death of a few days ago.
Floyd Feldstein, the guy’s name had been. He was a buyer associated with Quad City Art Sales, Inc., which was a front of Broker’s. There was no mention that he’d been dressed as a priest, or that he was carrying airline tickets made out in someone else’s name. The Chief of Police stated that, after preliminary investigation, it was assumed that Feldstein had been robbed and killed by one of the “long-haired undesirables who have been seen of late frequenting our public places during off hours, presumably in the hopes of gaining ready cash for the purchase of illegal drugs.” Well, something like that, Chief.
I walked back up to the table and got myself another cup of coffee and sat and drank it. It seemed like the more hot coffee I drank, the less my shoulder hurt. So I sat and sipped and thought.
Tonight, I decided, tonight I’m going to have to be careful.
Tonight, Broker. I’ll see you tonight.
Today I’ve got other things to do.
19
Along the side wall of the Port City Taxi building, in the open area between building and filling station next door, was a long row of parking spaces, two of them filled by taxis, five by other cars, a number of them vacant. The upper wall was a triple billboard advertising toothpaste, cigarettes, and a politician, but below that, hanging low but visible, was a large sign saying, “Private Parking,” in big black block letters, with the usual warning of “Illegally Parked Cars Towed Away at Owner’s Expense” in strident, no-nonsense red. The bottom lines of the sign, in businesslike black said, “For Weekly, Monthly and Yearly Rates, Inquire at Taxi Stand Desk.” For ten dollars, the lady in the red and white checkered dress behind the counter was only too happy to provide a week’s space for one automobile and she asked no embarrassing questions. I liked her.
A siren sliced the air just as I was getting into Boyd’s car to move it to the taxi lot. The high-pitched whine was nearing when I started the car and leisurely drove it around to an alley that three blocks later brought me up behind the taxi building. I pulled the Mustang around into the space I’d leased, parked and locked the car, and started walking back to the rental Ford. By the time I was passing the building where Boyd had recently lived-and- died, both ambulance and police car were parked zigzaggedly, half in the street, half up on the sidewalk, and half- ass overall when you consider there were plenty of open spaces in front of Albert Leroy’s building. But then, parking sensibly isn’t in the spirit of an emergency. As if rushing around was going to do Albert Leroy any good.
Actually, the rushing around was pretty well over by now. Two cops were standing with hands on butts as two guys in white were coming down out of the stairwell carrying a stretcher with a sheet-covered Albert Leroy. A few people were milling around, mostly women from the Laundromat down a couple doors, but there was no crowd really, still too early for that. A tall man in his forties, well-dressed, was standing next to one of the policemen, who was asking him questions in a respectful, next-of-kin sort of way. An older man, who’d been standing in the background, moved forward and touched the tall man on the shoulder and seemed to be offering condolences. The tall man nodded his head sadly and the shorter, older man nodded back and turned and walked across the street, in my direction.
As he approached I saw that he wasn’t just short, he was very short, maybe five-four, but he carried himself erect and he was a handsome old guy. His features were well-defined and though deep-set in his face, unmarred by age, and the character lines down his cheeks were straight, slashing strokes. He was wearing a white shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, and loose brown trousers and when he passed by me, he muttered, “Poor old soul,” as though he expected me to know what he was talking about.
My eyes followed him as he entered Boyd’s building, through the front door on street level. As the door closed I noticed the sign in the draped front window: “Samuel E. Richards, Chiropractor.”
I stroked my shoulder, said to myself, “Why not?” and followed the old guy inside.
“Sir?” I said.
He turned quickly and smiled. A kind smile, but shrewd. “Yes, young man?”
“You’re Dr. Richards?”
“I’d better be,” he grinned, “otherwise I’d be breaking the law using his office.”
“I could use some help.”
“Most people could. Wellsir, I’ll tell you, I’m not open for business just yet. The wife’s cooking up some breakfast and I’ll have to take care of that before I take care of you. How about coming back in thirty minutes, half an hour?”
“I can smell the bacon frying. Smells good.”
“We got a little apartment set-up to the back of the office. The wife and me’re getting on in the years, couldn’t manage an office and house both. And she’s got arthritis, don’t you know, and the steps in our house weren’t doing her any good. You know, you got to compromise sometimes, so here I am.”
I told him it sounded like a nice arrangement. I looked around; we were in a waiting room, with several chairs and a stand with some old magazines on it. There was no receptionist. “You don’t mind if I wait here, do you?”
“Not at all. What you say was wrong with you?”
“My shoulder. Had an accident an hour or so ago.”
“What sort of accident?”
“Slipped on the soap in the shower, would you believe it?”
“Surely would,” he said, smiling gently. “You’d be surprised how many accidents take place in bathrooms. Well, you come on in the other room, we’ll get you on the table and get you relaxed. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes to throw my breakfast down.”
His working office was small, just large enough for a desk and chair and two chiro tables, one of which stood upright waiting to be lowered. That was the one he had me climb onto and eased me down and it was comfortable, so comfortable it was hard resisting the urge to sleep.
I turned my head to one side, a painful move considering my shoulder, and studied the room; the walls were a soothing pastel green, recently painted, but everything else was old: the desk and chair were scarred with age and the chiro tables had been in action for some time. On the wall was his diploma, or first license, and it was brown with age. I squinted and read the date: “1921.” I was still in that position, looking over the room, when he came back from a very hasty breakfast.
“Get your head back in the slot, there, boy, twisting your neck to the side isn’t doing your shoulder any good.” I followed his advice and felt his fingers on my neck. He probed my neck and upper back, said, “Oh yes, here’s the problem,” and went to work.
He was good. Very. A pro. His fingertips were super- sensitive and his moves were powerful but painless. He had a knack for catching me off guard. He’d say something conversational, like, “Going to be a rainy one,” and as I’d start to reply, down he’d come, like a man twice his size and half his age. “That was my Sunday punch,” he’d laugh softly, and go on to something else. He gave me fifteen minutes of adjusting, most of it spent on my shoulder, but some of it on my neck and lower back, and when he lifted the table up and I got off, I felt fine. I told him so.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “That’s my real satisfaction, getting quick results. Good idea getting here soon after you took your fall, too. Easy working on something like that right after she happens. Couple days go by and all kinds of tension sets in.”
“You don’t use X ray?” I asked him, remembering bills I’d paid to a chiro in Wisconsin.
He held up his hands, flexing his fingers. “These is X ray enough.”
I nodded, said, “Listen, how old are you, anyway?”
“Eighty-one, this January past.”
“That’s remarkable.”
“Maybe so, I don’t know. I’m not so good as I was once, but I guess I’m still good enough. When I get past a certain point, I’ll give it up.”
“Oh?”
“You got to be sure you get results, every time. Otherwise you should give up what you’re doing. Do it right or not at all.”
