threatening manner. What was a guy supposed to do?

Ozzie gave over the handgun. It remained now for Keefer to locate Minsky and find out what the hell was going on.

He stopped at home to change clothes. The Wal-Mart had put a message on his machine: "Thank you for your services, which are no longer required. Your check is in the mail. We hope you enjoyed your employment with us and will continue to shop at Walmart. Have a nice day." Damn, he should have officially quit before they fired him.

Keefer knew the difficulty of trying to find someone when the someone is out beating the bushes looking for you. On that note, he decided his best move would be to pick his spot and let Minsky find him. He chose to stay at home. At least he had a six-pack in the fridge and a box of chili dogs he could heat up if he got hungry.

Pearl phoned around nine that night, one very distraught lady. She'd had visitors. First, Croft and Yablonsky to inform her her husband was in a drawer downtown. Next up, she said, was Minsky to tell her her husband's insurance was to be paid over to him to cover the deceased's gambling markers. Even for Keefer this was a new twist. Usually bookies and loan sharks preferred to keep their customers alive, crippled maybe but still breathing.

So, whyWal-Mart? As Pearl talked, all became clear. Elementary. Pearl worked there as a purchasing agent. Minsky and his friend were simply serving notice. Of what, Keefer had no idea. Unfortunately for them, their scenario didn't quite work because at the big moment Pearl was at home lolling in her new hot tub and waiting for hubbie. Win a few, lose a few.

Keefer cracked his last can of beer and settled down to wait some more. He hoped Minsky would hustle it up so he could get over to Pearl's at a decent hour. In his estimation, she definitely needed consolement.

Minsky didn't disappoint, except he kicked in the door by way of announcing his entrance. Keefer shot him in the ankle--guaranteeing a limp for life, however long or short it'd turn out to be.

While Minsky lay curled moaning on the floor, Keefer kicked aside the shotgun, searched out a mean-looking black automatic from a tear-away shoulder holster and a small nickel-plated .22 from an ankle holster. That done, he picked up Minsky and tossed him not too lightly into an armchair. The carpet was sopping but, what the hell, it was worn out anyway.

"Where's your driver, Minsky?"

"I need a doctor."

"You don't have enough business for a doctor yet. Maybe the other ankle."

"Nooo, asshole. It hurts likes a kick in the nuts."

"That's a thought. Maybe after the other ankle. Your driver?"

"I'm alone. He's waiting at the club."

       "And that would be?"

"The Del, dammit. Keefer, be reasonable."

"Delassandro's? That's Jack Chadwick's place. Is he mixed up in this?"

"It's only a place to meet."

"Chadwick doesn't do his own driving. Who's his driver?"

"I'm bleeding."

"I see that. If you live you're buying me a new carpet, and a door. Who's the fucking driver?"

"Little Jimmie."

"Chadwick's go-to guy when he has a problem you can't handle."

"Chadwick's got nothing to do with this. He'd kill us if he knew."

"That'll save me some trouble. If Chadwick's remotely involved, gambling's involved. What's the deal?"

"Insurance. Gambling debts."

"I already know about the insurance. So you two were freelancing? Trying to one-up Chadwick. He was the one holding the markers. Were you going to bother to tell him that you collected on them?"

"We take jobs now and then. You know that. Shit, man, so do you, Mister Wal-Mart Greeter." That was a hot button. Keefer shot him in the shin.

Minsky passed out, which made him easier to haul out of the apartment, bounce him down two flights of stairs to the building's back exit and prop him by the dumpster. He left him with the two handguns, one of which would surely match the slugs in Madison. Before he called Croft and Yablonsky he dressed nice--clean underwear, shirt, socks, suit and tie--and damn, he looked good!

Keefer didn't bother going over to the Del. Instead, he called, got Little Jimmie on the line and quickly explained a few facts of life, enough that Little Jimmie instantly saw the wisdom of leaving town right bang before the dawn. Then he called Chadwick.

Finally, that left Pearl, and comforting her was about the most pleasant chore Keefer could think of.

Fragile would describe her when she answered her door, but bearing up. Keefer never was good at interpreting body language, at least not the subtle stuff. Any cracks she had were hairline, nearly as invisible as stress cracks in steel.

Later, much later, she fell asleep, Keefer having reassured her time and time again that Minsky was out of her life. By then he was exhausted, but he forced himself to stay awake.

About five, just before dawn, Pearl emerged from the bedroom. She'd taken the time to put on a robe and retrieve her gun from her bedside table. Keefer had waited.

"I wish you'd left that in the drawer," he said.

"I can't take a chance."

"You took too many already. Trusting Minsky and Little Jimmie would have been OK if you'd paid them off for the hit on your husband instead of getting greedy. You balked and that's why they dumped the body on your doorstep. How did you get onto me? And why?"

"Store records. I saw your file when you were hired. Bad cop, worse private detective. And a reputation for serving and protecting yourself before thinking about the other citizens.”

Keefer nodded. "More mistakes. You shouldn't always believe what you read. How’re you going to explain this?"

"It won't be hard. You're a "good riddance" kind of guy to the police."

"And to you?" he asked.

"A different time, a different place; you know the story," she said.

"Yeah, I do. I know the ending too. I did look after Minsky and Little Jimmie. Minsky's probably taking a deal right now to testify against you. Chadwick said he forgave and forgot your husband's markers the day he died. Of course, Minsky and Little Jimmie didn't see it quite that way. They liked the idea of getting paid for the hit and collecting the markers too. You knew that before you looked me up. You couldn't let them have everything, not when you wanted everything. So, here I am."

"You seem to have it all figured out. Have you figured your odds on surviving?" asked Pearl.

"I hardly ever gamble and when I do, I go with the house," replied Keefer. "That makes my odds better than even."

"I'm in line for a lot of the money," said Pearl.  "Minsky will need collaboration. Maybe we can work out something for Little Jimmie. Why don't we just relax for now? We did OK last night. I could make breakfast. After, we could try the hot tub."

"A different time, a different place; you know the story."

The doorbell rang.

"That'd be the two cops again," Keefer said. "Don't worry about my breakfast. I'll grab a donut on my way to the office. By the way, I emptied your gun."

"Bastard!" She threw it the gun at him and charged. He snagged her, spun her, and marched her in a come-along to the front door.

"You have guests, Pearl. Be polite," he said, and opened the door.

Copyright(c) 2004 by Art Montague